House of Ghosts

by House of Ghosts (epub)

  “Where’s my Jozef?” the sultry voice asked, breaking the silence.

  “In the dining room. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Grab a cup,” Joe said, looking toward the hallway.

  Alenia Gilbert, the raven haired beauty from down the block, entered the dining room barefoot. One of Joe’s T-shirts strained to contain her 38DDs. The creations were the handiwork of a plastic surgeon the girls at the strip joint considered the god of silicon. “I felt for you, but you were gone,” she said with a pout.

  Retired from the “trade” for two years, Alenia still possessed the moves that caused sane men to throw twenty-dollar bills onto the stage. On the other side of forty, the Russian émigré was devoid of fat, cellulite and stretch marks.

  Joe followed her deeply tanned legs rounding the table. Her rhinestone encrusted G-string reflected the light streaming through a French door opened to a redwood deck. Joe reached behind him, flipping the door closed. “I don’t want to be responsible for giving Charlie Pond a heart attack. The old guy is always looking over the fence.”

  Alenia sat on his lap. “I haven’t killed you, no?” she said, running her hands through his hair.

  “Not yet,” he said with a laugh.

  “What is this?” Alenia asked, pointing to the pile.

  “It’s my treasure from the Swedge estate sale.”

  Alenia scrunched up her face. “I didn’t like the way he looked at me. I told Harry and you know what he said?”

  Harry’s high blood pressure and diabetes were a fatal combination in the bedroom. Joe liked Harry and rationalized bedding his wife as doing him a favor. “Not to be half naked when you went for your walk?” Joe asked as he rummaged through the mess.

  “No. To smile and tell him to fuck off.”

  A check laying at the edge of the pile caught Joe’s eye. It was dated October 2, 1975 made payable to Westfield’s only Jewish temple, Temple Emanuel, for $5,000.

  Alenia playfully squirmed on his lap. “Looks like garbage. I’m still tired. Let’s go back to bed.”

  Joe let Alenia’s suggestion pass without comment. He stared at the check and took a gulp from the mug. “The Five Books of Moses on the kitchen table, the rabbi at the cemetery, and a donation to a temple. The man was closest to being an anti-Semite as one can be. Doesn’t make sense.”

  She leaned back to nibble on Joe’s ear. “Jozef… I don’t care.”

  Joe moved his head away. He rummaged through the mess. A sheet of carbon paper was sandwiched between a sheet of onionskin typing paper and a faded photo clipped out of a newspaper of a man in a glass booth. Joe strained to make out the face. Only one word was legible in the caption beneath. “Eichmann,” he said. “This was taken at his trial in Israel. Do you know who Eichmann was?”

  “He killed the Jews in the Great Patriotic War,” Alenia said flatly. The Great Patriotic War was what the Kremlin dubbed World War II and drummed into children.

  “You’re as smart as you are beautiful,” Joe said, patting her rear.

  “Many of my family died in the war,” she said without emotion. “Maybe Mr. Swedge liked Nazis.”

  “Preston was a lot of things, but I doubt that he was a Nazi lover.” Joe turned to the carbon paper. He hadn’t seen or handled the stuff in years. The paper was severely creased looking as if any manipulation would cause it to split. “Do me a favor. Get a pencil and the tweezers from the top right drawer in my desk.”

  Alenia popped the G-string with her half-inch French manicured nails as she walked to the den. Joe felt where Alenia used the daggers to scratch the middle of his back. She returned with the pencil and tweezers tucked in the half-dollar size patch covering her nether region.

  Joe held out his hand. Alenia snapped the items into his palm. Using the pencil’s eraser, Joe tried to hold the carbon sheet down on the table. “This isn’t working. Give me your fingers.”

  Alenia held out her hands, pushing a two carat diamond toward Joe’s face. He guided the nails on her index fingers to the edges of the carbon paper. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

  Joe lifted the carbon paper with the tweezers just enough to slide the pencil under the flap, ever so slowly unfolding it along the crease. “You can let go,” he said.

  “Do I get a reward?” Alenia asked, puckering her lips.

