Another Three Dogs in a Row

by Neil S. Plakcy

  A set of headlights approached, coming from the direction the car had gone. Was the shooter coming back to finish the job? I scrambled across the street, tugging Rochester behind me, and made it to the door as the headlights swung into the driveway.

  Rochester barked and barked. “It’s okay, puppy,” I said, stroking his head. “It’s just Mama Lili.”

  She hopped out of her car. “What’s wrong with you? Why were you limping? And what are you wearing?”

  I collapsed onto a kitchen chair. “It’s a bulletproof vest. Hopefully it worked.”

  “Steven.”

  It was rare to hear Lili use my full name, and the tone of voice she used did not bode well.

  “Rick was here,” I said. “He fitted me out with this vest, and a recorder, so I could go to Shomrei Torah tonight and meet with Aaron Feinberg. But someone took a couple of shots at me just now, and Rick went off after whoever it was.”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “I think so. Can you help me get my jacket and this vest off?”

  “Ai yi yi. What am I going to do with you? Stand up.”

  I stood, trying not to put pressure on the leg that felt strained. She slipped the windbreaker off and turned me around. “There are three bullet holes in this vest,” she said, her voice shaking. “Oh, Steve. Sweetheart. Before I take this off I’m getting the first aid kit.”

  “I’m okay,” I protested, but she hurried upstairs to the bathroom. I undid the front buckle on the vest but couldn’t flex my arms enough to get it off.

  When she returned, carrying a plastic box with a bunch of first aid supplies, she undid the straps. Then she took a deep breath and slipped the vest off me.

  “Well, at least the vest did its job,” she said. “Nothing got through.”

  I undid the buttons of my shirt and she took it off. “There’s some redness and swelling on your back,” she said. She pressed her finger into one of the spots.

  “Ouch!”

  “Good. Maybe if these hurt for a few days you’ll think twice about putting yourself in danger again.”

  “It was going to be fine,” I protested. “Rick was going to be right there with me.”

  She made a show of looking around the room, even under the table. “And where is Rick now? I don’t see him.”

  “I told you, he went after whoever shot me.”

  “I think I preferred it when you were just hacking,” she said. “At least you weren’t in danger of getting killed.”

  “Just of going to prison,” I said.

  She glared at me.

  I held up my hands. “Sorry. You’re right. But honestly, I didn’t think I was in any danger, with this vest, and Rick right there for backup.”

  My phone trilled with the Hawaii Five-O ring tone. “You all right?” Rick asked when I answered.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Three bullets in the vest, though.”

  “Hold on to them. I’m going to need them for ballistics. I chased that car through River Bend and saw the driver throw a weapon out the window. But he got stuck waiting for the gate to open to let him out.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Aaron Feinberg. I’m waiting for a couple of uniforms to get here and take him in, and I’ll go back and look for the gun.”

  I was angry at Feinberg and wanted to do something. “Tell me where you’re going to look for the gun and I’ll meet you there.”

  “I can manage. You rest up and I’ll talk to you later. I’ll need to get a full statement from you and get that vest back, but that can wait until tomorrow.”

  I hung up and looked at Lili. “You are never going to change, are you?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath, and pain shot through my back. “I’m never going to stop trying.”

  “I guess that’s all I can ask for,” Lili said. “Let’s go upstairs. There’s some bruise cream I can rub on your back to reduce the swelling.”

  * * *

  I didn’t hear from Rick again until late that night, and that was only a text suggesting we meet at the Chocolate Ear the next morning. When Rochester and I got there, Rick was already sitting in the annex, with a café mocha for me and a biscuit for Rochester.

  “There was no board meeting, you know,” I said, as I sat down across from him. “I checked the Shomrei Torah website—the meeting’s next Tuesday night.”

  “Might have been a good idea to check that earlier,” Rick said dryly.

