When the Past Came Calling

by Larry S. Kaplan

  But I was surprised to see a fit young woman sitting in one of our straight-backed wooden chairs, staring straight ahead—seemingly at nothing. She was apparently preoccupied with some thought that made the space between us greater than the actual distance. She was professionally attired in a jet-black business suit that was a stunning contrast with the thick, curly mane of golden hair cascading to her shoulders. And she was beautiful. In that instant I understood Miss Jordan’s true motive. While she was all for increasing our firm’s revenue, she also liked to play matchmaker—she was determined to see me married.

  As I studied my visitor more closely, I realized I’d seen her before. She was the FBI agent Sheldon Goodman had pointed out to me at Michael’s funeral—the woman who was supposedly his mistress. At my approach, she awoke from her trance, rising from the chair to step toward me, her right arm extended to shake my hand. I extended mine too as the gap between us narrowed, and I was struck again, as I was at the funeral, by this woman’s noticeable lack of warmth.

  “Mr. Miller,” she declared somewhat breathlessly as she gave my right hand a single, firm shake. “Sandra Newton. I’m sorry to have burst in on you without an appointment, but I’ve come on an urgent matter.” She briefly flashed the badge she held in her left hand. “I’m with the FBI. I knew if I telephoned first, you probably would have refused to see me. Please—can we talk in your office?”

  “Sure,” I said, still awed by her beauty, as a curious Miss Jordan stared unabashedly at the two of us from her post at the reception desk. “It’s just through here.” I pointed to the hallway I’d just emerged from and escorted her back. “My office is bit of a mess,” I warned as she followed me through the door. “I wasn’t expecting anyone today.”

  “That’s OK,” she replied softly, the first sign of a thaw in her voice. “Michael told me you were the Oscar to his Felix when you debated together but that you were the smarter one.”

  I was nonplussed by her remark, which inspired a variety of emotions. One was quite juvenile but had me wondering nevertheless. Had Michael actually conceded that I was the smarter one? If that were true, oh, what a red-letter day this would be. And what did the statement reveal about their relationship? It was obviously pretty close if he was sharing high school debate stories with her.

  I studied her more closely now in an effort to gauge her sincerity. “Really?” I managed to ask skeptically, hiding my secret delight.

  “Really,” she assured me. “He also told me you had the best memory of anyone he’d ever known.”

  I had to work at keeping my eyes from watering. “He exaggerates,” I countered, forgetting—or maybe refusing—to use the past tense.

  Once inside my office, we were faced with chaotic stacks of paper and file folders covering nearly every square inch of surface. I pointed Sandra to the lone chair that sat opposite my desk and sighed. “As you can see, unlike Michael, I don’t…exaggerate, I mean.”

  Chapter 10

  April 15, 1989

  Sandra Newton lowered herself into the chair, her posture the same as it was when she was sitting in reception. Her upper body was rigid and erect, with a slight backward arch, as if the pose was coded into her DNA. Sitting with her legs crossed, her skirt had hiked up enough to reveal a musculature to her thighs that signified an extreme level of fitness.

  “You haven’t changed much since high school,” she remarked before I could find the right words to open the conversation.

  “What, am I under surveillance or something?” I responded, spooked to think that this FBI agent may have been prying into my past.

  “No, Michael showed me a picture of the two of you as debate partners,” she explained, “from his high school yearbook. Second place in state. Very impressive.”

  “Yes, but we had originally been announced as the winners. Did Michael tell you that part?”

  “He did. He said he would always regret examining the ballots so closely and catching that mistake.

  “Well, he didn’t have to tell them.”

  “We both know that wouldn’t be Michael.”

  She was certainly right about that. Michael was as honorable as they came. That’s why his having an affair, even with someone as stunning as the woman sitting just across from me, had me scratching my head.

  “I saw you looking at me disapprovingly at Michael’s funeral. I knew only a close friend like his former debate partner would have such an immediate negative reaction to me. You probably believed I’d broken up his marriage.”

  I didn’t want to ask the next question but I couldn’t help myself. “Well, you did, didn’t you?”

  Before responding, she seemed to study me carefully, as if trying to determine the wisdom of pursuing this subject. “Not really,” she finally said. “He wanted to go back to her…to his wife, I mean. But she wouldn’t take him back.”

  “Listen, Miss Newton, I—”

  “Please, call me Sandra.”

  “All right, Sandra. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get into that with—”

  “That’s not why I came,” she interrupted.

  “No?”

  “No. It wasn’t to talk about my relationship with Michael, or to seek your forgiveness if you feel I wronged him somehow. David…may I call you that?”

  “Sure.”

  “I know you had lunch with Michael the day he died. I know he talked to you about the missing persons case we’re investigating.”

  I was about to blurt out “Dr. Emil Whidden” to show off how much I already knew but stopped myself. What Michael had told me had been in confidence. For all I knew, Miss Newton was trying to pump me for information Michael didn’t want her to know.

  “We did have lunch,” I conceded. “At the Berghoff. Wiener schnitzel and ginger ales.”

