Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Just my huntin’ rifle.”

  “We found gunpowder traces on Basehart. Said he was target shooting with you on Sunday. There was a squirrel rifle in the shop that’d been fired recently, and some bullet holes in the trees out back. You remember shooting with him?”

  “When?”

  “Sunday.”

  Pelham crossed his arms. “Don’t rightly remember, Lieutenant.”

  “Did your buddy ever threaten any Vietnamese?”

  “You know as well as me, Edison has no use for them Slants—just talkin’ ’bout them would get him real worked up. But neither do any a’ us.”

  “You think he killed that woman?”

  “Oh, no,” Pelham said, taking a step backward to avoid Canary’s smoke rings. “You don’t trick me into talkin’ down my friend. I ain’t helpin’ you anymore.”

  Wilkes and Canary looked at each other. Shrugging, the policeman said, “All right, Billy Lee, that’s all for now. Just don’t go and get lost again. I may be wanting to talk to you real soon. In fact”—he pulled out the wooden whistle—“when you hear this, you better come running quick. You do understand.”

  Pelham nodded, trying to smile.

  “Good. C’mon, counselor.”

  As Canary passed him, Wilkes suddenly had a thought. He asked Pelham, “Do you know where Nguyen Van is?”

  “Who?”

  “Nguyen Van Van—the dead woman’s brother.”

  “Some S-Slant? You’re askin’ me ’bout some Slant? How the hell should I know? H-How the hell should I know anything ’bout any of ’em?”

  “I understand that he got around quite a bit.” Wilkes took a step closer. “This is a small town. You sure you haven’t . . .”

  “I told you, I don’t know no Slant . . . no Slant! Can’t you leave a man in peace! I know my rights, I know all about police harassment! It’s against some part a’ the Constitution, some . . .” He quieted under Canary’s gaze.

  “You’re mighty touchy, Billy Lee,” the lieutenant said, “but I guess we can just chalk that up to your recent illness. Don’t mind saying, I didn’t believe you before, but now . . . well, you do look mighty pale. Maybe we should drive you over to the doctor.”

  Pelham took out a dirty blue bandana and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. He tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a croak. “No. No, thank you. Guess I just got worked up a little, my best friend bein’ in jail ’n all.”

  “Yeah, I see how you’d worry. Got some good news for you though.” He waited.

  Pelham narrowed his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Your friend’s got himself another lawyer. He come in from no less than Washington, D.C.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Yeah, some big city sharpie to help Collinsby. So you see, if he’s innocent, Basehart’s got nothing to worry about. Ain’t that good news?”

  “Say, Lieutenant, about this here lawyer . . .”

  “Bye, Billy Lee.”

  Pelham said something which was drowned out by the traffic, as Canary and Wilkes crossed the highway and walked up the driveway into the parking lot.

  Opening his car door Canary said, “This case is getting a lot more interesting than I first thought.”

  “So you think Pelham is lying?”

  “Through his teeth. I told you, with Billy Lee lying’s a religion. We just got to figure out how much and why. See, it would’ve been the easiest thing in the world for him to alibi Basehart, say he didn’t fall asleep till one and Basehart was still there. Even if you and me didn’t believe him, he might’ve given the defense some help in court.”

  “And besides, if he’s Basehart’s friend . . .”

  “Right. Those boys stick together like horse shit. In the old days one of them might go kill a nigger, while the rest would swear he was leading a prayer meeting. No, something’s wrong. And when you mentioned that Slant girl’s brother—like you hit him in the gut. What made you think of that?”

  Wilkes shrugged. “Nobody else seems to know where Van is. I thought it was worth a try.”

  “Yeah, sure was. I’m gonna put a few more men on that missing Slant’s tail.” Both men took out handkerchiefs and blew their noses. Canary laughed. “Damn cold, can’t seem to shake it. Well, be seeing you, counselor.”

  “You know,” Wilkes said as Canary got into his car, “it might be worth checking the ownership papers and financing on the bait and tackle shop. Maybe Pelham has something to gain with Basehart in prison, though I doubt anyone would betray a friend for a few cans of worms.”