  “Later,” he replied, using the tweezers to hold the carbon paper to the light. Alenia snuggled next to him. Joe read the typewriter impressions aloud, “31may1944. Photo Reconnaissance Fifteenth Air Force: Mission 60 PRS/462 Can D Exposures 4056-8. Height 27,000 feet. Aerial photographs of Manowitz, Poland; Synthetic rubber production facilities; also noted barracks and railroad lines to the concentration camp Auschwitz.”

  Joe put the carbon paper and tweezers on the table. He studied the loose-leaf sized map. “I don’t believe what I just read.” Stunned, he leaned back in the chair. Fumbling with the cellophane wrapper on the pack of cigarettes, he handed the pack to Alenia.

  With the zip of a nail, she removed the wrapper and opened the pack. She handed a cigarette to Joe and took one for herself.

  “What’s got you in this punk?” Alenia asked. She moved a chair away from the table and sat.

  “The word is funk,” Joe corrected, taking a huge pull on the cigarette. He opened the door a crack to air out the growing haze of smoke. “The American Air Force took pictures of the Auschwitz concentration camp and didn’t do a fucking thing. You see this map?”

  Alenia nodded yes. “What do the red lines mean?”

  Joe traced his finger along the straight line from Foggia, Italy to Manowitz, Poland. “This is the route bombers took to bomb a synthetic rubber plant less than four miles from the concentration camp. The crooked line is the return path to Italy.”

  “Syn-tetic rubber?”

  “In the 1940s, tires were made from real rubber. The Nazis had limited supplies. They invented a way to make rubber from oil. We use something like it to make tires today.” Joe flicked ash into the mug.

  From between two crusty pieces of cardboard, Alenia removed a second piece of carbon paper. This piece was in pristine condition and easily read. She held it up to the light.

  EYES ONLY: JOHN P. McCloy

  ASSISTANT SECRETARY, U.S. ARMY

  20 August 44 Re: Mission completed.

  Will return to Washington ASAP

  Preston Swedge, Captain U.S.A.A.F.

  “This McCloy a big shot?” Alenia asked with the cigarette dangling from her lips.

  “I’m a little hazy on details about McCloy,” Joe said, tossing the cigarette into the coffee. “I’ve read some stuff about him—he was a big shot before, during and after the war. I’ll be right back.” He got up from the chair and walked out of the room.

  Alenia looked through the pile and found a credit card sized envelope sealed with Scotch Tape. She removed a 2x2 photo of a young man in his dress army uniform.

  Joe returned carrying the coat tree kept next to the front door. “Who’s this Rothstein?” Alenia asked, holding up the photo.

  “Rothstein?” Joe asked as he placed the coat tree beside the French door. Alenia handed him the photo. The uniform bore the wings of a pilot. Joe turned the print over. Paul Rothstein was written in blue ink. “I’ll be a son of a bitch. Another Rothstein. How many ghosts did he have?”

  “You’re talking crazy,” Alenia said in a huff.

  “Give me the picture of the kid with the yarmulke,” Joe said.

  “Call me Joe’s secretary,” Alenia said, handing over the photo.

  “Secretary isn’t the adjective I use.” Joe held the picture labeled Rothstein along side the one of the Bar Mitzvah boy. “The kid looks like a younger version. What do you think?”

  Alenia scrunched up her nose. “Same mouth and noze. Must be his off springs.”

  “Offspring. One word and one kid,” Joe said, laughing. “Preston must’ve been friendly with Rothstein the flyboy to have his kid’s Bar Mitzvah picture.” He removed the suit from the leather sat
chel, buttoned the jacket around the topmost hooks, and hooked the pants below. “Let me have Preston’s picture, the one where he’s standing next to the convertible.”

  Alenia handed him the picture. Joe placed it into the jacket’s collar. “You were in the middle of something,” Joe said, looking at Preston atop the coat rack. “What, I don’t know.”

  Chapter 6

  WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000

  ALENIA HAD JUST STEPPED OUT OF THE SHOWER when her cell phone chimed her back to the reality of being married to Harry. She packed the G-string into a side pocket of her Gucci carry-all and slipped on a pair of what she called babushka underwear—non-see-through white bra and plain cotton panty. “Harry is on his way back from Atlantic City.”

