Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Nina was probably already dead by then. Did you see or hear anything in the park or on the beach?”

  Chip shook his head emphatically. “We were in the ravines, on the other side of my house. I didn’t pass the park or beach.”

  “You didn’t happen to see your landscaper, um . . . what’s his name? Henry?”

  “Hector. Hector Alvarez. No. Why would he be in the neighborhood so late at night?”

  Why, Rosen wondered, did Chip know the name of the family landscaper? Maybe it wasn’t beer the boy had partied with.

  Chip said, “I told you where I was. Like I said, it has nothing to do with whatever happened to Nina. I’d better get back to the game.”

  Rosen put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, which tensed as if struck. “Why did your father say you were in all evening?”

  “Do you really have to ask that question? He didn’t want our name involved. Bad publicity for his precious company.”

  “Did you see your parents that evening, either before leaving or when you came home?”

  “No. I came in through the back gate and kinda sneaked upstairs into my bedroom.”

  “Were they home?”

  Chip shrugged. “I don’t know—the house was dark. Wait, they musta’ been. At least one of them, because the TV was on in their bedroom. I remember, because at first I thought it was them arguing. But it was only the TV”

  “Do they argue a lot?”

  “Isn’t that what marriage is all about?”

  For a moment their eyes locked, and in that instant Chip became a little boy, frightened and filled with a child’s hate.

  Rosen said, “I understand that Soldier lives on the premises. Was he at home?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “No. On my way into the house, I passed his room—he’s got these patio doors. The curtains were drawn, and the light was out.”

  “It seems that Soldier and your mother—”

  “Shut up!”

  With a muffled sob, Chip ran up the incline into the grandstand. Leaning against a pillar, Rosen tried to imagine what had happened in the park the night Nina died, but instead couldn’t stop thinking about Chip sneaking up the darkened stairs of his family’s mansion. No hug or greeting; only the television muttering like an argument in the cold silence. What was going on in that house?

  “About time,” Lucila said, as he sat beside her. “You missed the seventh inning stretch.” She rubbed her arms gingerly.

  “Cold?”

  “I’m okay.” Leaning closer, she half whispered, “Did he tell you anything?”

  Rosen recounted his conversation with Chip. While he spoke, the students around him grew quiet. For a moment he thought they were eavesdropping.

  Then someone shouted from a few rows down, “You think it’s funny, man!”

  The drunken Latino who’d been mocking the umpires stood and pointed at Bixby. “You been makin’ fun of me and my friends!”

  Bixby sat very still, a Cheshire grin frozen on his face. The chaperones and students were as quiet, each looking away.

  “Hey, man, I’m talkin’ to you!” the drunk shouted. “Son of a bitch!”

  Lowering his head like a bull, he stumbled up the aisle toward Bixby. His two friends, mumbling to each other, trailed behind.

  When Rosen stood, Lucila grabbed his arm. “Let them hurt him. It’s the least he deserves.”

  “I’m thinking about the kids.”

  She followed him down the aisle to intercept the three men.

  He reached the end of Bixby’s row first and raised his hands in front of his chest, like a catcher. He’d only have to stall them until security came; of course, he could have a few broken ribs by then.

  The drunk cocked his head. “Get outta the way!” He pushed up his sleeves. “Unless you wanna lose a few teeth!”

  “Take it easy,” Rosen said. “Why don’t you go back and enjoy the game.”

  “Why don’t you mind your own fuckin’ business!”

  He shoved Rosen, who took one step back and let the man stumble to his knees.

  “Mierda,” he muttered, struggling to his feet.

  The other two men tried to calm their friend, who pushed them away and let fly a string of curses. Turning to Rosen, he raised his fist.

  Lucila stepped between them. The drunk blinked hard, as if she were an apparition. Eyes blazing, she spoke rapidly in Spanish, not letting him reply. The drunk’s fist was now a finger pointing at Bixby. She glanced back at the teacher, then said something to the three men, who began laughing.