  “You don’t know Billy Lee. I’ll look into it. I still think Basehart is guilty as hell, but he didn’t do it alone. Sure would like to fry Billy Lee alongside him and maybe a few others of his white trash friends. We’ll get them, get them all, and there ain’t nothing Lester Collinsby and that bleeding-heart Hebe lawyer can do about it.” Canary paused to blow a smoke ring. “Jimmy, you didn’t do too bad today.”

  Driving back to the office, Wilkes found it hard to stay within the speed limit, exhilarated as hunters were after the hunt. He couldn’t wait for Murray Saunders to ask, “How did it go?”

  Chapter Seven – THURSDAY MORNING

  A telegram was waiting for Rosen, as he passed the front desk after breakfasting in the hotel coffee shop. Having contacted Virginia’s Bureau of Motor Vehicles, his Washington office identified a Richard M. Dickerson as owner of the red Jaguar that had been parked near the Nguyens’ tailor shop. Stepping into a phone booth, Rosen thumbed through the directory and found in bold letters, “Richard ‘Dick’ Dickerson, State Senator.” He dialed the number.

  “Senator Dick Dickerson’s office, Miss Reynolds speaking.” Her voice could have belonged to Scarlett O’Hara.

  “Hello, this is Nathan Rosen representing the Committee to Defend the Constitution. You’ve no doubt heard of my organization.”

  There was a pause. “Well, I’m sure it does a great deal of good. What may I do for you, Mr. Rosen?”

  “I’d like to speak with Senator Dickerson, please. It’s very important.”

  “I’m sorry, but the Senator will not be in today.”

  “Could I reach him at home?”

  “Sorry again, but I cannot give out the Senator’s private number. You understand.”

  “Of course.” Rosen did his best to sound heartbroken. “It’s just that our organization is holding its annual banquet this weekend, and our keynote speaker has suddenly taken ill. Senator Dickerson’s name came up as a replacement, because of his fine record on civil liberties, but we really do need an immediate confirmation. This would be quite a feather in the Senator’s cap.”

  “Oh dear, that is a problem. Well . . . I really can’t give out any numbers, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you the Senator’s spending the day on his yacht. At the Tyler Yacht club. Not that he usually takes time off during the middle of the week, but with the state senate in recess . . .”

  “I understand perfectly, and I want you to know my organization appreciates your trust. This will be quite a surprise for the Senator. Thanks very much.”

  He sat in the lobby to wait for Lester Collinsby, who had promised to drop by. On the inside of his left wrist Rosen scratched the scar made by a switchblade meant for a client, an atheist trying to ban a nativity scene from a town square. He looked from the scar to his bandaged right hand where glass from yesterday’s explosion had cut him; it would form a new scar to join the others on his body. He thought of the ancient ascetics who whipped themselves as a kind of penance. Was he so very different?

  Closing his eyes he tried to remain very still, as the stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean is oblivious to all the waves it has caused. His mind was clearing itself of everything, when he heard a sound like the rushing of wind—God’s voice speaking to Job? No, the click of metal upon metal as the hotel door shut.

  “Hey, there you are. Sleep well?” Collinsby’s voice, and Rosen could feel the big man’s shadow fall across hi
m.

  He opened his eyes slowly. “Yes, thank you.”

  Collinsby sat on the couch adjacent to him. “I heard from Jimmy Wilkes that Billy Lee Pelham finally showed up—right at Basehart’s bait and tackle shop. Guess he lives there too. Jimmy says Pelham won’t swear to Basehart being with him the whole night, only until about eleven when Pelham fell asleep. That doesn’t sound good, especially with them being friends and in that organization together.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “Thought we could take a ride out to the bait and tackle shop. If Pelham really isn’t going to alibi Basehart, we’d better think about cutting a deal with Jimmy.”

  “Lester, this case sure hasn’t caused you any undue stress.”

  Collinsby laughed. “Ever hear of the football term ‘forward progress’? Means you run with the ball, until the other team throws you back. The referee marks the ball as far as you got. That’s the way I feel about this case. From all the evidence, there’s not a heck of a lot we can do. Fourth down and long yardage, Nate.”

  “Time to punt. Not much choice, huh?”

