I sighed and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
The building I’d staked out all morning appeared as empty as it had when I’d arrived. Bernard’s contact had shared the address, saying three different vehicles from there crossed the Canadian border almost every day. The vehicles were driven by different people, but all the passport information included this Gerald Street address. The obvious problem was that the address wasn’t a home. It was some big abandoned building.
Over the past four hours, with the help of my hot spot, an Internet search, and my imagination, I’d constructed a story of a bustling neighborhood. In 1907 Henry Ford had built an automobile plant not far from where I sat. In the next thirteen years the population of this area had grown to over forty thousand. Five years later Chrysler was founded here. This area had thrived.
Then, during my lifetime, the latter decades of the twentieth century, Highland Heights experienced the same problems as Detroit and many other cities. Declining population led to loss of tax base. That, along with loss of employment opportunities, created increasing crime. At its peak this city within a city had boasted over fifty thousand residents. Today there were barely ten thousand.
Unfortunately, the exodus had left an excess of unused and abandoned buildings. Though the cities of Highland Heights and Detroit tried to keep the buildings boarded up or demolished, as long as they stood, they were magnets for illicit use. That the woman I’d seen at the morgue, as well as two more people, had been found dead inside one of them wasn’t hard to believe.
I knew my imagination was running wild. Spending all my spare time dissecting Tracy Howell’s “compilation theory” was getting to me. Every death and disappearance didn’t have to be related. Though this neighborhood was a melting pot for crimes, so were other areas of the city. High-risk behaviors made areas like this good spots for deaths from self-inflicted causes, such as drug use. Unfortunately, they also made good dumping grounds. There were too many reasons for death among Dr. Howell’s cases to assume that all, or even a large number, of them were related.
The area needed more places like the building I was sitting behind: a health clinic. Dr. Howell was right. New businesses wouldn’t be willing to set up shop here if it was publicized that just down the street dead bodies kept surfacing.
The building I watched used to be a school, and the one next to it had once been a fire station. As I sat, I imagined what they were like in their heydays. Instead of being desolate, the area would’ve been filled with people. At one time children had run along the streets and played in the attached lots. Instead of dirt and debris, there had been grass, trees, and playground equipment. As I scanned the area, I knew that Dylan’s concern was warranted. Going purely by the number of abandoned buildings in this neighborhood, it wasn’t safe. However, the way I saw it, it was daylight, and I’d left my trail of bread crumbs. Bernard and Foster knew exactly where I was.
With each minute of nothing, I considered calling Bernard. His earlier suggestion to use Dylan as an informant might have been a test, but it had pissed me off. Now I wondered whether, if I told him about Dylan’s offer, he’d think the sharing of information went both ways. Shrugging, I decided it could wait until after I received my tour tomorrow morning.
Therefore, instead of Bernard, I dialed Dr. Howell’s cell phone. I was ready to leave a message when she finally answered on the fourth ring.
“Hi, Charlotte,” she answered. “I’m surprised you’re calling me at work.”
Charlotte?
“OK,” I replied, “I get it, you can’t talk. Did you know another body’s been found in Highland Heights?”
“Sure did.” Tracy’s upbeat tone combined with the morbid subject made me grin. She was obviously in the presence of someone she didn’t want to include in our conversation.
“It was found in the same neighborhood as the woman from a week ago,” I said softly, hoping my voice didn’t transcend the phone and reach the unintended listener.
“Sounds about right. I’ll call you after I get off work. I’m not sure if we can meet for a drink, but I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, I’ll be waiting for your call.”
When the phone disconnected, I wondered who Charlotte was—I mean, besides me.
Unlike with my wasted morning, at least with that brief conversation I’d learned something. The ME’s office had already received the call. Maybe I wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow for details. Maybe I’d get them this evening from Dr. Howell.