CHAPTER SEVEN

210 Madison Avenue was a scant mile from the posh Cherry Creek Mall, with its high-end department stores, expensive boutiques, movie theater, and plenty of restaurants. The surrounding neighborhoods were filled with mid-20th-century homes that had become a beacon for the upper-middle class, although many of the smaller homes in the area were quickly being demolished and replaced with huge monstrosities that touted all the latest amenities but held none of the charm of the older homes they replaced.

The summer sun sat in a cloudless blue sky as I parked my 4-Runner a few car lengths down from the house that Garrett Owens had lost in the contract snafu. I grabbed the Owens file and walked along a cracked sidewalk to an appealing red brick bungalow with a long covered front porch. The separate garage was located behind the house and was accessed from the alley. The house would’ve been considered good-sized by the standards of its day but was now dwarfed by brand-new two-story homes on either side.

A lawnmower engine hummed far off, but Madison Avenue was empty of people. A real estate sign plastered with a “Sold” banner stood in the yard, and I jotted down the realtor's number. I climbed the three steps to the door and could see why Garrett Owens thought Ned had duped him.

On the outside, the house didn’t look like a “fixer-upper”. The trim had a new coat of light brown paint, the windows were double-paned, clean, and in good shape. The front door was solid, made of sturdy oak. However, Owens’ contract had asked for new windows and had noted that the exterior of the house was “in need of new paint.” I tried peeking through the slats in the window blinds, wishing I could see more of the inside. The green AstroTurf on the porch seemed the worst thing on the exterior of the house, but the contract didn’t include that in its list of requested repairs.

I walked around the side of the house, examining it as I went. The rest of the windows along the way did not appear damaged in any way, the gutters showed no rust or holes, and I didn’t notice any structural damage of any kind, no visible cracks in the foundation or on the sides of the house. However, Owens had noted a concern about the structure, speculating about issues due to the new construction on either side of the house. If he wanted to renovate the house, the concern would be valid, but if he had been thinking of just reselling the house to a developer, I wouldn’t have thought that structural soundness would be an issue. I made a mental note to call Garrett Owens and ask him that.

A six-foot wooden fence surrounded the back yard. I spied an unlatched gate, so I opened it and continued on around. The yard was large, plenty big enough to raze the house and build a newer, bigger one, if someone chose to do so. I sat down on a plastic lawn chair and reread the contract. The other requested repairs were to the inside of the house. Old pipes and hot water heater. Cracks in the bricks of a basement fireplace. Worn paint. Things that most people would never ask to have fixed prior to purchase. I wished again that I could get a peek inside to check those things out.

I stood up and tried the back door. Locked, of course. But it didn’t hurt to try. Maybe if I tried a secret, magic word, it would open. “Allakazaam, ohiogazima, shazaam!” I chanted.

And the door opened. I froze in disbelief. My chant had actually worked? Then I saw the rear end and a pair of baggy jeans backing out the door.

“Shit!” The man’s face turned the color of his bleached-blond hair, his brown eyes widened. The mover’s box he was carrying nearly slipped from his hands. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

“I was just looking around,” I said, trying not to stammer. “I heard that the house was for sale.”

“It’s sold. Or didn’t you see the sign?” The man, somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, seemed to have recovered, his surprise turning to impatience. He shifted the box, freeing one hand. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

“I saw the sign, but I was just looking around.” I pointed at the door. “I really wish I could see the inside.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t,” he said, pulling the door shut behind him. I had no doubt it was still locked.

“Are you a realtor?” I asked, trying for an Oscar as “the interested buyer”.

He shook his head. “I was hired.” I waited for him to explain, which he reluctantly did. “To inspect the foundation. I was just heading out.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, hoping I sounded exceedingly disappointed. “There isn’t any way you'd let me go inside, take a quick look around?”

“No, there isn’t.” He pushed past me, forcing me to take a step back. “You need to leave now.”

I pursed my lips, stalling for time. “Are you...” That’s as far as I got before I rethought my tactics. He sighed and stared at me. “Okay,” I finally said. “Thanks for your time.”

He didn’t respond, but watched until I left through the side gate. I heard the gate latch slide into place. I was tempted to dash back and spy on him through the cracks in the fence, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I could see his shadow on the other side, peering at me. So much for that idea.

I walked slowly back to my car, turned it on, and cranked the A/C. I waited to see if the guy would emerge and go to a car, but after five minutes and two songs by The Police I still hadn’t seen him. He must’ve been parked somewhere in the alley, so he was long gone.

I contemplated going back to the house to see if I could find a way in when an old man in faded overalls emerged from a ranch-style house across the street. He stepped off his porch, knelt down, and started digging around rose bushes. Judging by the bags of compost and box of tools at his disposal, as well as his dawdling pace, he was going to be at it a while. Scratch searching for an illegal entry.

But I was curious. Were the problems Owens listed that bad? Either he was lying to me to cover up something, or Ned had found a first-class sucker to manipulate. But why would Ned risk possible ramifications from an irate client for a bit more in commission? It was time to look at the file for the back-up buyer that had bought the house.