  “Not from where I stand. Besides, we can probably work out a good deal—at least keep Basehart out of the electric chair. Like I said before, Jimmy doesn’t have too much experience in cases like this, so he shouldn’t be anxious to take this one to court. What do you say—let’s check out Pelham’s story and then call Jimmy.”

  Rosen shook his head. “Maybe later. Right now I feel like an ocean breeze. Looks pretty warm outside.”

  “We still got the sun, though it’s supposed to rain tonight. I’d be happy to oblige, Nate, but don’t you think first things first? Maybe after lunch we can take a drive.”

  “Something pertaining to the case we need to check. Could be important. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Rosen walked from the lobby without waiting for Collinsby and was sitting in the car when the other man emerged from the hotel.

  “Anywhere in particular?” Collinsby asked, accelerating quickly from the curb.

  “Tyler Yacht Club. I checked out that red Jaguar we saw yesterday at the funeral. It belongs to State Senator Richard Dickerson.”

  “Dick Dickerson? No, there’s some mistake. What would his car be doing in the Paddy? You must’ve mixed up the numbers on the license plate. I think we’re on a wild goose chase.” As Collinsby spoke, the car slowed to ten miles below the speed limit, as if he were a child dragging his feet before some unpleasant task. “I really think it’s a waste of time.”

  “Drop me at a car rental. You can interview Pelham, while I visit Dickerson.” He looked out the window but from the corner of his eye saw Collinsby’s jaw tighten.

  “No, that’s all right.”

  The tremor in Collinsby’s voice was obliterated by the automobile’s acceleration. Streets thinned into pastures, and Rosen sniffed traces of salt spray in the wind. As the highway gradually veered to the left, the land turned brown and rocky, piling into a ridge that grew larger in the distance until curving back the other way like some primordial snake basking in the sun. At the promontory where the land curved, Rosen noticed a widening of the road—a small rest area and some sort of monument.

  “What’s that up ahead?” he asked.

  “An old statue of Jefferson. He spoke here once on his way to Washington. I used to stop to see it in high school with Jimmy Wilkes. The way he’d stand in front of the thing, you’d think it was some sort of idol. Here’s our turn.”

  Collinsby slowed to make a quick left onto an asphalt road that dipped between the ridge and wound its way toward the ocean. Soon they came upon the sign, “Private Lane,” and then another, “Tyler Yacht Club, Founded 1843, Members and Guests Only.” The road straightened; a half mile ahead the ocean stretched so calm that one could barely distinguish it from the sky. Nearing the dock Collinsby drove into a parking lot, where he pulled between a Cadillac and a Mercedes.

  Rosen said, “Looks like car thief heaven.”

  Collinsby laughed. “You should see this place on a weekend.”

  Rosen wandered through the lot, finally signaling Collinsby to join him. “This is the car I saw across the street from the Nguyen tailor shop. A newer model of yours—same color. You’ve never seen it before?”

  Collinsby scratched his head. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “Why would Dickerson have gone there?”

  “Maybe . . . maybe it wasn’t Dickerson. Maybe somebody else was driving his car.”

  “His wife?”

  “He’s a widower. I don’t know who it could’ve been. It was just a thought. Look, are we going in or not?”

  The two men walked back toward the clubhouse, a large building modeled after a colonial tavern, white planks ribbed with cedar beams. The entrance, a double door of polished oak, was opened gingerly by a doorman in a traditional sailor suit—tasseled cap, striped shirt, and baggy pants.

  Pausing at the door Rosen asked, “Senator Dickerson inside?”

  “No, sir,” the doorman replied. “He’s over on his boat, second one down. The Richard III.”

  The two attorneys walked down to the dock. Rosen didn’t know a thing about boats. Growing up in Chicago, he had never paid much attention to the ones on Lake Michigan. Seeing them up close, however, was something else. They were machines of wonder—from the colorful pennants lilting in the breeze, to the long smooth curves of the cabin and deck, and the broad sleek hull. The Richard III was one of the larger yachts—big enough to accommodate a half-dozen people—and it was cleaner, white trimmed with crimson stripes vibrant as flowing blood. A small boarding ramp was in place but unattended. Nobody was on deck.

