Brownstone

by Dean Kutzler

  Bingo!

  The Rolodex card beamed at him like a lighthouse betraying the fog: Alazar, Stephen. He snatched the card and searched the rest of the desk and files, but came up empty on the paper trail for anything else that could help further unravel the mystery. The computer finished its system diagnostics, then flashed to life. His uncle had been a major defense litigation lawyer, handling top media cases. He was no fool. As he suspected of his uncle’s thoroughness, the cursor winked at him like a little digital imp.

  It was locked.

  He tried all his best guesses at a password, racking his childhood brain for anything significant that stood out. The computer continued to honk at him like an angry peck order mallard. That sound was really irritating. He could uselessly go at this all day until his fingers bled.

  Later he’d send the computer to his friend Moe, short for Mohammed. He’d met Moe through a course they’d shared together back in college. Moe was a computer genius, like the kind you see on TV shows with their fingers whizzing over a keyboard, colors flashing over their faces as they hacked into the Department of Defense’s mainframe. Moe was his best shot at the computer, but in the meantime he would follow up on the lead from his uncle’s Rolodex.

  Finding Alazar’s phone number proved to be paramount in cutting research time, but only raised more questions. Hairy questions. Questions Jack didn’t want to ask himself. The main one not being why his uncle was involved, but how? Was his uncle involved in something serious? Or was he doing legal investigative work for some client or for some pro bono work?

  The Rolodex card felt weighted with indecision as Jack flipped it over and over in his hand. Whatever was going on had been important enough for someone to murder his family members. Father Angeli Moretti, the priest that ended his life in Jack’s family’s vault had favored suicide over interrogation from the pawns of the justice system. No matter how he looked at it, criminal was written all over it in some form.

  But how was his uncle connected?

  He rejected the thought that his uncle would be involved in something criminal other than legal counsel. Nor did he buy the thought that his father would risk his career and reputation for something illegal. No way. Jack had a feeling they were unfortunate pawns in someone else's game.

  Jack scrutinized the Rolodex card one last time, tugging at his goatee before he pocketed it. That would make it two pieces of evidence he concealed from the authorities.

  The detective would have to find Stephen Alazar on his own. Jack wasn’t giving the shrewd man a reason to suspect a connection with his family just yet. He needed to find out what was going on first before he made the decision to give the detective this piece of evidence.

  If he decided.

  The last thing he wanted was to soil his family’s name. He needed to talk to this Mr. Alazar. He grabbed the brass phone off its cradle, punched in Alazar’s number and waited for it to ring.

  “Who is this?” A man’s voice whispered in a panic, as if he’d just gotten a call from a ghost.

  “Is this Stephen Ala—“

  “I said who is this—why are you calling from there?” The man cut him off.

  From there? Did he know where from the caller ID?

  “My name is Jack. Is this Stephen Alazar? I’m Terrance Elliot’s—”

  “You’re—you’re the nephew aren’t you?” The hushed voice interrupted again, less panicked. “You’re—I know who you are.” Now less subtle. “Why are you calling me, Mr. Elliot, and how did you get this number? You shouldn’t be there.”

  “Huh? Mr. Alazar?” Jack said, assuming it was Stephen. The man was either too scared to take ownership of the name or he wasn’t Stephen. Either case, Jack wasn’t giving up anything over the phone without some solid answers. “Can we meet somewhere? I need to talk to you, Mr. Alazar.” He thought about that for a second. “Somewhere public?”

  “Meet with you in person?” The sound of shock rang through the phone. “Oh ah—no. I cannot. No I’m—I am very busy,” he lied. “I—I don’t think so. I’m sorry, I just cannot help—cannot take the risk.” The raw fear and mixed emotion spiking in the man’s voice made the hairs on Jack’s neck stand on end.

  Why was he so afraid?

  “Please! Mr. Alazar. Stephen. What’s going on? You need to understand. Both my father and uncle have been murdered.” Maybe by you. “And I don’t understand why or even what’s going on here,” he pleaded. “What are you afraid of? If we could just please meet and talk—“

  “I’m sorry for your unfortunate loss, Mr. Elliot. But as I told you, I cannot help you. I’m sorry. I just cannot. You should leave that place,” he said like the reason was obvious.

