Chapter Twenty-eight
“I may have something,” Johnny Kennerly said. “A bungalow in South Freedom. Sold in late August. To a real estate trust. Paid for in cash.”
I was in my cruiser, heading back to the station. “What about it?”
“It’s an anomaly.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know, Buddy. Low-rent part of town like that. Unexceptional house sells to a trust for cash. It’s not your typical investment property. Something about it doesn’t smell kosher.”
“What’s the address?”
He told me.
“I’m not too far from there. I’ll give it the once-over and let you know,” I said and ended the call.
It was a short drive to 321 Meeker Street and I slowed when I got there. The house in question was a single-story bungalow, one of six tract houses, but unlike its neighbors, it appeared unattended, in need of maintenance. It hadn’t been painted in some time. The windows were streaked with grime. A small yard was overgrown with wildflowers and weeds. It was out of character for the neighborhood.
I drove past it and saw that the other houses in the tract were respectfully tended, yards were trimmed, and late model cars stood in several of the driveways.
I pulled up in front of the house next door and got out of my cruiser. I wanted to take a closer look at number 321. As I began nosing around, a frazzled house-frau who appeared to be in her thirties stepped outside and stared at me with a puzzled look on her face.
“Nobody’s there,” she called out.
She wore a stained apron over a faded housedress that at one time might have been blue. Her pale auburn hair was highlighted with streaks of purple. She wore thick-rimmed glasses. She was barefoot.
She looked at my cruiser, then shifted her gaze onto me. “You’re a cop, right?”
“Deputy Sheriff,” I said. “Buddy Steel.”
“Is there some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all. I’m sorry to bother you, but I noticed the house looks as if it might be deserted. I was wondering if you could tell me whether or not people actually live there.”
“Why?” the woman asked.
“In the interest of public safety. We regularly check neighborhoods for unoccupied houses. Houses that could become havens for drugs and crime.”
The woman nodded. “Judy Nicholas.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m Judy Nicholas. Nick’s wife.”
“Mrs. Nicholas,” I said.
“Somebody does live in that house. Some sleazeball who takes lousy care of it and who’s single-handedly responsible for lowering the value of the other houses on the block.”
“I take it you’re unhappy with the owner.”
“The son of a bitch bought the house for a song. It hadn’t been lived in since the original owner killed himself over a year ago. Nobody wanted to buy it what with the suicide and all. Guy shot himself. A bloody mess. So we were pretty excited when it finally sold. But the bastard hasn’t done one thing to improve it.”
“But he lives in it?”
“Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn’t. He comes and goes.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Maybe a week ago.”
“What does he do?”
“I wouldn’t know. Nothing, probably.”
A small boy appeared in the doorway. Still in his pajamas, he walked over and stood beside Mrs. Nicholas. He grabbed hold of her apron and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He wasn’t exactly the cleanest little kid I’d ever seen, but he was alert and engaged. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t miss anything either.
I nodded to him.
He took a step backward and inched closer to his mother who, in turn, ignored him. “Was there anything else you wanted to know?”
“Would you by any chance know the name of the owner?”
“Only his first name.”
“Which is?”
“Robert.”
“Robert. Thank you, Mrs. Nicholas. You’ve been very helpful.”
I handed her one of my cards. “Perhaps you could phone me when the owner returns.”
“I will. Maybe you could scare the bastard into improving his property.”
I smiled at her and headed for my cruiser.
I heard the little boy shout, “Hey. Mister.”
I turned back to him.
He raised his hand and pointed to himself. “I’m Nick, Junior,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, Nick, Junior. I’m Buddy, Junior.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
He grinned at me, looked up at his mother and then ran inside.
“The previous owner was a guy called Leonard Sherman,” Johnny Kennerly read aloud. “Born: May 5, 1955. Died: May 5, 2015.”
“Born and died on the same day,” I commented. “What are the odds of that?”
“Pretty good, considering he shot himself.”
“Oh, yeah. Mrs. Nicholas did mention something about that.”
We were in Johnny’s cubicle and he was in front of his laptop, on some kind of real estate website. “House was on the market for nearly a year until it was sold to the G.V.N. Real Estate Trust for considerably less than it had come on the market for.”
“What’s the G.V.N. Real Estate Trust?”
“Good question. Seems it’s managed by a Beverly Hills law firm.”
“Beverly Hills?”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“Have you been in touch with them?”
“Not yet. I wanted your advice as to how best to go about it.”
“Maybe when the owner returns, we might do a little surveilling before we tip our hand.”
“Meaning?”
“Let’s see who lives there and what it is he goes about doing.”
“Do we tell Chuck Voigt?”
“Not until we know more.”
“I guess that’s a plan.”
I nodded. “That’d be my guess, too.”