  Rosen was about to call out, when he heard a loud noise and something breaking inside the cabin. A woman screamed, “No! Help! Help!”

  He took a step onto the ramp, when Collinsby’s powerful hand stopped him.

  “Wait a bit,” the other man almost whispered.

  Another scream, which subsided into a series of giggles followed by an irritated, “Now you just stop that,” and more giggles. Suddenly a young woman in a bikini stumbled up the stairs, hitching the top back over her breasts. “Oops!” She blushed seeing the two men, but before she could say another word, a hand reached up from the cabin stairway and pulled her ankle so that she collapsed upon the deck. The hand was so scrawny that its veins stood out, deeply tanned skin devoid of hair, with a large gold band weighing down the ring finger. “Oww, that hurts!” the woman squealed, and the hand finally released its grip.

  Up the stairs bounded Senator Dickerson, wearing an outlandish Hawaiian shirt. Grinning wickedly he leaned over, as a swimmer does, to pounce upon the woman, who nodded toward the dock.

  “Eh?” he asked until noticing the two visitors. The leer quickly changed to a broad grin, while he put on a pair of sunglasses to mask his emerald eyes. Rosen had seen those eyes somewhere before. Dickerson’s bermuda shorts were as ridiculous as his shirt, billowing around his bony knees. He walked to the railing and leaned forward, brushing back his coppery hair to show off his remarkable tan. Everything about Dickerson’s appearance was perfect—hair bronze as his skin, teeth whiter-than-white—as if all colors had been painted then covered with several layers of lacquer, making it impossible to tell his true age.

  “Hello, Lester. Long time no see.” His tone was even, betraying nothing. Because of the dark glasses, Rosen didn’t know at which of the two men Dickerson was staring.

  “Sure has been awhile,” Collinsby replied. “Think I last saw you at that charity dinner the Mayor gave a few months back. How have you been?”

  “Fine, just fine. Trying to keep fit. And you?”

  “Fine.”

  They spoke too formally. Rosen remembered being in the company of a recently divorced couple who conversed in a similar manner; whole histories floated ghostlike around the few words spoken. Collinsby wasn’t looking up at Dickerson; maybe the sun was in his eyes. The woman sauntered beside the Senator and, look
ing at Collinsby, purred, “Who’s your friend, Dick?”

  Ignoring her Dickerson asked, “You here visiting someone?”

  “No. I mean . . .” Collinsby took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands.

  “We’re here on an errand, Senator,” Rosen said. “My name’s Nathan Rosen. I’m an attorney, who, along with Lester, is representing Edison Basehart. I’m sure you’ve read about the case. Mr. Basehart is accused of killing a Vietnamese woman, Nguyen Thi Nhi.”

  For a long time Dickerson stared through his dark glasses at the two men. His next words burst like machine-gun fire. “Representing Basehart!” More quietly to Collinsby, “I read you were defending him. I had no idea you had an associate.”

  “Not exactly. Mr. Rosen just kind of showed up. He’s from the . . . what’s that group, Nate?”

  “Committee to Defend the Constitution. You’ve heard of my organization?”

  “Uh . . . of course. Great job you all are doing, I’m sure. But . . . why are you involved in this case?”

  “I’ve been sent to help Lester protect Basehart’s constitutional rights.”

  “And Basehart agreed?”

  “He was most cordial. A delightful fellow, one of the great raconteurs of our generation. You’ve met him, Senator?”

  “No. No, of course not. It’s just . . . I’ve heard of his reputation, and you are a . . . never mind. You said you’re on an errand. One that involves me in some way?”

  Rosen ran his gaze across the length of the vessel. “I’ve never been on a yacht before. Could we see you for a few minutes? What are you supposed to say—permission to come aboard, sir?”

  Dickerson paused, as if his mind were a computer referring to earlier data, cross-checking and analyzing various options before finally spitting out a response. “Very well.”

  The two attorneys joined Dickerson and his girlfriend in four lounge chairs behind a buffet table, Rosen counting four glasses and four half-filled plates of food. He looked at the cabin door which was slightly ajar.

  “A drink, gentlemen?” Dickerson asked. Rosen nodded. “And you, Lester?”