Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Wilkes turned his attention to the other folder, creased and torn, across which was written DICKERSON. It contained nearly one hundred sheets of paper, records covering cases over the past six years. The defendants were petty offenders accused of disturbing the peace, vandalism, assault and battery, and burglary. Burl was included; three years before, Collinsby had defended him for breaking the windows of a Vietnamese storekeeper in the Paddy. Pelham and Rupert were mentioned for similar offenses. Wilkes wondered if other defendants listed in the file were also members of G.U.N. Collinsby had given each case an account number beside which was an amount, generally between five and ten thousand dollars. On the folder’s inside back cover, a stapled sheet listed all the account numbers in chronological sequence, fourteen in all, which totaled slightly over one hundred thousand dollars. There was also a shorter list, beginning six years ago, noted as “Yearly Retainer.” The sum had begun as $5,000 and was now $10,000. That made the grand total $141,000, all for defending a few petty hoodlums.

  Studying the material more closely, Wilkes noticed that all the victims of these crimes were Vietnamese living in the Paddy. Nowhere in the files did he find the name written on the tab of the folder, Dickerson. In one of the headboard cubbyholes was the local phone directory. Wilkes opened it to the “D”s and found the name of State Senator Dickerson. It was ridiculous to think . . . He checked the phone number against the list of numbers in the Basehart file and came up with a match. So, Senator Dickerson had paid over $140,000 to provide for the defense of an organization of racial bigots.

  Wilkes tried to recall the Senator; they had met briefly at some official gatherings. Dickerson cut an elegant figure, patrician in the manner he greeted and dismissed people, like one of the great colonial leaders whose portraits adorned the walls of the statehouse. They had conversed once . . . something about a bill delaying farm foreclosures. The discussion had turned to Jefferson, and Dickerson said something about the great man being naive, speaking as if Jefferson was a contemporary political rival. Wilkes had found the Senator’s ego amusing. He no longer thought it funny.

  Returning the papers to their respective folders, Wilkes carefully placed them together. Obtained without a search warrant, the material probably could not be used as evidence, but he refused to seal the folders back into the box springs as if they had never been discovered. He had to see Dickerson immediately.

  The Senator’s number in the directory was that of his headquarters; his home phone was unlisted. Wilkes checked his own pocket directory (he remembered writing it down once—as Edgar Simpson had said, the Senator was a good man to know) and dialed the number.

  “Good afternoon, Senator Dickerson’s residence.” The voice was young and female.

  “This is the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office. Is the Senator in?”

  “’Fraid not. He’s been over at his yacht since this morning. Don’t know when he’ll be back. Can I take a message?”

  “No, no message.”

  Wilkes hung up, lifted the phone again, and, index finger wavering, began to dial the police, when he slammed down the receiver. Crossing to the window, he opened a small crack in the blinds and watched mothers gather their children as the first raindrops splattered upon the sidewalk. Down the street that old Ford was still parked with the large arm resting outside the car window. If Canary was the man watching Collinsby’s apartment, Wilkes need only signal him to come up and take over the investigation. After all, they were on the same side, weren’t they? But, still, why was the policeman out there? Burl had gotten into the apartment somehow. The police had passkeys. What if Canary had come with Burl and . . .? Wilkes closed the blinds. If a state senator was involved, anyone could be.

  Returning to the bed, Wilkes called Rosen’s hotel room but received no answer. He dialed his own office, getting his secretary Martha.

  “Has Mr. Rosen called and left a message?”

  “No, no calls. Mr. Simpson was looking for you earlier this afternoon. He wants to see you as soon as you get in. He’s out of the office now. And Murray Saunders has been hopping like a jaybird between his secretary’s desk and mine. He’s watching me right now.”

  Wilkes thought for a moment. “Leave a message for Mr. Simpson. Tell him I’m going over to Senator Dickerson’s yacht.”

  He heard her scribbling. “All right,” Martha said, “I’ll give this to his secretary. Is that all?”