  “And he arranged a private room. I know. He wanted to find out what you remembered about Philip Montgomery, because you’d known his daughter briefly. Fell in love with her, according to Michael. And he told me you could be trusted and that he would share our suspicions about Montgomery with you.”

  She obviously sensed my reticence about telling her what I knew since she was so clearly intent on demonstrating that she’d been in Michael’s confidence.

  “Do you mind if I ask what your role is in all this? I admit that I’m pretty naive about the protocols involved in federal criminal investigations.”

  “Of course it’s OK, especially since Michael drew you into it. You have every right to know. The FBI works with the US Attorney’s office on many of their more-complex investigations. Dr. Whidden’s—that is, the scientist’s—disappearance entails a significant national security risk. It was the FBI that brought this case to Michael. I was involved in the Montgomery investigation before he was.”

  “And that’s how you met?”

  “It is.”

  “OK, so if all of that’s true, you must already know from Michael that I didn’t have much information to give him.”

  “That’s just it. He never got a chance to tell me, or what he was able to learn from your friend Benny Friedman.”

  “Benny?”

  “Yes. Michael spoke with Benny on the phone the day before you had lunch with him. Something Benny told him about Montgomery was very important—Michael said it might break the case wide open. I was visiting my mother in Houston that day, and he didn’t want to share any details over the phone. When I got back to town the next day, he asked me to meet him that night at his apartment to tell me about it. It was the same day you had lunch. His fall happened before I got there. I was hoping, David, that maybe Michael told you what Benny had to say.”

  “He didn’t,” I said, relieved in one way that Michael hadn’t shared anything that important with me but disappointed, too, to think he didn’t trust me enough to take me into his confidence completely. “All he told me was that Benny shared a few interesting recollections about Philip Montgomery, and he planned to follow up on them.”

  “Are you
sure that’s all he had to say regarding Benny?”

  I thought about the question carefully so that I could be certain. “Yes, that’s all he said about his conversation with Benny.”

  “Then I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “OK. What is it?”

  “I need you to try to contact Benny. We don’t know how to reach him.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re the FBI, but you can’t find Benny Friedman?”

  “I know it seems strange, but your friend is very good at concealing his whereabouts.”

  “Well, frankly Sandra, I wouldn’t know where to start. As Michael probably mentioned to you, Benny and I haven’t spoken for some time.”

  “He did tell me that, but he also said that you and Benny used to be best friends. All I’m doing is asking, David. You seem to be a resourceful man. If there’s any way you can find him and put me in touch with him, it would help our investigation considerably.”

  “Let me give it some thought, Sandra. I may be able to figure out a way to do that, but I can’t promise anything yet.”

  “Good. That’s all I ask.

  “What’s that?” she asked as she stood up, pointing to a letter at the edge of my desk, close to where she’d been sitting.

  I picked it up and glanced at it. “It’s a letter from a law firm involved in one my cases.”

  “A law firm,” she repeated, sounding puzzled, “with the letters WRP?” She was referring to the logo at the top of the letter.

  “Yes. The letters stand for Wrangle, Reynolds, and Peterson. They just go by WRP.”

  “Can I see it?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Sandra scanned the letter intently, like she didn’t believe what I’d just told her.

  While I mulled this over, a new thought struck me. “By the way, there was a man at Michael’s funeral who was probably with Truce of God—one of the video cameramen.”

  For the first time since I’d met her, Sandra reacted visibly to something I said: she looked startled, off-balance.

  “How on earth do you know that?” she pressed me.

  I explained how the series of numbers on his forearm matched those on Lena’s bracelet.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, David, except that this is the first I’ve heard of him. Maybe he wanted to videotape all the people at Michael’s funeral in the interests of compiling a list.”

  “A list?” I repeated, not sure what she meant.

  “Yes, a list of the people who cared enough about Michael to attend. That would be the universe of people Michael may have told about his conversation with Benny. Whatever Benny told Michael appears to have these people quite concerned, David. I hope now you can appreciate even more how crucial it is that you find Benny and bring him to us.”

  I nodded in agreement but said nothing. In my head I saw a pudgy sixteen-year-old with his nipples protruding though his T-shirt, laughing about something. I had no idea what it was that had him chuckling in this image I’d conjured. Benny laughed often…about anything. So that made it especially hard for me to fathom how someone like him could have become involved in a matter of such grave importance—sweeping me into it along with him.

  Chapter 11

  April 15, 1989

  I escorted Sandra Newton out of the office—past the prying eyes of Miss Jordan—to the elevators and waited with her for one to arrive. She handed me a business card imprinted with the FBI logo, her name, and her office number. “I wrote my home number on the back,” she said, sounding very businesslike, “just in case it’s the weekend or after hours and you have something to report about Benny.”

  When the elevator arrived, Sandra shook my hand, less mechanically than the first time, and stepped inside after the door opened.

  “Good luck finding your friend,” she said in parting. “Let me know, either way—and soon, OK?”

