Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Rosen sat on the edge of the table. “It’ll be a long time before he plays the violin again.” He gazed at Pelham. “Like sharks smelling blood, eating one another.”

  “You’d better phone for an ambulance.”

  Rosen made no move to call, although the telephone was on the table near him.

  Wilkes persisted, “He could be seriously injured. Maybe a concussion. You really ought to telephone . . .”

  “Basehart did this. He must’ve been boiling mad when he heard what Pelham said on the witness stand. Couldn’t wait to get his revenge.”

  “You’re certain it was Basehart?”

  “Who else would beat Pelham to a pulp with a hose nozzle then take the time to water the plants? It was my client all right. I’m surprised he left this guy alive. If only Pelham could tell us something. I’d give a lot to know where Basehart’s off to.”

  Wilkes asked, “How do you think it happened?”

  “The back door was unlocked. I found some muddy boot marks outside the doorway, big ones the size Basehart would’ve made. He probably came in, surprised Pelham in the front, beat him with the hose—there’re a couple hanging behind the counter—then decided the plants needed watering. After finishing his gardening chore, Edison dragged Pelham, the hose still wrapped around him, to the back room. Afterward he ducked out the back way. That’s why I didn’t see him leave.”

  “Maybe it happened the other way around. Maybe Basehart was already here, and Pelham walked in on him.”

  Rosen shook his head. “I checked the suitcase. It was Pelham’s—his bankbook’s in there as well as what’re probably his only pair of clean socks. Looks as if he was getting ready to leave town.”

  “He probably knew what would happen to him once Basehart was released on bail.” Wilkes looked down at the injured man, and a wave of nausea came over him. “I’m responsible for this.”

  Rosen clicked his tongue in disgust. “Don’t waste your sympathy on either of them. This is what we’ve both been after . . . to make something happen. Well, something’s happened.”

  “Not this. Is justice served when something like this happens? My God, Nate, we’re practically standing in the man’s blood!”

  Rosen gave a hard laugh. “My God,” he repeated the phrase slowly, relishing the sound of the two words. “Do you know what you’re saying, Jimmy? The same thing Job cried out, only to have the whirlwind whisper back, ‘Have you an aim like that of God, Let loose the fury of your wrath; tear down the wicked and shatter them.’ Prostrate yourself, Jimmy, like Job did before it’s too late. No, God’s reasons are obscure, beyond the comprehension of mere mortals—just ask the six million killed by Nazis with the same mentality as Basehart or this goon here. It’s not for us to judge. Let’s just try to win this one for the good guys.”

  Staring at the injured man, Wilkes shook his head. “No, not this way. Are you going to call the ambulance or am I?”

  “All right,” Rosen replied, reaching for the telephone. He suddenly whistled softly, his finger poised to dial.

  Wilkes grew impatient. “Well?”

  “Look here.”

  Wilkes walked to the table and followed Rosen’s gaze to an open telephone book. The letter “C” lay exposed, from “CI” to a portion of “Co,” and his eyes skimmed the columns looking for a familiar name until he exclaimed, “Collinsby!” Immediately he remembered what the waitress across the street had said. “Collinsby,” he repeated, turning to Rosen. “He’s got a red Jaguar. Maybe he came here looking for his client, Basehart.”

  “Maybe. Anyways, it gives us another lead. Why don’t you call your friend and ask why Pelham or Basehart would be interested in his phone number.”

  Wilkes dialed Collinsby’s office number. A woman’s voice answered. “Lester Collinsby, Attorney-at-Law. May I help you?”

  “This is Mr. Wilkes from the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office. May I speak to Mr. Collinsby?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilkes, but he’s not here just now. May I take a message?”

  “What time are you expecting him?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “This is important.”

  The sound of pages flipping. “I am sorry, but his appointment calendar is open for this afternoon, and he made no indication as to when he’d be returning. I’ll give him your message as soon as he comes in. May I take your number?”

  “When did he leave the office today?”

  “Oh, quite early. About nine thirty.”

  “Was anyone with him when he left?”

  “Why, no.”

