The next night was pretty much a repeat of the first, except that I tried the tuna salad, which was also pretty good, as was the thermos of coffee I’d brought with me.
In two nights, I’d seen a total of three cars on Dinwiddie, none of them black or even Camaro-like in appearance. Of course, Razor could have taken one of the side streets, but he still would have ended up on North Highland after taking a time-consuming and circuitous detour. I was betting he had no reason to do that. However, if something didn’t happen soon, I’d have to go to Plan B, which, at the moment, didn’t exist.
On the third night, things got interesting.
Chapter 50
At a little after ten on Wednesday night, just as the jazz station started an hour-long tribute to Charlie Parker, Razor’s black Camaro came down Dinwiddie Street and turned left onto North Highland. I started my Camry, gave the Camaro a minute, then began following it.
If Razor stayed in the ‘hood, it would be a lot harder for me to tail him. There weren’t many cars on the streets, and I was probably the only white guy in sight. Fortunately, the Camaro stayed on North Highland across Penn Avenue and kept on going to Walnut Street, where it made a right and headed towards the Shadyside business district. I wondered if Razor was also listening to Charlie Parker, but the way the extra-large speakers in the Camaro’s rear deck were rocking the car made me suspect that Razor wasn’t one of Bird’s fans.
As we approached the stretch of Walnut where most of the shops were located, the Camaro slowed down and its speakers went silent. As he cruised along the nearly deserted street, Razor kept looking left and right. I was pretty sure he was reconnoitering, although I doubt that’s what he would have called it, unless he was enrolled in the SAT Prep course at Franklin. Razor would have said he was casing the joints, looking for the best one to rob, although, again, had he taken that SAT Prep course, he’d have known that what he had in mind was, most likely, burglary. The value of an education and all.
As we neared Walnut’s intersection with the street where I lived, a police cruiser rounded the corner and went past us. That must have spooked Razor a bit, because the Camaro picked up speed and left the area. Ten minutes later, we were on Forbes Avenue in the Squirrel Hill business area, going through the same cruise-and-look process. The only people around were a few guys in their early twenties standing outside a bar. Two of the guys were wearing CMU sweatshirts.
Halfway along Forbes, Razor turned right onto Weiss Way, a one-block long street that was so narrow that it more closely resembled an alley. There were several small shops on Weiss, including the jewelry store in front of which the Camaro stopped, its engine idling. Razor got out, looked around for a minute, then reached into the back seat of his car and came out with a Louisville slugger. It looked like the twenty-nine inch model, a little short for my tastes, but then I didn’t think Razor was worried about getting wood on a fast ball down and away tonight. He took three steps across the sidewalk and, in one easy motion, used the bat to shatter the store’s front window. Very nice follow-through. Then, as an alarm began to sound, he scooped up a bunch of watches from the display area, stuffed them into a small bag he pulled out of his jacket pocket, got back in the Camaro and drove away. In street parlance, I’d just witnessed your basic smash and grab. Either Razor was doing some early Christmas shopping or he knew a fence. Razor wasn’t fat, and in my brief encounter with him, he hadn’t seemed particularly jolly, so I was betting against the Santa scenario. I gave him time to clear the end of Weiss Way and turn left before I began following him again.
I could have called the police, of course, but no one had been hurt, and I was curious to see where Razor was going. If it was Dinwiddie Street, I’d call Denny and let the cops handle it. But I had a hunch there was something else going on here.
The two of us drove back through Squirrel Hill again, but we bypassed Shadyside and headed straight for East Liberty. So far, it looked as though Razor was intent on returning to hearth and home, but when we got to Penn Avenue, instead of crossing it, he turned left and drove several blocks to the parking lot of the Penn Plaza Apartments, where he left his car and went into the lobby. I parked at the far end of the lot and got out and walked quickly towards the building’s entrance. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, but I was careful to stay near the side of the building as much as possible anyway.
As I approached the big double doors, I could see Razor looking at a bulletin board next to the lobby phone. After a minute, he walked into the open elevator, pushed a button to close the door, and disappeared. I went in and watched the digital display until the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Then I walked back over to the bulletin board that listed all the tenants’ names and figured out pretty quickly where Razor had gone. Next to apartment 408 was the name A. Witherspoon.
The door to the inner lobby should have been locked, and it should have opened only with a key or a call to a tenant, but tonight it was wide open and clearly broken. I took the stairs to the fourth floor. On one hand, there weren’t any vagrants in
