I got up and opened the French doors that lead to the small balcony off my bedroom. Last night’s chill had produced the season’s first real frost, a good excuse to skip my run, but I ignored that urge and instead went downstairs and retrieved the morning paper from my front porch. Leaning against the island in my kitchen, I flipped through the paper while drinking a glass of orange juice. Then I went back upstairs and put on an old pair of gray sweatpants, a T-shirt, a blue hooded sweatshirt and my Saucony cross-trainers. The shoes didn’t have any athlete’s name on them, which had probably saved me eighty bucks. Life is a series of trade-offs.
My townhome is just a few blocks from Shadyside’s small business district, which over the years has made the transition from quaint commercial area to upscale yuppie haven. Recently some of the big chains have invaded Shadyside, and there is an ongoing battle between those who like the Shadyside of old, mostly residents of the area, and those who want zoning changes favoring business expansion. I see both sides of the dispute, and while I’m not a fan of the increased traffic on my street, especially on the weekends, I also understand that the businesspeople, who pay exorbitant rents, have a right to make a profit. Actually, what I think about all this is probably moot, anyway, since there’s no doubt who will eventually emerge victorious in any contest between the local citizenry and big business. I can almost see that Pottery Barn now.
Heading away from the business area, I began jogging at an even pace, managing to work up a good sweat by the time I reached Frick Park, where I spent about thirty minutes running along some of the numerous trails the city provides for those of us so inclined. As I ran through one of the lower areas of the park, known as the Hollow, my mind briefly flashed back to the previous spring, when a case I was working on had ended rather abruptly in a fatal confrontation. I pushed that memory aside and decided instead to think of something more pleasant. Like Laura Fleming. Much more pleasant.
Back home, I toweled off and headed for the small exercise room next to my kitchen. At the Y, I generally use the Nautilus machines, but at home I just have some free weights. Nothing fancy, but they get the job done. Before starting my workout, I slid a Duke Ellington collection into my CD player. Take the A Train started playing in the background. My Uncle Leo, who helped me get my start in this business, also managed to hook me on jazz, and now I seldom lift without listening to something by the Duke or Billie or Charlie Parker or Satchmo or Miles Davis or one of the other greats from that era. This morning I worked mostly on my upper body, doing super sets with medium weights. Sometimes, just for the hell of it, I’ll pile on as much weight as I can lift just once or twice, but the real work is done with repetition after repetition.
Half an hour later, I dragged myself upstairs and took a shower, then put on jeans and a long-sleeve white pullover under a medium-weight tan jacket. Slipping into another pair of no-name Sauconys, I went out the front door and walked the couple of blocks to the local Starbucks. When I entered the place, Irv was behind the counter, waiting on a couple of attractive young women. He nodded at me before turning back to his customers. I took a seat at a corner table by the window and spent a minute or so people-watching, one of my favorite activities. Eventually, Irv came over with a café latte and an orange scone, put them down in front of me, and then took the seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Saw you checking out the college girls, JB,” he said.
“That wasn’t checking out,” I told him. “I was merely practicing my powers of observation. What if that blonde in the pink spandex tube-top had held you up just now, and her friend, the redhead wearing the tight jeans and high heels, had grabbed a couple of croissants on the way out? Without an expert eyewitness such as yours truly, the crime undoubtedly would have gone unsolved. Hell, you oughta be giving me all the free lattes and scones I can consume just to come in here every day and keep an eye out for more gorgeous miscreants.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I’ll take that up with Mr. Starbucks next time we do lunch.”
Irv’s a graduate student at Carnegie-Mellon, a genius at anything having to do with computers. I’ve used his expertise on a couple of cases over the past year or so, and along the way, we’ve become friends.
“You still working on that pet shop thing?” he asked.
“Nope. Finished it up a couple of days ago.”
“Between cases?”
“Kind of,” I said. “A friend of mine who’s a vice principal wants me to talk to a kid at his school, see if I can convince the kid to clean up his act.”
“Trying to skew younger, business-wise?” he asked.
“I had the kid’s mother in class back when I was a teacher. She and my friend made the connection, and she asked him to see if I’d be willing to speak to her son.”
Irv waited a minute before
