Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “What else was she wearing?”

  “Sweatshirt, sneakers.”

  “Underwear?”

  “We didn’t look to see if she had on any panties.”

  “What about a bra?”

  Keller hesitated, then shook his head. He pointed to a jagged rock near the body.

  “Blood and hair—sure it’ll match the girl’s. She might’ve survived if she hadn’t cracked her head on that. Looks like a lot of cuts and bruises while she was falling.”

  “What else did you find up on the bluff?”

  “We found a gold necklace, at least its chain. Pendant broke off—we’re still looking for it. You ever see a necklace on her, Dr. Gold?”

  “Jeez, I don’t know. Didn’t her mother recognize it?”

  “Maybe your step-daughter would know.”

  Rosen asked, “What about those bits of red in the grass?”

  Keller clicked his tongue. “Didn’t they bag that stuff yet?”

  “Petals from a flower?”

  “Roses. There were more petals clutched in the girl’s right hand.”

  “Any stems?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you find the flower stems?”

  “No.”

  Rosen shook his head. “Did the roses come from Nina’s house?”

  “According to the mother, no. There were a couple empty beer cans and a broken whiskey bottle near the bottom. We’re checking them for prints.”

  Shelly asked, “What do you think happened?”

  Keller took a few more puffs, his eyes narrowing behind a veil of smoke. “Can’t say for sure yet. Of course, it was a Friday night. Kids come out here regularly to drink. Sometimes they get pretty wild.”

  “How do you know she snuck out last night? Anybody see her?”

  “We found the body about nine this morning. Only her face and jaw were stiff. Means she probably died around eleven P.M., give or take a couple hours. We can narrow that down a bit. Her mother says Nina took a phone call, about ten, from your stepdaughter Sarah. You know anything about a call, Dr. Gold?”

  “No. I mean, it’s possible.”

  “The mother went to bed about that time, and when she woke up this morning, Nina was gone. Her bed hadn’t been slept in. Mother walked around the neighborhood looking for her. By the time she told her employer, Mrs. Ellsworth, one of the fellas at the yacht club had found the girl’s body and reported it to us.”

  At that moment, the young policeman who’d been walking up and down the beach joined them. He had curly brown hair, a little longish for a cop, round cheeks, and a turned-up nose.

  “Nothing on the beach, Chief. No pendant, flowers, beer cans, or anything.”

  Shelly shook his head. “Nina wasn’t the kind of kid to sneak out and get drunk.”

  Keller said, “I’ve found that parents don’t always know what their kids will or won’t do. Plenty of teenagers been hurt around here while their parents thought they were tucked safely in bed.”

  Shelly reddened and looked away.

  “Still, kids don’t go off alone. There’s usually at least one other drinking buddy.”

  The young policeman laughed. “Sure thought we had another one—huh, Chief. The mother kept saying ‘Lamato . . . Lamato.’ Thought maybe the girl had some Italian boyfriend.”

  Keller’s jaw set tight. Then he said, “Get up on the ridge and see those rose petals are bagged.” To Shelly, “Are you sure your stepdaughter was home last night?”

  “Uh, yes. Nina spent the evening over at our house. She left around nine-thirty. Sarah watched a video in her room until about eleven. Then she came downstairs and played the piano for awhile, before going to bed. I was in my study for another hour or so after that. Everything was quiet.”

  “And that phone call Nina supposedly received from your daughter around ten o’clock?”

  “Maybe. She’s got her own phone in her room. Look, if you’re thinking that Sarah snuck out with Nina, forget it.”

  Keller paused to draw on his pipe, but it had gone out. “If you’re right, and the girl went out alone . . . Well, it’s awful strange. What with the flowers—it sort of reminded me of a grave.”

  “You’re not saying it was suicide?”

