Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “What?”

  “Those men—the ones who attacked us. Was it just a coincidence that, a few minutes before we left his house, Alvarez went into the kitchen?”

  “You think he arranged it over the phone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lucila clicked her tongue. “This is getting us nowhere. You’re supposed to prove that Bixby killed Nina, but all you’ve been doing is sitting around.”

  “We went to see Alvarez.”

  “And what happened—you got knocked on your ass. If it wasn’t for me, they’d be selling your body parts to the local hospital.” She looked at her lap and, hands balled into fists, struck her thighs. “Sorry, it’s just—you’re not doing anything.”

  He laughed.

  “Glad I’m amusing you.”

  “It’s not—” He winced at the pain still nipping inside his head, then picked up the sponge from the tea tray. “Let me try to explain. When I was a boy studying scripture, my rabbi said there were four types of students.”

  “Oh, this is interesting.”

  “One is like a sponge, a fool who collects everything; another is a funnel, an even greater fool who forgets everything as soon as he learns it. A third is a strainer, who ignores the good and collects the bad; he’s an evil one.”

  “Are we coming to the punch line?”

  Rosen nodded as patiently as his old rabbi once had. “The fourth is like a sifter that collects only the good.”

  “And that, no doubt, is you.”

  “I hope so. I’m trying to piece together what really happened to your niece, and at this point the best way to do that is to sift through the evidence without any preconceived notions as to who’s guilty.”

  “I see.” Lucila thought for a moment, then stood. “I want you to spend the night.”

  The breath caught in his throat. Feeling his face grow warm, Rosen looked away. She walked behind him, and he waited—for her hand to touch his shoulder, for her lips upon his neck. Suddenly a pillow fell upon his lap, followed by a blanket.

  “The couch is pretty comfortable.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he looked up.

  Lucila was smiling, her dimples showing. “You didn’t think I meant . . .? It’s not that you aren’t cute, but this isn’t even a first date. I’m just worried about you. It’s a long drive into Evanston, and you don’t look so good, though a little of your color’s come back.”

  Switching off the lamp, she kissed his cheek. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to show you how to get things done without using a sifter. ’Night.”

  Rosen listened to Lucila’s feet paddle along the floor to her bed in the corner by the kitchen. Too tired to wash up, he lay beneath the blanket and remembered another one of his rabbi’s sayings: “A woman spins even while she talks.” So she’d been planning something all along, something she wanted to drag him into.

  He should have been angry but was too busy listening to the slight creaking of her mattress as she shifted in bed. Only a little mental exercise, he thought, like disputing a Talmudic passage. He wondered how she slept, on her back or side, did her sweatpants ride up her calves as she stretched out, and did her hair fall like a silken veil across her cheek? Only a mental exercise, yet he grew so warm that he had to throw off the covers before falling asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rosen awoke to some Latino radio station blaring from the kitchen. A female singer jabbered over and over, like a gerbil turning a wheel in its cage. As he sat up slowly, the aroma of espresso smacked him in the nose. Massaging the kink in his neck, he waited for the pain to stop running circles in his brain like another gerbil.

  “Buenos días!” Lucila said from behind the kitchen counter. “Almost nine—time you got up. Breakfast will be ready in five minutes.”

  Eyes half closed, Rosen walked into the bathroom. He almost forgot to put up the toilet seat before urinating. How different a woman’s bathroom was. Not just the pantyhose over the shower door, the bath sponge, or the comb placed diagonally in the thick brush. He inhaled a fragrance, a lotion or maybe just the soap, that reminded him of Lucila. Did every woman’s bathroom carry her scent? What had Bess’s been like? It had been so long. He washed and patted his sore face with a towel, sorry he couldn’t sink into a warm bath for a few hours.

  Lucila worked over the stove as he sat on the other side of the counter. She had laid out dishes, coffee cups, glasses of orange juice, and a basket of small, round rolls.

  “Just in time,” she said, lowering the radio and sitting across from him with a skillet of eggs.