  She whispered to Rosen, “It’s all right, but you’d better get Bixby out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with—”

  “I said it’s all right. I told them you’re taking him away, among other things. Besides, you said you wanted to see him alone.”

  Taking the teacher by the arm, Rosen led him past a pair of security guards up toward the exit. Bixby’s brown suede jacket was zipped to his throat, like a little boy’s, and that’s the way he walked—in short, wobbly steps. He wiped his forehead several times, and Rosen smelled the other man’s sweat.

  “Wh . . . Where are we going?”

  The top row, near the exit, was half empty. Rosen pulled Bixby into a seat beside him. He looked up at the scoreboard. It was already the eighth inning. The Cubs were down 2-1.

  “You’d better stay here until the game’s over, although security will probably throw those men out.”

  Bixby swallowed hard. “Yes, of course. You don’t suppose they might wait outside the stadium?”

  “I don’t think the man after you can even see the ballpark anymore, and his friends didn’t seem interested in causing trouble. Besides, Lucila won’t let them get at you.”

  “Yes, Miss Melendez. Remarkable woman.” Unzipping his jacket halfway, he took a deep breath and smiled sheepishly. “I’m still a little on edge. I’m not used to real violence.”

  “Real violence?”

  “I’ve acted and directed many scenes involving fighting, even murder. But the real thing’s something else, isn’t it?” When Rosen didn’t reply, the teacher continued, “I’m afraid I acted like a real ass.”

  “Well, you are an actor.”

  Bixby spurted bits of laughter. “I didn’t set a very good example for my students.”

  “It must be difficult to be a teacher. You’re held to higher moral standards than most other professions. Don’t you find that so?”

  “Oh yes. When I first started, a teacher was expected to be some sort of ascetic monk. Holier than thou.”

  “Not anymore?”

  Bixby giggled, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I think the media has pointed out the foibles of those we once considered heroes, from athletes to presidents. Made it easier for teachers to show their human side as well.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hmm?”

  Rosen leaned closer. “What’s your human side?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose being a bit irreverent with authority.”

  “Like with your principal?”

  He mimicked Dr. Winslow’s voice. “Uh, yes.”

  “Dressing very casual?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clowning around with the kids?”

  “Yes.”

  “And watching sadomasochistic movies on your VCR?”

  Bixby’s eyes popped wide, and his face turned fish-belly white. He slowly zipped the jacket up to his throat.

  Rosen said, “The handcuffs—were they for more than just watching?”

  “How . . .?” The words came in a hoarse whisper. “How did you find out?” He turned his head away, as if not wanting to know.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Nina Melendez.”

  But Bixby wasn’t listening. He leaned forward, moaning softly, and gripped Rosen’s arm. “I don’t mean any harm. I don’t hurt them—not really. They can’t ma
ke me give up everything—twenty years of teaching, because of . . . a hobby.”

  He spoke with a kind of barroom intimacy. And his hand was on Rosen’s arm, the way one friend might touch another.

  “I don’t mean anything by it. I mean, the girls I pick up . . .” Blinking hard, he stared at Rosen. “You’re a lawyer. If I get into trouble, will you represent me?”

  Rosen grimaced, a cold clamminess shivering through his body. He didn’t know whether to pity Bixby or hit him in the face. Pulling his arm away, he repeated, “Tell me about Nina.”

  “Nina?” Rubbing his face, the teacher muttered, “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I want to go. I want . . .” The words guttered in his throat, and he began crying.

  Rosen shouted Bixby’s name, but the crowd suddenly erupted into a roar of cheering, as a home run shot into the left field bleachers. Rosen watched as everyone jumped to his feet. Everyone except Martin Bixby, who couldn’t find forgiveness even in Wrigley Field.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next twenty-four hours was what his boss, Nahagian, called a “throw-away day.” It came whenever an especially tough case was concluded, and a lawyer needed time to get away and just relax. Only this time the case was far from over. In fact, Rosen still wasn’t certain a crime had been committed.

