Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  He watched her drive away, the station wagon leaving a trail of blue smoke, then pushed the piece of cardboard into his shirt pocket. Not that Rosen needed it. He’d already memorized her number.

  Chapter Four

  He’d usually been able to ignore Saturday mornings. They seemed pretty much the same as any weekday—good for researching a case in the law library, interviewing witnesses, running down leads, traveling to and from Washington. But this morning, as Rosen sat in the window seat overlooking the park in downtown Evanston, the loneliness fluttered through his body as gently as the lace tablecloth his mother had spread upon the Sabbath table.

  It was nine-thirty. His father would be “davening,” rocking in prayer with the few other devoted men still in the old neighborhood, as would Rosen’s brother David in his West Bank settlement—no, the Sabbath was almost over in Israel. Aaron and his family were probably at that new synagogue near their house, watching the electronic doors of the Ark silently open to reveal the Torah. Each of them was with someone to share the holy day. Even a Jew alone need only pray to God and then was not alone. But Rosen wouldn’t pray.

  Instead, he sipped his tea and listened to the radio murmur reassuringly from the kitchen. Sarah should have been with him. They’d planned to watch videos, eat popcorn, and talk, but she’d been too upset to see him.

  “Maybe tomorrow, Daddy,” she’d said on the phone last night. “I’ve got to talk to Nina. Call me tomorrow morning.”

  There was a telephone on a small desk near the window, but he’d wait until ten o’clock. Instead, checking his directory, he dialed another number.

  “Polski Dziennik Glos.”

  “Good morning. Do you speak English?”

  “Polish Daily Voice,” a woman said with a thick accent. “How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Andi Wojecki.”

  “I’m sorry. She’s on assignment in Warsaw.”

  “Poland?”

  “Yes, a photo essay on Polish-Americans who’ve returned home. Can I be of help?”

  “I’m a friend from out of town. Andi’s doing well?”

  “Oh yes, what a wonderful photographer! She’ll be back in . . . uh . . . ten days. Can I take a message?”

  Rosen hesitated then said, “No thanks. Good-bye.”

  He’d met Andi last year in South Dakota, helping clear her Lakota friend of a murder charge. After she’d moved to Chicago, they’d kept in touch, although lately the phone calls had been less frequent. Rosen had been too busy to mind. He’d called, planning to ask for help gathering information on Martin Bixby. But the real reason was just loneliness.

  He returned to the window seat. It was another fine April day. Across the street, mothers pushed their baby strollers, children played on the swings, and old men jogged around the park’s perimeter. A young couple passed the swing set and stood by a flower bed filled with yellow, blue, and pink petals. Putting his hands on her shoulders, the boy pulled the girl close, and they kissed for a long time.

  They might have been alone beside that beautiful garden, and Rosen remembered a favorite passage from The Song of Songs:

  Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away,

  For winter is past, and the rain is over and gone;

  The flowers appear on the earth;

  The time of the singing of birds is come,

  and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land . . .

  He vaguely recollected a woman in a dream last night. Andi—no. Someone with long, dark hair.

  Could Lucila Melendez have been the woman? To dream of a woman was bad, his old rabbi had told the yeshiva boys. Did not the Talmud state that “. . . whoever sleeps alone in a house will be seized by Lilith,” the female demon with long hair? Rosen almost laughed aloud, but then he didn’t really know Lucila.

  The condo where he was staying belonged to his boss’s brother, a wealthy pharmacologist whose wife patronized the fine arts in Chicago. Their living room resembled a gallery, one wall containing shelves filled with art books and sculptures. The figures were Third World in origin—bronze or wooden African statuettes and squatting pre-Columbian gods. Across the polished wooden floor, past a white leather sofa and matching chairs, the opposite wall displayed a collection of paintings. They had in common broad strokes, bold colors, and a glorification of the peasant.

  Rosen took, from the bottom shelf, an oversized volume entitled Daughters of Frida Kahlo: Art of the Latin American Woman. He found a reference to Lucila and turned to a page with two paintings—a sickly barrio girl clinging to an old “Dick and Jane” reader, and a pregnant woman being crucified. The woman resembled Lucila’s sister-in-law, Esther.