  “Why? Please, tell me what is going on.”

  “How did you get this number, Mr. Elliot? How did you get my name?” The fear in his voice was escalating into paranoia. Jack was going to lose him.

  “Father Angeli.” Jack let the dead priest’s name slip from his tongue like poison. He didn’t want to give the man any info, but he was afraid if he kept pushing him that he’d just hang up and Jack would be back to zero. His address hadn’t accompanied the phone number on the card.

  The phone was silent so long Jack thought the man had hung up until he heard the soft sounds of church bells ringing out over the phone. “How do I know I can trust you?” he finally asked when the bells silenced their toll.

  “Mr. Alazar,” he said, annoyance furrowing his brow. “Let me be frank with you. I’ve just lost two family members to murder. If anyone should need reason for trust, that would be me.”

  The man knew who he was and where. Jack knew nada—over the phone didn’t fly, buddy.

  “Can we meet somewhere public like—“ He let it hang, waiting for a suggestion. When none came he continued. “Like a diner, a pub or something? Or the church?” he bluffed. With any luck, the man would think Jack knew more than he was letting on.

  “No!” He blurted, not calling Jack’s bluff. “The church cannot know. A diner. The Pearl diner in lower Manhattan. We can meet there, Mr. Elliot.” Reluctant resolve edged his voice.

  “I know the place. Can you meet me there tonight at say,“ glancing at his watch, calculating cab time with FDR rush-hour traffic, “in an hour? At five-thirty?” Jack was catching up with that New York minute. That would give him just enough time if he hurried.

  “Fine.” The line went silent. So much for phone etiquette.

  He gently placed the brass receiver back on the cradle. Worry wrenched his thoughts as he headed toward the stairs to get the odd key for the appointment with Stephen Alazar. He knew he could be walking into a dangerous situation, but he couldn’t involve the detective until he knew more about what his uncle and father had been involved in.

  He took the stairs two at a time, remembering how hard it was for his short legs as a kid. Now he sailed over them and down the hall to the bedroom he used to stay in when he visited his uncle.

  Jackie boy’s room!

  His uncle’s voice sang throughout his head like a phantom bird. He pained at the memory as he turned the knob. Glancing down the hallway before he entered his old room, he stared at the door to the master bedroom. His uncle’s bedroom. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to take over the master suite. Right now it felt too much of a betrayal.

  His bedroom was as he remembered it as a kid. Queen sized, four poster bed resting atop a handsome Persian rug, centered in the room between two huge, fully adorned floor-to-ceiling windows, desk and chair on the right, dresser and armoire to the left and the huge, mirrored walk-in closet opposite the bed, making it look like two identical rooms in one. Circling his old bed, he found the pants he wore to the funeral draped over the dresser where he’d left them after unpacking. Feeling around the pockets, he fished out the strange key he’d stashed, the one so important that suicide had been committed.

  Jack needed insurance since he couldn’t involve the detective. The late priest had said to bring the key to Stephen Alaz
ar and that he’d know what to do with it. He couldn’t trust the intentions of a suicidal priest. For all he knew, this Stephen Alazar could be the murderer and he’d be walking into a death trap. The man’s fear over the phone was proof enough for worry, one way or the other.

  Danger aside, Jack fully intended on getting answers from Alazar. He couldn’t do that by handing over the only clue he had. Not just yet. Whoever was involved knew what they were doing. They’d orchestrated a murder through a locked gate, in broad daylight, during a funeral.

  The brownstone’s security system was certainly top notch, but Jack was smarter than to rely on that alone. Someone that could commit murder would certainly yawn through a break in. He had to find a good hiding place for the key. It had been hidden in plain sight, stuck on the coffin, but it had also been buried ten feet underground. The key must be pretty important. Suicide, murder, the extreme lengths it must have taken in order to hide it in that vault.

