Chương 8
“Sienna—”
I ended the call.
I did not sleep.
At six in the morning, I showered, dressed, and drove to Marshall Street.
I had been there only once before.
Julian had taken me two summers earlier when the project was still mostly demolition fencing and optimism.
Now the old warehouses stood behind chain-link barriers covered with weathered signs.
One brick building had plywood over half its windows.
A coffee shop occupied the corner across the street.
People were already inside.
Delivery vans came and went.
A city bus sighed at the curb and released three passengers.
The neighborhood did not look like a concept drawing.
It looked tired and busy and expensive in uneven ways.
A new condominium building rose three blocks away, all glass balconies and spotless landscaping.
Across from it, a laundromat had a handwritten sign offering free drying on Tuesdays.
I parked and walked.
At the corner of Marshall and Clay, I found a mural Julian had photographed dozens of times.
The paint had faded.
A woman sweeping the sidewalk outside a small grocery store watched me stop in front of it.
“You lost?”
“Probably.”
She smiled without much interest.
I looked toward the fenced property.
“Do you know what’s happening with those buildings?”
She followed my gaze.
“Depends who you ask.”
“What do you mean?”
“The developers say housing.”
She leaned the broom against the wall.
“Which usually means housing for somebody who doesn’t live here.”
I almost introduced myself.
Then I stopped.
I wanted to hear her before my name changed the conversation.
“Was there another plan?”
“There’s always another plan.”
She studied me.
“You with the city?”
“No.”
“Reporter?”
“No.”
“Then why are you asking questions at seven in the morning?”
I looked at the property.
“My husband worked on it.”
“Worked?”
“He died.”
Her face shifted.
“Oh.”
“It was his project.”
“Architect?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me more carefully.
“Julian?”
I turned toward her.
“You knew him?”
“Everybody around here knew Julian.”
That surprised me.
“How?”
“He kept showing up.”
She said it as if that were unusual.
“Meetings, cleanups, zoning hearings.”
She picked up the broom again.
“Tall guy, bad haircut, talked too much.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“That’s him.”
“I’m Denise.”
“Sienna.”
Recognition came a second later.
Her hand stopped on the broom handle.
“You’re the widow.”
I hated how quickly that word had become an identity.
“Yes.”
Denise looked at the development site again.
“You selling?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well.”
She began sweeping.
“That’s more honest than most people.”
I stayed there.
She glanced at me.
“You want coffee?”
Ten minutes later, we were sitting inside the corner shop with paper cups between us.
Denise owned the grocery store with her brother.
Their parents had opened it in 1988.
She had attended every public meeting about Marshall Street for four years.
“The first plan wasn’t perfect,” she said.
“Julian knew that.”
“What wasn’t perfect?”
“Everything.”
She laughed.
“Parking, rent formulas, who got the commercial spaces, how long the affordable units stayed affordable.”
She tore open a sugar packet but did not use it.
“People argued.”
“That sounds like Julian’s favorite activity.”
“He liked arguing.”
“Yes.”
“But he came back after.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Most developers come to one meeting, get yelled at, disappear, then send somebody in a nicer suit.”
She stirred her coffee.
“Julian came back.”
Something tightened behind my ribs.
Denise continued.
“He changed things.”
“Like what?”
“Daycare.”
“That was his?”
“Partly.”
She shrugged.
“Nothing belongs to one person in these deals.”
She told me residents had pushed for a daycare because several nearby centers had closed.
Julian had helped redesign a commercial space for it without increasing the project footprint.
“He also pissed everybody off about parking.”
“That definitely sounds like him.”
“He once told an eighty-year-old man he owned too many cars.”
I covered my mouth.
Denise laughed.
“Thought Mr. Gaines was gonna hit him with a folding chair.”
For several minutes, Julian existed somewhere other than death.
He was irritating people in a church basement.
He was carrying rolled plans under one arm.
He was talking too much.
Then Denise’s expression changed.
“Bellweather doesn’t want the same deal.”
“What do they want?”
“More market-rate units.”
“How many?”
“Depends which version you believe.”
I pulled out my phone.
“Do you have documents?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You really don’t know what you inherited, do you?”
“No.”
“Probably safer.”
“I doubt that.”
She gave me the name of a neighborhood attorney and two community leaders who had negotiated the original commitments.
When I stood to leave, she touched my sleeve.
“For what it’s worth, nobody here expects you to lose money for strangers.”
I looked at her.
“That’s not what people online seem to think.”
“People online think groceries should cost what they cost in 1997.”
She picked up her coffee.
“Real people understand mortgages.”
Outside, I called Dr. Patel and told him I needed the day off.
He did not ask why.
Then I called Dana Brooks.
She answered on the second ring.
“Sienna Vance?”
“You wanted a comment.”
Her voice sharpened instantly.
“Yes.”
“I’m not giving you one yet.”
There was a pause.
“All right.”
“But I want to know who told you about my ownership share.”
“I can’t identify confidential sources.”
“I expected that.”
“What can I help you with?”
“Bellweather.”
Another pause.
“What about them?”
“How long have they been trying to buy Marshall Street?”
Dana did not answer immediately.
“A while.”
“That isn’t a number.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because twenty-seven emails in Julian’s files mention a communications firm working for Bellweather, and nobody thought I should know that until after he died.”
The reporter went silent.
Then she said, “Which communications firm?”
I looked across the street at the fenced buildings.
“You first.”
Dana exhaled.
“I have documentation showing Bellweather made preliminary contact with members of the ownership group eighteen months ago.”
“Before Julian died.”
“Yes.”
May you like
“How many members?”
“I can’t tell you without exposing a source.”
