Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  He smiled and hugged her. “My little Sarah, how quickly you’re growing. Just like my Debbie. It’s a shame, two cousins about the same age who never see each other. And what, do we live at each end of the world?” He gazed into her face. “How beautiful you’ve grown. You have your grandmother’s eyes. Doesn’t she, Nate?”

  It was a trick—coming at Rosen through his daughter. Still what could he do but nod?

  Still holding Sarah’s hand, Aaron sat across from Rosen. “I called here about an hour ago. The housekeeper said you were coming over for supper. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just that you’ve been here a week, and I haven’t heard from you.”

  “I’ve been very busy.”

  “Yes, that case involving those two boys. I saw it on the news. They say you won an important victory for civil liberties. Something to make the family proud.”

  “I suppose.”

  Aaron waited for something more, but Rosen didn’t care. His brother could wait until they both wasted away to skeletons, as brittle and fragile as their mother’s remains. Let him wait.

  Pulling a chair beside Aaron, Shelly said, “And what about you? Head of cardiology, and how old are you—forty-four, forty-five?”

  Aaron measured out a small smile. “I feel humble beside you, Shelly. My name’s not a household word, or my face a celebrity’s. Those commercials of yours are really something. No wonder you have a big house in Arbor Shore.”

  “Don’t tell me you couldn’t move up here, if you wanted to.”

  “I suppose so. I just wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

  “I know what you mean. Once I saw this nature show about lions and hyenas. Hyenas are always hanging around, never daring to attack the strong lions but waiting to get at the weak ones. That’s the way I feel about these goyim—some of them. They’re nice and polite, but you know what they’re saying about you at their little cocktail parties.”

  “You knew that would happen when you moved here.”

  Shelly drank his tea, then grimaced as if it had been a shot of bourbon. “Yeah, I knew what to expect, but the hell with them. What did Bogart say to Peter Lorre in The Maltese Falcon—‘You’ll get slapped and like it’? Well, that’s what I say to my blue-eyed neighbors.”

  There was a long moment of silence, then Shelly giggled nervously. “I guess that sounds hard-nosed, but it wasn’t easy for a little Jewish guy from the city to make it.”

  “I understand,” Aaron said.

  “Do you, Dr. Rosen? I wonder. Podiatry isn’t exactly the same as cardiology. People weren’t exactly beating down my door to—”

  Bess took her husband’s arm. “I think it’s time for Sarah to do her homework, and I have a few things we need to discuss. It was nice seeing you, Aaron.”

  “Yes, we really should get together more often, especially with Debbie and Sarah so close in age. I’ll have Eileen call you.”

  Rosen and his brother waited for the others to leave the kitchen. Then Aaron sighed.

  “Such a coarse little man. I wonder why Bess . . .” He shrugged.

  Rosen’s cup was empty. He filled the teapot with cold water, then put it on the stove to boil.

  Keeping his back to his brother, he said, “I like Shelly.”

  “Of course. You always liked that kind.”

  “What kind?”

  “Oh, you know. I guess they could be called ‘colorful,’ like Uncle Jack always smoking that big black cigar when he came to visit Mama. And he’d dress up in those ridiculous outfits whenever he’d go to the ballgame.”

  “How do you know? You never went with him.”

  “You told me. Remember?”

  “Sure.”

  After a few minutes the hot water whistled, and Rosen filled two cups. He dunked a fresh tea bag into Aaron’s cup, hesitated a moment for the cup that wasn’t there, then did his own. Once again he sat across from his brother, handing him his tea.

  “Thanks. You split the tea bag between us. I remember when David and I were studying at the kitchen table, how Mama would pour three cups of hot water, then let you dip the tea bag. What was it—five times for each of us? I remember how serious you looked bringing David and me our tea. So slow you walked, and so serious. Papa walks just as slow now. Yes, you looked just like Papa. Umm, this is good.”

  Rosen wondered why his brother was here. Not just a social visit; that wasn’t like Aaron. Maybe something was wrong with their father. Still, Rosen couldn’t bring himself to ask.

