Until Dead

By Donnell Ann Bell

This killer won't stop …until she's dead

When Lt. Everett T. Pope is notified of an explosion in downtown Denver close to the judicial buildings, his first instinct is gas leak. No such luck. As Incident Command and Pope's own Major Crimes unit move in, he discovers he knows the intended victims—an Assistant U. S. Attorney—and Pope's former partner, now a private investigator, has died shielding the injured AUSA with his body.

As ATF and the FBI take over investigating the bombing and unraveling motives behind the murder attempt, Pope is relegated to a peripheral role. But the injured AUSA's aunt is a United States senator used to getting results. She turns to the team that solved the Black Pearl Killer murders with a very big ask—find her answers and locate the bomber.

FBI Special Agent Brian DiPietro must recall his entire cold case team from their far-flung assignments knowing he's being asked to do the impossible. The senator, however, doesn't know the meaning of the word. All too soon, DiPietro finds his team working alongside ATF on a red-hot mission. One that uncovers a decades' old cold case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094462264

Donnell Ann Bell

Before I was published in fiction, I paid my dues in the Unpublished World, finaling in or winning numerous Romance Writers of America® chapter competitions as well as several multi-genre writing competitions. I’m extremely proud to be listed as a two-time Golden Heart® finalist for RWA’s® highest competition. These particular accolades led to the publication of The Past Came Hunting and Deadly Recall. I am as at home in nonfiction as I am in fiction. I’ve worked for a weekly business publication and a monthly parenting magazine, but prefer my fictional writing compared to writing about stock portfolios or treating diaper rash. I have a background in court reporting, have worked with kids and engineers, and have volunteered for law enforcement and other organizations. A Colorado resident for forty years, my husband and I now split our time between Colorado and New Mexico.

Book preview

1

Denver, Colorado, two years later

Jarvis Merrill accepted the news the way he accepted a denied motion handed down from the bench. He leveled his most nonjudgmental stare, when what he wanted to do was skewer the cock-sure millennial to whom he paid top industry wages.

Ordinarily, Dawson was so overconfident in his IT knowledge, he dropped into a chair when he requested a meeting. Tonight, he remained standing as sweat beaded his upper lip.

Jarvis checked his anger before asking the crucial question. Have they asked for a ransom, Dawson?

No, sir. Dawson’s gaze traveled from Jarvis’s to the skyscrapers illuminating the dark night beyond his sixth-floor window. It appears to be a data-gathering hack only. Whoever penetrated the law firm’s network was after a specific individual, in my opinion.

A longtime fan of wrestling, Jarvis pictured his faceless adversary pinning him to the mat in a headlock. His law firm, one he’d established over a forty-year legal career. Jarvis Merrill’s name appeared first on Merrill, Henninger, Kaufman and Associates. A firm he and his partners had held to a staff of twenty as larger legal entities were prone to cyberattacks, not a general practice firm, specializing in civil litigation and family law.

Find out which files were accessed and what numbskull let this happen. He’s about to find himself out of a job.

Dawson’s gaze broke free of the window. He ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair. Uh, Mr. Merrill . . . the attack came from your computer.

Are you out of your mind?

The IT manager folded his arms tightly across his chest. Ever heard of a restaurant called Best of Vienna?

Of course. It’s right next door.

And did you click on a link that included a customer satisfaction survey that advertised a free meal?

Jarvis fought to swallow. He’d done precisely that. In fact, when he discovered the offer in his mailbox, he didn’t just click on it; he’d leapt at the opportunity and never gave it a second thought. "Are you saying a restaurant worker infected my computer? I’m one of Vienna’s best customers. Why would they?"

"They wouldn’t, Mr. Merrill. You clicked on a link my ninety-five-year-old grandmother knows not to do. Best of Vienna doesn’t send out surveys. I checked. Someone’s been tracking your movements. Best guess? Someone’s after dirt on somebody."

Jarvis’s face grew hot. After all the countless reminders and lectures to his partners and staff about fiduciary duty, this fiasco fell on him. He felt gutted at the thought of class action lawsuits, clients leaving, censure by the bar for negligence. Was the intruder after my clients?

No. The IOC. . . . Dawson shook his head. The indicator of compromise led to Rafferty’s computer.

