Throwing on an old gray sweatsuit and my Sauconys, I went out the door and started running. Until a couple of years ago, I’d rented an apartment just down the street from my current place. Then I saved one of the downtown insurance firms a bunch of money by uncovering a false claims scam run by a couple of their middle-management people. The insurance company showed its appreciation by cutting me a check that was large enough for a down payment on my townhouse, which is just a few blocks from Shadyside proper.
I try to do five miles or so most mornings. Sometimes, I’ll stretch it out a bit. Of course, on those occasions when I have an overnight guest of the female persuasion, I skip the running altogether.
It’s been a while since I missed a morning.
Today I ran one of several routes that I use, this one taking me to nearby Frick Park, with its miles of hiking and jogging paths. The park used to belong to Henry Clay Frick, the Pittsburgh industrialist who made a fortune in the early part of the 1900s. In fact, it was part of the backyard of his family mansion, which I often run past on my way to the park. When she was introduced to society at the age of twenty, Frick’s daughter, Helen, asked her father to give the children in the city a park like the one she had, and that’s how Frick Park came into existence.
As I entered the park, I saw a few other runners, along with several people out walking their dogs. I knew some of the folks by sight, and we exchanged hellos as I ran by them. The route I followed today kept me in the upper part of the park, and I ran all the way to the little elementary school that marks the border between the park and the Regent Square area of the city. As I ran by the school, I thought about the years I had spent as a teacher myself. Another world. Another life.
By the time I got back home, I’d done about eight miles and managed to work up a good sweat. The first floor of my place has a living room, a dining room, a powder room, a small kitchen with a laundry room off to one side, and what used to be a utility room, which I’ve converted to a weight room. I belong to the local Y, but sometimes my hours can get strange, and I’ve found that it helps to be able to work out whenever it’s convenient for me. I went back to the weight room now and, after putting on a Wes Montgomery CD, spent half an hour pushing myself through various exercises. Sometimes I hit the weights first, sometimes, like today, I run first. It all depends on my mood.
Once I’d regained enough energy to move again, I went upstairs. In addition to my bedroom and bathroom, there’s another bedroom with bath up there, along with a small study that I use as an office. Actually, I have an office a few blocks away, on the perimeter of the Shadyside business district. It’s in an old building that has somehow managed, so far, to escape the notice of the yuppies, so the rent isn’t too bad. I’ll usually meet prospective clients there, and it’s where I do most of my paperwork, but I like having an office at home, too. On rainy days, if I want to sleep late, I can always tell myself that I’ll be “working at home today.”
After I shaved and showered, I put on a pair of light brown khakis, a dark green cotton T-shirt, and casual loafers. I grabbed a cream-colored, lightweight jacket and headed out the door. Within ten minutes, I’d walked to the Starbucks, where I sat at the counter and had a cup of coffee and two oatmeal-raisin scones while making idle chatter with Irv, the assistant manager. Irv’s a graduate student at Carnegie Mellon University, and the Starbucks gig helps pay the part of his tuition that isn’t covered by his scholarship. He’s a computer science major, and he’s already forgotten more about computers than most of us will ever learn. Last year, he helped me out on a case that involved a gang of techno-nerds who were stealing people’s credit card numbers off the Net. I’d asked a couple of computer experts at a local firm for assistance, but they were no help at all. Then one morning, I mentioned the case, in general terms, to Irv, and he’d offered to see what he could do. We went to my office, where he spent fifteen minutes reading my files, then told me exactly what the bad guys were doing and how to stop them. When I got my fee for that job, I passed along a good chunk of it to Irv, and we became friends.
When I left Starbucks, I walked back home, washed up, and went down to the garage, where I keep my six-year-old 4Runner. Feeling sufficiently buffed and stuffed from the morning’s activities, I left for my meeting with Rachel Pendleton. It was nine-thirty, and rush hour traffic had died down enough that I made the trip in less than twenty minutes. She was waiting for me at the door.
Chapter 5
The Poplars has been described as an enclave of elitism in the middle of a pocket of poverty, which just goes to show you what some journalists will do in the name of alliteration, although, to be honest, there’s probably more truth than fiction to that description. The Poplars is a community of moderate-to-very-expensive townhouses and single-family dwellings located just a short distance from the Hill District, one of the city’s poorer areas. The attraction of The Poplars, and the reason why the developers were