  He considered stashing it behind the heavy bowling pin trophy that sat on the shelf, nailed above the desk. His uncle had been so proud of his Jackie boy that day that they ran down to Wankel's Hardware for a shelf strong enough to support the heavy trophy. Too obvious he thought, being the only thing on the walls. He tugged at his goatee as he considered the hidden safe downstairs. By the time he found the combination in the papers Barnabas had given him and figured out how to access the safe behind the hidden panel, he’d be late for the meeting. Besides, the safe was also too obvious and the people that wanted the key would probably have the resources to break into it anyway. His fingers fumbled out of his goatee and ran through the hair on his head. Maybe he was being a little paranoid, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He was never any good at hide-and-seek either. His uncle always found him under the bed. But then he wasn’t trying to hide himself. That gave him an idea.

  Jack knelt on the floor and lifted the corner of the duvet cover over the edge of the bed. With his hand, he felt underneath the box spring until his fingers sunk slightly into the cushioning between the metal springs holding back the padding. A muffled rip sounded as he carefully tore a slit into the fabric with his finger. With his other hand snaking over his arm as a guide, he gently pushed the key up into the slit he’d made and tucked the torn edge back under the spring. He looked up under the bed. Smooth as silk. He’d be lucky to find it himself. With that out of the way, he pulled the duvet cover back over the bed and went downstairs.

  With the key safely hidden, Jack felt a little more comfortable meeting Alazar at the Pearl Diner. He’d confront him and let him do all the talking. The best way to interrogate someone was to just sit silent and be patient. At least it usually worked for Jack when he was interviewing people for his articles. Once they got started, their mouths ran like diarrhea. Leading them with too many questions sometimes forced them to skate around the truths they absently hid.

  Jack tapped the AWAY button, punched the new security code into the alarm system and locked up the brownstone. A wind of determination blew through his goatee as he padded down the stairs and went down to the corner. He tried everything he knew at hailing a cab except for showing some leg which he was sure wouldn’t help. The traffic rushed by like a New York blur of color. None of the cabs lights were lit, which meant they were already ushering their lucky fares to unknown destinations. The mental math at calculating the cab ride time had been correct, but he’d forgotten to factor in hailing time.

  Rookie.

  He was never going to catch a cab. In this prime-time rush hour traffic, hailing a cab would be like fighting the march of time. Just as he was lowering his arm to grab his phone for subway transit schedules, an off-duty cab screeched to a halt alongside him. The medallion light flickered to life.

  “Heya dare stranger! Need a ride?” The driver spun his hat around and winked at Jack, nodding for him to get in. It was Harold, the cabbie that raced him across town to his uncle’s hospital.

  What luck?

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” Jack gave him a warm smile, climbed in and closed the cab door. Grabbing the oh-shit-handle, he was confident he’d make it on time now; in one piece may be a different story.

  “Where to dis time buddy?” He was smiling at Jack in the rearview mirror. “I truly hopes ya uncle s’okay. Did he make it? Vera and I said some hail Marys and all dat.” He fingered the rosary beads hanging from the review mirror. “She even lit one-a dos candles dat look like icetea glasses fer Saints.”

  Jack smiled at his sentiment, but hated to tell him that his efforts had been in vain. He filled him in on the way to the diner, happy to have someone to bounce it all off of. It helped getting things straight in his head before meeting Alazar. He left out the key’s hiding place just in case, feeling silly at the exclusion, but you just never know.

  “Wow, buddy. Dat is some strange story!” His eyes as wide as saucers in the rearview. “Condolences from me and da Missus to you on yer loss. Dat is some tragedy, both bros. Man, Vera’ll be very sad.” He gave a heartfelt nod in the mirror. “But, boy! She’s gonna flip when I tell her dis one. Only in New Yawk.” He shook his head, steering around some traffic before he punched the pedal and soared down FDR drive.

  “I hope the ticket wasn’t too steep.” Jack said gripping the handle tighter, thinking back to the hospital.

