Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Watching the man pull in the fish, Rosen felt the same shortness of breath the fish must have felt. “Wasn’t there a third son?”

  “Hmm?”

  “A third son.”

  “I don’t know . . . so long ago. Maybe there was. Yes, the one who went to live with an uncle.”

  “The one who was sent to live with an uncle.”

  “I’d almost forgotten. Isaac never speaks of him. The boy could be dead, for all I know. Now what was his name? There’s Aaron and David and . . .?” The old man furrowed his brow. “What was his name?”

  He used the past tense, just as Rosen’s father would have done. His jaw trembling, Rosen stood and walked away.

  Hyman repeated, “What was his name? It’s gonna drive me meshugge all day trying to think of it.”

  Elgin Hermes had almost been right. Rosen did wear a brand, but it wasn’t God who had branded him.

  Chapter Eight

  Rosen reached the office of Sarah’s counselor just as the bell rang. Classroom doors opened like rodeo shoots, and the students stampeded out—shouting, jostling, and grabbing one another. Yet three minutes later, with their return to class, the hallway once again was deserted, except for the laughter echoing faintly off the metal lockers. He checked his watch and remembered the mugger had taken it. The clock on the wall read 9:42.

  Yesterday, after taking a cab home from the old neighborhood, he’d driven into Arbor Shore to see his daughter. Sitting on the edge of her bed, idly paging through a book, Sarah said very little but mentioned one thing that confirmed his suspicions.

  Bess turned a corner and walked briskly toward him, her heels clicking loudly in the corridor.

  “Sorry, I was with a student.” She opened the doorway. “Hello, Linda. Nate, this is Sarah’s counselor, Linda Agee.”

  “It’s nice meeting you, Mr. Rosen. Sarah’s spoken often about you. Please have a seat.”

  She was younger than Rosen expected, maybe thirty, with long straw-colored hair and a handful of freckles scattered under the bluest eyes. She wore a Levi dress that buttoned up the front, and wooden clogs. He expected love beads, a roomful of Peter Max posters, and a mouthful of “like.”

  But her office was tidy, with a potted palm in the corner, cut flowers in a vase on the desk, and one print on the wall—Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. In her line of work, it was probably a great conversation starter.

  “Mrs. Agee said, “I noticed Sarah’s name on the absentee list. How is she?”

  Bess took a tissue from her purse. Her face was a mask, but the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth were beginning to crack.

  “I stayed with her as long as possible this morning—I was late for school. Shelly’s with her today. Our doctor prescribed some medication to help her sleep. That’s all she does—sleep. Oh, she eats a little and reads in her room.”

  “Has she spoken much about Nina’s death?”

  “She doesn’t talk about anything. That’s why I wanted to see you. It must be like poison festering inside her. I can’t . . .” Bess choked on the next word and swallowed hard.

  Mrs. Agee said, “I know what you’re going through.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Believe me, Bess, I’ve dealt with dozens of families with this same problem, the death of a loved one. Grandparent, parent, sibling, close friend—it’s always difficult. We adults have gone through it, and we know each person mourns in his own way. Last year I worked with a boy whose father committed suicide. The boy took his father’s credit card and went to a dude ranch in Colorado, a place they’d gone together ten years before. He said it was the place he’d felt closest to his dad.”

  “But at least he did something, instead of keeping it all inside.”

  “I agree, she’s got to talk about it. If you want, I’ll come by after school to see her.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything. Our relationship has become fairly casual. As you know, she’s technically no longer part of my caseload. You may want to contact a private psychologist. I’d be happy to refer you to several whom we use.”

  Rosen cut in, “What was your relationship with Sarah?”

  Mrs. Agee shifted to face him. “Last year, when Sarah enrolled at Arbor Shore, Bess was planning her second marriage. Sarah still had some unresolved feelings about the divorce. Her junior high recommended I see her during her first semester, to ease her transition into high school. I believe you were aware of this. I noted in Sarah’s file that you were sent copies of all the pertinent information.”

  Rosen nodded but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

  “I’m not at liberty to detail our conversations, but it’s no secret that Sarah was deeply upset about the divorce and the physical separation caused by your moving to Washington, D.C. She was also worried about how the divorce would affect you personally. We discussed that a great deal.”

  Rosen looked away for a moment. Maybe he should’ve stayed in Chicago. If he hadn’t been concerned so much about his own pain, would his daughter have needed a stranger’s empathy?

  He cleared his throat. “But your report indicated she was all right.”

  “I think so, in part because you seemed so accepting of Bess’s remarriage—didn’t make it a contest in which Sarah would have to choose sides.”

  “Then why continue seeing her?”

  “It’s what we call an ‘as needed basis.’ It’s not unusual for a girl like Sarah to want to talk to someone occasionally.”

  “What do you mean, ‘like Sarah’?”

  The counselor smiled. “I didn’t mean to categorize her, but in some ways—especially intellectually, she’s quite mature. She’d come in once or twice a month to discuss something she’d read, or go over a disagreement with her mother or something you might’ve said on the phone. Certainly nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Rosen leaned forward. “But she didn’t always see you alone.”

