When the Past Came Calling

by Larry S. Kaplan

  “I’m not a regular or anything like that,” I backtracked. “Usually I meet my buddies there. And just so it won’t interfere with our male bonding, we have this rule: no talking to the ladies. Maybe that’s why you never saw me,” I added with a laugh so she’d know I was at least half-joking.

  “Then it’s a good thing I’ve never run into you at Harry’s,” she replied. “I would have tried to get you to break that rule.”

  We met at Harry’s Cafe at about five thirty. Since it was a Wednesday night the bar was sparsely populated, and we were able to find a table by a window, out of earshot of the other patrons. Sandra’s outfit for the occasion did not disappoint. Beneath a smart blue blazer she wore a pale gray sweater with a neckline just low enough to reveal her ample endowment. When the waitress approached, she surprised me by ordering Absolut on the rocks. Nothing girlie about her. I ordered the same thing, deciding that my standard Tom Collins might send the wrong message.

  We engaged in idle chitchat until our libations arrived, Sandra telling me how a small-town girl from Enid, Oklahoma, ended up working for the FBI.

  “I always enjoyed math. Not the complicated stuff like calculus or trigonometry—just the basics like addition, subtraction, etc. I also loved solving puzzles that had anything to do with math. I majored in accounting at the University of Oklahoma, and one day early in my senior year my career counselor called me about a job interview she’d arranged. She told me the position was a good match with my skills and interests, that she’d already sent my transcript in for consideration and the recruiting people wanted to meet me. Throughout the call she remained vague about the identity of the company, so I just went along and didn’t press her for details.

  “The interview was on campus, and the position was for the tax frauds division of the FBI. Believe me, I’d never given thought to a career in law enforcement. But after hearing what the job entailed, the idea of uncovering how people cooked their books sounded a lot more appealing than being hired to cook the books for them.” She laughed as she said this, revealing the small-town girl at her core beneath the veneer of big-city sophistication.

  The waitress arrived and set our glasses on the table. Sandra picked hers up first, waited for me to do the same, and then clinked hers against mine.

  “Cheers, David. What you’re doing for us is really appreciated.” She took a long first sip of her straight-up vodka, savoring it like a smoker who has been without a cigarette for a while. “It’s been a complicated day,” she explained.

  I took a slightly smaller sip of my drink. I was not used to the taste or the effect of undiluted vodka. It burned my esophagus going down, and I had to struggle to keep my eyes from watering. I felt perspiration developing on my forehead and instinctively reached into my pocket for something to wipe it with. I pulled out the blue handkerchief I had taken from backstage at Lincoln Hall…the prop from Oliver! I was wearing the same pants I had worn the night I saw Benny and didn’t realize the handkerchief was still buried in one of its pockets.

  “That’s the hugest handkerchief I’ve ever seen, David,” Sandra said, astonished, as I unfurled it in front of her. “Let me see it.”

  I handed it to her before I wiped my forehead.

  “Silly,” she almost said to herself as she examined it.

  “It is silly,” I affirmed, retrieving it and briefly wiping my forehead with it and then putting it back in my pocket. “I’d like to hear about what you found out today—at least whatever you’re at liberty to tell me. But I’m curious. How did you go from investigating tax fraud to stuff like this? There doesn’t seem to be any math involved in a missing persons case.”

  “There isn’t. How I got involved was sort of an unnatural evolution, but it happens all the time. My supervisor in the tax frauds division was moved to a different area, and he asked me to come with him. Before I knew it, I was working on cases that had nothing to do with dollars and cents…But anyway, let me tell you about today. We were unable to find out the name of the person who gave his house to the Friedmans.”

