Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  She liked Tom’s silence, the way it always covered her soft and warm like a blanket. Even when they were kids, an Indian and a half-breed in a white man’s school, Grace always felt protected. Reaching into the cubbyhole of her desk, she took out the turtle doll that had once protected her son.

  Stroking the doll, she said, “Stevie got into trouble again.” Knowing he wouldn’t say anything until asked, she continued, “Andi called me earlier this evening from Deadwood. Stevie hitchhiked over there after school. She and Mr. Rosen brought him home about a half hour ago. I put him to bed and made Father stay in the house.”

  Tom looked down at his folded hands. “Did the boy say anything?”

  “About what—you mean, what he was doing in Deadwood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We don’t talk much anymore. Not since Steve died. Sometimes when I look into his eyes, there’s nothing there. Like you could dive into them, and keep going and going forever. He scares me. You don’t think he got in any trouble over there?”

  Tom took a pen from his pocket and tapped it on the edge of the desk.

  “Tom?”

  “Stevie’s just foolin’ around like a hundred other kids in this town. Don’t you remember when we was kids? Everybody acts a little crazy at that age.”

  “Not me.”

  “Well, I sure was.”

  “You?” Grace laughed.

  “You remember how wild I used to get.”

  “Yeah—maybe about as wild as having old Two Feathers buy you a six-pack of beer. And you’d pass out after the third one.”

  “Now, Gracie, there was lots of times I used to cut loose with Ira, Billy High Horse, and—”

  “Cut it out. Everybody said you were the nicest boy. Why do you think folks elected you police chief? Not ’cause you’re so big and tough. It’s ’cause they like you. Remember—I was seven or eight—when I fell off my first pony and it ran away? You chased after it. Must’ve taken you half the day to chase it down; Mother woke me to say you’d brought it back. You didn’t even stick around for me to say thanks.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “People don’t change. Father’s always telling Ike that you would’ve been a great war chief, because men would’ve followed you.”

  Tom didn’t reply, and for a long time Grace watched him study the pencil he held between his hands. She tried imagining him as a stranger might, like Nate Rosen. What did the lawyer see—just a big, tough cop with a stubborn streak? If Rosen got to know him better, he’d see the real Tom.

  “Shouldn’t you be on patrol?” Grace asked. She checked the schedule. “Wait a minute. You’re not on this shift. What’re you doing here so late?”

  He tapped the pencil on the desk. “I was going out for a beer. Thought I’d check in for a minute.”

  “There’ve been lots of times Wendy or I can’t get you on the radio. Elroy doesn’t know where you’ve been going.”

  “Well, that ain’t any of their business, is it?”

  “People just get worried about you.” She leaned over her desk and smiled. “Wendy thinks you’ve got a girl stashed somewhere.”

  “That sounds like Wendy.”

  “Well?”

  He tossed the pencil on the desk. “Like I said before, ain’t nobody else’s business.”

  Grace nodded. “All right. Maybe you better go and get that beer.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom stood but, instead of leaving the station, walked into his office. Through the half-open doorway, she saw the faint glow of his desk lamp and heard one of the drawers thump closed. Then the station settled once again into its late-night quiet.

  For the next half hour, Grace typed some reports that, as usual, Wendy hadn’t quite gotten to. She took a check-in call from the two patrol cars on duty; quiet as usual for a weeknight. She picked up the phone to call home, then lowered the receiver. It was almost midnight—her father would probably be sleeping. He needed his rest for the hearing. Besides, she told him to call her if there were any problems. She couldn’t go on worrying about everybody else. Returning the turtle doll to its cubbyhole, Grace looked at the photo of her and Curly. Tom was right; come hell or high water, she needed to ride in Saturday’s show.

  She’d just finished filing the typed reports when the door swung open and Jack ran in. “Is everything all right?”

  Startled, she didn’t know what to say. Staring back at him, she saw that two buttons of his blue silk shirt were unclasped.

  “Grace, are you all right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where’s Stevie?”