Encountering a second shock in under three minutes, Jarvis was glad he had a strong heart. "Rafferty? You know as well as I do—"

Yeah, I know. Mark Rafferty’s dead.

"Two years dead. His files were still tied to the network?"

Mr. Kaufman directed me to leave them in place so the newly assigned attorneys would know where to look. Mark Rafferty had several open cases at the time of his death.

Key cases Jarvis had reviewed. His partner’s decision to keep the files on the server made sense. But now? Rafferty, an experienced trial attorney who’d come from a competing law firm, had been hired as a non-equity partner. He’d been well on his way to full equity when the airbag deployed in his vehicle in heavy traffic and at a high rate of speed.

The FBI’s criminal investigation unit, as part of its product liability department, paid a visit afterward, demanding access to Mark Rafferty’s computer files.

Jarvis had fought the federal subpoenas and warrants vehemently, winning in court every time.

Jarvis threaded his fingers, the conspiracy theories in his brain exploding like popcorn kernels. Any chance the Feds are in on this?

Dawson, who’d been studying his shoes, yanked his head up. His mouth twisted sideways, and he squinted a get-serious look. To my knowledge the FBI doesn’t engage in phishing expeditions.

Jarvis sighed. It was worth a shot. Sit down, Dawson. You’re making me nervous.

"I’m making you nervous. The thirtysomething computer nerd slumped into a chair. When I walked in here, I thought I was out of a job."

This is my blunder, not yours. I’ll have to call an emergency meeting with the partners. I was ready to fire somebody over this. I’ll have to take my lumps as well. Lowering his head, he hesitated. Back to my original question, did you determine what files he was after?

Well, yeah, sort of. I mean, I did, but it didn’t make sense.

How so?

From what I saw, he wasn’t interested in the client files. He was after Rafferty’s personal files, somebody named Theresa O’Neil.

Theresa. Jarvis grew light-headed. Mark Rafferty’s wife. If the spousal relationship wasn’t important enough, add former Denver assistant district attorney, and, for the last few years, add Department of Justice to the woman’s credentials.

Why wait two years to go through a dead man’s files to get to Theresa? Or had he been trying, and Jarvis stupidly opened the door?

Mr. Merrill? You okay?

Jarvis regrouped, then nodded. What was in the folder, Dawson?

He hefted a shoulder. Nothing.

Nothing?

Either the folder was empty, and the hacker went away disappointed. Or he got what he wanted and deleted whatever was in there.

How long will you need to make this right? Jarvis asked.

Dawson’s hands became animated extensions as he leaned forward. I’ll have to take the network off-line, he added, using terms like firewall, virus scan, full-disk image, and speaking a language Jarvis would never learn on Rosetta Stone.

He listened for a good thirty seconds, then displayed a palm. "How long, Dawson?"

One to two days if you approve overtime.

Jarvis transferred his gaze to the ceiling. He picked up the phone. Whatever you need. Just do it, and fast.

Gotcha. Dawson’s gaze trekked first to the phone, then back to Jarvis. You calling the partners?

I am. Right after I call Theresa O’Neil and fall on my sword.

Alone, Jarvis started to tap in the number to the District of Colorado’s U.S. attorney’s office, noted the time, and set down the receiver. He’d never get through after hours, and didn’t have Theresa’s private number. Given today’s debacle, he also suspected he didn’t have time to wait.

Insides churning, Jarvis rose from his desk and wandered through the open door of his private conference room.

Until this moment, he’d never fully appreciated his wife’s photography as he scanned the walls. In truth, he’d always found her hobby annoying, the way Carolyn pressured the firm into little photographic huddles during office celebrations—the December holiday party, the company picnic, the winning verdict of a crucial case . . . Mark Rafferty’s wake.

Jarvis circled the expansive room, inhaling the scent of cherry wood and lemon polish and homed in on those images. The Rafferty residence had been packed two years ago with friends, family, and some highly influential figures that day.

Unlike the more festive events, Carolyn had surreptitiously captured a picture of a mourning Theresa beside her aunt, a U.S. senator from Colorado, and near her, Theresa’s boss, the Colorado U.S. attorney. Next to these two powerhouses, the honey-blond litigator looked war-torn.