  He’d spent an hour after the ballgame at Lucila’s apartment, arguing over that very point. She’d wanted to corner Bixby and force a confession from him. Rosen had refused, worried that her temper could jeopardize any case against the teacher—if, indeed, there was a case. All that resulted from their argument was that his headache roared back; the long rush-hour drive to the Nahagian condo only made it worse. At six-thirty he lay down for a few minutes’ nap. He woke up at nine-fifteen the following morning.

  Feeling better, Rosen had a big breakfast at the local deli—thick potato pancakes made with plenty of onion, fried crisp and served with sour cream. Returning to the condo, he called Sarah, only to learn from Shelly that she’d gone to school.

  Shelly had added, “Come over for supper around six. It’s Thursday—I’m getting Chinese.”

  Rosen dialed the high school and was told that Bixby had called in sick. There was no answer at his apartment. Lucila wasn’t home either. Uneasy at failing to contact either her or the teacher, Rosen took the long walk south through downtown Evanston to Bixby’s apartment.

  It was like so many of the spring days he remembered as a child—cool even in the warm sun because of the lake breeze. Almost noon; streets were filled with the lunch crowd and mothers strollering their babies before nap time. The fresh air cleared his head, or maybe it was just watching the young mothers with their children that made him feel clean.

  The feeling faded quickly as he stood in the courtyard of Bixby’s apartment. The window shades were drawn. Was the teacher really ill, or had he crawled into his room to hide? Maybe he’d driven somewhere to dump the videotapes and handcuffs, promising to put such thoughts from his mind forever. But what about the girls he’d mentioned?

  Could one of those girls have been Nina? Rosen had asked himself that question over and over. Any other time, he wouldn’t have needed Lucila’s prodding. Bixby was vulnerable. Just a little more pushing to learn the truth—whatever it was. Yet again Rosen hesitated. Standing within Bixby’s courtyard, he finally understood why.

  The old people peeking through their curtained windows, and a short, thin woman limping past him, hands clutching her purse, once again reminded Rosen that he was a stranger, an outsider. So too was Bixby. The harder the teacher tried to be one of the kids, the more pathetic he became—as he had at the ballpark yesterday. Nor could he fit in with Kate Ellsworth and her wealthy friends who patronized the arts. He was merely an amusing hanger-on. As for friends or a romantic relationship . . .? There were those videotapes hidden in his drawer. As much as Rosen wanted to despise Bixby, he pitied him even more. What if, after all, the teacher were a murderer?

  The breeze must have stiffened, because Rosen shivered. Turning, he looked up and down Sheridan Road at the line of parked cars; Lucila’s beat-up old station wagon wasn’t among them. He hoped she’d stayed away. With her temper, seeing Bixby would only make matters worse.

  Leaving the courtyard, he kept a steady pace while walking home. By the time he reached the condo, his undershirt was soaked with sweat, but the headache was finally gone. He took a long, hot shower and flipped through the art book that featured some of Lucila’s work. At four o’clock, figuring Sarah would be home from school, Rosen drove up to Arbor Shore.

  Eva, the Polish housekeeper, answered the door. “Hello, Mr. Rosen. Nobody here.”

  “Sarah’s not home from school?”

  “Yes, she come home but go out maybe ten minutes ago.”

  “Where?”

  The woman hesitated.

  “Where, Eva?”

  “She go over to Ellsworth house. See Nina’s mother.”

  “What?”

  “Each day this week she go see Nina’s mother. Sarah good girl.”

  Rosen rubbed his eyes. “I’m going over there to get her. We’ll be back in time for supper. Dr. Gold invited me.”

  Eva said, “I know. Thursday night—Chinese food. What Mrs. Gold calls ‘whole megillah.’ See you six o’clock sharp.”

  Again Rosen decided to walk. The Ellsworths lived just a few blocks south, across Sheridan Road. Entering the park, he approached the wooden fence that overlooked the beach where Nina had fallen to her death. The yellow police tape had long ago been removed, as had the gold chain and scattered rose petals. The land had healed, but after all there’d only been a few scuff marks in the grass—hardly a scratch. Even Rosen wasn’t quite sure where the girl had fallen.