  Her long hair in a ponytail, she wore a white fisherman’s sweater, blue jeans, and sneakers. She looked like a teenager and almost could’ve passed for Nina.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks. Breakfast looks good.”

  She served the fried eggs. “I bought the rolls this morning from a Dominican baker down the street. They’re as good as the ones back home.”

  Rosen spread butter over the warm roll, but before he had taken his first bite Lucila had nearly finished eating. She bent over her plate, as if reading it, using her fingers to manipulate bits of egg between two pieces of bread.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “I’ve never seen anyone inhale a meal before.”

  “‘Get it before the cockroaches do’—that’s what my grandfather used to say. Grandfathers always say things like that, don’t they?”

  Rosen smiled. “Yes, they do.”

  “Ready for coffee? I know you like tea, but you’re eating Dominican-style this morning.”

  “It smells great.”

  Lucila returned to the stove, where an old tin pot was boiling. Putting on a pair of oven mitts, she lifted a coffee can from inside the pot and tipped it through a lung-shaped piece of cheesecloth, pouring the rich black espresso into another can.

  “This is the way the old-timers do it—makes the best coffee.” Once again she poured the espresso through the cheesecloth, into the first can. “We call this strainer a collador—it was my grandfather’s and still works great.” She laughed. “What did you tell me last night—that a strainer was wicked, because it collected the bad and let the good escape?”

  “My rabbi never made coffee.”

  “No, not like this.”

  Sitting down, Lucila poured two half cups and placed the sugar bowl between them. She inhaled deeply.

  “This is my best memory—a little girl sitting on my grandfather’s lap in his big rocker. He’d hold out his cup of coffee and let me spoon in the sugar. Two teaspoons,” and she put that many into her own cup.

  Rosen did the same and sipped the espresso. “This is good.”

  As quickly as Lucila had eaten breakfast, she now lingered over her coffee, savoring the taste of each memory.

  “You miss your home, don’t you?” Rosen asked.

  “This is my home.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I told you once before, it’s not the place for a woman like me. Some people have to go their own way, no matter how much pain it causes. Maybe you don’t understand.”

  “I understand.” Rosen stared into his coffee cup and saw his father’s face carved in ebony, stern and unforgiving as a pagan god. “I understand.”

  They sipped their coffee for a few minutes.

  Finally Lucila said, “You’re pretty strange. I mean . . . you don’t talk much.”

  “I suppose that is strange for a lawyer.”

  “Not just a lawyer, but for a man. All the guys I’ve ever known can’t wait to talk about themselves, and the divorced ones, they’re the worst. All they do is bitch about their ex-wives. Not you. I don’t know a thing about your background. Only what Sarah talked about when she was with Nina and me.”

  Rosen leaned back in his chair. “What kind of things did she say?”

  “What a smart lawyer you are, and how good you are to her.”

  “Then anything I say could only detr
act from your image of me.” He watched her hands holding the coffee cup. “I suppose you’re speaking from experience—that you go out with a lot of men.”

  “What kind of a woman do you take me for?”

  “I mean—you’re attractive, very bright and creative. I assume you date a lot.”

  “Why all the interest? Are you asking me out?”

  “I . . . uh.”

  Laughing, Lucila said, “I’m just teasing you. Maybe that’s why you don’t talk much. You’re shy. I like that. Well, I’d better do these dishes.”

  “Let me help.”

  “No, Señor. This morning I’m the lady of the house. Sit back and enjoy it while you can.”

  Trying to smile, Rosen felt the dull ache in his head and remembered something he had to do.

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure. You know where it is.”

  After checking the address book in his coat pocket, he lifted the receiver on the kitchen wall.

  “Good morning—Hermes Communications.” Hermes’ secretary Sherry was speaking.

  “Good morning. This is Nate Rosen. Could I please speak to Mr. Hermes?”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hermes is in Atlanta until tomorrow. May I take a message?”

  “Actually, you can do more than that. As I recall, you’re the brains of the outfit when it comes to computers.”