  “Ever think of the old days?” Aaron asked. “I mean, back when we were growing up?”

  “No. Have you heard from David?”

  “Poor David. He’s still living with that group of militants in the West Bank, or Judea and Samaria, as he calls it. I always send him a check during Hanukkah. He wrote back that real Jews don’t give presents at Hanukkah; only ones pretending it’s really Christmas.”

  “Does he return the checks?”

  “No, he cashes them. That’s what worries me. I suppose he has to eat like everyone else, though sometimes I wonder. I write asking him to come home, but he won’t. I should show you his letter. What did he say—‘I want nothing more than to spend my days with the Righteous.’ Strange. Of course, Papa thinks he’s wonderful, a pioneer in the Holy Land. Between you and me, I question David’s sanity.”

  Rosen asked, “Did you ever think that the money you send him might not be for living expenses?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That this group of his might be buying more weapons, more bombs?”

  “Bombs, no I—”

  “Forget what I said. It was a stupid question to ask.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Of course you knew.”

  Aaron’s eyes widened, and he slowly rubbed them, rubbed them like an eraser across an ugly mistake. Then, gazing with the soft eyes of their mother, he put a hand over Rosen’s.

  “We don’t have much family. We need to hold onto what little we have.”

  Rosen felt his hand was a little bird, that he was that little bird slowly being stifled by his brother’s palm.

  “Nate?”

  “So how are Eileen and the kids?”

  “Come to dinner and see for yourself.” He paused, his grip tightening. “Why don’t you ask about him?”

  “You’d let me know if anything was wrong.”

  “You’re talking like a lawyer, not a son.”

  Rosen pulled his hand away. “I’m not his son—remember.”

  “That was all a long time ago. He’s an old man. Each day he gets older.”

  “I’m not his son.”

  “I see him once a week, usually Sunday. We visit Mama’s grave. He’s still in the old neighborhood. You should see how it’s changed.”

  “I was in the old neighborhood last Monday.”

  Aaron smiled. “Then you saw—”

  “No. I was there on business. I ran into old Hyman, the tailor who used to work with . . . Papa.” The last word tasted like Passover’s bitter herbs. “Hyman didn’t recognize me. I asked him about Papa’s sons, and he couldn’t even remember my name.”

  “He’s an old man—older than Papa.” Aaron bent closer and tapped his head. “Papa’s not all there. It started a few months ago. We’d be talking, and he’d drift off in midsentence, reminiscing about . . . no, actually speaking about the old days as if they were the present and I was still a boy.”

  “Like you said, he’s an old man.”

  “He’d have me read biblical passages aloud—his eyes aren’t very good anymore. You know what he keeps asking me to read? Genesis 37.”

  Rosen thought for a moment. “How Joseph’s brothers betrayed him?”

  “He keeps repeating what Jacob said when he thought his son had been slain by a savage beast: ‘I will go down mourning to my son in Sheol.’” Aaron paused; his eyes locked on Rosen’s. “He’s talking about you, Nate. He won’t . . . can’t admit he was wrong, but he’s talking about you. You w
ere always his favorite. He loved you the most.”

  “No.”

  “He still does.”

  Rosen felt his face grow warm and the blood pulsing in his ears. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because Mama’s dead, David’s a basket case, and who knows when you’ll be back in town? I want to salvage what family I have. For God’s sake, don’t you think, after all these years, it’s a time for healing?”

  Aaron reached out, but Rosen batted his hand away.

  “Healing? Healing what—your guilt? Papa didn’t love me the most—I was his last chance.”

  “His last chance? For what?”

  “For respect. For that godlike respect that comes to a zaddik, a saint. Someone he could never be, because it took more than learning. It took compassion. Who would go with their troubles to a man sharp as flint? So he turned to his sons. Such students of the Torah would make perfect rabbis! And what did you do? Never said yes but never said no, until you moved away and entered medical school. I remember you telling Papa, ‘Don’t worry—David is so much more serious. He eats the word of God like it was food.’ And they say that lawyers have oily tongues.”