In the next photo, however, she appeared as though someone had thrown her a life preserver. Jarvis observed the two individuals who’d accompanied her to her husband’s funeral. On her left stood a formidable-looking black man that somebody later mentioned was a high-ranking cop in the Denver PD. To her right was none other than Harley Bryant, a one-time D.A. investigator who’d gone out on his own and built a thriving PI agency.

In that second, it was as though the fates had tossed Jarvis his own lifeline. Harley Bryant worked for his firm on occasion.

Jarvis returned to his desk, started to log on to his computer to send Harley an email, then opted for his cell phone until Dawson gave the all clear.

Harley answered immediately, and after Jarvis’s unpleasant news, expressed justifiable concern. Theresa O’Neil was not only a colleague but a close personal friend. He did acquiesce enough, however, to contact her and play intermediary.

Five minutes later, Harley called back. Theresa’s at a function and couldn’t hear very well. She’s in court all day tomorrow, so we’re meeting beforehand at Isabella’s.

I’d like to join you. Apologize in person, Jarvis said.

That, Harley replied, is probably a very bad idea.

2

Denver, Colorado, eleven hours later

His father once called him a freak of nature. A more often heard insult was he didn’t have sense to come in out of the rain. As he stood under an awning on a predawn October morning watching rainwater gush over its sides, his lips twisted sideways. The old bastard had gotten it half right.

What his sire didn’t get was that he’d wade through whatever environment was necessary to get the job done.

During his first stint in the Navy, a senior officer had dubbed him Mustang, lots of potential, but not quite a thoroughbred. Others had called him Frogman because of his diving and explosives expertise. Later, he was stationed at the NAS Oceana where he excelled in computers and became a cyber warfare engineer.

Despite a top-secret clearance, considerable training, and overwhelming intelligence, the Mustang label followed, and after being passed over for two promotions, he was released with an honorable discharge and got the hell out.

In the private sector, the pay was good but not good enough. And because none of the CEOs he worked for had the foresight to utilize all his considerable credentials, he took a sabbatical, then branched out on his own.

Which landed him here—an independent contractor—growing richer after every assignment.

With so many handles earned during his military career, he easily abandoned his given name. And although some might find it cliché, he went by the name of Jack. After all, he was a tradesman.

The lights of Isabella’s flickered on, and an employee unlocked the door. The mark would arrive soon.

Jack flipped up the collar of his trench coat, picked up his tricks of the trade and crossed the street. Time to get down to business.

3

POPE

The blast occurred on Monday, October 7, at 6:11 a.m. Lt. Everett T. Pope received notice via his handheld police radio two minutes and thirty seconds later.

His hand stalled midair. He’d just taken his keys back from the wide-eyed mechanic behind the automotive counter when a robotic dispatch operator announced, All units. Repeat all units. Explosion reported in the vicinity of Isabella’s Coffee Shop, 14th and Tremont. Use extreme caution at approach.

Pope’s pulse quickened. He knew the establishment well. Close to the capital, Denver Public Works, hotels, businesses, and the beating heart of Denver’s judicial system.

What were the chances Isabella’s had experienced a gas line break? The more vital question was, why hadn’t he waited till the weekend to schedule new tires and a brake job?

Pope whirled and raced for the door. Thanks for getting me in early, Eddie. Email me the receipt. Then, realizing at the glass entrance, he couldn’t see two feet in front of him in this downpour, much less his Explorer, he came to a standstill. Eddie! Where’d you stash my ride?

Back in his SUV, wipers on maximum, Pope made the drive from Arapahoe Road to I-25 and Hampden in three minutes and onto Colfax in nine. All this, while listening to Incident Command, with an occasional interruption from dispatch, transmitted over an encrypted channel.

At the mouth of the downtown business district, he slammed into a bottleneck of brake lights and blaring horns. Flashing wigwags or not, nobody was moving in this clusterfuck, and the good time he’d made on the interstate was quickly erased. As twenty minutes turned into thirty then forty, he finally reached officers on scene.

He released his pent-up breath when one clad in a high-visibility yellow slicker held up a palm to divert motorists. The traffic cop caught Pope’s lights and waved him through. Pope managed a half salute. His vision was too obstructed by rain torrents, his focus divided by stop-and-inching forward traffic and an incoming call.

The call was from Ken Garza, a detective in the Major Crimes unit and under Pope’s command. He answered, You keeping up with this, Garza?