  He had arrested Aaron Feinberg and spent a couple of hours questioning him. He hadn’t admitted to killing anyone, but Rick had found the gun, a .38 millimeter Ruger semi-automatic, and which was registered to Feinberg.

  I handed him the vest, and he looked at it, then whistled. “Not a bad shot for an old man,” he said. “If you hadn’t been wearing the vest these could have done some real damage.”

  “I was thinking about what Feinberg said to me when he asked me to meet. That he knew I lived in River Bend. That he suggested I take Rochester for a walk before I left for the temple.”

  “So that he could be in place to shoot you. A smart guy, though pretty twisted.”

  “What I don’t understand is how Joel Goldberg made the connection to Feinberg. He couldn’t have read that document in Yiddish that I found at the old shul.”

  “And see, he didn’t have to,” Rick said. “Feinberg told me that Joel was angry about the way he’d been treated when he showed up at the blessing of the animals. He had looked up Feinberg’s address online and went to the house in Hiltonia to complain.”

  “The night that he died?”

  Rick nodded. “He says that while he was there he showed Feinberg a paper he’d found hidden away at the old synagogue.”

  “It couldn’t be what Myer Hafetz wrote. That was in Yiddish, and Joel couldn’t read that. And I found it in the box behind the Belgian block wall.”

  “Apparently there was an English translation, and he brought that to Feinberg’s house, and they went over it together. He says that he convinced Joel the document referred to someone else, and suggested that he turn it over to his brother. That Joel left, and that’s the last he saw of him.”

  “Didn’t the police pick up Joel in Hiltonia that night? Near Feinberg’s house?”

  “Yup. If I were a betting man I’d say that Joel left Feinberg’s place, wandered around for a while, then went back to talk more. When Feinberg wouldn’t open the door he got angry, and that’s when a neighbor called the cops.”

  “So the police took Joel to the train station, and he got on the bus to Shomrei Torah,” I said. “How did Feinberg know he was going there?”

  “This is all conjecture, but I think maybe Joel said something like ‘I’m going right over to the synagogue,’ and so Feinberg went after him. He insists that he stayed at home that night, and his wife agrees he was there. Of course, I don’t believe her.”

  “Did he admit to knowing about his father’s background?”

  “He told me he’d found some letters addressed to his father, calling him Karl. That he had done some looking around online, because he was curious. But he didn’t know the whole story until he saw that document.”

  “Did he know that his father killed the rabbi and Myer Hafetz?”

  “He swears he didn’t. But he also says he didn’t kill Joel Goldberg or Daniel Epstein.”

  “Why did he shoot at me, then?”

  “He won’t say. All he was willing to talk about was the past. Wouldn’t say anything about Epstein, either, but I could tell he was lying from his body language. I’ll leave the rest of the interrogation up to the district attorney. All I had to do was deliver probable cause, and I’ve done that.”

  We finished our coffees and Rick left. I walked Rochester back to the car but instead of heading up to Friar Lake, I detoured into Trenton. I drove past St. Francis Medical Center, where I was born, and then past where my grandmother and my great-aunts and uncles had lived.

  Rochester sat up eagerly in the seat beside me. He d
idn’t know where we were going – but then, neither did I. It wasn’t until we passed the Rescue Mission and where the house with the two red doors had been that I realized I was heading for the old shul.

  When we got there, a makeshift fence had been put up around the site and a construction crew was working on demolishing the last remnants of the building.

  So much of my past was gone, I thought as I sat there in the car, petting Rochester. Every relative of my parents’ generation. Many of the landmarks of my childhood and young adulthood. Trenton was a different city than the one where I’d spent so much time when I was a boy. Even Stewart’s Crossing had changed in small ways. The feed store had been replaced by a real estate office. Stores and restaurants like Gail’s café catered to a more upmarket clientele.

  But despite all the changes, I still felt connected to the Delaware Valley, to the ghosts of old Jewtown. I would not have children to pass that connection on to, which was a shame, but perhaps some legacies needed to end—like Aaron Feinberg’s.