  She laughed. “I do what I can.”

  “I wonder if you’d check your files for any information on a law firm called . . .” Rosen pulled the card from his pocket. “. . . Tyler, Estes, and Webb. In particular, Nelson Harding, a member of the firm.”

  “I really can’t share any information without Mr. Hermes’ approval.”

  “I understand. It’s just that Mr. Hermes promised me his help, and it is rather important.”

  “Hold on a moment.”

  As he waited, Lucila said over the dishes, “You’re not so shy after all. Not when it comes to getting something you want.”

  Sherry came back on the line. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Hermes’ son Jason, who says it’s all right to release the information. I’ve got the Tyler, Estes, and Webb file on the screen. What do you want to know?”

  “I suppose, first of all, why you have information on the firm.”

  “Let’s see.” She paused to scan the file. “Over the last ten years it’s been involved in a number of real estate dealings downtown, as well as in certain minority neighborhoods scattered throughout the city.”

  “By any chance, has it represented Ellsworth-Leary Investments?”

  “Oh yes, on numerous occasions.”

  “What about one of their attorneys, Nelson Harding.”

  “Let’s see. He represented Ellsworth-Leary in a request for a zoning variance last year. They wanted to bring a shopping mall into a residential area on the South Side.”

  Rosen asked, “Any record of Harding doing criminal law—drug trafficking, for example?”

  She laughed. “Tyler, Estes, and Webb is pretty diversified, but I’d be surprised if it’d dirty itself down in the criminal courts. It’s kind of like week-old bread—white, dry, and stale.”

  “Thanks. That’s all I need to know. And thank Mr. Hermes’ son for me.”

  “I will. I believe Mr. Hermes is expecting to hear from you on another matter.”

  “Right. I’ll call him in a few days. Good-bye.”

  Rosen hung up the phone as Lucila finished drying her hands on a wash towel. He told her what he’d learned from Hermes’ secretary.

  “So,” she said, “something’s not right.”

  “No. Why does a high-priced law firm, with connections to Byron Ellsworth, bother with a drug-dealing Mexican landscaper?”

  “A payoff to keep Alvarez’s mouth shut. He saw something that Friday night.”

  “If that’s true, it probably eliminates Martin Bixby as a suspect. Why would Masaryk go to all this trouble to protect him?”

  “No, Bixby did it. Maybe because he’s such a good friend of Kate’s. Maybe she’s helping to protect him.”

  Rosen was about to disagree—to say how unlikely Lucila’s theory was, but he didn’t. He wasn’t going to get into an argument; besides, he didn’t really think she believed it herself.

  Lucila twisted the towel, then threw it on the draining board. “We better get going.”

  “Going—where?”

  She put on a jeans jacket, then handed him his coat and tie. Grabbing her purse and tucking a sketch pad under her arm, she smiled. “Trust me.”

  Back in his car, Lucila had him snake through the North Side of Chicago, moving toward both the lake and Evanston, where he was staying. He should’ve asked where they were going, but he enjoyed just being with her. Regaining her good humor, she chatted about her involvement in the Logan Square neighborhood—wall murals and other art projects, an early childhood center, and a battered woman’s support group.

  When Rosen steered the conversation to her upcoming show at the Ellsworth Gallery, she grew pensive. Her paintings, tied so closely to the poet Mistral’s words about children, must have reminded her of Nina. It was Nina who had so often modeled childhood innocence.

  They reached Howard Street, in a Latino neighborhood that divided Chicago from Evanston, and drove under the “L.”

  “Turn left on Sheridan,” she said.

  He drove north on Sheridan Road, the same street that led through the North Shore and, if they traveled long enough, would take them to Bess and Sarah’s home, the Ellsworth mansion, and the cliff where Nina had fallen to her death. But they’d only gone a few blocks when Lucila had him park the car.

  On either side Sheridan was lined with handsome old apartment buildings of copper-colored brick, fronted by small, neatly clipped lawns. She nodded across the street to a three-story courtyard building.