  “No, sir, I’m not saying anything yet. Of course, in a case like this, the victim’s state of mind is awfully important. I’m afraid we’ll have to talk to your stepdaughter. She was the victim’s best friend.”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  Rosen almost smiled. Shelly had no idea how right he was; Keller was a master diplomat. During their conversation, the policeman had given away nothing that he wouldn’t be announcing soon to the media. He had avoided the questions he wanted to avoid—had Nina’s mother recognized the girl’s necklace or had the police found any witnesses to her death? He’d put Shelly on the defensive with that comment about teenagers drinking without their parents’ knowledge. Most importantly, Keller had carefully turned the discussion to Sarah, because he needed her help. In a community like Arbor Shore, that meant getting the parents’ cooperation, and Shelly was ready to do anything to help.

  Rosen asked, “Is there any other reason to believe it might’ve been suicide?”

  “No,” Keller said, “but kids get moody, especially girls. This area has more than its share of teenage suicides. What the hell, it’s a tragedy either way—accident or suicide.”

  “Sure. We’ve taken enough of your time. Thanks.”

  “Not at all.” He tapped his pipe bowl against his shoe. “I’ll need to talk to your daughter soon.”

  “Of course.”

  Rosen and Shelly walked quietly across the beach. Rosen shaded his eyes and looked far into the horizon. Sunlight danced on the water.

  Shaking his head, Shelly mumbled, “Accident . . . suicide. I just can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I. We need to talk to Mrs. Melendez.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember what the other cop mentioned her saying?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. About some Italian boyfriend . . . Lamato, wasn’t it?”

  “You know what ‘la mató’ means in Spanish? ‘He killed her.’”

  Chapter Five

  Blessed with holy water and covered with a white pall, the coffin rested in the church nave. Behind the casket, melting wax slid like tears down the tall paschal candle, reminding Rosen of the small “yahrtzeit” candle he lit each year to commemorate his mother’s death. As Proverbs stated, “The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord.”

  The candle burned clean and steady, the brightest illumination in the old Gothic church. Light painted the stained glass windows in brilliant colors then, like a brush’s dirty water, dribbled its muddied brown into the dark arches overhead.

  The young priest looked down from the altar. His shadow of a mustache made him appear even younger, as did his eager blue eyes. However, his voice carried the funeral mass with surprising authority, and he began the service in Spanish.

  After a few minutes he said, “I have been referring to the Gospel of John, Chapter 11: ‘And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus said unto them, Loose him, and let him go.’

  “These verses remind all of us that, while Nina Melendez has given up her earthly body, she lives eternally with our Lord and Savior. Just as the white pall draped over her casket reminds us that she is now clothed with Christ and the paschal candle reminds us that she has risen with Christ.”

  As the priest lapsed into Spanish, Rosen saw himself reciting the kaddish alone before his mother’s grave, his tears hot as the wax melting down the paschal candle. “What higher act of goodness was there,” his rabbi would ask, “than to attend the dead?” Yet his own father hadn’t sent word to Rosen of his mother’s death. So he came alone, days later, to pray beside her grave as he was praying now. And as he had then,
he realized, “I’m more dead to my father than my mother is. At least he burns the yahrtzeit candle for her.”

  The priest continued in Spanish, and more from the cadence than the words, Rosen recognized the Twenty-third Psalm of David: “Only goodness and steadfast love shall pursue me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” He grimaced, looking down at the casket. Had goodness and love followed Nina Melendez, an innocent girl? And if not her, could they follow anyone?

  The priest said, “At this time, it is customary for family members to read a passage from the scriptures. Nina’s Aunt Lucila, however, has chosen to read from one of Nina’s favorite poems.”

  Wearing a long black dress, her hair twisted into a bun, Lucila Melendez walked from the first pew. She looked down at the coffin, as if standing beside Nina’s bed, and spoke in Spanish with the lilt of a lullaby. Then in English,

  “‘Sleep, my little one,

  sleep and smile,

  for the night-watch of stars

  rocks you awhile.

  Look at the bright rose,

  red as can be.

  Reach out to the world

  as you reach out to me.

  Sleep, my little one,

  sleep and smile,

  For God in the shade

  rocks you awhile.’”