  “Stevie? He’s at home.” Her heartbeat quickened. “Why, what’s wrong?”

  Jack lifted his hands. “I don’t understand. I came home about an hour ago. I forgot to check my phone messages until just now, when I was getting ready for bed. There was a message—a man’s voice, I don’t know whose—saying Stevie was picked up by the Bear Coat police in Deadwood, and that the boy would probably need an attorney. I ran over here—but everything’s all right?”

  She nodded slowly, still trying to understand what he’d said.

  “Then it was just a crank call?”

  “Guess so. I mean, Stevie was in Deadwood earlier this evening, but Andi brought him home. She didn’t mention anything about the police. You said Bear Coat police?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Tom!” she called, but he was already standing beside his door. “You know anything about this?”

  “I got a call from Sheriff Clarkson about seven-thirty. He’d arrested Stevie for shoplifting.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Nothing for me . . .!”

  “I drove over there and took care of everything. The store owner dropped the charges. I even got Andi to drive him home, so that nobody’d know anything about it.” He turned to Jack. “Almost nobody. I’d sure like to know who called you.”

  “As I said before, a stranger’s voice.”

  Tom looked at him hard, then shook his head. “You’re a liar.”

  “What?”

  He took a step closer, the veins in his neck bulging. “You’re a liar.”

  Jack almost smiled, and Grace sensed that Tom was about to grab him.

  Striking her fist on the desk, she said, “You’re the liar! You’re the one who said everything was all right, when all along you knew—”

  “I didn’t want you to worry. I took care of everything.”

  “He’s my son! I’m the one responsible for him, not you! Don’t you think me not knowing gives Stevie something else to hide!”

  Tom slouched like a bear and looked at her with his soft brown eyes.

  Feeling the tears brimming, she looked away, wiping her eyes with her palms. “I gotta get out of here for a while.”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ll watch the dispatch.”

  As Grace came around the desk, Jack took her arm, then led her out the door.

  The night air was cool but just as still as inside the station. A full moon hung perfect like a pearl in a black velvet sky. Grace’s mother had worn a pearl necklace. Every time Grace saw a full moon, she thought of her mother bending to kiss her goodnight, felt the smooth pearl brush against her cheek, and smelled lavender soap. She liked taking long walks on such a night; it was as if her mother walked beside her, whispering in the breeze that everything would be all right.

  “Would you like to go for a cup of coffee?” Jack asked. “We could drive over to the truck stop.”

  She shook her head.

  “How about a drink?”

  “It’s after midnight. The bars are closed.”

  “I have some brandy in my office.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’ll do you good.”

  He was smiling, and his silk shirt felt soft against her arm. His cologne smelled so good.

  “All right. Just for a few minutes.”

  They walked across th
e street into the newspaper office. The room was a square box, with a computer atop an old wooden desk in each corner. One corner displayed travel posters, another sports; Andi’s walls were covered with her own gallery of photographs, entitled “Faces of Bear Coat.” Grace was up there, with Curly nuzzling against her cheek.

  Past a stairway leading to the second floor, the walls in Jack’s corner were bare. He pulled a chair over for her, and she sat beside him behind his desk. Grace had been here a few times before, and she remembered how orderly his desktop was, and how handsome. A sterling-silver nameplate on mahogany, a leather cup for holding pencils, a padded stapler, and two intricately carved bookends resembling a dragon’s head and tail. A half-dozen law books made up the dragon’s body. A folded newspaper lay beside the stapler. Looking closer, she saw it was a racing form, with several horses circled and a series of numbers scribbled in the margin.

  Jack also kept a liquor caddy in the corner. Setting two glasses on the desk, he poured them each a brandy.

  “Cheers.”

  Grace sipped the drink slowly; at first it overpowered her, making her eyes water. Feeling the warmth spread through her body, she settled into the chair, her legs dangling like a puppet’s. Maybe because she hadn’t eaten supper, or because she was tired, or because Jack sat so close, Grace felt a little giddy. “This is nice.”

  He poured them each another drink. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but don’t you think you were a little rough on Cross Dog?”