  “It was true. You saw how devout David became. Why he even went to live in the most dangerous area of the Promised Land.”

  Rosen grimaced. “That was his escape, a bit more literal than yours. He’d rather face the PLO than Papa. He never felt comfortable among people, let alone being their shepherd. So who did that leave?”

  “Of us three, you were the best. You had the compassion, as well as the learning. David and I knew it, the same as Papa. Even Mama—”

  “Leave her out of this!”

  Now Aaron was blushing. He lifted his teacup, then put it down. “You know I never did anything deliberately to hurt you.”

  “You never did anything. Remember when I showed up at your dorm because I couldn’t take him anymore? You got me to leave by promising to talk to Papa, but you never talked to him.”

  “What could I have said that would’ve made any difference?”

  “And when he threw me out to live with Uncle Jack, how many times did you come to see me?”

  “He’d forbidden it.”

  “Well, hasn’t he still forbidden it? And aren’t you here now?”

  “Don’t, Nate. For God’s sake, I’m your brother.”

  “You didn’t even tell me Mama was sick. It was Uncle Jack who told me she’d died—not you, brother. When Papa wouldn’t let me come to the funeral, what did you do, brother? Oh I know—what could you do?”

  Whatever Aaron was about to say died in his throat. Rosen stared into his teacup and saw the three of them as little boys sitting at the kitchen table. His father walking behind each boy in turn. Rosen felt his father’s hands like talons on his shoulders. He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase an image that wouldn’t go away. Maybe Aaron had been right all along—what could he have done?

  His brother’s chair scraped the floor. “Maybe I’d better go.”

  Rosen blurted, “How I feel about the family. It’s not you—”

  “Come over for dinner Saturday night. Bring Sarah. It would mean a lot to me.”

  “I’ll have to let you know. I’m involved in something right now—something having to do with Sarah.”

  “This little investigation of yours, about that Mexican girl’s death?”

  “Dominican.” Rosen tensed, the way he did before interrogating a hostile witness. “How did you know I was looking into Nina Melendez’s death?”

  “I’ve known the Ellsworths for years. Kate’s a remarkable woman. She’s helped organize dozens of fund-raisers for the hospital. And Byron’s a highly respected member of the community.”

  “I suppose he’s made generous contributions to the hospital.”

  “As a matter of fact, he has. We have one of the best cardiology units in the Midwest, in part because of his corporate donations.”

  Rosen shook his head. “How did you know I was looking into Nina Melendez’s death?”

  “I really don’t remember. Perhaps Bess mentioned it.”

  “When did you talk to Bess?”

  “As I said, I really don’t remember.”

  “Maybe you heard it from Byron Ellsworth while he was writing out a check to the hospital. That’s the real reason why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What’s it like, trying to run with the hyenas?”

  Aaron’s lips trembled. He stood and put on his coat.

  “Nate, in your own way you’re as twisted as David. Won’t you come with me to see Papa?”

  Rosen gripped the table edge, watching his knuckles whiten. Otherwise, he would’ve struck his brother in the face.

  “Nate?”

  “Go back to the hospital, to the hearts you’re able to mend.”

  Aaron’s big shoulders gave a slight shrug, the same gesture their mother made to end an argument, and Rosen felt a deep yearning cascade over his anger. He almost spoke his brother’s name but held back until Aaron closed the door behind him.

  Only then did he whisper, “Aaron.”

  As if in response, the doorbell rang. Rousing himself, he walked to the door. What would he say to his brother now?

  But it wasn’t Aaron.

  Police Chief Keller stood in the doorway. The porch light glinted off his gray hair as if it were iron. His leather jacket smelled of tobacco, and he nervously fingered the pipe bowl in his right hand.

  “Good evening, Mr. Rosen. Glad I caught you here.”

