by Tim O'Mara
Duh. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I guess he can’t take the elevator either, huh?’
‘Look around, Mr D. This building’s old. It ain’t got elevators. Mr Stern lives on the third floor. Sometimes he gets out – I take him for walks – and sometimes he don’t.’ He shook his head as he opened the second door. ‘Must be hard getting old, huh?’
I gave him a sneer and said, ‘I’ll let you know when it happens, Hector.’
The smile on his face – the first one I’d seen since getting to his apartment – made him look like he’d gotten one over on the teacher. He needed that this morning, so I let it slide as he motioned me toward the stairs. If he had any comments about my ability to climb them, he was smart enough to keep them to himself.
When we got to the third floor, I followed Hector to Mr Stern’s apartment. We were both surprised to see the door open a crack. Either Mr Stern went out on his own – and from what Hector had told me, that was highly unlikely – or he’d let someone in and had forgotten to completely close the front door.
The raised voice we heard from the other side answered that question.
‘You just cannot go around doing things like this!’ the voice yelled. There was a pause for a few seconds, then, ‘She called me, that is how I found out. We have had this talk, Father. I do not want to have to explain – again – what will happen if we cannot trust you to live on your own.’
‘That’s Mr Stern’s son,’ Hector whispered to me. ‘He runs the store.’
Hector and I listened and waited for a response. When none came after about ten seconds, Hector knocked on the door and pushed it open a few inches. ‘Hello?’ he said.
I heard footsteps coming our way. The door opened revealing a man of about fifty dressed in black pants and a white shirt. He wore a black vest, a yarmulke, and black curls hung from both sides of his head. Under his arm, he carried a framed painting. Judging from the shadow on his face, he had not shaved that morning. The rest of his face did not look happy. He looked to Hector and then to me.
‘Hector,’ he said. ‘My father was expecting you fifteen minutes ago. Why are you late? You know how he gets without his morning tea.’ He had a slight accent I would have pegged as German, and his words were enunciated quite clearly.
Hector stood there speechless. This was the second time this morning he’d been admonished for shirking his responsibilities. And it wasn’t even noon.
‘That’s my fault,’ I said, sticking out my hand.
‘And who are you?’ To his credit, he took my hand.
‘Raymond Donne. I’m one of Hector’s teachers. He asked me to come by his apartment this morning to discuss last night’s events.’
‘Joshua Stern,’ the man said as he released my hand. ‘I am not sure what you are referring to. What about last night’s events?’
It hit me then that he hadn’t heard. How could he have? Being an Orthodox Jew, he was not allowed to use technology on the Sabbath and that pretty much ruled out the news of Marty Stover’s murder reaching him. Where was the town crier when you needed one?
So why was he holding a painting on the Sabbath? Wasn’t that work?
I put my hand on Hector’s shoulder. ‘You want to explain?’ I asked.
Hector looked up at me, his eyes filling up, and shook his head.
‘Why don’t you go make Mr Stern’s tea, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to … Mr Stern.’
Hector made his way inside the apartment, and the younger Mr Stern said, ‘Talk to me about what? What happened last night?’
‘May I come in?’ I asked.
It took him a few seconds, but then he shook his head as if realizing he’d forgotten his manners. He stepped aside. ‘Yes, of course.’
I walked into the foyer, and Mr Stern shut and locked the door behind us. ‘Please go in,’ he said. ‘The living room is straight ahead.’
I did as instructed and ended up in an unnaturally dark living room, which I estimated to be about half the size of my entire apartment. The room appeared larger due to the sparseness of the furniture. There was a small couch and two chairs, all of the same brown – maybe dark green? – and white design, and one decent-sized coffee table. The two floor-to-ceiling windows were covered by dark red curtains. It was clear this room did not see many parties.
The walls were another story. As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I could make out various pieces of carefully displayed artwork. There were a few oil paintings and some stained glass. It was like stepping into an impressive, yet minuscule, museum. There was an obvious gap between two pieces that made me think one was missing.
‘Please,’ Mr Stern said behind me. ‘Have a seat.’
I sat in the one closest to the window. He took the other, placed the painting he carried against the chair, and leaned forward, his hands clasped.
‘I see you have noticed our collection of paintings,’ he said.
‘It’s hard not to. Even in this light. Impressive.’
‘It is not as impressive as one might think, Mr Donne. Most of them are from customers who wanted their own work framed and never returned to pick them up.’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Our store has a ninety-day policy. If one does not pick up the work we have done for them, we do everything we can to contact the artist. You would be surprised how many people move without leaving a forwarding address or contact information.’
‘Artists,’ I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about.
‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘After waiting a sufficient amount of time, we donate most of the art to a local thrift store. Some’ – he looked up at the walls – ‘I have decided are good enough to hold on to. Each piece you see on the wall has been documented and catalogued in the event that the artist does eventually return to claim their work.’
‘Sounds more than fair to me.’
Stern leaned forward in his seat. ‘What happened last night?’ he asked.