  Joe backed the Volvo onto the street to let Alenia’s Mercedes SUV out of the garage. When she arrived on his doorstep, the Benz was sequestered in the garage just in case Harry lost his shirt at the crap table and decided to come home to nestle his head in the bosom of his loving wife.

  Joe flashed the Volvo’s high beams to signal that Tanglewood Lane was clear of prying eyes. Alenia screeched onto the street, blew him a kiss and was off.

  It was 2:45. Finding the Rothstein photo put working on his research paper into the category of “I’ll get to it later.” He headed for The House of Beers to buy a six pack of Guinness Stout.

  The parking lot of the converted gas station on the south side of town was deserted. Sunday football enthusiasts had completed their forays and were sitting at the feet of their televisions. Joe breezed into the store, gave a nod to the Pakistani clerk behind the register and fetched the beer from the cooler. The clerk robotically began to ring Joe’s weekly purchase of a twenty-four can carton of Budweiser, but caught his mistake. Distracted by a kid who looked about fifteen browsing the aisles, he handed Joe change from a twenty and hustled from behind the counter.

  For an instant, Joe moved in the direction of the expected confrontation, and then stopped. Juveniles were somebody else’s problem. He put the change in his pocket and walked out the door.

  Joe placed the six-pack on the Volvo’s passenger seat. It had been too long since he visited John Beauchamp, a retired Westfield detective who had taken Joe the rookie under his wing. It was on a reported break and enter call with Beauchamp that Joe was introduced to Preston Swedge.

  Beauchamp’s small yellow, two bedroom ranch was two blocks from The House of Beers. Parking on the street, Joe walked through an ivy covered red cedar arbor bound by hedges running the length of front yard. A wood ramp extended from the driveway to the front door. The tough guy cop cheated death when he suffered a massive stroke that left him paralyzed on his right side. Joe and the crew, who helped remodel his colonial, built the ramp and widened the interior doorways to make the house wheelchair accessible.

  Helen Beauchamp, John’s bride of fifty years, answered the door. “I feel bad I haven’t been around,” Joe said, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he stepped inside.

  “I was on my way out to do some shopping,” Helen said. “The girls okay?”

  Joe wasn’t going to get into his domestic mess. “They’re good.” He held up the Guinness.

  “John’s favorite. He’s in the Florida room watching his beloved Giants.” She put the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  What Joe and the crew couldn’t widen were the halls. Chair rails attested to the limited width with deep scars and chipped paint from the armrests of John’s wheelchair. The wood floor in the hall between the front door and the kitchen was worn by its wheels. Directly off the galley kitchen was the Florida room.

  Joe stood in the doorway. The original screened porch was enclosed using sliding glass doors to let John view the outdoors during his painfully slow rehabilitation. Plants, thriving in the hot-house like temperatures, filled clay pots and hanging baskets. John, despite being propped against a pillow, was slumped to the side of his motorized wheelchair. A plastic cup of water and a bowl of pretzel nuggets were in easy reach on a wicker end table that matched a loveseat and rocker.

  Joe’s rapping on the indoor/outdoor carpet with the five-iron was no match for the sound blasting from a fifty inch projection television. “Old man!” Joe yelled.

  John hit the joystick control with his left hand, spinning the chair around. A gauze strip, tied around his right hand to the wheelchair’s seatbelt, prevented the arm from dangling into the wheel. The right side of the ex-cop’s face was permanently in a frown. With vision in only his left eye, John took a moment to focus on the face in the doorway. “You look like shit,” he paused, lowering the volume with a remote Velcroed to the side of the wheelchair. “What the fuck have you done to yourself?” He stuck out his left hand.

  Joe took his hand. “Too much time on my hands gives me the munchies. What’s the score?”

  “They’re getting creamed. 27-3 Eagles. It’s the same tune year after year. They can’t throw the ball. Will I live to see the day that a pass is completed for more than ten yards?” As John spoke, saliva dribbled across his chin. Using a dishtowel tucked between his thighs, he wiped his mouth.

  Joe put the six pack on the end table. “I haven’t been over…”

  “Save it,” John interrupted. “You’ve got stuff, I’ve got stuff. Do me a favor and open a bottle of that heavenly creation.”

  Joe twisted the tops off of two bottles, handing one to John. The room was hot from the still potent fall sun. Joe removed his windbreaker and sat on the wicker loveseat. “Preston Swedge,” Joe said.