  “Is it something about Nina Melendez’s death?”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come along with me.”

  “Why?”

  The policeman ran his thumb rapidly over the pipe bowl. “I’m afraid there’s been another death. I’d rather not talk about it here. We’d better get going.” He started down the walk.

  “Another death—who?”

  Keller turned, and the light seemed to draw all the blood from his face. “Do you know Lucila Melendez?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rosen sat in the passenger seat and, as the squad car pulled away, saw Bess framed in the doorway. He’d barely said good-bye. Arms crossed, she raised her right hand slightly, the way she used to when he’d leave on an out-of-town case, as if half a farewell gesture would make him return sooner. Only now he remembered something else—the way another woman had crossed her arms the first time they’d met.

  “Lucila,” he whispered.

  Craning his neck, Chief Keller watched the Golds’ house disappear around a corner. “Lucila Melendez isn’t the one who’s dead.”

  “But you said—”

  “She’s involved, but she isn’t the one who died.” He paused, shaking his head. “It’s Martin Bixby. Sorry for the confusion, but I didn’t want to mention Bixby’s name in that house. I know he was Mrs. Gold’s colleague and your daughter’s teacher. I also know how you felt about him. The people in that house have gone through enough. Besides, the last thing we need is more rumors to start flying.”

  Rosen asked, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Lt. McCarthy of the Evanston Police called about a half hour ago. He asked if I could have you picked up and brought to him for questioning. When I filled him in about Nina Melendez’s death, we both thought it best if I drove down too.”

  “He wanted me ‘picked up for questioning’?”

  Fumbling in his shirt pocket for his pipe, Keller nervously blew through the pipe stem. “I’m sure it’s only a routine part of McCarthy’s investigation. He’s a very thorough man.”

  “So are you. How’d you find me so fast?”

  “The Evanston police checked the condo where you’re staying and found you weren’t home. McCarthy gave me your rental’s license-plate number. He figured you might be visiting your daughter.”

  “But how—” Rosen caught himself, but not before Keller gave the answer he expected.
<
br />   “I guess they know you pretty well from the Denae Tyler case.”

  The last thing Rosen wanted to do was become involved with the Evanston police—not after he’d embarrassed the department and caused two of its officers to be suspended. Maybe that’s why Keller had picked him up, to make sure he’d come.

  Rosen asked, “Is this a murder investigation?”

  “McCarthy didn’t say. I’m sure everything will be explained when we get there.”

  “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

  “Bixby’s apartment. It’s down in south Evanston on Sheridan Road. That’s where it happened.”

  “You said Lucila Melendez is involved?”

  Keller shrugged. “I’m sure Lt. McCarthy will explain everything.”

  The policeman concentrated on the drive down Sheridan Road. It was beautiful, the streetlights hanging like a pearl necklace on the black velvet throat of the night. For a moment Rosen thought of Lucila and how a necklace might look against her throat. But then the pearl necklace became one of gold, the one found where Nina had fallen to her death.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Rosen leaned against the armrest, trying to get comfortable. He’d ridden in a few squad cars before, handcuffed and thrown in the back seat for participating in some demonstration or pushing the police too far in an investigation.

  In comparison, he rode beside Keller in comfort. Instead of a shotgun, a portable computer rested between them. Still, anyone glimpsing him at that moment might wonder why he was arrested. Might call Bess, might embarrass his daughter. What a fool—to have agreed to ride in the squad car. He hadn’t been arrested. Why in the world . . .?

  Of course. He’d heard Lucila’s name and followed like a sheep. Was that the real reason why Keller had mentioned her, to get Rosen to follow like a sheep? He glanced at the policeman, who stared straight ahead while chewing thoughtfully on his pipe stem. Sighing softly, Rosen looked past the streetlights deep into the stars. What were his problems compared to the immensity of the universe?

  As his rabbi had always said, “If you can’t show understanding, at least show patience until you learn.”

  Now he would be patient, not only until he learned what had happened to Nina, but to Bixby as well.