  Wilkes checked his watch. “It’s nearly four. I want you to leave the office now, and if anyone asks why you’re quitting early, make up some excuse. Say you’ve already cleared it with me.”

  “Jimmy, are you all right?”

  “I want you to drive to that burger joint on the edge of town by St. Vincent’s Hospital. Where your son used to work.”

  “What’s wrong? Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes. And don’t tell anyone, I mean anyone, where you’re going.”

  He peeked out the window and saw through the drizzle that the car was still there. Unbuttoning his shirt for a moment, he slipped in the two folders, tucking them securely under his belt, returned the phonebook to the headboard, and smoothed the bedspread, the entire time avoiding the corpse on the carpet. After stopping in the bathroom to dress his wound and wash the back of his neck with cold water, Wilkes left the apartment, closing the door behind him.

  The janitor was standing nearby beside his ladder. “You were in there for a long time. Too bad Mr. Collinsby never showed up.”

  Wilkes swallowed hard and steadied himself. “You didn’t see him leave this morning, did you?”

  “No, I was cleaning a drain that backed up on the second floor. Never saw such a greasy ball a’ hair.”

  “Did you see anyone else visit him?”

  “No, like I said . . .”

  Wilkes rode the elevator to the lobby but, instead of leaving through the front entrance, took the back stairs to an alley where the garbage was picked up. Weaving his way through the dumpsters, he looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed, crossed the alley, and ran through the rain to a busy street. From a corner drugstore he phoned for a taxi, and fifteen minutes later he was inside the hamburger stand. While waiting for his secretary, he phoned Rosen’s hotel room, but again there was no answer.

  A few minutes later, Martha joined him in the booth. Taking out and folding the two files in half, Wilkes stuffed them into her handbag while removing her car keys. He gave her a ten-dollar bill.

  “I’m going to borrow your car this evening. Take this for cab fare home.”

  “What happened to yours?”

  “I’ll explain later. The information I put into your purse, take it home and hide it. If anything happens to me . . .”

  “My God!”

  “If anything happens, xerox copies at the public library and mail them anonymously to every newspaper in the state. Say they’re from Lester Collinsby’s files.”

  “Jimmy, will you please tell me what’s going on? I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  He held his breath for a moment before continuing. “And telephone the police—don’t give your name. Say there’s a man dead in Lester Collinsby’s apartment.” He watched Martha put a hand over her mouth in horror. “Don’t you understand? I’ve finally got the killer instinct.”

  Chapter Sixteen – THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  Having left Wilkes in the bait and tackle shop, Rosen drove back along the coastline. His rental car sputtered against the wind whiplashing from the ocean, while overhead the gathering clouds brooded like old men. Just before reaching the outskirts of Musket Shoals, he turned onto the narrow road that led to what had been Top o’ the Evenin’s nightclub.

  The building was completely razed. Only a few blackened timbers leaned drunkenly in the wind, that and the sign—a tilting top hat—which someone must have stuck back into the ground. Parking nearby, Rosen walked among the ruins. The long bar had collapsed into a wall
of liquor, bottles breaking against one another so that in the intense heat the brown, amber, and white shards were fused like a stained-glass window. Tables and chairs had disintegrated, as had the great piano on the platform; only the ivory teeth remained, grinning wickedly from its grave. All the rest was dust and ash, destroyed as utterly as God once destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.

  No one was around, but a quarter mile beyond the nightclub stood a shantytown of about a dozen shacks. Rosen walked across the field to where three naked black children were playing in a stream.

  “Your mother or father home?” he asked.

  The eldest one, a boy of about five, pointed to the second shack. “My daddy’s workin’. Momma’s home. You from the police?”

  “Thanks,” he said smiling and walked up to where the boy had pointed.

  Before Rosen could knock, the door was opened by a barefoot woman in a tattered dress. She looked him up and down. “You from the police?”

  “No. I guess you must’ve got a lot of them out here because of the fire and shooting.”

  “You with the newspapers?”

  “No. Actually I’m looking for Lu, the woman who sang in Top o’ the Evenin’s nightclub.”

