Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Matter of fact,” the bartender replied, “somebody come in a half hour ago who looked like the man you’re talking about. He asked about Senator Dickerson and his son.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Hadn’t seen the Senator since before lunch. I suggested he go down to the harbormaster’s office and ask there.”

  Wilkes still felt chilled but realized it wasn’t only from the weather. He glanced at the well-dressed “patrons”—civilized men who seemed so uncivilized to him now, like gorillas wearing cravats. Like Dickerson.

  Wilkes stepped into the rain and scooted down the slick sidewalk to the marina and a small blockhouse with a shingle reading, “Ye Old Harbor Master, Terence Monroe, Esq.” Pushing open the door, he nearly bumped into a massive wooden desk cluttered with charts and official forms. Sitting in a captain’s chair was a stout middle-aged man, red beard salted with gray, whose huge forearms moved crablike over the papers.

  “Mr. Monroe?” Wilkes asked.

  The harbormaster squinted up at him and shook his head. “Monroe died over ten years ago. Nobody bothered to change the sign. I’m Hugh Douglas. What can I do for you, Mr . . .?”

  “Wilkes. I’m with the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office. I need to speak with Senator Dickerson. Do you know if he’s down here right now?”

  Douglas craned his neck to check the clock on the wall, then scraped away a few of the papers until he lifted one between his two hands. “The Senator notified me he’s going out at six for an evening cruise—very romantic at that time with the sun setting. Yeah, he’s a big one for setting suns. Of course, with this rain he may change his mind. There’s no danger, mind you, but with the rain and clouds—well, not much of a mood.” He winked. “Know what I mean?”

  “Then Senator Dickerson should be on board his yacht making ready to leave.”

  “Unless he changed his mind. It’s the Richard III, second boat down.”

  “Has anyone else been asking about the Senator?”

  Douglas shook his head.

  “Seen any strangers this afternoon?”

  The harbormaster sifted his hands through the piles of papers. “Been inside most of the day. Got to catch up with this week’s paperwork.”

  “I see. Thanks for your help.” Wilkes was about to leave, when a thought struck him. “Can club members take their boats out anytime they want—in the middle of the night, for example.”

  “When you’re rich, you can do anything you damn well please. As long as the weather’s all right and you notify this office when you’re leaving and where you’re going.”

  Wilkes gave Douglas the date of Nguyen Thi Nhi’s murder. “I’m interested in the hours between midnight and six a.m. Did Senator Dickerson go out at that time?”

  “Let’s take a look-see.” Opening a drawer from the cabinet behind him, Douglas thumbed through the files. “My assistant’s on duty during the graveyard shift, but he would’ve logged any departures. Ah, here’s Dickerson.” He opened the file and placed it on his desk. Flipping back a few pages he stopped abruptly and gave a short laugh.

  “Find something?” Wilkes asked.

  “Might’ve known it.” Douglas lifted the sheet of paper. “It’s half filled out. No departure information. Only a return time—three fifty-four a.m.”

  “You were laughing.”

  The harbormaster smiled. “Don’t mind that. Just a kind of in-joke here at the club. See, the form’s signed by Richard Dickerson II.”

  “His son?”

  “Yeah. Actually he lives on the yacht and kind of comes and goes as he pleases. Junior’s not the type to care much about forms. Half the time he takes off without telling us. All we can do is clock the time he arrives. Like this.”

  “Nothing unusual about the trip?”

  Again Douglas smiled. “With Junior Dickerson, guess you could say the unusual is the usual. Know what I mean?”

  “No, I . . .” Wilkes hesitated, not wanting to waste any more time. He simply nodded. “Thanks for your help.”

  Despite the weather he walked slowly onto the pier, past a darkened boat, to Dickerson’s yacht, Richard III. Its deck lights were off, but climbing halfway up the boarding ramp, Wilkes saw light leaking through the open cabin doorway. He walked around the deck, noticed nothing unusual, and approached the door, when suddenly the boat came alive. A loud clattering as the anchor was raised, followed by a deeper rumbling from below, the engine warming in preparation for an evening voyage. He hesitated in front of the cabin, unsure whether to go below, call out for Dickerson, or leave to notify the police—when the decision was made for him.

