Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [28]
“And the library?”
“There’s a branch not far from there. Also not far from where I met Darius. But Max . . . why are we going to the public library?”
“To look for local obituaries from three weeks ago. We must find out who Darius Phelps was and how he died.”
6
“Darius Phelps died of a ruptured intestine?” I stared at the computer screen in the Harlem branch of the New York Public Library while Max sat next to me and read over my shoulder. “That doesn’t sound mystical. It sounds messy. And painful.”
The library was housed in a beautifully renovated, ivy-covered, neoclassical building from the early nineteenth century, with a pale stone exterior, tall windows, and high interior ceilings. It was on East 124th Street, directly across from Mount Morris Park and only a few blocks away from where I had found gargoyles attacking the late Darius Phelps in the dark.
“It’s unfortunate that there is no photograph of him,” Max said. “We might be able to determine if this is indeed the individual whom you saw last night.”
Phelps had evidently not been an important man, in worldly terms. His obituary was short and impersonal; I found it listed in several sources during the week he had died in July, but the information was identical in each instance.
He had died suddenly, at the age of thirty-seven, and no survivors were listed. He was originally from Chicago, had an MBA from Roosevelt University, and had moved to New York several years ago to work at the Livingston Foundation, where he was employed at the time of his death.
“The Livingston Foundation,” I murmured. “Why does that name ring a bell?” I thought I’d heard of it before, but I couldn’t place it.
“I believe that if you ask this machine to do so, it can provide information about the Livingston Foundation,” Max suggested helpfully.
I typed the name into the search engine and clicked on the top result, which opened the page to a Web site. There was a photo of a large redbrick building, a navigation menu, and a mission statement about this private nonprofit foundation:
“The Livingston Foundation, created by the late Martin Livingston, fosters the dreams, nurtures the education, and supports the ambitions of young African-Americans. The foundation offers cultural and educational programs; administers grants, scholarships, and small business loans; and organizes community projects in Harlem.”
I clicked on some of the links, and Max and I read the information there. Martin Livingston was a successful businessman who had retired as a billionaire at the age of fifty and announced he would devote the rest of his life to putting his fortune to work for the people of Harlem, where he had been born and raised. Thus, the Livingston Foundation was born, and Martin had spent the next dozen years turning it into an influential center for African-American education, culture, and community outreach. The Web site had numerous photos of him receiving leadership awards, giving speeches, writing checks, and shaking hands with people. Livingston had died two years ago, at the age of sixty-three. The foundation was now managed by its board of directors, in accordance with his legacy and his wishes.
“If he died of a ruptured intestine, too,” I said, “then, as a safety precaution, we are not eating any of the famous fried chicken advertised in the windows of Harlem’s dining establishments.”
The text didn’t say how he had died, but he was such a prominent man that the information should be easy to find if we did a search for his obituary.
“The Livingston Foundation must be here in Harlem,” Max said. “Given the scant information about Mr. Phelps that we have thus far obtained, perhaps we should pay a visit to his place of employment?”
“That should be easy,” I said, after clicking on the “Contact Us” link. “According to this address, we’re about a sixty-second stroll away from it.” The Livingston Foundation was on this same street, barely a block east of the library.
Max popped out of his chair. “Excellent!”
I logged off the computer and rose to follow