  I was disappointed. I’d wanted my theory confirmed about the link between the Truce of God leader and Benny’s dad. Although that would mean Montgomery had engaged in conduct that ultimately led to Steven Friedman’s suicide, I could easily separate Lena from the actions of her father. But now that hoped-for connection between his religion and the Greenland event just seemed farfetched, if it was simply a matter of chance that the Friedmans had moved across the street and wasn’t something that had been deliberately plotted. “That’s too bad. I was hoping if you could find out who—”

  “I know, and we did try. We had someone search the Cook County property records this afternoon. The title documents evidencing the transfer of 7120 Longmeadow Circle to Steven Friedman in 1966 lists a trust as the seller, not an individual. Unfortunately, when property is owned through a trust, it permits the actual owner to keep their identity secret. The trust that owned it was simply designated by a number in the title documents filed with the county. No person was listed.”

  “I guess I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.”

  Sandra took a second sip of her vodka, keeping her eyes focused on mine. I noticed her demeanor had softened considerably, in contrast to my earlier impressions of her where she’d seemed rather cold and distant. Or maybe it was just the alcohol taking effect—on both of us.

  “Don’t get too depressed about it, David. There’s something about the trust number that is interesting, though.”

  My first reaction was to think that this math whiz was able to decipher some type of code in the number, which would mean nothing to me. “Why?” I asked, sounding doubtful. “Does the number work out to A squared plus B squared equals C squared—or something like that?”

  “No, David. The number of the trust is far more thought provoking than the Pythagorean theorem. It’s the number you told me about: 713111. The same number you saw on Lena’s bracelet the night you met her. The same number you saw on the cameraman’s forearm at Michael’s funeral.”

  Chapter 15

  April 20, 1989

  Miss Jordan, our receptionist, had raised two daughters as a single mom in the dangerous, rough and tumble Austin neighborhood of Chicago. Both girls turned out to be successful: Chartrice, the oldest, was an account executive at the Chicago advertising agency, Foote, Cone & Belding, and Yolanda was the principal of the Meridian Middle School in Palatine, Illinois. The day after I met Sandra for drinks at Harry’s was Career Day at Meridian for the sixth and seventh graders. Yolanda had asked me months earlier if I would make a presentation to the students about what it was like to be a lawyer.

  “Really?” I’d responded when she first called to ask me. “Don’t you think they’d rather hear from a fireman or policeman?”

  “David,” she scolded. “You totally misjudge the mind-set of today’s kids. They want careers with big dollar potential. They think that all lawyers are rich.”

  “Well, at least I can disabuse them of that notion,” I told her.

  On Career Day morning, just as I was about to leave the office for the thirty-mile drive to Meridian Middle School, Sandra Newton called.

  “Just checking in, David,” she greeted me cheerfully. “Feeling OK after last night?”

  Sandra’s revelation about the newest occurrence of the 713111 number had been unsettling, but it proved my hunch had been correct. It confirmed that the gift of the house to the Friedmans had been a ploy, contrived to put the family in proximity to the Truce of God guru so he could gain access to the aerospace technology Steven Friedman had developed.

  “Do you mean from the drinking,” I inquired, “or what you told me about the real estate trust?”

  “Either one—both were pretty significant.”

  “I must admit to a bit of a hangover, but not too bad. As for the trust, I guess my wild imagination isn’t so wild after all.”

  “It really kind of ups the stakes on the need to find Ben
ny, don’t you agree?”

  Her reference to Benny made me immediately uncomfortable in light of my promise to him. Whenever I had to deal with Sandra, I felt as if all roads led back to finding Benny.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Well, it puts Benny in the crosshairs of the Truce of God more than we realized. I thought you might see that.”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “David, it was one thing when we only wanted to ask Benny about a former neighbor to help us find Dr. Whidden. Now, based on this new information, he might be able to help us pin a treasonous event on Montgomery and his cohorts. It gives the Truce of God all the more reason to want your friend silenced. This isn’t just about finding Dr. Whidden anymore. It’s also about protecting Benny’s life.”

  Now I was flummoxed. What she said made sense. But I was very reluctant about revealing Benny’s whereabouts…at least for the moment.

