Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Actually, I have business in the building, and Mrs. Nahagian told me to stop by.”

  “Ana Nahagian! She’s one of our most valued patrons. See over here.”

  She led Rosen back into the first room. The bulletin board behind her desk was filled with snapshots from various gallery shows.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Nahagian,” she said, pointing to a statuesque lady with silver hair beside a dark thickset man who resembled Rosen’s boss.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “And the couple beside them—the Ellsworths.”

  “You know them as well? Then of course you know this is Mrs. Ellsworth’s gallery. Mr. . . ., uh?”

  “Rosen.” He studied the photograph. “That’s quite a choker Kate’s wearing,” he added, referring to the large diamond pendant hanging from a gold chain.

  The saleswoman sniffed. “Hardly her taste.” Realizing what she’d said, the woman added, “It was a gift from her husband. Very generous, I’m sure.”

  “Just not very tasteful.”

  She started to smile, then bit her lower lip. “I understand that Mr. Ellsworth is a very fine businessman.”

  “Yes. Well, I’d like to thank you for—” Suddenly Rosen noticed another photograph.

  “The man standing beside Mrs. Ellsworth.”

  This time the woman did smile. “That’s Martin Bixby, a teacher at the high school Mrs. Ellsworth’s son attends. He comes quite often to our shows.”

  “He comes by Mrs. Ellsworth’s invitation?”

  “Oh yes. Bix is quite charming. Such a way with words. I’m sure he’ll be attending Lucila Melendez’s show.”

  Studying the bulletin board, Rosen found Bixby in several other photographs. “Does he ever show up with a companion?”

  “I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason. I just see him with different people in each of these photos.”

  “That’s Bix. As I said, he’s quite charming. He’s really on such good terms with the Ellsworths and our patrons, even if he is only a teacher. What I mean to say is—”

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Rosen. I’ll tell Mrs. Ellsworth you stopped by.”

  Waiting for the elevator, Rosen realized how important his visit to the gallery had been, and it made what he was about to do even more necessary. After checking the directory, he rode to the top floor.

  The doors opened to a small reception area with a door on either end. Across Berber carpeting of hunter green stood a white wrap-around desk, like an airport information counter. Behind the desk hung the company logo—a large sun, the letters “EL” in its center, with eight beams radiating from its center. He stared a long time at the logo. In Hebrew, “EL” was another name for God.

  Two people sat behind the desk—a pointy-chinned woman of about twenty-five, wearing a white blouse with a frilly collar, and a man a few years older in a gray suit, gray tie, and white shirt. Having the look of an IBM executive or an FBI agent, he stood as Rosen approached the desk.

  “Yes, sir?” the secretary asked.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Ellsworth.” He anticipated her next question, “I don’t have an appointment.”

  “Then I’m afraid—”

  “Please tell him that I’m an attorney investigating the death of Nina Melendez.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Nathan Rosen.”

  As she picked up a phone, the security guard asked, “May I see some identification?”

  Rosen took out his driver’s license, which the other man scrutinized, jotting down the license number.

  “Out of state,” he muttered.

  The secretary said, “Mr. Ellsworth can spare you ten minutes. Walk through the door on your right. His office is just past the fountain.”

  The guard reached under the desk to press a button, allowing Rosen to open the door.

  He had expected a long corridor with a water fountain. Instead, he entered a large circular lobby with a half-dozen offices along its circumference. There was the same expensive carpeting, as well as nature prints along the walls. In the center of the room was what the receptionist had mentioned—an artificial fountain that bubbled through a rock garden.

  Directly past the fountain sat a gray-haired secretary with a face as round as a grape well on its way to becoming a raisin. She had draped a pink cashmere sweater over her shoulders, and a small watch hung on a gold chain from her neck.

  “That’s really something,” Rosen said, nodding back at the fountain.

  The woman smiled. “Old Mr. Leary put that in back in the fifties. Said it reminded him of his favorite vacation spot in Colorado, and that if he couldn’t go there all the time, he’d bring it here. Quite an eccentric—that’s what they call crazy people with money. You’re Mr. Rosen?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Go right in. He has a meeting at two, which gives you only ten minutes.”

  Ellsworth’s office turned back the clock fifty years. Desks and bookshelves of dark wood, leather chairs, leather-bound books, and liquor in decanters on a portable bar in the corner. Rosen could almost smell the aroma of a good cigar. On the rear wall hung the portrait of a silver-haired businessman in a double-breasted suit, with the same green eyes and generous mouth as Kate Ellsworth. Eyes that seemed to bear down upon the man sitting directly below him.

  Leaning sideways from his mahogany desk, a spectacled Byron Ellsworth faced his computer monitor. A can of diet Pepsi rested precariously on a stack of papers. Phone cradled against his ear, he was punching a series of figures into the computer.

  Waving Rosen into a chair across from his desk, Ellsworth continued speaking into the receiver. “Fax me the latest figures with the adjustments Brenner made last night. . . . No, Brenner’s figures are more accurate. And you’ve included Marinetti’s report? . . . Good. I want all our ducks in a row. We’ll probably put you on the conference line about two-thirty—two forty-five at the latest. . . . Okay, I’ve got to go—somebody’s in the office.”