  Rochester and I watched the destruction of the last wall of the old shul, and then we drove quietly upriver to Friar Lake.

  Friday night, Lili accompanied me to Shomrei Torah, where Rabbi Goldberg thanked me for all my help in establishing what Joel had wanted, and what had happened to him.

  “Aaron Feinberg has resigned as temple president,” he said. “He wouldn’t tell me why, but Saul Benesch told me that Aaron was been arrested for Joel’s murder and that he’s out on bail now. Is that true?”

  “I can’t speak for the police, but I believe that’s the case.”

  “And all for the sake of some old paperwork? That’s why my brother died?”

  The rabbi’s pain was palpable.

  “He was pursuing the truth,” I said gently. “And we know that’s always a dangerous path to take.”

  “When Joel would disappear for months on end, I’d have these nightmares where the police would contact me, that he was dead. Who knew he would die so close to me?”

  Lili put her hand on the rabbi’s arm. “What matters is that he came to you,” she said. “Your bond as brothers was still strong right up to the end.”

  He smiled. “Yes, that’s a comfort.”

  We left the synagogue a few minutes later. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lili said as we walked to the car. A cold wind swept through the parking lot, shaking the dying leaves from the trees around us. “How would you feel about taking a trip to Florida at Christmas? We’ll both have a couple of weeks off when the college is closed. We could drive down to Miami with Rochester and spend some time with my mother.”

  I thought of my own parents, and how much I wished I had time to spend with them again. “Of course,” I said, and kissed her cheek, her skin cold, but warming at my touch.

  Author’s Note

  Those who are familiar with Trenton’s Jewish heritage may note that I’ve changed a few details to suit my plot. Shomrei Torah is obviously based on Har Sinai, the synagogue where my family belonged and where I was consecrated, attended Sunday and Hebrew school, celebrated my bar mitzvah, and was confirmed. However, I don’t know the current congregation or its leadership, and I don’t wish to cast aspersions in that direction.

  The “old shul” is based on the Orthodox congregation my grandparents attended—but to simplify for the reader I made it a Reform shul and the early home of Shomrei Torah.

  As I’m sure many people do, I regret not asking for more details of my parents’ and grandparents’ early lives while I could. So I’ve recreated old Trenton, and its Jewtown neighborhood, from my few memories and the details and photos I’ve found online. Like Steve’s mother, my mother belonged to a social club sponsored by Har Sinai, called the Twenty-Thirty Club, though I don’t believe she did any of the things that Sylvia Gordon did.

  Steve shares his last name with my great-grandmother, Celia Levitan Kobrin, so I’ve always been conscious of his Jewish heritage, and I was eager to fit out this plot as a way for him to explore both his religion and his connection to Trenton. He’s a good bit younger than I am, though, so I couldn’t give him any of my early memories of that neighborhood by the river before it fell prey to urban renewal. My great-uncle, Louis Kobrin, did own a junkyard like the one in the book, though to my knowledge no murders occurred there or in its environs.

  As always, thanks go to my critique group members: Christine Jackson, Kris Montee and Sharon Potts, whose help has been invaluable. My editor, Ramona de Felice Long, does a terrific job of helping me flesh out the characters and pointing out my errors – though any that remain are of course my own fault.

  My golden retrievers, Brody and Griffin, are blessings to me every day – even when they get into trouble!

  Dog Knows

  a golden retriever mystery

  by Neil S. Plakcy

  Copyright 2018 Neil S. Plakcy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Reviews for the series:

  Mr. Plakcy did a terrific job in this cozy mystery. He had a smooth writing style that kept the story flowing evenly. The dialogue and descriptions were right on target.

  --Red Adept

  Steve and Rochester become quite a team and Neil Plakcy is the kind of writer that I want to tell me this story. It's a fun read which will keep you turning pages very quickly.