  “He should’ve told me about Stevie.”

  “Perhaps, but he was only thinking of you. He seems a decent guy.”

  “Guess you’re right. I’ll talk to him later. It’s just, I get so worried about Stevie. It’s so hard keeping tabs on him, especially when I’ve got Father to worry about too.”

  He leaned closer, holding the glass between his hands. She watched the brandy ebb and flow, and it made her a little drowsy. “Grace, you can’t put the whole world on your shoulders. It’s understandable that Stevie has some emotional problems, after all that’s happened to your family. But he knows you love him, and he’s getting professional help.”

  “I don’t know how much that doctor’s really doing for him. He just gives the boy something for his nerves.”

  “Maybe we should find a specialist, a psychiatrist who deals with children having Stevie’s type of problem. There must be one in Rapid City or Sioux Falls. I’ll make inquiries.”

  “A psychiatrist? We could never afford one.”

  “I . . .” He took a drink. “You wouldn’t have to worry about any expenses.”

  “Oh, Jack, I couldn’t let you do that.”

  “I’d like to see you happy, that’s all. I can understand your worrying about Stevie. We can deal with that, but you must realize that your father’s not your responsibility.”

  She shook her head, almost spilling her glass. “But the way he acts . . .”

  “The way he acts is his own affair. He’s not crazy—you, of all people, know he’s not. His ways are just different. How often has he said, ‘Why should an Indian eat merely because the clock strikes six?’”

  “I know.”

  “Well, then, let it go. I’m taking care of the condemnation hearing, but that seems relatively minor at this point. Mr. Rosen’s defending your father against the murder charge, and I have a strong feeling that Saul is in the best of hands. I had Mr. Rosen checked out. He’s an excellent attorney. You shouldn’t let this worry you.”

  “I’ll try not to. Thanks, Jack. Seems all I ever do is say thanks.”

  “I care about you, Grace.”

  She sighed and, returning the glass to the desk, almost knocked it over. He reached to steady her hand, then held it. His touch was warm as the brandy, and suddenly she felt safe.

  Grace wanted to tell him how safe she felt, but as she turned toward him, he kissed her. It was soft, natural as her next breath, and when he kissed her again, she let him pull her close. Her mouth opened to his, while the brandy kindled something she’d felt only with Steve, or alone in bed dreaming about him.

  His hands were under her blouse; were those her own hands helping him? In the midst of their fumbling, she heard him as if far away.

  “Upstairs.”

  She stood, her legs trembling, and let him lead her to the stairway. They kissed again, her blouse unbuttoned so that she felt the softness of his silk shirt against her skin. She held him tightly, when suddenly he pulled away.

  Looking up at him, she saw her own look of surprise reflected in his eyes.

  “No,” he said softly, “not like this. You’re a little tipsy. I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

  Shutting her eyes, she leaned forward, as if she were galloping Curly, running him as fast as she could, until his legs blurred and her heartbeat raced with him. She wrapped her legs tightly around him, and it was Jack holding her, kissing her and carrying her upstairs.

  In the soft darkness that must have been his bed, she didn’t know if her eyes were open or closed, only that she saw nobody—not Stevie, her father, Tom, or even Jack. Only herself, moaning under his touch, moving her body for herself, then drifting alone down an endless stream black and silent as the night.

  Chapter Ten – FRIDAY MORNING

  Rosen knew he should be paying more attention. Assistant District Attorney Ernest Reedy, a redheaded young man with woodpecker persistence, was examining Will True Sky.

  “So you found the victim, Albert Gates, a little after eleven p.m.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He was lying on the ground, with the back of his head bashed in.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you saw nobody in the vicinity at or near that time, except for your father, Saul True Sky.”

  “Well—guess that’s right.”

  Reedy pointed his index finger at the witness. “A simple yes or no, Mr. True Sky.”

  “I guess it’d have to be yes.” He smiled good-naturedly.

  “Don’t guess. The answer is yes.”