  “Oh dat? Nah, you gave me plenty ta cover it. Too much, if truths be told. Which ya didn’t hafta do by da way. Vera says I should slow down, said I shoulda made ya take it back. But tanks all da same. I even bought Vera dat DVD set with the extra money. Her faves—you know da one—aaah, Twinkles? Nah that’s not it,” he said closing his eyes then snapping them back open at the sound of a horn. “Whaaa? Blow it out ya eaaar!” He honked back and gestured. “I’m drivin’ here! Oh, I know! Twinning—“

  “Twilight?” Jack reminded him before they had an accident.

  “Yeah! Dat’s it. Vera loves ‘em! You know they got five of ‘em?” he said, rolling his eyes in the rearview like a gossiping old maid. “Five a dose damned DVDs I had ta sit through. What da hell I know about DVDs? I just thought da package was s’pose to be dat thick! Five of ‘em! I think I grew a vagina fer Christ’s sake!” He shook his head again so hard his hat almost fell off.

  He pulled the cab alongside Pearl Street. “Well buddy, here we are at the ole Pearl. You wants I should wait?” Straightening his hat, he raised his eyebrows at Jack. “You knows, like backup? So’s ya’s don’t get snuffed outta existence withoutta trace?”

  Twilight? He’d been watching too many mobster movies.

  “No, thank you Harold. I really appreciate that, but I should be okay.” He grinned, enjoying Harold’s gangster shtick, then closed the cab door.

  “You sure? No charge! Meeta off.” He said, waving his hands over the steering wheel.

  “No, I’m sure Harold.” He handed him a fifty. “Go home to Vera and give her a kiss for me and thank her for lighting that candle. I can’t involve anyone else in this mess.” His heart warmed at the cabbie’s New York style charm. Jack had no doubt that he’d meant what he’d said and would help if Jack needed him. But this was his game to play out. Alone. He started to turn for the diner when Harold stopped him.

  “Heya pal? Your change! I can’t take a-nudda hefty tip, it ain’t right! I goes ta church ya know.” Before Jack could protest, he reached out and jammed the change into his hand along with a business card. Jack took the card with his other hand and read the name above the phone number: Harold Poytner - A Cabbie Affair.

  “Yous know, just in case,” he said giving Jack a serious look from under the brim of his golfer’s hat that said he could wear more hats than one.

  “A Cabbie Affair huh? Catchy, I like it,” he said reaching out, shaking Harold’s hand. “Take care Harold, you’re one of the good ones. Vera’s a lucky woman.” Jack turned but before he headed into the diner, he entered Harold’s number into his iPhone. Jack hated wasting paper and planned on giving the card back to be recycled the
next time he saw Harold.

  Before Harold pulled away, he looked at his palm and grinned, shaking his head. Jack had slipped the change back into his hand. “Hey!” He called out laughing. “Dat was a dirty trick!”

  “Buy Vera another DVD set! I hear True Blood is pretty good!” He waved overhead. The cab was too far away for him to protest.

  The misshapen diner sat on the corner of Pearl and Fletcher, looking more like a Duane Reade than a greasy spoon. Jack hoped the Pearl’s coffee had more originality than its name. He was dying for a good cuppa. His soul ached for a whiff of some heady espresso although he doubted he’d find it here. The caffeine would only unsettle his nerves more than he could handle right now. He’d interviewed hundreds of people in his line of work, but this wasn’t quite the same. Potentially, he could be facing his family’s murderer. The thought went through him like an icy breeze, making him wonder if he should have called the detective.

  Now or never he thought, stepping through the entrance alcove and into the bustling diner. The food couldn’t be too bad, the place was packed. Silverware clanking against plates and ambient sounds of diners chatting filled the background. He scanned the room, feeling dumb at letting himself be put at such a disadvantage. He should have asked the man what he looked like or what he’d be wearing. But he really didn’t have a choice since Alazar had just hung up the phone. Plus Alazar thought Jack knew who he was from his bluff on the phone, so he had to play it cool.

  Then he saw him in the booth, sitting alone. He’s seen him before, but where?

  Of course. He remembered him at the church service for his uncle. He was the nosey guy in the vestibule where the detective had inappropriately questioned his father. Why had he been at the church? Was he a friend paying his last respect or validating his uncle’s demise?