  Footsteps coming from below, growing louder as they climbed the stairs toward him. Wilkes ducked behind the cabin just as a man emerged through the doorway and walked quickly to the ramp. Wearing a red-hooded windbreaker, he released the mooring cables and was about to draw in the ramp.

  Stepping around the cabin to stand between the man and the doorway, Wilkes shouted through the patter of rain, “Senator Dickerson!”

  The man whipped around and took a step forward. He was not the Senator but much younger with a face white and smooth as an egg, and his smile, when it came, was crooked as a crack in the shell.

  Wilkes asked, “You’re . . . Senator Dickerson’s son, aren’t you?”

  The young man blinked once, and his eyes grew wide. “More company.”

  “I’d like to speak to your father. I’m James Wilkes from the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office.”

  Junior moved toward the cabin. “Go ahead. He’s in the second room downstairs.” He shouted through the doorway, “Daddy, we got more company!”

  Wilkes didn’t like turning his back on Junior, but he had to see Dickerson and he had to know what had become of Rosen. Passing the young man, he walked down the passageway.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a small dimly lit room containing a bar, its two counters forming a square with the wall. On the countertop Wilkes saw a length of rubber tubing and an empty syringe caught within its folds, while at the opposite wall a half-opened door led to another room, where light shone but there was no sound. “He’s in the second room,” Junior had said. There it lay just beyond the open doorway and so, glancing at the syringe, Wilkes pushed off the bar and walked through the door.

  The sharp light blinded him for an instant until, blinking his eyes, he grew aware of a gun pointed directly at his chest. Senator Dickerson held the weapon, his hand trembling almost as much as his voice. “Anyone else with you?”

  Shaking his head Wilkes looked past Dickerson into the room. Its built-in leather cushions bordered four walls cluttered with framed photographs of Dickerson glad-handing state and local politicians. The faces on the walls didn’t interest Wilkes, but those below, gathered in the far corner, did. Rosen sat on a cushion, legs drawn up below his chin; his right hand rested on the shoulder of a woman huddled on the floor, her body shivering. She was Vietnamese, and Wilkes was certain he recognized the face, despite deep lines under her eyes and the twitching. She looked at him vacantly, as sick people do, and he realized the syringe in the other room had been for her, that perhaps death was flowing in her veins. The word “death” triggered his memory, for suddenly he saw the resemblance to the murder victim and knew this was her sister, Nguyen Thi Trac.

  There was one other. Edison Basehart lay a few feet to Rosen’s left, his long frame stretched across six feet of cushion, and his head resting on a wadded towel. Basehart’s eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, while on every exhalation he moaned softly like a broken accordion. Only when the head turned slightly did Wilkes see a trickle of blood gleam for a moment before disappearing into the towel. He made a move toward the injured man, only to feel the Senator’s gun barrel jammed between his ribs.

  Dickerson stepped back, the gun still trembling in his hand. Taking a deep breath he waved the weapon toward Basehart, saying, “Go ahead and join him.” Eyeing the Senator, Wilkes sat between Rosen and the injured m
an, while Dickerson continued, “We’ve been expecting you . . . Dickie and I. In . . . in fact, when Mr. Rosen came on board, we thought it was you. M . . . My, it’s been a busy afternoon, first with Basehart coming after me. That Pelham has a big mouth. Apparently Edison persuaded him to reveal my part in this affair and where I could be located. By the way, how is he . . . Pelham?”

  Watching the gun Wilkes replied, “The paramedics took him to the hospital. His condition had stabilized by the time he left the bait and tackle shop. You were expecting me?”

  Dickerson said, “Too bad. We may have to deal with him later. That Pelham . . . a moron. Goes to show that good help is hard to find. Make yourself comfortable . . . Jimmy, isn’t it? I have a good memory for names and faces—couldn’t have lasted all these years without one. I knew your father when you were a little fellow . . . see my picture up there with him. Last time you and I met was . . . ah yes . . . last year at Congressman Howell’s fund-raiser. Your wife is a pretty little blond. See what I mean.” He nodded toward the other attorney. “Mr. Rosen and I met recently, on this boat as a matter of fact. He was rude to my son, for which he was taught a lesson in manners by several of Dickie’s friends. With the beating he took, I thought he’d have packed and scurried back North. It would’ve been better for everyone if he had. Would’ve saved us all this unpleasantness.”