There was no other way to say it than to just come out with it. ‘Marty Stover was murdered late yesterday afternoon,’ I explained. ‘Hector was pretty shaken up when he heard the news this morning, and that’s why he’s late.’
It seemed to take Joshua Stern a few moments to let that information sink in. When it did, he said what most people ask when hearing such news for the first time.
‘Murdered? How? Why?’ He took a few seconds before adding, ‘Was he mugged? Carjacked?’
‘It was at his benefit, actually,’ I said. ‘You do know he was being honored last night, I assume?’
‘Of course. I could not attend due to the timing of the event. Friday evening we have Sabbath services at the temple.’ He took a deep breath. ‘How horrible. Have the police caught the killer?’
That’s the second thing a lot of people ask.
‘Not yet. They’re still piecing things together.’ I remembered the yelling when Hector and I reached the door. ‘They’ll want to talk to anyone associated with the charity and Marty’s legal work.’
Stern nodded. ‘That will include me and my father then. Do you know when I can expect them? I do not wish for my father to be interviewed alone. He is an old man and his mind is not so keen anymore. Perhaps they can interview us together?’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ I said. ‘But you can ask.’
He sounded a bit like Hector’s mom: protective and defensive at the same time. He must have read the look on my face.
‘So, now,’ he said, ‘you are maybe thinking, why the yelling?’
‘We couldn’t help but hear. Sorry.’
‘No, no. It is quite all right.’ He tapped the painting. ‘My father has a habit of giving things away. This, he gave to his housekeeper.’
The missing painting I thought I had detected. I allowed myself an internal smile. The one I get when I actually detect something.
‘Is it valuable?’ I asked.
He gave that some serious thought. ‘It is worth maybe two hundred dollar
s,’ he said. ‘And that includes the frame. The money is not what worries me. It is his painting; he can do with it what he wants. He just does not remember when he gives things away and then he accuses people of being thieves. We have lost a few housekeepers because of this. A home health aide, as well.’
‘I can see where that would get frustrating.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Can’t you just tell people to refuse his … gifts?’
‘That, a few have tried. He becomes quite offended. It is easier to accept and then return the item to me. Most of the time, they bring it to my store downstairs. If it happens when I am not around, they leave it, call me, or I go to their place. I’m sure there are things missing I do not yet know about. You can imagine.’
We sat there in silence for a few moments and, with nothing more to talk about, I was beginning to think it was time for me to leave. I had fulfilled my promise of getting Hector here. I stood.
‘I think I’ll be heading home, Mr Stern,’ I said.
He got up, too. ‘I apologize for the … yelling. And thank you for getting Hector here. My father does depend on him on Saturdays.’
‘Is your father able to attend services on the Sabbath?’
‘Most of the time, no. He wants to, of course. For the High Holy Days, we can get him downstairs and to the temple. Many times, the rabbi is kind enough to come by here and we pray.’ He let out a deep breath. ‘On occasion, we have found my father at the downstairs door trying to get out. Thanks to God, he cannot work the locks so well.’
‘How many people live in this building?’ I asked. ‘I assume you own it?’
‘For many years now, yes. My grandfather bought it right before the war. He moved his whole family here before it was too late to leave Germany.’ He was silent for a few seconds as he thought about that history. ‘Now we have the store and storage on the floor below this apartment. My father has this floor to himself, and the top two floors we have for my family.’
I was right. There was a lot of family history in this building.
‘Between the housekeeper, the home health aides, my wife, and my children,’ he said, ‘my father has someone with him part of every day. Of course, I see him when I come to work, and Hector has proven quite reliable for the Sabbath.’
‘I’m glad,’ I said. ‘He’s a good kid. Bridges has been good for him. I know Marty took a personal interest in his involvement.’ I was real curious about Marty Stover’s visit the other day that Hector had mentioned. Maybe if I kept the conversation going, we’d get to it. ‘So,’ I said, ‘how many children do you have?’
‘Five. Three boys and two girls.’
‘That’s a group.’
‘They keep us busy. Not so bad when you consider the benefits.’
‘Excuse the question, but do you ever think of moving your father into an assisted living facility? I imagine it would be easier to have someone else take care of him.’
‘It is not something we tend to do in our community,’ he said, a small smile crossing his face. ‘And even if we did, he is stubborn and wishes to remain here. It was he who started the photography business downstairs. Before that, we – the family – were involved in framing and restoring works of art only.’ He looked at the walls. ‘We have a modest collection of our own.’
‘Was Marty Stover into art?’ I asked.
‘If he was,’ Mr Stern said, ‘we never spoke of it. Our conversations mostly revolved around my father and the charity.’
‘When did you speak to him last?’
Now I got the look. The look that’s says: What are you? A cop? I’d like to say I couldn’t help myself, but that wouldn’t be completely true. I could help myself. I chose not to. The desire to ask these questions had gotten me into more than my share of trouble over the years – just ask my uncle – but I kept going right ahead and asking them. Not so long ago, a big-shot public relations guy referred to me as a ‘curious motherfucker.’ I couldn’t argue with him, and since my curiosity had helped get his missing daughter home safely, I’m sure he didn’t mind all that much.