  Hanging up, Ellsworth continued working at the computer. “Excuse me, but I have a very important meeting in a few minutes. My secretary said you’re from the state’s attorney’s office investigating Nina’s death.”

  “That’s not quite right. I’m an attorney from out of state who’s looking into her death.”

  “I don’t understand.” He became absorbed in his figures.

  “Mr. Ellsworth?”

  The other man kept glancing at Rosen but always returned to his computer, like a dog protecting his bone. “If you’re not with the authorities, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “Are you aware that Esther Melendez believes her daughter was murdered?”

  “What?”

  Ellsworth pushed away from the computer. He took a slow drink of Pepsi, then asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Nate Rosen.”

  I’ve seen you before.”

  “We were both at the high school performance last Wednesday night, as well as the funeral this morning.”

  “The funeral, of course.”

  “Nina was my daughter’s best friend. Sarah went to school with her. You know Sarah’s mother Bess—my ex-wife. She teaches English at Arbor Shore. Her husband’s Shelly Gold.”

  Ellsworth thought for a moment, absently brushing back his hair. “Gold—you mean the foot guy. I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

  “As I said, Esther Melendez believes her daughter was murdered.”

  “Good God, we’re talking about Arbor Shore.”

  “People don’t die in Arbor Shore?”

  “Sure. Old age, heart attacks—”

  “A fifteen-year-old girl?”

  “She fell off a cliff. Kids are always fooling around in the ravines or in the park after hours. They get liquored up, start seeing cross-eyed, and take a tumble. It’s happened before.”

  “Her mother says Nina
wasn’t that kind of girl.”

  Ellsworth leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Who understands kids these days?”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is your son Chip that kind of kid?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Because if he is, maybe he was in the park Friday night, when Nina died. Maybe he knows what happened to the girl.”

  “Chip was home. He turned in early.”

  “On a Friday night? Come on.”

  Ellsworth slapped his hand on the desk. Cola spurted through the pop-top, dribbing onto the papers. “He wasn’t feeling well . . . look, the police have already asked Chip these questions. I certainly don’t have to go over them with you.”

  Of course Ellsworth was right, yet he’d said so much already and seemed likely to say a good deal more, despite his protests. Rosen glanced at the portrait of “old Mr. Leary,” who would’ve thrown out Rosen on his ear. But Ellsworth wasn’t his father-in-law. Something worried him—his two o’clock appointment, or did it have something to do, after all, with the circumstances surrounding Nina’s death?

  Rosen asked, “What do you know about Martin Bixby?”

  “The teacher? Why, nothing.”

  “I understand he’s a very good friend of your wife.”

  “They’re . . . He’s a very talented teacher and knows a lot about art. Hell, Rosen, your ex-wife works with him. I’m sure she knows him much better than Kate. Haven’t you asked her?”

  “I’m not referring to Bixby’s professional qualifications. What about him personally?”

  Ellsworth sipped his drink. “Do you think Bixby’s somehow involved in Nina’s death?”

  “At this point I’m saying no such thing.”

  “Of course not. You’re a lawyer, and you know that Bixby could sue your ass for defamation of character. Come to think of it, you didn’t say that the girl was murdered, only that her mother thought so.”

  “Do you have any reason to doubt Esther Melendez?”

  “My God, her daughter’s just died. I’m sure she’s hysterical. Who can blame her?”

  “How well do you know her? Do you think that, under these circumstances, she might—”

  “For Chrissake, how would I know! She’s the Goddamn housekeeper!”

  “But Nina’s diary indicates that Bixby was taking advantage of her.”

  “‘Taking advantage’—what does that mean? Just some sort of misunderstanding. I’m sure Police Chief Keller gives as little credence to this diary as I do.”

  Rosen nodded. “That’s really why I’m here. I think Keller is likely to ignore Esther Melendez’s accusation, especially if Bixby has friends in high places, like you and your wife. I’m asking that you encourage him to pursue this investigation.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “You have a daughter, as well as a son.”

  “She’s away at college.”

  “She had Bixby as a teacher. Aren’t you afraid that if he did molest Nina, if he was involved with her death, he might also have molested other girls? Perhaps even your own daughter?”

  “Of all the filthy—”

  The intercom buzzed. Blinking hard, Ellsworth finished his drink, then put the glass and stack of papers in a drawer. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Erskine and Mr. Izui are here for their two o’clock appointment.”

  “One minute, please.”

  Dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, he removed his glasses and brushed a hand across his hair. Then he turned to the computer, typed in a few more figures, and pressed a key that set the printer softly humming.

  Studying the screen, Ellsworth said, “I suggest you leave any police work to Chief Keller. You know, the Golds are very nice people but fairly new to the Arbor Shore community. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to get the reputation of being . . . well . . . pushy, because of your actions. They already have to endure so many stereotypes.”

  Rosen’s cheeks grew hot. He stood, hands balled into fists, but before he could respond, Ellsworth buzzed his secretary.

  “Please show the gentlemen in.”