Barely. Got here five minutes ago, Lieutenant. Everybody’s pissed about the friggin’ rain and what it’ll do to the evidence. Where you at?

Jammed up. I was across town when I caught the call. Status?

We got us a bomb. IC cleared Isabella’s, and the bomb squad went in with canine sweeps and called for a robot a short time before I got here. Fire and rescue are performing triage outside the coffee shop.

Pope’s insides curdled. Injuries?

I counted five. But looks like everybody made it out on their own or with light assistance.

Damage?

Patrol cop said explosion hit part of the kitchen and took out the back of the café.

So much for a gas line break. Deliberate outweighed accidental. Now to hope the bomber hadn’t planted devices elsewhere. And with only ambulatory injuries so far, pray the bomber wasn’t good at his job. All right, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Incident Command will handle statements to the press; they’ve already restricted air space. Expect ATF on scene any time. But until we know more, this is Denver PD’s crime scene.

Up ahead, a Prius cut off a utility van. Pope applied his new brakes. Observing obscenities and middle-finger greetings, he rolled his eyes. Any sign of Ortiz and Mills? he asked, referring to two other detectives he typically teamed with Garza.

Garza’s voice faded out, and frustration ballooned in Pope’s chest. In the next second, the connection was back. . . . them. . . . Wait. Yeah, I see them. They’re heading this way now.

"Good. A silver lining is most of the businesses in the area aren’t open yet. But some of those old buildings next to Isabella’s contain lofts. IC already has foot patrol contacting management companies to make sure everyone’s evacuating.

Meanwhile, you, Mills, and Ortiz tag team. If you see anyone out in this storm, get in their face. You got your fancy underwater Nikon with you?

Never leave home without it.

Good. Video the surrounding buildings. Look through windows. Somebody had an agenda or wanted to get his rocks off. There’s a high percentage he’s hanging around.

Got it. How about you? Making any progress?

Pope ground his back teeth together. He was still pinned behind vehicles and now a damn RTD commuter bus. My hemorrhoids have more room than this pileup. He considered switching to sirens for all of two seconds; his wigwags were useless. Panic might cause a wreck, and these drivers couldn’t budge anyway. I’m hanging up now. Get me those videos.

Closing in on 14th Street, which was one-way, Pope had to double back. Three blocks from Isabella’s, with traffic at a standstill, he eased the Explorer onto the sidewalk, very nearly taking out parking meters along the way. It was slow going, but eventually he eased past the jam.

From there, he pulled into a private lot and commandeered a parking space. Foregoing the automated pay station, he left his business card on the dash in lieu of a stub. He quickly donned his hooded police jacket, looping his lieutenant shield around his neck, and hit the ground running. Cops already had targets on their backs. Larger than most, at six-foot-five and African American, Pope made passersby edgy and terrified suspects standing still. No telling in an all-out sprint what effect he’d have on them.

He reached the barricaded block leading to Isabella’s with a couple of hurdles. Collecting his breath, he slowed to a jog. Eight a.m., and despite the rain, curiosity overrode the elements. Crowds, many without umbrellas, were trying to push past the blockade as officers ordered them back. Naturally, some had whipped out their phones.

He closed in on Isabella’s and slowed his pace. Up ahead, Denver PD’s armored explosive ordnance disposal truck took up most of the street, while a landscape of fire trucks, ambulances, and cruisers surrounded the EOD.

The better news was the facade of Isabella’s appeared intact; the only clue of anything out of the ordinary was the coffee shop’s propped door and first responders coming and going.

For the first time in forty minutes, Pope breathed fully. The sooner they cleared this scene, the sooner they could get a head start on the perpetrator.

Jim Anderson, incident commander, stood under Isabella’s awning with three emergency responders, one still in his bomb gear, minus the helmet. Jim wasn’t by nature the life of the party. Nor had Pope ever seen him appear stricken, as in this case. Suddenly Garza’s optimistic outlook about the victims sustaining only minor injuries fell into question.

Anderson spotted Pope and waved him over. Garza told me you were on your way, Lieutenant. He bypassed introductions. It ain’t good. We currently have two potential life-threatening injuries in the rear of the coffee shop. Anderson nodded to the bomb technician. Sergeant Mahoney?