  Wilkes was about to hang up, when Rosen put his hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece. “Ask her if anyone else called Collinsby during the last few hours.”

  Wilkes posed the question, to which the secretary replied, “Well, an insurance investigator called regarding a case we’ve been working on. Then there was one gentleman . . . I don’t know why I use the word ‘gentleman’ . . . he was very gruff. Wanted to know . . . no, demanded to know where Mr. Collinsby was. Wanted to see him ‘right now.’ He was very rude.”

  “Did he leave his name?”

  “I asked, but he just growled a few insulting words and slammed down the receiver. I don’t mind telling you my ear still has a slight ache from the noise. I’m sorry I can’t be of any further help, Mr. Wilkes.”

  He gave the woman his number and hung up.

  “Where do you think he is?” Rosen asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Collinsby’s home phone number and address are listed below his office. I wonder . . .” Rosen dialed Collinsby and let the phone ring for a long time before putting down the receiver. “No answer. I don’t like this.”

  “Me either. If Lester’s involved, that means Basehart could be after him too. Look what he did to Pelham. My God, Pelham!” Quickly Wilkes dialed for help. “The ambulance should be here in a few minutes.”

  Rosen said, “Pelham was trying to get away, maybe even out of town. Collinsby might have the same idea.”

  “Why would Lester be involved in all this?”

  “Good question. When we catch up with him, maybe he’ll tell us. You better go over to his apartment. Hate to think of him lying there in the same condition as Pelham.”

  “All right. Are you coming along?”

  “No. I don’t know Collinsby very well, but if he wanted to hide, there’s one place he might go to. I’ll check that out. I’ll call your office later, and we can compare notes.” He pushed off the table. “You’d better wait for the ambulance. I’d have a more difficult time explaining this to the police.” He looked down at Pelham whose breathing had grown steadier. “Looks like he’ll be all right. Like the old saying goes, ‘Only the good die young.’ See you later.”

  Wilkes remained seated until he heard the front door click. It was only then that Wilkes realized he didn’t know where Rosen was going. He wanted to tell him to be careful, for they weren’t opponents after all but allies searching for simple justice. Looking down at the injured Pelham and with the ambulance siren ringing in his ears, Wilkes knew he was going to need all the allies he could muster.

  Chapter Fifteen – THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  It had been five years since Wilkes visited Collinsby’s apartment. That last time they had sat on the floor and shared a bottle of scotch, while the movers carted away all the furniture, part of Lester’s divorce settlement on his second wife. Wilkes supposed that high school friends naturally grew apart over the years, but he had always felt guilty not keeping in touch. While his own career had plodded along, Lester’s had soared like a series of forward passes into the end zone, each knocked down at the last moment. His leg injury denying him a pro football career, the position with a high-powered law firm he just couldn’t handle, the beautiful wives who expected too much—all of which brought him back to his small office, small apartment, and the few clients who still remembered good old “Cowpie.” Yet, he always managed to dress well, and he
always drove a red Jaguar just a year or two old.

  Collinsby’s apartment was in an old respectable three-story building near the courthouse and across the street from a school playground. Wilkes walked through a courtyard arranged around an artificial fountain and filled with mothers wheeling baby strollers, while their toddlers straggled behind like ducklings. Women and children seemed to flicker in the sunlight. Looking up Wilkes saw a series of dark clouds pass overhead. Probably more rain.

  He rode the elevator alone to the third floor. The corridor was empty except for a janitor on a ladder changing a light bulb at the end of the hall. Collinsby’s apartment was second on the left, and Wilkes knocked so loudly that the janitor turned his head. No answer. He knocked again, waited, then tried the doorknob which was locked.

  “Sounds like no one’s home!” the custodian shouted. “Guess that’s why the telephone was invented!”

  Taking out his wallet, Wilkes signaled for the man to come over. Shaking his head, the janitor climbed down the ladder and walked slowly toward him.

  “I didn’t mean anything by that, Mister.”

  Wilkes showed his identification. “I’m with the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office. I have official business with Mr. Collinsby and need to get into his apartment. I’d like you to use your passkey to let me in.”