  The accompanying text read, “Lucila Melendez, Dominican-American, whose work deftly combines two themes—the social injustice of her homeland with the radical feminism of her adopted country.”

  Returning the book, Rosen wondered if any of the galleries in the Chicago area displayed Lucila’s work. He could ask her when he called.

  “Oh?” he wondered in the same quizzical voice his rabbi had used when asking a Talmudic question, “and how did you know you were going to call her before you knew you were going to call her?”

  He started to smile, then checked his watch. Sarah. He went to the phone.

  Just then the radio announced, “And tragic news from the northern suburb of Arbor Shore. A listener’s call-in tip sent our WMAQ reporter Dean Grodin to a small park on Lake Michigan, where a girl has died. Dean, what have you learned so far?”

  “Jim, police haven’t released many details yet. What’s clear, however, is that sometime last night a teenage girl fell to her death from the edge of Ravine Park, an area that overlooks the beach.”

  “Do you know the victim’s name?”

  “No, but she apparently attended Arbor Shore High School and lived in the immediate area—at least that’s what one of the police officers said before being called away by Police Chief Otto Keller. Chief Keller’s handling the investigation himself and says he’ll have a statement later this morning.”

  “The reason for the girl’s death?”

  “Police are still examining the area and, of course, an autopsy will have to be done. According to neighbors who’ve gathered here, teenagers come to the park at night, as well as the nearby ravines, to drink. You may remember I reported last year about a boy who got drunk and fell into a ravine, breaking an arm and both legs.”

  “So it may have been another tragic accident.”

  “It’s possible, but at this point we’re just speculating. I should know more within an hour or two.”

  “Stay with it, Dean.”

  Rosen gripped the receiver. He kept telling himself it wasn’t Sarah. What would she have been doing out there at night? Besides, if it’d been Sarah, Bess would’ve called long ago.

  He dialed her number. The phone rang for a long time, but he refused to hang up. Finally someone lifted the receiver.

  “Hello.” Bess sounded tired.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, Nate, you heard. I suppose by now everybody—”

  “Sarah’s all right!”

  “Sarah, oh yes. We’ve got her sedated.” Bess’s voice tightened. “It was bad for a while. I’ve never seen her like that, but Shelly got her to take something. I feel like hell. We’re all sick over the whole thing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The other end of the line grew quiet. Then she said, “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “Oh, Nate, the girl who died was Sarah’s friend Nina.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  He drove north on Sheridan Road, through a half dozen of Chicago’s most affluent suburbs. Thirty minutes later he reached Arbor Shore. Its downtown was a long avenue shaded by a bower of giant oaks. Side streets were cobblestoned and the solid square stores gentrified with their red bricks and copper-colored shingles.

  Rosen continued north
past Sarah’s high school. A few blocks ahead, three police cars and a TV news van had parked on the shoulder of the road near a side street. Dressed in a gray jogging outfit, Shelly stood among a small crowd. Parking on the next street, Rosen walked back to join him.

  Shelly asked, “You heard about this?”

  “I talked to Bess. The radio didn’t name the dead girl. How did you know it was Nina?”

  “I was jogging in the park when the police arrived. They brought out Esther Melendez, I guess to identify the body. If you’d seen the woman.” He shivered. “I went home and told Bess. Sarah overheard. She went nuts—don’t worry, we calmed her down—just a mild sedative. Funny. She screamed but didn’t cry—the kid never cries. Bess stayed with her, and I came back.”

  “Did you find out anything more?”

  “Everybody here’s been saying it’s just another kid who got drunk and fell down hard. There’s a helluva lot more of that happening in this neighborhood than anybody lets on.” Blinking hard through his big glasses, he glanced at a reporter and lowered his voice. “I don’t believe it. Not a kid like Nina. You think Sarah would’ve snuck out and gotten so shit-faced drunk that she fell off a cliff?”

  Rosen shook his head.