  “I’ll try to figure something out, Sandra. He can’t have just disappeared. Meanwhile, I’m off to a middle school to tell a bunch of eleven-and twelve-year-olds what it’s like to be a lawyer.”

  “Doing your civic duty? That’s very good of you, David. Hey, if you’re finished early, why don’t you come to my place afterward? I was planning a quiet night at home. Maybe we could order in Chinese food—if you like that idea.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I’m at Sixty-Five East Scott, apartment 1701. Come as early as you can.”

  Hmm…this was an interesting twist. Was this strictly business, I wondered, or something else? I guess I hoped it was something else.

  Chapter 16

  April 20, 1989

  Meridian Middle School was located in the lily-white Chicago suburb of Palatine, Illinois, so it had been quite a coup for Yolanda Jordan to be hired as its principal. “Only black principal of a white suburban school in all of Chicago-land,” Miss Jordan had bragged the day she’d learned of her daughter’s appointment.

  As I looked out at the faces of the hundreds of sixth and seventh graders from the stage of the school’s assembly hall, it was apparent that the student body was indeed all white. I was in the process of explaining what going to court was like and how some judges could be far worse than the meanest schoolteacher. This pronouncement elicited a collective shudder from a string of girls in the front row.

  As I paused for a moment to observe these wincing preadolescents, the sight of them triggered a sudden epiphany. My immediate impulse was to race off the stage to the nearest pay phone to share my revelation with Sandra. Instead, I rushed through the remainder of the presentation and concluded with a story that my uncle Bert had told me about a juror who refused to look in his direction during the course of an entire trial—for one solid week—keeping her eyes fastened instead on his opponent.

  “My uncle was convinced that this juror would vote against his client,” I told the kids. “But when the verdict was announced, it revealed that the jury had voted unanimously in favor of my uncle’s client. When the opportunity presented itself, my uncle asked the juror why she’d looked away from him and only at the other lawyer during the trial. ‘I thought for sure you were going to vote against me,’ he explained. ‘Oh, that wasn’t it at all,’ she told him. ‘I have a bad stiff neck, which made it impossible for me to turn in your direction—I could only look in his. In fact, I was your biggest supporter among the jurors.’”

  In conclusion I explained, “The lesson my uncle learned applies to more than just the law profession. Sometimes in life you make judgments about people and how they feel about you for all the wrong reasons. So it’s important to keep an open mind. You never know; the person you think doesn’t like you may turn out to be your biggest fan. Thank you for being such an attentive audience.”

  At hearing my closing words, Yolanda Jordan bounded onto the stage, clapping her hands enthusiastically so that the audience would too. They weren’t quite as exuberant as she was, but they still made me feel appreciated. As Yolanda and I walked off the stage together, she thanked me warmly and said she’d be forever in my debt.

  “Well, in that case,” I noted, “pointing me to the nearest pay phone would do just fine for starters. I need to make a quick call.”

  “You can use the phone in my office, David. You’ll have privacy there. Follow me.”

  Yolanda escorted me to her office and told me to dial nine for an outside line. After she left and closed the door behind her, it took me a while to find Sandra’s work number among the numerous business cards and scraps of paper I kept in my wallet. I shuffled through them several times before I found it. I dialed her number, and once again, Sandra knew it was me before I even spoke.

  “Hi, David. Not calling to cancel, I hope.”

  “No—not at all. Actually, I’m still at the school,” I explained. “I just had a brainstorm…about finding Dr. Whidden. Listen, do you or the FBI have any kind of file on the Montgomerys? A file that might contain photos of the family from the 1960s?”

  “There are some passport photos. But why?”

  There was a knock on the door. Yolanda opened it partway and seeing I was still on the phone, made a motion with her hand as if to say keep on talking and closed the door.

  “Can I explain it to you tonight? I’m using the principal’s phone, and I’m keeping her from her office.”

  “You’re still not over her, are you?”