  “Top’s wife. What you want with her?”

  “I’m a lawyer. I need to ask her a few questions, that’s all. I mean her no harm.”

  “She been through a lot. Don’t need no more grief.”

  “I promise you, I only mean to help her.”

  The woman stared at him. “Well, you probably find out where she live anyway. Go back to the highway ’n take it to the end by the ocean, only ’bout a mile or two down. Turn left. She in a white house with green trim, got a picket fence all ’round it.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “Don’t you be botherin’ her with too many questions. She been through a lot.”

  “I won’t. You seem very fond of Lu.”

  “Yeah,” the woman said, her right arm akimbo. “She ’n Top been mighty good to all us folk. My Huddie used to work at the club helpin’ tend bar ’n such—good tips. I know this here don’t look like much, but we was savin’ somethin’ for the first time ever, enough maybe to buy us a little house. Now my Huddie’s lucky he can get a job cleanin’ out the McDonald’s. Yeah, Top was the best. He was even promisin’ Huddie ’n the others a nice bonus.”

  “I’d like to have had him for a boss,” Rosen said grinning. “Did Top say why he was giving out bonuses?”

  “Ah, Top was always doin’ nice things like that.” She was also smiling.

  “Any special reason this time?”

  “Somethin’ ’bout havin’ some white fella by the . . .” Her smile suddenly vanished. “Say, why you want to know this?”

  Rosen shrugged. “Guess that’s what being a lawyer’s all about—asking questions. Thank you.” He returned to the car, glancing back once before he got in. The woman was still staring at him.

  Driving down the highway until it ended, he turned onto the road paralleling the ocean; a cool breeze pattered against his face. The view was stunning, the threat of rain darkening the sky to crimson and making the sun’s rays cut like daggers through thickening clouds. So absorbed in the sky, he almost missed the house but saw the picket fence in time and turned through an open gate into the driveway, pulling up beside a row of daisies.

  The house was really a cottage, one of dozens along the shoreline, most of which were retirement homes or rental property. Like the others, Lu’s home was well-maintained, the trim freshly painted and the lawn immaculate with flowers bordering the fence. Rosen approached the front door, knocked several times but got no answer. He was about to return to his car, when he heard singing from the backyard. No mistaking Lu’s voice, as she half-sang, half-hummed “Mean to Me.”

  There was a small vegetable garden in a far corner of the backyard, where she was kneeling with a hand spade, her back to him, working the dirt between two rows of tomato plants. She was wearing an old housecoat with a bright blue floral pattern and a blue scarf wrapped tightly around her head. Beside her sat a little girl who bore a striking resemblance to Top o’ the Evenin’, her head a bit large and her eyes dark and piercing. As the girl tugged on her mother’s housecoat, Lu turned and smiled.

  She wiped her hands and walked to him, the girl clinging to her skirt. “Hello, Mr. Rosen, nice to see you. This here’s my daughter Becky. Child, say hello to Mr. Rosen.” The girl turned her face away.

  Rosen laughed. “That’s my usual effect upon women. She’s very pretty.”

  “Thank you. She take after my Top. Yeah, every time I look at her . . . Wish you could meet my boy Henry, but he’s in school. C’mon inside. I’ll fix us some lemonade.”

  “I don’t want to take you from your gardening.”

  “It ain’t going nowhere.” She looked at the sky. “Besides, seem like it be raining any minute now. Just let me go inside for a minute to clean the place up.” She went through the back door, her daughter scurrying after, never letting go of the robe.

  Rosen wandered to the garden, kneeling to examine the rows of tomatoes, beans, and squash. His ex-wife lived in the suburbs now and had a garden; she was always offering him zucchini the size of bass violins whenever he visited Sarah. One of his favorite photos was of him with Sarah in the garden bending over the lettuce and acting as if he really knew what he was doing. He remembered that day and the good feeling of working with the earth. The feeling of roots.