  Amos Lassen – Amazon top 100 reviewer

  In Dog We Trust is a very well-crafted mystery that kept me guessing up until Steve figured out where things were going. --E-book addict reviews

  Neil Plakcy's Kingdom of Dog is supposed to be about the former computer hacker, now college professor, Steve Levitan, but it is his golden retriever Rochester who is the real amateur sleuth in this delightful academic mystery. This is no talking dog book, though. Rochester doesn't need anything more than his wagging tail and doggy smile to win over readers and help solve crimes. I absolutely fell in love with this brilliant dog who digs up clues and points the silly humans towards the evidence. – Christine Kling, author of Circle of Bones

  This book is for Brody and Griffin, and for their daddy.

  A big sloppy golden thank you to Christine Jackson, Sharon Potts and Ramona DeFelice Long, for their help in bringing this book together.

  Book 9: Dog Knows

  1 – The Girl She Was

  Rochester clambered up onto the sofa next to me and rested his head on my lap, as if he was sharing the weight of the world with me. I stroked his golden flanks and told him what a good puppy he was, and he snuffled against my hand.

  My golden retriever was five years old, though we didn’t know his exact age or birthday because he’d been a rescue. In his way, he’d rescued me, too, because I was in a bad place when he came into my life. Looking back, he was only one of those who’d stepped in when I needed someone—the most recent, of course, being my girlfriend Lili, who came toward the sofa and surveyed the situation.

  “Not much room for me, is there?” she said, her hands on her hips.

  “We’ll always make room for you.” I shifted a few inches toward the arm of the sofa, and reorganized Rochester’s eighty-pound bulk so Lili could join us. She was a shapely woman, though not quite what my father would have called zaftig. Just enough curves to satisfy me, auburn hair in a loose curl, and a smiling mouth perfect for kissing.

  Which was what I did as soon as she was settled. I was a couple of inches taller than she was, but sitting together like that our height difference didn’t matter. Rochester sat up in the space between us, staring at us as we kissed, and I had to pull away and rub under his chin. “Nobody’s ignoring you, puppy,” I said. “But sometimes Mama Lili and I need some us time.”

  Sh
e scratched under his belly, and he opened his mouth wide in a big doggy grin. My infatuation with Rochester was clear from the golden retriever knickknacks on the shelves of the bookcase beside us, where photo frames shaped like dog bones jostled for space with my collection of hard-cover mystery novels and some of the classics of literature that remained from my college days.

  Much of the furniture had come from my parents’ house, including the mahogany dining room table and matching breakfront, and the torchiere lamp in the corner with an elaborate glass shade.

  My father had bought the sofa and matching leather recliner when he moved into the house, only a couple of years before he passed away and left it to me. I appreciated his good taste in furniture as Lili and I chilled there.

  When my phone rang, I glanced at it and saw it was a call from Hunter Thirkell, an attorney in the small Bucks County town of Stewart’s Crossing where we lived. I was surprised because it was eight o’clock at night.

  I’d met Hunter a few years before, when he handled my father’s estate. He had a brash, New York personality at odds with our sleepy Pennsylvania town, but he’d created a thriving practice in everything from wills and power of attorney to criminal defense, and he’d represented me years before when I had to meet with the police as I investigated the murder of my next-door neighbor.

  “Hey, Steve, how’s the hacking game going?” he asked. His voice was so loud that Rochester perked up his ears. Lili got up and went over to the dining room table, where she opened her laptop.

  Hunter knew that I’d served a year in the California prison system for computer hacking, and whenever I ran into him around town, he’d tease me about the latest hacking case and ask if I was involved.

  I didn’t appreciate being reminded of the past I’d worked so hard to put behind me, and even though I understood that was his awkward way of maintaining a friendship, vague as it was, I did my best to shut down any questions.

  “Listen, Hunter. I don’t do that stuff anymore, and I’m tired of you bringing it up.”