  Lucila kissed the head of the coffin, then returned to her seat. Several women, including Nina’s mother, were crying loudly. After the priest finished the service with a fervent prayer in Spanish, the mourners walked slowly down the aisle and through the church doors. Blinking back the sunlight, Rosen stared at his daughter, who looked as white as the paschal candle. He wanted to comfort her, but what was there to say?

  Shelly touched his arm. “I’ll put the car into the funeral procession, then pick you up in front of the church.”

  Shelly joined the others walking down the steps—Lucila helping a sobbing Esther Melendez; the Ellsworths with their son Chip and a big man, wearing ice-blue sunglasses, who walked with a military bearing and took out a dark cigarillo from a silver case. Dr. Winslow led several teachers and students from the high school. Among the latter, Rosen recognized the flamenco dancer, Margarita Reyes. Halfway down the steps, she slipped her hand into Chip’s. The boy blushed but didn’t let go.

  A line of cars turned the corner, headlights blinking on, and slowly moved past the church. Sarah and Bess slid into the back seat of their blue Mercedes, while Rosen sat in front beside Shelly. They drove in silence, except for Sarah’s stuttered breathing.

  Both church and cemetery were in Logan Square, an old German and Norwegian neighborhood on the North Side that was now heavily Latino. It was late Monday morning; streets were congested with lunch-hour traffic. The funeral procession drove past Mexican restaurants, discount houses, jewelry stores, and fashion shops with mannequins wearing cheap, flashy dresses. A skinny man pushed an ice-cream cart along the sidewalk; another vendor scooped shaved ice into a paper cone, then poured syrup over it from an old liquor bottle. On the brick wall of a corner liquor store, someone had painted a large mural of an eagle, wings outstretched, covering a young mother with an infant in her arms.

  Turning north on Kedzie Avenue, the motorcade drove around Logan Square itself, a grassy knoll from whose center rose a tall white concrete monument topped with an eagle. From a park bench a scraggly old man, drinking from a paper bag, saluted as the cars drove by.

  A few minutes later they arrived at the cemetery. Rosen reached over the seat to take his daughter’s hand. It was warm and moist.

  “Shayna?”

  She didn’t look up.

  He said very softly, “Maybe it would be better if you stayed in the car. I’ll stay with you, or your mother—”

  “No, I want to go.”

  That was the most Sarah had spoken to him since her friend’s death. They followed the others down a tree-lined path that meandered toward an ancient oak. Under its largest branch lay Nina’s casket beside a freshly dug grave. A trellis filled with white lilies leaned against the tree; the breeze carried the flowers’ delicate fragrance among the mourners.

  Rosen remembered the lines from The Song of Songs he’d read to Bess the day they’d become engaged: “His lips are like lilies; They drip flowing myrrh.” The priest recited some prayers in Spanish, Nina’s mourners responding to the litany, but not Rosen. Even when the priest lapsed into English, Rosen merely sighed. Not just for Nina, but for the pain within Sarah and for what he himself still felt for his mother.

  What had Lucila said in church? “‘Look at the bright rose, red as can be.’” He’d brought red roses, her favorite, to his mother’s grave that first time, then come back a week later with fresh flowers, knowing the old ones had wilted and the petals scattered. Scattered rose petals on the matted grass beside her grave, just like the murder scene.

  He’d seen Nina’s death in Sarah’s eyes every moment since it had occurred. The piece of fabric caught on the top fence rail, the girl’s skull crushed against the jagged rock, the scattered rose petals on the ground and clutched in her hand. He’d wanted to look into the case but couldn’t leave Sarah. So he’d remained in Bess’s house the whole weekend, like sitting shivah for the dead, while his daughter entombed herself in her room.

  “Time to go, Shayna.”

  Rosen pulled her away as the service ended, but she stiffened against him as Nina’s mother was dragged screaming from the casket.

  “Oh, Daddy!” Yet still she didn’t cry.

  He was about to say, “It’s all right,” but it wasn’t. It would never again be quite all right for her. She deserved the truth; they all did. “La mató,” Esther Melendez had said.