  “That’s where Martin Bixby lives.”

  Rosen said, “It’s Wednesday morning. Bixby must be in school.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on. We’re going to search his apartment—give you a chance to ‘sift’ through his belongings and maybe find something to connect him with Nina’s death.”

  “Even assuming we could get in, that would be breaking and entering. I’m a lawyer, an officer of the court—I can’t do that.”

  “We’re not breaking in. A few weeks ago Kate and I visited Bixby to drop off an art catalogue. We got to talking. He’s interested in putting on a theatrical production of Carmen and asked me to make some costume sketches. Told me to drop them off any time—even showed me where he kept the spare key.” She lifted her sketchbook. “So I made a few drawings, and I’m dropping them off.”

  Before Rosen could reply, she left the car and hurried across the street. There was nothing to do but follow her.

  He walked between two concrete statuettes into a narrow courtyard and joined Lucila in the entranceway at the far end. Martin Bixby’s name was on the mailbox marked “1A.” An inner doorway with a buzzer secured the residents from uninvited guests.

  Through the door’s window, they watched an old woman drag a two-wheeled shopping cart down the stairs. As the woman opened the door, Lucila peered into her purse, pretending to fumble for her keys.

  “Thanks,” Lucila said, holding the door.

  She led Rosen up a stairway to the first door on the left —1A. She knocked loudly, “Just to make sure,” and receiving no reply, untaped the key from behind a faded landscape on the hallway wall. After unlocking the door, she returned the key to the picture, and they walked inside.

  Having seen Bixby’s disorganized office at school, Rosen expected the apartment to be as cluttered. However, it was tidy and bright, the polished hardwood floors reflecting the sunlight slanting through the windows. A set of Scandinavian furniture was arranged on a swirling blue and orange rug; built-in book cases, including a sound system, encased the entire far wall, and a computer and printer rested on a desk against the wall to his right, just past the kitchen entrance. On the n
ear wall, beside the doorway, hung a dozen framed photographs of Bixby over the years directing students in a variety of productions.

  Studying the photos, Rosen saw that most of the students were girls. The last showed Bixby standing beside Nina, with Sarah sitting at the piano. His hand rested lightly on Sarah’s shoulder. Rosen’s skin prickled.

  “Nate, did you hear me?”

  Lucila stood in the kitchen entrance.

  “No, I was looking these over.”

  “I said he’s a tea drinker like you. The guy eats well. His freezer’s filled with steak and chops and those cute little packages of gourmet vegetables. Quite a wine rack too—something you’d expect of a guy like him. And a cupboardful of cookies and chips.”

  She stood beside Rosen and looked at the photographs. “What do you think—Bixby brought the girls here, gave them cookies and got them drunk? Maybe that’s what he wanted to do to Nina. Maybe she said no, and he killed her.”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he walked across the room to the computer. Lucila followed him. Putting down her sketchbook and purse, she rummaged through the desk drawers, then two flip boxes filled with disks.

  A gold plaque hung on the wall above the desk. Rosen read the words aloud: “Arbor Shore High School, Teacher of the Year, Martin Bixby, 1991.”

  “More lies,” she said, continuing her search.

  Next Rosen scanned the bookshelves on the far wall. One shelf was filled with photo albums. The first album, dated 1971–74, contained photos, theatrical programs, and local reviews of Bixby as a Northwestern University student. Bixby had acted in dozens of plays, always as a supporting player rather than the lead. Courtier, villain, pirate, businessman, clown, monster, child, even a woman. Never the same character more than once—always behind a new mask.

  The last album, only half filled, went back two years—with photographs and program copies of high school productions, as well as notes of appreciation from parents and students. Bess sat primly in the photo of a cast party; Bixby stood behind her, each arm around a female student. Everyone was smiling.

  The last item in the album was a thank-you note from all the students who’d participated in the frosh-soph “Arts in Life Festival” the previous week. “To more than just a great teacher, to a great friend.” Among the signatures were Chip Ellsworth’s, Nina’s, and Sarah’s.