  “Well, Nina was the same way. I saw a lot of those two together. Good kids, both of them. Goddamn shame, with all the crazies running around in the world—a good kid like her dies.”

  “If she wasn’t out drinking, then what happened?”

  “Who the hell knows?”

  Rosen noticed a girl in the crowd. “Isn’t that the flamenco dancer?”

  “Uh huh. Margarita Reyes. ‘Ita,’ the kids call her. You just walked past where she lives, on the corner. Her mother’s the housekeeper. Just like Nina and Esther.” He shook his head vigorously. “You wanna find out what happened to Nina? C’mon.”

  They walked down a short street that led to a wooden bridge. A squad car was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. A young policeman leaned over the bridge, idly dropping stones into the ravine below. At their approach, he straightened to attention.

  “Sorry. Nobody can come across until we’re done on the other side. Been a death here.”

  He had a scarecrow kind of body and a pinched face that peered at one man, then the other, then back again—as if not sure whom to address.

  Shelly said, “I’m a friend of the Ellsworths, as well as Esther Melendez. We’d like to see them.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Like I was saying, after—”

  “I’m a doctor. Mrs. Melendez may need medical attention.”

  “I don’t know.” The policeman stared even more intently at Shelly. “You look really familiar. Where’ve I seen you?”

  Shelly began humming softly, then broke into song, “‘And we’re out together dancing feet to feet.’”

  The policeman’s eyes flashed, like a Zen Buddhist suddenly hearing the sound of one hand clapping. “Of course, the commercial on TV. You’re the Arches of Triumph guy!” He finished the jingle, “‘Call today, the first visit’s free; 933 F-O-O-T!’”

  “That’s right.”

  “You drive that cool Jag around town. I like the license plate.”

  “Thanks. We’ll just go on ahead.”

  He walked onto the bridge. Rosen followed.

  The policeman called after them. “I better call the chief to let him know!”

  “You do that!”

  By then they were halfway across the bridge. Shelly stopped to look into the deep ravine, which twisted its way through a dense tangle of trees, bushes, and creepers.

  “My older boy took a tumble about a half mile up. He was seventeen. Drinking malt liquor with his friends in the middle of the night. Fell down and broke his leg. Took his friends fifteen minutes to find him. He still walks with a limp. I asked him why he’d do something so stupid, and you know what he told me—‘I don’t know, Dad. Guess I was bored.’ Bored? When I was a kid, I didn’t have a Mustang, video games, my own credit card, phone sex for Chrissakes! A Davey Crockett cap and a hula hoop—that’s what I had. And I wasn’t bored. Go figure.”

  Rosen shrugged. “I guess you were just a fun guy.”

  Shelly looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Yeah, guess I was.”

  “You handled that policeman pretty well. We’re not supposed to have access to a crime scene while it’s still being investigated.”

  “You know in the movies, when the cops have to walk on eggs around some rich guy, because he owns the town’s saw mill? Well, in Arbor Shore that describes just about everybody. The cops here could give the UN a lesson in diplomacy.”

  Stepping from the bridge, they walked along a gravel path through a heavily wooded area. Suddenly Rosen blinked at the sunlight and found himself on the edge of a park, stretching far to his left. Closely clipped grass interrupted by an occasional tall tree holding very still, like an old man waiting for pigeons. The park ended at a double-rail fence about a quarter mile ahead. Past the fence, white sky met the azure blue of Lake Michigan.

  Continuing along the park’s perimeter, the path was bordered on the right by a tall gray stockade fence. As they walked closer toward the lake, Rosen saw, above the fence, the dark roof and sharp gables of a mansion.

  “The Leary estate,” Shelly said, “where Byron and Kate Ellsworth live. Leary is Kate’s maiden name.”

  “I bet it’s some house.”

  “The whole place is probably bigger than Monaco or Lichten . . . schmuck, whatever it’s called. She inherited it all—an only child. Not bad, huh.”

  “And her husband?”