  The assistant D.A. was shamelessly leading the witness. Reedy’s awkward prosecution demonstrated inexperience, nervousness, or, worse, needless showboating. Of course, Saul True Sky would have to stand trial; there was too much evidence for any judge to dismiss the charges. But this preliminary hearing wouldn’t be a total loss.

  Besides having the opportunity to preview the state’s witnesses and evidence, Rosen always used such a hearing to evaluate his opponent. That was something he’d learned as a boy, listening to the radio as one of his heroes, Floyd Patterson, fought Sonny Liston. At the weigh-in, the announcer mentioned how Patterson had been transfixed by Liston’s glare, like a mouse before a cobra. The fight, which didn’t last a round, ended before it had begun—when Patterson first looked into the cobra’s eyes. Rosen remembered and, in all his cases, made sure those eyes were his.

  Finishing his examination with a self-satisfied nod, Reedy strutted to the prosecutor’s table.

  “Mr. Rosen?” Judge Whistler inquired.

  Instead of replying, he glanced over his shoulder. Although the courtroom was filled, the two people he most wanted to see were missing.

  “Counselor?”

  The judge arched his eyebrows, bringing the slightest blush to his pallid cheeks. With its patrician features and snow-white hair curling softly like fleece, Whistler’s head could have adorned a Roman coin.

  “Just a few questions, Your Honor.”

  Rosen didn’t bother to leave his chair. “Mr. True Sky, you say that you discovered the body of Albert Gates a little after eleven.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How did you know he was dead?”

  “Huh?”

  “How did you know that Albert Gates was dead and not unconscious?”

  “Well . . . the body was cold. I checked for a pulse and there wasn’t any. He was dead, all right.”

  Rosen paused to reread a section of the police report. “According to Chief Cross Dog�
��s report, your flashlight was found about halfway between the victim and the Indian remains, where Gates was struck. If you bent over the dead man, then left the flashlight there when you went for help, perhaps he crawled . . .”

  “Oh, I see what you’re getting at.” Will half-closed his eyes, as if trying to remember. “What happened was, I started to go for help, then thought I’d better leave the flashlight there, so I put it down. That’s what happened.”

  Rosen stared at Will, until the young man looked down at his hands. “Doesn’t the gas station where you work normally close at ten?”

  “Uh-huh, but that night I was working on a car and didn’t finish till after eleven. Then I closed up and went home. That’s when I found Gates’s body.”

  “And you have someone to verify your presence in the station until eleven?”

  Scratching his head, Will glanced at Judge Whistler. “Sure I do. You can just ask . . .”

  “Objection,” Reedy said, rising to his feet. “There’s no need for Mr. True Sky to establish an alibi . . . Will True Sky, that is.”

  The judge nodded. “However, this does raise a delicate issue. Mr. Rosen, surely you know that I’m the owner of the car and can establish Will True Sky’s alibi. If that’s going to be a problem either at this hearing or in the case of a subsequent trial, I’ll recuse myself.”

  Rosen looked from the witness to the judge. By any standard, the two men couldn’t be more opposite, which in itself lent credibility to Will’s alibi.

  “Mr. Rosen?”

  “I have no objection to Your Honor trying the case.”

  “Very well. You may proceed.”

  “Mr. True Sky, I understand that a contract was found on the victim. According to this agreement, you sold Albert Gates the right to—”

  “Again I must object.” Reedy jumped to his feet, his index finger jabbing the point home. “At a preliminary hearing, we need only establish enough evidence to warrant—”

  “Yes, I believe this court knows what a preliminary hearing entails. Mr. Rosen, we’re investigating the culpability of the elder Mr. True Sky, not his son. You understand that?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I have no further questions for the witness.”

  Will stepped from the witness stand and passed the defendant’s table without once glancing at his father. Saul True Sky, in turn, stared straight ahead. Wearing an old brown suit, shiny at the knees, and a turquoise string tie, he seemed from another era, like Rosen’s people with their long black caftans and hats. Like them, he displayed the great dignity that moral certitude brings.