  “C’mon in!” Lu called from the doorway. After he walked inside, she added, “Sit yourself down. Nice cold glass a’ lemonade on the table.”

  Her kitchen was clean and tidy, except for the dishes in the sink, probably from lunch. Rosen noticed two coffee cups among the plates.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said.

  “No, we could use the company. Becky ’n me been working all day. Ain’t that right, child.”

  The little girl sat across the table, her mouth on the lemonade but her eyes staring up at him. Lu sat down heavily between them. “Whew! Guess I didn’t know how tired I be. This is nice, ain’t it.” She drank deeply.

  “No one came by at all today?”

  Lu shook her head. “Tonight I’m expecting a houseful . . . the wake.” She looked away.

  “You have a beautiful home,” Rosen said. “I’ve always dreamed of owning a cottage by the ocean just like this. I noticed there were a few houses in the neighborhood for sale. Would you mind if I took a walk through your place, just to get an idea of the general layout?”

  Becky’s eyes grew wider, and she looked up at her mother, who replied, “Why, Mr. Rosen, I’m ashamed to say that, even with family coming to town for the funeral, I ain’t had the will to really clean the place up. It’s not fit for company, and I don’t feel right showing it. But you come back another time ’n I’ll give you a real king’s tour. How’s that?”

  “Sure. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.” He watched the little girl stare into her lap, then asked Lu, “How have you been getting on?”

  Her heavy shoulders shrugged.

  “That’s a stupid question. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no.” She smiled. “I appreciate your concern. It’s just . . . Top was always saying things like, ‘if something should happen to me,’ or ‘when I die,’ kinda preparing me for this. We had the house paid off last year—took almost every cent we had—cause he didn’t want me ’n the kids to worry ’bout a place to live. He even had a life insurance policy I didn’t know about. That was Top. Lots a’ people had the wrong idea ’bout him—thought he liked to drink ’n run around. That’s ’cause he liked to tease folks, but he was just having his fun. Top was as big a family man as you’d ever meet.”

  “You’re all right then financially?”

  “Like I said, the life insurance policy will sure help out. Maybe I’ll be going back to work. One a’ our old customer’s a booking agent. Say he could get me some work in Richmond ’n Charlottesville. My sist
er’d stay with the children. Hate to leave them ’n my garden, but a woman’s got to earn her keep. You know how it is. Besides, Top always say I should be singing in the big time. He always knew best. Always.”

  The three of them drank their lemonade, the little girl continually glancing at Rosen, looking away as soon as their eyes met.

  “Lu, last night you and I had a brief conversation about a phone call you overheard—Top saying he was going to make some big money. Do you remember that?”

  “Becky, best you go outside now,” Lu said.

  Reluctantly the little girl finished her lemonade, slipped from her chair, and walked from the house.

  “Mr. Rosen,” Lu said after her daughter had closed the door, “I don’t remember much a’ anything about last night.”

  “Of course. What you said was . . .”

  She held up her hands. “I don’t remember nothing ’bout no telephone call.”

  “Then why did you send your daughter from the room?”

  She smiled. “If I ever get in trouble, sure do want you for my lawyer.”

  Rosen rattled the ice in his glass. “About that telephone call.” When she did not answer, he persisted, “I told you before, if we’re ever to discover the truth about your husband’s death, you’re going to have to confide in me.”

  Her smile faded. “Why you here, Mr. Rosen? Why you really here?”

  “I think you know. In fact, I think you know a lot of things that might help clear up this whole mess—Top’s death, Nguyen Thi Nhi’s murder, and a lot of disappearances.”

  “Disappearances?”

  “First the Nguyen brother Van, who’s been missing since his sister’s death, then Basehart—no one knows where he’s gone since he was released on bail. And now your cousin, Lester.”

  “Les . . . ter?”

  “He’s not at home, and his secretary doesn’t know where he is. I think he’s hiding. I’m not sure why, but if he’s involved in any of this, it’s probably a good idea. They’re bad people—two murders and they almost beat me to death. Who knows what’s happened to Van and Basehart?”