  The yacht lurched forward then settled into a steady motion, while the motor buzzed more loudly. Wilkes started to stand, when Dickerson’s gun pointed him back to his seat.

  “Dickie’s taking us on a little ocean cruise. I’m sure you’ve wanted to know how the other half lives. Sit back and enjoy it, at least for the time being.”

  Flashing a grin Dickerson sat midway along a wall perpendicular to the others, crossing his legs and placing the gun beside him on the cushion. The farther from shore his yacht moved, the more relaxed he became, whistling “Alexander’s Rag Time Band” while keeping time with his foot.

  Basehart moaned loudly and shifted, so that the towel tumbled from his head and hung loosely to the floor, dried blood criss-crossed upon the cloth. Wilkes gathered the towel, tucking it gently under Basehart’s head.

  “Thank you,” Dickerson said. “I would’ve hated for his blood to stain the cushion. It’s real leather.”

  “This man needs a doctor,” Wilkes said. “The wound hasn’t closed. My God, he could bleed to death!”

  Dickerson’s grin widened. “Don’t worry, he won’t bleed to death. He won’t have time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Trac, tell Dickie that everything’s secured here, and ask him to join us as soon as we’re far enough at sea.” Gazing at the floor, she didn’t seem to hear him. “Trac, do as I say. Now!”

  Rousing herself, the woman struggled to her feet and swayed unsteadily. She held a handkerchief in one hand, using it repeatedly to dab her wet eyes. She moved a few steps from the wall and said to Dickerson, “It’s time, it must be time already.”

  “Why, how would you know, dear? You don’t have a watch, and there’s no clock in . . .”

  “I know!” She rubbed her arms and wrung the handkerchief between her hands. “Junior promised me another. . . .” She stopped suddenly, glancing at Rosen.

  Dickerson finished her sentence. “Another injection. That’s between you and Dickie. I never interfere with his little amusements. Now you go and find out how long he’ll be. Who knows, maybe he’ll have that little surprise for you.”

  Lowering her head, Trac walked toward the door. As she passed the Senator, he stopped her with his hand and reached under her skirt to caress her legs.

  “Lovely,” he murmured while stroking her thigh. To the others, “You know, I never had much use for these people. But there is something about their women, a certain childlike submission, a willingness to give anything for a piece of candy.” His hand moved between her legs, and she stiffened. “Like Trac here—willing to give anything for the right piece of candy. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  She stood passively, allowing Dickerson’s hand to do what it pleased, until the Senator grew weary of his game. Slapping her on the buttocks as a signal to go, he smiled. “Yes, at least they’re good for something.” When no one smiled back, he licked his lips. “I’d like a drink. Trac . . .” He turned to see she had already gone. “Seems I’m the bartender today. Either of you gentlemen care for a cocktail? No? Well, I’ll be in the next room, and the door is open. Let’s all act civilized—just remain where you are. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  Holding the gun stead in his hand, Dickerson walked into the other room, every few moments glancing through the doorway. Wilkes took the opportunity to slide along the cushion, until he was beside Rosen.

  Wilkes touched his arm. “Nate.” Receiving no response, he repeated the name. Rosen finally turned to stare dumbly at him, and that stare more than anything else terrified Wilkes. Feeling his forehead break into beads of sweat, he swallowed hard and whispered, “Don’t worry, Nate, we’ll get out of this. For God’s sake, the man’s a state senator.”

  Rosen shook his head slowly. “Hitler ruled a nation. Don’t you understand? Can’t you feel it in the air? I’ve felt it once before, at the trial of some Klan members accused of blowing up a black church and killing two people. They were guilty, but an all-white jury acquitted them. All of them, jurors and the accused, laughed about the verdict in the courtroom, a few feet away from the families of those who had been murdered, families who had been raised as Christians believing that in the end good overcomes evil. But we know that’s not always true, Jimmy. You do feel it, don’t you, the clamminess in the air. Just as the mystics described evil . . . the absence of God’s light. That’s what we’re feeling—not just dampness, but the absence of God’s light. I can see it on your face, dripping from your forehead.”