  Ellsworth and the two businessmen chatted amiably, ignoring Rosen as if he weren’t there. And, of course, he wasn’t. He was as alien to their corporate world as Ellsworth intimated Bess and Shelly were to Arbor Shore. Jews, new money, “the foot guy.” Someone like Ellsworth could make them feel even more isolated, make their lives intolerable.

  Rosen found himself standing outside Ellsworth’s office, the door closing hard behind him. His face still felt warm, as if slapped.

  “Mr. Rosen, are you all right?” the secretary asked. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “If you’re ready to leave, I’ll notify security.”

  He nodded. “You really have tight security for an investment firm.”

  “It wasn’t like this under old Mr. Leary, but over the years the business has gotten so global, they’re always worried about leaks. Then there was that kidnapping attempt about ten years ago.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  “Oh yes. Some terrorists grabbed two of our executives off a Greek cruise ship. Mr. Ellsworth—he was a vice president then—hired a group of professionals to rescue the two men. Worked out very well. The men were returned. I guess some money changed hands—I’m not sure about that. Ever since, the company’s been much more careful.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Masaryk in charge of security?”

  “Uh huh. He was the one who rescued our two executives. A very capable man, our Soldier. That’s his office, right next to Mr. Ellsworth’s. Good afternoon.”

  As Rosen walked through the reception area and stepped into the elevator, the security guard reached for the phone.

  Rosen had a feeling that whatever had caused Nina Melendez’s death was in some way connected with the Ellsworth family. He needed to investigate further, and he needed help. A recessed area across from the elevator contained a series of public phones. He looked up the number in his notebook.

  A woman answered. “Mr. Hermes’ office. How may we help you?”

  “This is Nate Rosen. Elgin Hermes asked me to stop by this afternoon. I’m at the Leary Building—that’s only a few blocks away.”

  “Let me check with Mr. Hermes.” After a minute she said, “He’d like you to come right over.”

  As Rosen hung up, Kate Ellsworth walked into the lobby, followed by Edward Masaryk. Removing his blue sunglasses and resting a hand lightly on her arm, Masaryk said something while she slowly nodded. They looked at each other for a long moment, before she entered her gallery and he stepped into the elevator.

  Back on the street, Rosen wondered about the relationship between Mrs. Ellsworth and Masaryk. It seemed more than just the boss’s wife and an employee. Even so, what could it possibly have to do with—

  “Hey, buddy, spare some change?”

  A short, big-shouldered man in a frayed suit blocked the way. Disheveled and smelling of whiskey, he had eyes that glinted like jade. Other pedestrians stepped into the street to avoid the beggar.

  “Sure,” Rosen said, reaching into his pocket.

  Closing his hand into a fist, the man struck Rosen in the stomach, then pulled off his watch. The beggar punched him twice in the side before running down the street.

  Straightening slowly, Rosen took a deep breath, which caught in his rib cage. The second breath came easier.

  An elderly gentleman with a cane stepped beside him. “Are you all right?”

  The old man wore a Seiko with a gold band, easily worth several hundred dollars. Why bother stealing Rosen’s fifty dollar Timex when the old man was hobbling along right behind him? And something else.

  “Young man, are you all right?”

  Rosen nodded.

  “Can you imagine, being mugged on LaSalle Street in broad daylight? Such riffraff!”

  “Not riffraff,” Rosen
said, remembering the beggar’s hand as it lunged for his watch. A hand with manicured nails.

  Chapter Seven

  Brushing himself off, Rosen buttoned his jacket and walked slowly up LaSalle Street. The crowds had thinned considerably, but near the entrance of each building, a few sad-eyed men and women puffed a last cigarette before returning to their smoke-free offices. He cut over to Wells and continued north under the clattering “L” tracks until reaching Hermes’ offices.

  Inside the small gray building, a hallway led between two marble staircases to the directory and elevators. Beside the directory hung the portrait of a handsome old black man in a double-breasted suit. His large eyes smiled as much as his lips, and Rosen was sure he’d seen the man somewhere before. A small engraved nameplate read, “Oliver Jones, 1890–1972.”

  After scanning the directory, Rosen climbed one of the staircases to the second floor. The offices of Hermes Communications stretched along either side of the wide hallway, each door with an old-fashioned window of frosted glass. The third door on the right read “Elgin Hermes.”

  Hermes’ secretary sat behind a desk in the small outer office. Tall with coppery skin, reddish hair sculpted to the contour of her head, and obviously pregnant, she looked like the statuette of an African fertility goddess.

  “You’re Mr. Rosen,” she said, her teeth a perfect string of pearls. “Go right in.”

  Ignoring the computer on his right, Elgin Hermes hunched over his desk while writing on a yellow legal pad. On the rear wall hung the same portrait as downstairs. Hermes leaned back and smiled broadly, showing an obvious resemblance between himself and the portrait.

  Motioning to a chair across the desk, he declaimed, “Nate Rosen, good of you to stop by. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”

  “Not at all. I was just working on a piece for Sunday’s edition.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier on the computer?”

  “That’s what my secretary tells me, but it’s hard for an old dog to learn new tricks. Besides, I can’t picture Lincoln or Hemingway sitting in front of one of these, plunking out their prose onto little data disks.”