  The janitor stared at the identification then looked Wilkes up and down. Stroking his jaw he said, “I don’t know. Ain’t you supposed to have a search warrant?”

  “This is an emergency. If you prefer, I can call the police and have them come over.”

  “No, no, the manager wouldn’t like that—all those red lights and sirens.” He took one more look at the identification card. “Guess it’s all right, you being kinda like the police. Besides, I’ll be outside here in case . . . Well, I’ll be here.”

  Taking the passkey from the chain on his belt, he unlocked the door and stepped aside as Wilkes walked in. Wilkes shut the door, which almost hit the janitor’s face as it closed.

  He stood in the corridor that led to the living room and called, “Lester!” The word sank into the apartment’s deepening silence. He walked slowly down the hallway, stopping to look into the kitchen. At the table was a single place setting which probably had been used for breakfast; there were bread crumbs on the plate, a knife streaked with jelly, and a nearly empty coffee cup.

  The living room was not at all as Wilkes remembered. A bookcase covered the wall to his left, gray leather couch and love seat rested at the opposite corner below a long picture window, and to his right a teak wall unit encased a stereo system, large color television, and VCR. In front of the couch was a glass-topped coffee table, where a recent legal journal peeked bashfully through an assortment of sports and girlie magazines.

  Wilkes looked outside into the courtyard. The sky had darkened, but the mothers continued to stroll with their babies in the playground across the street, as older children scampered home from school, a few boys using the baby carriages as an obstacle course. Playing games, calling to one another—so much joy in the world. So much joy in the world, and Collinsby’s bedroom still needed to be checked out. He delayed for several minutes, watching a game of baseball begin in the playground and remembering how Tad, Lester, and he used to play ball as kids, coming home sweaty, bruised, and exhilarated, waiting only for the next day and the next game. Now the next day was something only to be feared, and there were no more games.

  Wilkes was about to turn away when he noticed, not far from his own parked car, an old Ford the same model and color as Lt. Canary’s. Someone was sitting inside, although Wilkes saw only an arm emerge to stretch beside the door as if holding a cigarette. Drumming his fingers on the sill, he thought of running downstairs to see if the driver was Canary. If he was, then what—bring the detective back here, to show him what? The bedroom hadn’t been searched. Better wait, at least until Wilkes had cause to call the police. He took two steps from the window when it struck him—why would Canary be watching Collinsby’s apartment? There was no reason for the detective to be there, no cause for suspicion, unless he knew what Rosen and I know. But how could he, unless . . .? Again Wilkes looked outside; the car was still there, and the arm.

  A hallway led to the apartment’s single bedroom, but he walked into the bathroom first. It smelled musty, and the inside of the shower curtain was slightly damp. Above the sink the medicine cabinet door was ajar. Opening it wide, he scanned the shelves but found only a half-empty bottle of aspirin. No toothbrush or toothpaste, no shaving cream or razor, no deodorant—as if Collinsby, too, had packed to take a trip.

  He approached the bedroom, hesitating for a moment, then walked through the open door. The room was dark, the blinds drawn on the large window to his right, but his hand found and flicked on a light switch. A bed, a low chest of drawers—upon which his right hand rested—and a double-doored closet running the length of the wall to his left filled the room. Headboard and drawers, like the living room wall unit, were teak and looked expensive, as did the deeply piled carpeting. The bed was unmade, blanket slipped halfway onto the carpet, and on one of the pillows was another girlie magazine.

  Wilkes went to the chest of drawers, some of which were half-opened, put his fingers on the top handle but again hesitated, feeling cheap and dirty. Shaking his head, he opened the drawer and saw Collinsby’s underwear, as well as an open box of condoms. He quickly glanced through the other drawers—pajamas, socks, handkerchiefs, a bottle of whiskey, an old family album—before banging them shut. He was disgusted with himself but still noted that the sock and underwear drawers were half empty, suggesting that Collinsby had taken off. Where and, more importantly, why? What had he to do with the death of Nguyen Thi Nhi?