  Returning to their cars, the mourners talked quietly in small groups. A plump Hispanic boy, wearing a madras suit and a tie that was too long for him, gave directions to Lucila’s apartment, where lunch would be served.

  “Just three blocks over—that way.” He pointed north. “Above the Mercado Jimenez.”

  Shelly nodded. “I know where it is. One of my clinics is on the same block.”

  Dr. Winslow said to Bess, “The other staff members and I are returning to school. It’s very good of you to stay and comfort Mrs. Melendez.” He clicked his tongue. “Tragic way for this to end.”

  “What makes you think it’s over?” Rosen asked.

  “Well, what I meant was . . . uh . . .”

  “Dr. Winslow,” Bess said, “I know how much it means to Nina’s mother for you to be here.”

  “Not at all. It’s my duty. Someone representing the administration . . .”

  As the principal babbled on about his responsibilities, Rosen watched Byron and Kate Ellsworth standing beside their silver BMW

  “Can’t you come over for a few minutes?” Kate asked.

  Her husband shook his head. “I’ve already had to reschedule one very important meeting to this afternoon, and I can’t afford to miss it. I’m lining up several investors for a significant project. You know how tenuous these things can be. If you don’t strike while the iron is hot—”

  “Spare me the clichés.”

  “My God, Kate, it’s not like she was an actual member of the family. Her mother’s only our housekeeper.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  “No, of course not. She’s anything but only a housekeeper.”

  “Look, Kate—”

  “You’d better hurry. You have promises to keep.”

  When he took her in his arms, she presented her cheek.

  He winced as if slapped, but kissed it. “You can get a ride with either Soldier or Chip.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, and walked away.

  Ellsworth watched her go, then turned away. For a moment, his gaze locked on Rosen’s. He suddenly brushed back his hair then checked the soles of his shoes for dirt. Stepping into the BMW, he drove onto the grass, glided past the line of parked cars, and disappeared throu
gh the cemetery gates.

  A few minutes later, the rest of the cars slowly followed. A few turned on Fullerton, which would eventually lead to the Kennedy Expressway and the long drive north to Arbor Shore. Most, however, continued in a straight line past a few more streets filled with small shops and vendors.

  Shelly pointed to a building in the middle of the street with a sign in large black letters, “ARCHES of TRIUMPH.” Underneath, in smaller letters, “Se Habla Español.”

  “You’d be amazed how difficult it was for these people to find affordable podiatric care before my clinic opened. We’ll park in back. That store the boy mentioned is down on the corner.”

  Mercado Jimenez was a small two-story building of red brick. The grocery occupied the first floor, with a large picture window, protected by iron mesh, displaying all sorts of odds and ends—espresso makers, audio tapes of Latino music, some Bart Simpson sweatshirts with sayings written in Spanish. Salsa blared from a radio inside. Two windows on the second floor, their sashes raised halfway, stared intently into the street.

  Inside the store, three narrow aisles were filled with packaged goods. Along the walls, large open crates offered a variety of produce, including several exotic fruits he’d never seen before. In the corner hung rows of dried “bacalao”—codfish. Rosen smelled its pungent odor from the doorway.

  Wearing a gold necklace with the name “Inez” and a tight red blouse, a young woman perched on a stool behind the register.

  She asked, “You from the funeral for Luci’s niece? Go around back and up the stairs. Hey, you wanna buy a lottery ticket?”

  Walking around the corner, Rosen was startled by a large mural covering the store’s entire brick wall. Lucila had painted the logo of F.A.C.E., with a long-haired girl reading a book. The long-haired girl was Nina.

  Sarah stared wide-eyed at the mural, but Bess quickly led her behind the building and up two flights of clacking wooden stairs. Shelly and Rosen followed, helping an old woman carry a large pot of rice inside.

  The doorway opened into a narrow corridor, flanked by the bathroom and kitchen. There was no real wall separating the kitchen, only a white Formica counter that horseshoed around the sink and appliances. Large dented pots filled with all sorts of steaming meat and vegetables elbowed one another for space along the counter. Still more pots pushed their way in, as well as platters of flan and cookies.