  “I read in the paper the old shithead croaked a couple of weeks ago.” John struggled to hold the beer bottle in his left hand racked with arthritis. He turned the wheelchair to face the television. “You got a cigarette? Brunhilda went out. She watches me like a hawk.”

  “Helen’s not going to be happy.” Joe removed two Marlboros from his pack, lit both with his lighter, and handed one to John.

  “I’ll blame the smell on you,” John laughed, taking a puff. “What about Swedge?”

  Joe stretched out on the loveseat and propped his right leg on the armrest. “The obituary in the Ledger omitted the detail that the deceased had turned into a maggot farm. He was found sitting in his kitchen ten days after he met his maker.”

  The Eagles recovered a Giant fumble, returning it for a touchdown. “Bastards!” John yelled. He took a long sip from the beer bottle. “People die and aren’t missed all the time. If I didn’t have Helen, the same could happen to me.” He took a puff on the cigarette, choked on the smoke and had trouble catching his breath. He put the cigarette in the glass of water.

  Joe tapped his cigarette on the edge of the water glass. “I found this at Swedge’s estate sale.” He removed the 2x2 photo of Paul Rothstein from the breast pocket in his golf shirt.

  “Can’t see a fucking thing without my glasses,” John said, grabbing a pair of readers on the end table. He took the photo, turning the wheelchair so the light from the windows came over his shoulder. “Handsome fella. Flyboy.”

  “Turn it over,” Joe said.

  “Paul Rothstein!” John gasped. “I thought his ranting and raving about a guy named Rothstein was nothing but him being a lunatic.”

  Joe finished his Guinness and lit another cigarette. “I have Preston’s passport. Did you know what he did for a living?”

  “Something with oil,” John said with a far away look. “It was in the obit.”

  Joe grabbed the arm of the wheelchair and turned John to him. “He worked for the State Department.”

  “People leave government jobs. They got to do something.” John turned the wheelchair back to the television. “

  “Other papers I found lead me to believe he was on a secret mission during the war, and I think Paul Rothstein was involved.” Joe said, leaning on the five-iron.

  John finished his bottle. “A long time ago, I told you if you wanted to be a detective, you had to think like a detective. Find out if Paul Rothstein
is alive, and if he isn’t, find out when, how and the circumstances of his death. If you figure it out, come back and tell me why Swedge acted like an ass for forty years.”

  Chapter 7

  WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000

  ROSA ARRIVED EARLY, banging through the door at 10:00. She had been working upstairs for forty-five minutes before pushing a vacuum into the den. “I got to take Ricardo to the doctor,” she said, holding a plastic bucket containing a selection of cleaning products. “If I no finish everything, I’ll do it on Friday.”

  Joe didn’t ask why—Ricardo had been a hypochondriac since Rosa was a nanny for Emily. “Not a problem,” he replied, not looking away from the computer screen.

  “I found this on the side of the bed.” A gold bracelet dangled from her hand.

  Joe turned to Rosa. The bracelet belonged to Alenia. “I’m sleeping upstairs again. You should be proud of me.” He took the bracelet and placed it into the change pocket of his Levis.

  Rosa sniffed the air. “This room stinks.” She opened one of the windows. Removing a can of air freshener from the bucket, she attempted to mask the tobacco smell with a heavy dose of lilac scented spray. “You got school today?” she asked, dumping the coffee can ashtray into the bag.

  Joe scratched the stubble on his chin, silently cursing himself for signing up for Geopolitical Systems. Maybe the booze, beer, and assorted prescriptions for his pain and depression had affected his brain. Maybe he couldn’t keep up with kids half his age. Maybe he just didn’t care. What difference would it make, if at the age of fifty-two he got his master’s degree in history? “Yeah.”

  The half page on the LCD screen of Joe’s computer was testimony to his inability to concentrate and his ability to waste time. Word could check spelling, syntax, and grammar but couldn’t finish the research paper. The drop date for getting out of Geopolitical Systems without penalty was the next day. He had to make a decision and didn’t have the luxury of waiting till Friday to talk things over with Dr. Headcase. Quitting anything didn’t exist in the Henderson family’s psyche—until now.