  Wilkes walked around the bed to the closet, sliding open the left-hand door very slowly, half expecting Collinsby’s body to drop to the floor. When it didn’t, he leaned against the closet frame, half-smiling at his own fear. He thumbed through Collinsby’s clothing. There were four suits and twice as many sport coats; the tie rack was an endless rainbow of silken colors. Several hangers and shoe racks were empty. Opening the right side of the closet, Wilkes saw a collection of sport shirts. He reached in to feel the material.

  A hand sprang from behind the shirts and grasped his wrist. Clothes tumbled out the closet followed by another hand holding something that glinted hard. Wilkes fell back against the bed, his attacker on top of him, the knife glancing Wilkes’s left wrist, cutting the cuff and leaving a streak of blood.

  Wilkes grabbed for the knife hand. Looking up half-dazed, he saw his assailant was Pelham’s friend Burl, squat like a cockroach and wheezing from the struggle and his own fear. Wilkes caught hold of the other man’s arm and felt the panic shivering through Burl’s body as he tried to wrench free. He did momentarily, the knife slashing down again, this time Wilkes blocking Burl with his own forearm, droplets of blood from his wounded wrist speckling the air.

  Burl stood then hesitated, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face, and his eyes looking wildly from the bed to the door. He turned to run, but instead of letting go, Wilkes grabbed at the man’s legs, bringing him down hard and hearing a low moan muffled by the fall. Wilkes hovered on his knees over his attacker, ready to grab the knife when Burl got up, but the other man didn’t rise . . . didn’t move. Instead, the carpet on either side of his belly began to darken and grow wet. Wilkes watched the blood ooze, then fighting back his own light-headedness, he turned over the body.

  The blade had been driven to the hilt up through the abdomen, as if Burl had committed hara-kiri. His hands trembling violently, Wilkes felt for the pulse that was no longer there. Burl’s eyes were open, his lips parted almost into a smile, as if it were all a joke.

  Wilkes drew away from the corpse, scooted back onto the bed, and leaned against the headboard, folding his arms tightly to stop the shivering. He stared dumbly at his wrist. The wound still didn’t hurt, but finally he took out a handkerchief and bound it ti
ghtly. He forced himself to think about the case . . . the case. How did Burl get in, what was he doing here—waiting for Collinsby or looking for something? Wilkes tried to think. The drawers had been opened; if Burl had been looking for something, what? Wilkes knew Lester Collinsby well enough to realize if the man had been doing something wrong, he’d hide it well. That’s the way he was as a kid. Wilkes glanced at the girlie magazine and remembered what Lester had always done as a boy with those magazines. Not stuff them under the mattress—that was too obvious—but slit an opening into the box springs and hid them there, keeping the opening shut with a piece of electrical tape.

  Wilkes swung his legs over the bed and, looking down, his eyes locked on the dead man’s face. No longer grinning, Burl’s lips were slack and rubbery as a bass that had flopped onto a boat. Easier to think of him as a gutted fish. Or a coldblooded killer who probably helped murder Nguyen Thi Nhi and Top o’ the Evenin’. This is what the State of Virginia did to murderers. Wasn’t an executioner an officer of the court just as was an Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney? Wilkes felt dizzy again, took deep breaths until the fire behind his eyes cooled and his head cleared. No—better to think of the dead man as a gutted fish.

  Looking at his shoes, Wilkes dropped to the floor, brushed aside the blanket, and slid underneath the bed. He ran his fingers in concentric circles toward the center, until one hand touched something smooth, a piece of tape. Carefully tearing away the strip, he reached in and removed two manila folders, one thin and the other very thick.

  He placed each folder gently on top of the bed. The thin one looked new and was labeled BASEHART. Opening the folder Wilkes found a copy of the police report of Nguyen Thi Nhi’s death, Basehart’s previous arrest record, notes of Basehart’s hearing, and a list of phone numbers, two of which he recognized—the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office and Rosen’s hotel. There was nothing extraordinary about the file; it was what any defense attorney would have gathered. Why had Collinsby hidden it so carefully?