  Some would want to forget—neighbors and the mothers who brought their children to play. But Nina’s classmates would remember. They’d keep her death alive, because it gave a spirituality to their carefully crafted, safe suburban neighborhood, just as Native Americans believed the ghosts of their ancestors inhabited the land. Teenagers would whisper about seeing Nina’s ghost; the braver ones would make out here at night, nicknaming the cliff something like “Lover’s Leap.” Years from now, none of them would remember exactly what had happened or who the girl was. None except Sarah.

  The gate in the Ellsworths’ fence was ajar. Rosen pushed it open and walked inside the estate. He was too close to the house to comprehend its true size, only that it was a two-story Tudor that seemed as high as the Tower of Babel. There was a railed wooden deck attached to an Olympic-size swimming pool, and behind that a gazebo bowered by giant oaks, with one or perhaps two tennis courts in the distance.

  In the nearest corner of the house, Rosen saw a set of sliding glass doors. Chip had referred to that as Masaryk’s room. The floor-length curtains were drawn. On the same side of the mansion stood an attached one-story coach house.

  Knocking on the coach house door, he had to knock louder a second time before it opened.

  “Daddy, what’re you doing here?”

  He kissed Sarah’s cheek. “Shelly invited me for supper.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s Thursday—Chinese night.”

  “Eva told me you were here. I haven’t seen much of you lately. You look much better.”

  She did look better, or maybe Rosen just liked seeing her without any makeup or earrings, wearing the faded Georgetown Bulldog sweatshirt he’d given her last year. For a moment, she seemed once again his little girl. But she stepped back from his embrace, and they both knew after what had occurred over the past few days she would never again be that little girl.

  “We have about an hour before dinner,” he said. “Let’s go back home.”

  “Okay. I need to say goodbye to Mrs. Melendez.”

  “Of course. I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “You won’t upset her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You won’t ask her any questions. She’s still . . . just promise me you won
’t ask her any questions.”

  “All right.”

  On the kitchen wall were an intercom and a telephone. The phone Nina answered the night of her death.

  He asked, “Is this phone on a separate line from the main house?”

  “Uh huh. I think everybody has their own number, including Chip and Mr. Masaryk. If the Ellsworths need Esther for anything, they use the intercom.”

  Rosen followed his daughter through a narrow hallway into the first room on the left. This had been Nina’s bedroom, from the kitten posters on the wall and the chairful of stuffed animals in the far corner. The white muslin curtains were drawn, and a single candle burning on the dresser under the darkened windows gathered light like a magnet. The light illuminated a photograph of Nina, and a gold cross hung over the frame. Rosen recognized the workmanship of the chain. It was like the one found where the girl had died.

  “She was beautiful, my Nina. Como una angelita.”

  In the dimness he saw Esther Melendez sitting on the bed. She wore an old robe tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was down, splashing over her round shoulders and onto her heavy breasts. No makeup or jewelry, she sat very still with the heart-breaking beauty of the peasant women her sister-in-law painted. Only her eyes, which somehow caught the candlelight, glimmered with their own fire.

  Esther sang a lullaby in Spanish. Kneeling beside the bed, Sarah rested her head on the woman’s lap. Rosen watched them for a long time and felt the same vague uneasiness as when he’d watched Bixby at the ballgame. Pity and disgust tangling around his throat, making it even harder for him to breathe. He coughed hard, then coughed again until Esther stopped singing.

  He said, “We need to be going.”

  Esther stroked Sarah’s hair. “She a good girl, your daughter. Another angel. When Nina was little girl, I brush her hair like this. So soft, so pretty.” Again the woman lapsed into a lullaby.

  After watching them for a long time, he repeated, “We need to be going.”

  Esther looked up. “Lucila called me last night. She told me—”

  “Let me send Sarah home first. Then we can talk.”

  As if waking from a dream, his daughter slowly stood. “I’ll come by tomorrow after school.”