  I nodded to her in the affirmative as the door shut, and lingered there for a few moments, looking at the back of the card with her number scrawled in bold ink strokes. Under any other circumstances, obtaining the home phone number of a woman like Sandra would have set my heart aflutter, but in this case, I felt only a strong sense of guilt.

  I had spent the last several decades avoiding any contact with my former best friend. There were plenty of times I thought my reasons for shunning him were childish and that I should just put them aside and reach out to him. But I’d never done it. Now, I was expected to try to be his friend again just so the FBI could talk to him. It bothered me. But what was I supposed to do?

  When I left work that day, I decided that rather than go directly home, I would drive north on the Edens Expressway toward Lincolnwood Towers. If I was to reconnect with Benny, I needed to start with his mother.

  It was a cold and rainy April evening, and the traffic was a mess. It took me about fifty minutes—much longer than it should have—to reach my destination. I hadn’t seen or spoken with June Friedman since 1966, when Benny and I had the fight that ruined our friendship. The pivotal event came when I kicked him out as manager of the Timekeepers, and I never visited his house or saw his mother again after that. Now it seemed cruel in retrospect. But after his father died, Benny became nasty and aloof. I’d felt sorry for him initially, but his behavior eventually became so intolerable that I reached the point where I felt I had no choice.

  In the ensuing years, I’d only heard about June Friedman from my mother. She ran into her from time to time at Fannie’s Deli. The two of them would chat and exchange pleasantries as they waited in line for their numbers to be called. Fannie’s had the best chopped liver and corned beef in Lincolnwood, so the wait was often a long one. From these encounters, I’d learned that June still lived in the same house in the Towers and that she’d never remarried.

  I decided I would try to see June without calling her first, since if I did, she might refuse to see me. My decision to fire her son not only devastated Benny, but it probably also upset the Timekeepers’ biggest fan—June; so she might still hold a grudge.

  I parked my BMW on Longmeadow Circle, just in front of the Friedman home. I tried to avoid looking at the former Montgomery residence across the way, but I couldn’t help myself. Apparently it had been repainted a brighter color than before; it seemed less somber than I remembered. I also noticed a couple of soccer balls and a soccer goal net on the front lawn. Judging from appearances, the current owner had one or more children, as well as a sunnier disposition than Philip Montgomery and his delusional sister.

  I rang the bell to the Friedman home and heard movement on the other side of the door. I was fearful that when it opened, I would see someone who looked old and damaged. June had lost her husband long ago and had been living alone in this house for decades. Her only child, whom she adored, had tumbled off the rails of sanity. Life had been unkind to her, and I was suddenly struck with a pang of regret for any part I may have played in adding to her sorrow.

  But when the door opened, I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw: June Friedman looking youthful, healthy, and vibrant.

  “Oh my God, it’s David!” she exclaimed and immediately breached the distance between us to embrace me warmly. “All grown up and handsome as ever,” she declared after taking a few more seconds to look me over.

  “You look terrific too, June. And it’s great to see you.”

  She was still a beautiful woman. Even now—she had to be in her midsixties—her skin retained its youthful density and luster, and there was barely a wrinkle on her lovely face.

  “Did you just happen to be in the neighborhood, David, or are you here specifically to see me?”

  “Actually, I am here to see you.”

  “Wonderful. Then let’s go in. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great.”

  She beckoned me inside. “You’re in luck. I was just putting the kettle on to make some instant. Let’s go into the kitchen since we can be comfortable there.”

  I followed he
r into the bright, expansive kitchen where I’d consumed so many frozen pizzas during the numerous late-night talkfests with her son in the old days. I wasn’t that interested in politics at fifteen or sixteen, but Benny’s passion for the subject kept me spellbound. So much so that I was sure he would grow up to be a senator or congressman. I settled myself into a chair at the kitchen table while June checked to see if the water was boiling yet.

  “Almost ready,” she said. Then she joined me at the table, sitting across from me. “It is so good to see you, David, after so many years.”

  “I have to say, June, you still look pretty fabulous. I probably don’t have to tell you that we—all of Benny’s friends—had a crush on you.”

  “No, you do have to tell me.”

  “Well, we did.”

  “You know, I always wondered what happened to your band. You boys were so talented.”

  “Well, we kept it together through the end of junior year, and then it fell apart.”

  “Why? How did that happen?”

  “Remember Craig Goldstein, our drummer?”

  “Sure, I remember Craig.”

  The kettle startled whistling, so June got up to turn off the burner and make two cups of coffee. I continued with the Timekeepers’ history as she blended the water with Nescafe.

  “Well, he switched bands,” I explained, “went over to our rivals, the King’s Court, when their drummer moved with his family to Texas. There were no other drummers at Niles West, so that was the end of the Timekeepers.”

  “That’s a shame. You probably remember that Steve died soon after that party when you boys played. He had just turned forty. Do you remember how our house filled up with wall-to-wall people when that rainstorm hit?”

  “I do. It looked like the subway at rush hour, all your guests trying to squeeze inside.”

  June brought the coffee over to the table. After handing me mine and resuming her seat, she seemed to be studying her left hand as she gripped her cup. I noticed that she still wore a wedding ring on her fourth finger.