Mahoney looked out at the downpour as if it were public enemy number one. Dogs and robots came up with one explosive device. Best we can tell so far is the bomber set up C-4 inside a laptop. We have a two-foot-by-two-and-a-half foot crater in the brick wall where the injured parties were sitting. Muscles in the sergeant’s jaw tightened. Suspect with a laptop, in a place like this, blended right in.

With a nod from Mahoney, Anderson resumed speaking, Paramedics are working to stabilize the non-ambulatory victims now. We’ve been told it doesn’t look promising.

Garza and Mills chose that moment to round the coffee shop, their expressions just as bleak as Jim Anderson’s. Garza looked first to Pope then to the commander. Deceased white male, behind Isabella’s. Ortiz is with the body.

With five pairs of eyes staring him down, Pope snapped into action. Garza, Mills, notify Doc Sanai we need the ME investigator, then get back with Ortiz. First thing, get a tarp over the body, then process the scene around it.

To the bomb squad sergeant, Pope asked, We okay to go in?

Yeah. But be on the watch for falling debris in the back. Based on the amount of damage—you should have plenty of ventilation. . . . Somebody called to Mahoney. He nodded to the group and headed in that direction.

Pope extended a hand to the IC. After you.

Following Anderson through Isabella’s entrance, Pope unzipped his coat and wiped his sweat-and-rain-soaked face with his sleeve.

He’d bought more than his share of java in this place and attended more than his share of meetings. Three times the size of your average Starbucks, Isabella’s was named after Nadine Giordano’s grandmother, and the coffee shop was her pride and joy.

Pope crammed his hands in his jacket pockets so as not to knock anything else aside or contaminate evidence any further. Considering Nadine, his hands curled into fists. She ran her successful catering business through this establishment. Years had passed since she’d mortgaged her house to buy the place. Have you contacted the owner?

She and her husband are in Europe. They’re making arrangements to fly back as soon as possible.

I’ll need her number, Pope said, inhaling what smelled like tar, further evidence the suspect had used C-4.

For the most part, the front of the café looked as though it had been hit by a small earthquake. A few chairs were toppled. Paintings hung askew. The glass bakery display contained hairline cracks. Cups and dishware had either slid across the table or lay shattered on the floor.

Close to the cash register, one laptop sat on a table as though awaiting its owner’s return.

Legal professionals regularly made Isabella’s their first stop before court or their office every morning. Pope pivoted and took it all in. Had one of her customers been the target, or had Nadine herself made an enemy?

As Pope and Anderson moved toward the rear of the café, they saw the damage had intensified. Pope observed one laptop on the floor that had broken into black metal chunks. He stepped over what was left of the keyboard.

His gaze centered on the columns that separated the front from the rear of the coffee shop. One column had held, the other had split like a tree trunk hit by lightning. Pope envisioned the structural risks involved, and his gut performed a somersault. The entire back end of the café might have collapsed, and still could.

This time, Anderson motioned for Pope to go first. He moved beyond the columns where the bomb’s energy made itself known in a more spectacular fashion. Here, the north windows had blown out. Nadine’s wooden butterfly tables and ladderback chairs were a thing of the past. The impact had sheared pedestals from tabletops turning their birdcage support into shrapnel.

Pope counted five areas where the ceiling had come down and rainwater gushed in. The IC team had been on top of things, spreading tarps to maintain the evidence. Good thing. The puddles forming over the plastic looked like mini lakes.

Pope turned in a circle. Had the bomber staged the attack around the impending storm? Sheer genius if he had. Who knew how much residue, DNA, or prints had been washed away?

He folded his arms and stared upward. Took some force to open up the roof.

Anderson angled closer, then backed off with a shrug. Not much to say when you witness loose piping, cracked framing, and soggy insulation.

Focusing his attention on the area Mahoney had referenced, Pope couldn’t see the hole that impacted Isabella’s exterior wall. Four raincoat-clad police officers held up a tarp to cover the medics while they attended the wounded.

From below the tarp came a gruff voice. All right, we’re bringing out the first one. Give us some room.

Three officers handed off the tarp to the fourth, and at the revelation of the victim on the stretcher, Pope and Anderson exchanged a look. The paramedics had positioned him on his side for an obvious reason. A large shard of wood driven by the force of the blast had become a projectile and impaled in the man’s lower back.