  “A real tight-ass. I mean, what kind of a name is Byron; something you’d call your Great Dane. ‘Here, Byron, here boy!’ I think the guy started out as some pretty-boy tennis player. When he married Kate Leary, her father bought him a seat on the Exchange as a wedding present. Guess the old man thought it would give the guy something to do besides hitting tennis balls. Thing is, Ellsworth turned out to have quite a head for business. Made a pile of dough in his own right, so Leary took him into his investment business. Now that the old man’s dead, guess who’s in charge?”

  Again Rosen looked up at the estate. “Big place for one family. They have two kids, right?”

  “Uh huh. Girl’s away at college. Of course, Esther Melendez stays in the coach house with Nina. And there’s that creepy bodyguard who hangs around.”

  They passed a gate in the stockade fence, then came to a small wooded area, where the gravel road ended and a squad car was parked. Rosen smelled fresh grass and saw a pile of clippings dumped over a few dead branches. They walked into the park until they reached an area of grass yellowed-taped into a square under the wooden railing.

  “This must be where it happened,” Shelly said.

  Rosen studied the top railing, which looked undisturbed except for a sliver bent like a hangnail. The police had laid sheets of clear plastic over the grass, holding them in place with small rocks. The sheets covered something more than grass—scattered bits of red. Both men knelt beside the plastic.

  “What do you make of it?” Rosen asked.

  “Something broken—no, they’re too delicate. You know what they look like—flowers. Maybe petals off a rose.”

  “I think you’re right. They go all the way to the edge of the bluff. And see there, where the grass is all torn up and that bush is flattened. She must’ve hit the ground hard before starting her fall.”

  The two men walked around the tape and stood at the railing’s edge. It was a steep slope of fifty feet to the beach below where jagged rocks lay strewn along the beach. One policeman stood between the rocks, while another wandered, like a beachcomber, up and down the water’s edge.

  “You wanna go down there?” Shelly asked.

  Rosen nodded, and the two men followed the rail fence to their left, where it ended in a winding wooden staircase. They clattered down to a dirt path which, in turn, led to another set of stairs, this one made of railroad ties f
anning out like a deck of cards on a gradual incline two feet apart.

  They passed a heavy policeman huffing his way back up to the park. Pausing to wipe his forehead with his sleeve, he tapped a two-way radio hanging from his belt.

  “Jay called from the bridge. Chief’s expecting you gentlemen.”

  Another gravel path had them skittering down to the beach. Rosen knew this was Lake Michigan; nevertheless, he seemed to be standing within a postcard of a Caribbean island. He shielded his eyes from the sunlight glinting off the gently lapping water, while his feet rippled through sand the color and consistency of cream.

  Shelly said, “Pretty, huh. In another month, you could go swimming. Then it really is a slice of paradise.” Waving his hand at the man standing beside Nina’s body, he called out, “Chief Keller, how are you!”

  The police chief was a small man about sixty, his gray hair cut very short in contrast to his bushy eyebrows. His right hand held a pipe to his mouth, the left gripping his right elbow like a marionette waiting to have its strings jerked.

  After an awkward moment of silence, Shelly said, “Hope you don’t mind us coming down here. I’m Shelly Gold. I live a few blocks away.”

  The policeman nodded, taking a few deep puffs and sending a trail of gray smoke into the air.

  “This is Nate Rosen. His daughter—Sarah’s also my step-daughter—was Nina Melendez’s best friend. We’re naturally concerned, not only about what happened to Nina, but how this might affect Sarah.”

  The police chief took the pipe from his lips. “I thought you came to give medical attention to Mrs. Melendez. Isn’t that what you told Jay?”

  Shelly scratched his head. “Guess I did say something like that.”

  “Aren’t you a podiatrist?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “I don’t think her feet’re bothering her at the moment, but I can understand your concern. You’ll just need to stay clear of any evidence.”

  “What evidence?” Rosen asked.

  Keller looked from one man to the other. “What you’d expect to find, when something like this happens. Up on the bluff a thread snagged on the top rail—could be from the girl’s blue jeans, as she fell over the fence.”