Joshua Stern considered my question and also whether he should answer. It didn’t take him long to make his decision.
‘We spoke on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘He visited my shop downstairs.’
‘Was he checking up on Hector?’
Stern nodded slowly. ‘Something like that, yes.’
I was bursting to ask about the argument, but even I knew that was crossing the line and could possibly get Hector into some hot water. Showing up fifteen minutes late is one thing, gossiping about your boss was another.
‘He was happy with Hector’s progress?’ I asked instead.
‘Very much. Mr Stover was quite pleased to be able to give back to the neighborhood in which he was raised. We need more people like him.’ He paused as he bowed his head. ‘His loss diminishes us all.’
That was followed by more silence. Stern looked toward the front door as if wishing I would leave through it now. I figured it best not to push my luck.
‘Well,’ I said and offered my hand again. ‘Thanks again for everything you’re doing for Hector.’
‘You are welcome,’ he said. ‘When do you suppose I can expect the police?’
‘I’m sure they’ll get your name from the charity. After that, they’ll prioritize their interviews, and you’ll probably hear from them in a few days.’
‘Excuse me for saying this,’ he said. ‘But you sound as if you have done this before. You speak as the police do.’
I smiled. ‘I used to be a cop, Mr Stern. It’s a hard thing to shake, I guess.’
‘Yes. I would imagine. I was once an artist, now I sell to them.’
‘Why did you give it up?’
‘There is more to be gained by selling to artists than by being one. Especially when one wishes to have a family.’ He looked me over again. ‘Do you have children of your own, Mr Donne?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’
‘Do not wait too long. They are truly a blessing.’
I knew enough not to get into a conversation with an Orthodox Jew about blessings. I gave the artwork in the living room one more look and said, ‘Can I say goodbye to Hector?’
‘Let me get him.’
When he left the room, my curiosity got the better of me and I picked up the framed painting Stern had rested against the chair. I held it in both hands and inspected it. To my untrained eye, it was your basic landscape painting and reminded me a little of the Hudson Valley area, which started about an hour north of the city. I couldn’t tell for sure, but the signature, in this low light, appeared to read ‘J Stern.’ So not only had the elder Stern given away a painting – worth ‘maybe two hundred dollars’ – it looked to have been one painted by his own son: a frustrated artist who ran the family business.
‘Mr Stern said you’re leaving.’ Hector had returned.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some errands to take care of.’
‘Thanks for coming, Mr D. And for making me come here. I’m glad I did. He was sitting in the dark till I turned on the lights for him.’
‘What else do you do for Mr Stern?’
‘The father?’
‘Yes.’
‘I make his morning tea. I have lunch with him. It’s mostly stuff one of his aides made during the week. I warm it up. Sometimes we play checkers or chess. A lot of times, I just listen. Old people like to talk, you know.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ I thought about the conversation I’d just had with Joshua Stern. ‘Has he ever given you anything? Anything maybe he shouldn’t have?’
‘You mean like a painting?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. So he has?’
‘Once,’ Hector said. ‘About a month ago. I told my dad and we brought it back to Mr Stern. The son, I mean. He was a little pissed, but I think it happens a lot.’
‘That’s what he told me.’ With nothing else I could think of to say, I said, ‘OK, Hecto
r. See ya at work, Monday.’
It took him a few seconds to get my joke. He obliged with a small laugh. ‘Yeah.’
He saw me out of the apartment, and I could hear him lock the door behind me. You can never be too safe, I guess.
EIGHT
Since the weather was cooperating and I really had no major commitments, I decided to walk home from the Sterns’ building. It took about twenty-five minutes and made me feel a lot better about how little time I’d been spending in the gym lately. I made a deal with myself that I’d go to Muscles’ twice this upcoming week. He’d be glad to see me and gladder still to bust my balls about coming more consistently. Then he’d assign me penance, usually something to do with my abdominal section and lower back.
‘The core,’ he’d say. ‘Even if you have time for nothing else, work the core.’
When I got back to my place, I shoved a load of whites into the washer and took a shower. After I was clean, shaved, and dressed, I moved the laundry into the dryer where it would magically convert back to clothes. The stackable washer/dryer in my kitchen was one of those luxuries I never took for granted. And, although she’d never admit to it, it was probably one of the reasons Allison stayed over as much as she did. We were at the point where she had a few changes of clothes at my place, and being able to wash them on a Sunday night allowed her to head right to work on Monday morning. As much as my sister claimed my bachelorhood was a sign of immaturity, the washer/dryer screamed grownup.
I was about to turn on the TV and computer to see if there were any new details about Marty, when my cell phone rang. It was Rachel.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You get Mom on the train?’
‘Change of plans,’ she said.
‘What’s up?’
‘The way I figure it, there’s gonna be a service tomorrow for Marty. I might as well drive Mom home and spend the night at her place.’
‘That’s a pretty smart idea, Rachel.’
‘I have them occasionally,’ she said. ‘You wanna take the subway to my place and we can all go out together?’
Another smart idea, I thought, but I had Allison to consider.