  “And what does it mean,” Wilkes hissed, “that we too are supposed to march quietly to the gas chamber? Is that what your God is telling us to do?”

  Rosen stared straight ahead. “My God,” he whispered, “My God.”

  “What have they done to the woman?”

  His jaw set tightly for a moment, Rosen asked, “How did you know to come here?”

  “I went to Lester’s apartment, and . . .”

  They had no further opportunity to speak, for the Senator returned with a highball in one hand and his gun in the other.

  Clinking the ice in his glass, Dickerson took a long drink. “Nothing like a nice pick-me-up. I heard you two muttering while I was at the bar. Go ahead with your conversation, just as if I wasn’t here. I want you to be as comfortable as possible until . . . until your voyage is over.”

  Rosen leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “Which is going to end sooner than yours, isn’t it?”

  Dickerson giggled nervously into his drink.

  Wilkes said, “Are you mad? You can’t simply kill three people in a small town like ours and expect to get away with it. How could you possibly explain it? I mean, our cars are in the parking lot. I spoke to the doorman at the club. I had a conversation with the harbormaster, and he knows I went to your boat looking for you.”

  “Yacht,” Dickerson said. “Never call a yacht a boat. That’s like referring to a Cadillac as a jalopy. As for your question—am I mad? Of course not. A madman is a radical, wanting this or that and acting irrationally if he can’t have it. On the contrary, I’ve always been a conservative. I simply wish to keep what I’ve earned for myself and my son—what every working man wants. When someone threatens to come between me and mine, I act. You can understand that, Jimmy. You’re a family man.”

  “What are you talking about? Look at all the families you’ve intimidated, even destroyed.”

  “Such as?”

  “We know all about how you’ve used the Guardians of an Undefiled Nation to abuse the Vietnamese.”

  “Not just goons like Pelham,” Rosen said. “Your own son loves to get his hands dirty . . . another one of his ga
mes. Like bombing the grocery store next to the Nguyens to keep the people in the Paddy afraid. To keep them from talking.”

  The Senator shrugged. “No one was hurt.”

  “Let’s talk about what happened to Nguyen Thi Nhi. She was murdered.”

  Dickerson stared at Rosen then burst out laughing. He had to wipe tears from his eyes before regaining his composure. “Excuse me, but I’d forgotten all about the Nguyen murder, and now for you to get it . . . how would Dickie put it . . . assbackwards. Yes, it is funny. You see, we had nothing to do with her death. Oh, we knew about it,” his eyes twinkled, “almost as soon as the law did.”

  Wilkes said, “But you’re framing Basehart . . .”

  “The circumstances surrounding that were . . . serendipitous, you might say. It was time to get him out of the way. Sooner or later even someone as stupid as Basehart would discover what G.U.N. was really being used for and perhaps give us trouble. Besides, by doing the real murderer a favor, Dickie and I guaranteed any future brushes with the law will either be ignored or expedited in our behalf. Haven’t you guessed what I mean? Someone who could’ve walked into the police property room and removed one of the weapons confiscated earlier from G.U.N., a gun that still had Basehart’s fingerprints on it. Someone you’ve been working with very closely.”

  The Senator was about to continue, when the yacht’s engine slowly lost power, the buzzing fading to a low hum before growing silent. Wilkes felt the vessel drifting, gently rocked by the waves. Even Dickerson was affected by the motion, for the gun relaxed slightly in his hand, while his head tilted back to rest against the wall, eyes half-closed. Wilkes thought this might be his best opportunity to grab for the weapon, but shifting his weight to the edge of the cushion, he felt Rosen’s hand grip his arm and, turning, saw the other man shake his head.

  Rosen whispered, “Listen.”

  Wilkes heard someone clatter down the stairs, and a few moments later a glass shattered in the adjoining room, followed by Junior swearing angrily. Dickerson’s eyes fluttered open. “I’ll have the usual, son! Sure I can’t get you gentlemen anything?”