Home for the Haunting(80)

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Hey, what’s with the potty mouth?” I couldn’t help myself.

He gave me yet another scathing look.

“I would like to talk to whoever deals around here, just to see if they knew her and can give us any information.” It dawned on me that this was precisely what Graham was worried about—that I really should leave this sort of thing to the police. In fact, Annette might already have spoken to the local suppliers. But then, I imagined Kobe would know things that others might not.

“Have you ever heard of a guy that used to live around here a long time ago, dealt some drugs, named Duct-Tape Dave?”

“Duh.”

“He must have been before your time,” I said, unconvinced.

“Well, yeah, but he’s a legend around here. He was a great businessman, but he had heart.”

“He went by Duct-Tape Dave.”

“That was because of his homemade silencers.”

“Yeah. I think that was sort of my point. If you go by an assassin’s moniker, I’m not sure I’d say you qualify for the crook with a heart of gold.”

“What’s a ‘moniker’?”

“It’s another word for your nickname or your handle.”

“Why you don’t just say that, then?”

I shrugged.

“Dave gave money away sometimes, though,” Kobe continued. “He gave money to the lady lived next to him, old Ms. Lee.”

“No kidding? Hey, this was decades before you were even born. How do you know so much about this guy?”

He shrugged. “I’m sorta like the local historian; that’s what people say. I like the stories, so I’m always asking my mom and the neighbors, and they tell me stuff.”

“And Ms. Lee told you Duct-Tape Dave gave her money?”

“Not exactly. I heard that from—I dunno—maybe one of the runners? Can’t remember. It’s just the word on the street. Dave’s still kind o’ like a legend.”

I looked down “the street.” It sure didn’t look like the urban mean streets that one might see in certain parts of the city, in the Bayview or West Oakland—or even in the Fruitvale, where I lived. No abandoned vehicles or houses—with the notable exception of the oddly majestic Murder House, of course—no trash, not even in the empty lot next to Etta’s house. It could be called a bit down-at-the-heels, but the yards were tended, and there was a sense of community and history—even if that history was focused on the most successful drug dealer in the neighborhood. But it sure didn’t seem like much of a Mean Street.

So if the street of thirty years ago was anything like it was now, I could only imagine how a drug-dealing house went over with the neighbors.

“Hey, Kobe, do you go knock on the door of the house over there?”

“The Murder House?”

I nodded.

He twisted his mouth and looked away. “Um . . . maybe. Sometimes. Can’t back down on a dare.”

“Well, knock it off. Or I’ll sic Ms. Lee on you.”

He looked at me, startled. “Don’t even joke about that. She knows people. She knows people who know people.”

I laughed, but I noticed he didn’t join in. Was this nervousness around someone who knew his mother, or could the energetic, oh-so-understanding Ms. Etta Lee be more involved than she might at first appear?

The ramp came together well and quickly; Kobe had become Graham’s shadow, listening intently to every instruction. Hugh spent the whole time inside with Monty, rehanging drapes and earthquake-proofing bookcases. Caleb and Raven had begun chatting, and I heard more than one giggle ring out as the Goth girl let slip her sullen facade.

In fact, the teenagers were getting along so well, I started to get a little nervous. I had asked Caleb to befriend her, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for him to bring Raven around for dinner.

The sun set a little before six, cloaking us in the orange rays of dim light. Next door, I noticed several lights clicking on. Monty was right—that house seemed to have a life of its own. As I looked toward the lit windows, I wondered whether the resident ghosts were carrying on their routines, walking through their strange afterlife . . . and condemned to reliving the crimes of that terrible night.





Chapter Twenty




“Enough already,” said Graham that evening as we were putting away the tools. The ramp was finished and solid. There was still plenty to do this coming weekend, but at least now Monty had complete access and egress to his house. He came out and rolled up and down a few times, to our applause.

“Enough what?”

“I get the point.”

“What are you talking about?”