A twenty-two-year veteran cop, Pope would never get used to inserting himself into these types of tragedies. But to nail the perpetrator who’d done this, he’d butt in, and then some. He stepped forward, held up a palm. If he’s conscious, I need a few minutes.

He can’t give you anything; he’s nonresponsive, a first responder said sharply, and signaled his partner to move out.

Pope and Anderson backed away, rounding the stretcher to get a glimpse of the victim’s face.

With an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, Pope almost let the patient slip by him. Until his eyes fluttered open. Five years on the beat, and later as detectives, Pope would know the eyes of his former partner anywhere. He went down on one knee. Harley? Harley, it’s me, Pope. Can you hear me?

Beneath the mask, Harley Bryant emitted a strangled cry. "Pope. . . . He reached out but no longer had the strength. Help."

Pope grasped his hand. You got it. We’re getting you help. Stay with me.

"No. More often than not, Harley and Pope had communicated via eye contact or hand signals rather than by words. He rolled his eyes upward and to the right. Her."

Still gripping Harley’s hand, Pope forced himself to look past the man on the stretcher and the paramedics. And as he confirmed what he already knew intrinsically, a thousand shots of lidocaine couldn’t deaden the pain. He returned his gaze to Harley’s an instant too late. Like a switch set to dim, the light had faded out of them.

If anything, Pope no longer had to speculate about who the intended target was. He took his eyes off his old friend and turned toward the medical team. Is she alive?

She is, said the man in the lead. Now move aside so we can keep her that way.

As he brushed past, an EMT pulling up the rear stopped moving. Hold up, Dan. Sir, do you know this woman? Do you know her name?

Theresa. Pope’s world spun. Theresa O’Neil . . . Rafferty. AUSA. Works for the Colorado Department of Justice.

4

Ten minutes later, Mile High Ambulance Service hit lights and sirens and pulled away from Isabella’s. Patrol officers directed the driver through a makeshift opening in the barricade as an ever-accumulating crowd, and now the press, looked on.

Pope operated by rote, as medics loaded Theresa and hooked her up to monitors and IVs, then directed a police officer to follow the ambulance and keep him updated.

Afterward, he made two calls. One to Denver PD’s dispatch supervisor, asking her to contact Theresa’s boss, the Colorado U.S. attorney, and learn the whereabouts of her family—what was left of them—and coordinate with the hospital.

The second was a return call to his superior officer, Commander Dahlberg. Dahlberg didn’t give a damn that Pope had been collaborating with Incident Command on a downtown bombing. Dahlberg was the only superior officer Pope knew who could turn a three-minute status report into a twenty-minute grill session.

I’ve heard from ATF Senior Special Agent Derrick Sumner, Dahlberg droned on. His team should be on scene later this morning. Denver PD will hand over the crime scene and assist on an as-needed basis. I’m sure the FBI will want jurisdiction, too, he added. After all, Everett, an AUSA was the apparent target.

Pope didn’t bother reminding the commander a former Denver police officer had died at the scene and Pope’s squad was investigating a second death behind the coffee shop, one he had yet to get to. Nor did he remind Christopher that he preferred Pope, rather than his given name. Dahlberg was one of the few who blatantly ignored Pope’s preference.

He pressed a finger to one ear and said, You’re breaking up, sir. I’ll have to get back to you, and pushed end.

That likely pissed off the boss. Two seconds later an incoming text confirmed it. Prepared to be ordered to Dahlberg’s office for a closed-door attitude adjustment, Pope threw back his hood, ready to respond with a two-word reply as the cool morning air hit the back of his neck.

Two thoughts entered his brain in that second. The rain had dwindled down to an occasional sprinkle, and the text wasn’t from Dahlberg.

It was from Brian DiPietro, an FBI agent assigned to the Denver field office and one of the few Feds Pope enjoyed working with and considered a friend. DiPietro had written: Saw the news. Flying back from Provo this afternoon. I’m here if you need another set of eyes.

Offering, not telling. Pope reread the text. That had been Brian’s MO from the start when they’d met two years ago and solved the Black Pearl Killer murders. Pope sent a thumbs-up, acknowledging he’d received the text, then rounded the building.

Nodding to two police officers manning the scene, he slipped under the yellow tape and reviewed the landscape. As in most businesses that occupied prime downtown retail space, very little comprised the exterior. A small patio strip existed out front.

In the back, the