  “Not over who?”

  “Lena Montgomery. The girl you met the night of the party for Benny’s dad. You want to see a picture of her. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, no,” I responded, disappointed that Sandra could think this was personal, just about me. “I was hoping to see a picture of her sister…Mary.”

  “Mary? Why Mary?”

  “Because I think she may be the key to finding Dr. Whidden.”

  “Mary? But you know she passed away when she was eleven—before the family left town. How could a picture of Mary help?”

  “I know. Maybe my idea is crazy. But if there are any photos of her, can you bring them home with you tonight?”

  Chapter 17

  April 20, 1989

  Sandra’s apartment was little more than a studio. Furniture in the unit was sparse. The bedroom was separated from the main living area by a wood-slatted screen. The living room contained a couch barely larger than a loveseat and a small coffee table, and a waist-high Formica counter divided the pantry-sized kitchen from the living room.

  “Have you lived here long?” I asked after a ten-second scan satisfied my curiosity about the layout.

  “No. Just a couple of months. I was transferred from the Houston office in February. I need a few more things, huh?”

  “Oh, mine isn’t much better. You’ve got all that you need, though—a couch, a table, and a bed.”

  “And to really pamper myself, I bought a TV that hasn’t been delivered yet…Come here,” she motioned toward the couch, “I want to show you what I managed to find.”

  After we were both seated, I noticed a thin manila envelope on the coffee table in front of us. Sandra opened it, retrieved the contents, and handed it to me. It was a passport—Mary Montgomery’s passport.

  “You know,” she explained as I studied the photo, “back in the sixties it was more unusual for families to travel out of the country than it is now. Mary and Lena both had passports issued at the same time—November of 1965, just a month before Mary died. We don’t know if there was a specific destination involved, and if so, when or why. Maybe—if the plan to ensnare Benny’s dad had been in the works for some time—the idea was to leave the country as soon as the sabotage had taken place but not to prompt suspicion by obtaining passports just prior to leaving.”

  I was transfixed by the photo of Mary. In some ways, she looked like a younger version of how I remembered Lena. They both had raven black hair and an upper lip that curled slightly to reveal an even row of shimmering white teeth. But Mary’s cheekbones
were wider and more prominent than her sister’s—almost Asiatic. And there was something in her expression that suggested a level of wisdom beyond her eleven years, as if she’d already experienced some of life’s ironies. I was probably reading too much into it, but her demeanor seemed to portend the early death that awaited her.

  “Do you know how she died?” I asked Sandra.

  “Polio.”

  “Polio? In the sixties!”

  “Apparently she wasn’t vaccinated. It came on quick and sudden. Perhaps her family opposed the use of vaccines.”

  While I grappled with this distressing notion, Sandra put Mary’s passport back in the envelope and rose from the couch, heading to the closet near the front door to retrieve her briefcase. She put the envelope inside and locked the case, which had a built-in combination lock on each side. Then she asked, “Hey, what would you like me to order from the China Doll? It has all the standard Chinese fare.”

  I didn’t feel like eating anymore. “Can I just have some water? I think my appetite just died.”

  “Really?” she said, sounding surprised. “Well, that’s fine with me. I can pass on the food too. But just water? Let me make you an Absolut on the rocks. I think I have enough left for two drinks.”

  I didn’t want any alcohol either. Seeing the photo of Mary and hearing that she’d died of polio started a pounding in my head. “You know what? I really only feel like water. Is that OK?”

  “Sure. That’s probably a better idea.”

  I observed Sandra in the kitchen as she reached up to grab two tall glasses from a shelf above the refrigerator, filling them first with ice cubes and then adding tap water. She brought them over to the couch and handed me mine and then sat down very close beside me—closer than before. Her right thigh was making contact with my left thigh from hip to knee, and I found it rather disconcerting. Especially since I could feel the firmness of her quadriceps through our clothing, and they were far stronger than mine.