Into the Light (The Light, #1)(91)

As I drove back to the building I’d watched weeks before, I longed for an open-and-shut case like that one. Externally the building hadn’t changed. It still appeared abandoned and the one beside it that looked like an old firehouse did too; nevertheless I wondered what the men did between the buildings. Though I drove slowly, the way the passage between the buildings was shaded meant I couldn’t see anything but light at the other end. I drove around the block again and parked at the far end of the building, away from the street. I wanted to get my Nikon out of my trunk, but hearing Dylan’s words, I opted for fast, and turned on the camera app on my phone. I stepped out of my car and tried to shut the door softly. Once I had, I shook my head. No one was there. I was just being ridiculous.

Birds squawked above my head as I moved toward the building. My low-heeled shoes weren’t especially good for walking through the taller grass, but I chose that direction to avoid the obvious path of the sidewalk. Approaching the gap from the rear, I peered around the corner. Closer to this end were two doors directly across from one another, one to each building. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the passage. The closer I came to the doors, the more audible voices became. I pressed my body against the rough brick and listened, trying to decide which building the sounds were coming from. Just as I determined it was the one that wasn’t the old firehouse, the sound of tires on the loose gravel in front of the buildings made my heart race.

With only the nose of a black SUV visible, I hurried in the other direction, out the passage, and toward my car. Once inside, I let out the breath and hit the “Lock” button. Before I could convince myself that it was Dylan’s fault I was so jumpy, a big dark hand knocked once on my window.

I recognized the man immediately: his picture was on my computer. He was the driver of the SUV I’d seen on my first stakeout. Of course, from behind the tinted glass I hadn’t gotten the full experience of his girth. His waist was higher than the bottom of my window, and he bent forward. His not-so-welcoming face was at the glass as I eased my window down a little bit.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Lady, you lost?”

“I may be,” I lied. “I’m supposed to take pictures of some real estate for my company. Do you know if these buildings are for sale?”

“Not to my knowledge. I suggest you get yourself out of here, and tell your boss if he sends you here again, you better have a gun.”

I nodded. “Thank you,” I mumbled, rolling my window up and backing away. I may not have taken a full breath until I was back on Woodward Avenue.



I was so lost in the money trail of the buildings that until my phone buzzed, I’d forgotten about my lunch with Tracy.



Tracy Howell: CHARLOTTE, I’M SORRY. INSTEAD OF LUNCH, CAN WE DO DRINKS, SAY FIVE? I’M WORKING THROUGH LUNCH AND WILL DEFINITELY NEED ONE BY THEN.



Shit!



Stella: YES! I’M KIND OF BURIED AT WORK TOO. SEE YOU AT FIVE . . . JUMBO’S?



Tracy Howell: I’LL BE THERE.



I turned back to the computer screen and rubbed my temples. Since I’d been back to WCJB I hadn’t left my cubicle or even stood up. The pages of chicken scratch I’d accumulated wouldn’t make much sense to anyone but me, and even I wasn’t sure what it all meant.

The school that I suspected was the preserves processing center was indeed owned by Entermann’s Realty. According to everything I could find, it was officially empty, out of commission, and had been since Highland Heights Public Schools closed the doors in the midnineties due to decreased enrollment. I wondered if anyone was even aware that it was being used.

Entermann’s had purchased it two years earlier from a bankrupt developer. The developer, Uriel Harris, had snatched up numerous run-down and vacant properties over a ten-year span. His plan had been renovation, all hinging on tax breaks and grants. Though the tax breaks had been approved, the revenue base continued to drop. That was when Entermann’s stepped in and bought it for pennies on the dollar.

Before Harris, HBA Corporation made a bid on the property. It’s one of the largest builders of hospitals in the country. I understood that the size of the building meant it would have made a good hospital, and the area needed health care; nevertheless HBA was outbid by Wilkens Industries. Fifteen years earlier, Wilkens had paid $5 million for the property, purchasing it from Highland Heights.

What I found interesting was that the old firehouse and the large building beside it had at one time also been owned by Highland Heights. The money trail for the firehouse was different, but currently it was owned by Wilkens Industries. The building housing The Light was owned by The Light, a not-for-profit, paid in full, having been given to the ministry by Marcel Clarkson, a wealthy benefactor.

I made a note to research Marcel Clarkson and tried another route. I called a friend at Preston and Butler.

“Jenn?” I asked, hearing her voice on the other end of the line. She and I’d hung out after work on more than a few occasions. Her choice in men always lent itself to some late nights filled with plenty of beer and pep talk. I hadn’t seen her in a while, not since leaving the firm, but I hoped we were still close. “It’s Stella Montgomery.”

“Hey, Stella, what’s up? How are you doing?”

“I’m good. I’ve been working a story, and I was wondering if you could help a friend out?”