  He’d phrased it as a statement, not the shot in the dark that it was.

  Mrs. Agee hesitated, then replied, “No, she didn’t.”

  “They were best friends, so Sarah brought Nina Melendez along.”

  “A few times over the past few months. Again, it was all very informal.”

  “Did you take notes?”

  “No.”

  “But you do remember what they talked about.”

  Her smile melted but didn’t quite disappear as she turned to Bess. “I think it best to concentrate on how we can help your daughter over her grief.”

  Rosen said, “I want to know what you talked about in those sessions.”

  “Although I understand your feelings, I must respect Sarah’s right to privacy. Surely as an attorney, you understand my position.”

  “No, I don’t. You’re not some $150-an-hour psychiatrist. You’re a public employee dealing with a kid in trouble, and I need to know what you know.”

  Bess’s hand struck the armrest. “Nate!”

  The counselor spoke slowly. “Mr. Rosen, your daughter talked a great deal about the case you just finished—representing two boys who raped and killed that girl. It must’ve been very difficult to defend two murderers because of a point of constitutional law. But you did what was right, based upon the tenets of your profession. I’d like you to understand that, in Sarah’s case, I’m only doing the same thing.”

  Rosen knew the woman was right. Yet this time—this one time—he didn’t give a damn about professional ethics.

  “I’m not talking to you as a lawyer, but as a father.”

  Mrs. Agee looked down at her desk, as if reading an imaginary file. “Nothing Sarah and I discussed has any bearing on Nina’s death.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Our conversations were casual. Nothing—”

  “You know that Esther Melendez thinks Martin Bixby murdered her daughter.”

  Bess grabbed his arm, but he shook her off.

  “
Arbor Shore’s a small town. You must’ve heard.”

  The counselor nodded. “Nothing Sarah and I discussed could have any bearing on Nina’s death.”

  “What about Nina? You spoke with her too.”

  “I can’t reveal that conversation either.”

  “Why not? The girl’s dead.”

  “Perhaps if Mrs. Melendez made a formal request—”

  “I’d call an accusation of murder a formal request.”

  Bess said, “That’s enough.”

  “Last night Sarah admitted that, on the evening of Nina’s death, she hadn’t called Nina. Nina lied to her mother. That could mean she slipped out of the house to meet someone. Someone who might’ve killed her.”

  Mrs. Agee stared back at him for a long time. Finally, she replied, “Nothing either girl told me lends the slightest credence to your theory. If you’ll both excuse me, I have a meeting in a few minutes.”

  “Of course,” Bess said.

  “I’ll be over about four. I’d like to call Sarah first, to make sure she’s agreeable to my visit.”

  “I”m sure she will be. I can’t thank you enough, Linda.”

  “Not at all. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rosen.” As he turned to leave, she added, “I know it’s difficult not to worry about Sarah, but she’s quite a resilient young lady with a good sense of values. There’s no need for you to feel . . .”

  When she hesitated, he said, “Guilty?”

  “I was going to say overly concerned.”

  “Sure.”

  Outside the counselor’s office, he said to Bess, “I’ll be over after school.”

  “No you won’t. I don’t want you anywhere near the house when Linda Agee’s there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Linda’s coming over on her own time to help Sarah, not to subject herself to another cross-examination.”

  “If Martin Bixby killed—”

  “For God’s sake, lower your voice.” She looked up and down the deserted hallway.

  “If he killed Nina, Sarah may know something about it. He may even have pushed himself on her.”

  “You sound like one of those Kennedy conspiracy freaks. The police are handling the investigation, and I haven’t heard the word ‘murder’ from anyone but you and that Melendez woman. I care about Sarah getting over her best friend’s death. That’s all.”

  “But—”

  “If you want to call later, fine. Just stay away from the house. I have to get ready for my next class. Good-bye.”

  She walked down the hallway and turned the corner. He started in the other direction, toward the main doors, thinking about what Mrs. Agee had said about her sessions with Sarah. Maybe the position offered by Elgin Hermes wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He’d be able to make up to his daughter for all the time they’d missed together.

  Rosen shook his head. What would they do—take long walks in the park on weekends? Go to the ballgame? Of course he’d love to be with her, but only because he loved being with her, not that their being together would undo all the hurt. There was only one sure way of helping her, and that was to find the truth.

  He turned and walked through the hallway, which ended at the auditorium lobby. He heard the teacher’s voice from inside the auditorium.

  Taking a seat in the last row, Rosen watched Bixby conduct a class. Two students, Chip Ellsworth and another boy, were improvising on stage, while a dozen others sat along the first row.

  One foot resting on the stage steps, Bixby said, “Remember that caricature is an essential part of improvisation. Now get into character . . . really get into character, and let yourself go!”

  Chip nodded then, slumping forward on a stool, muttered to his companion, “I have here a . . . uh . . . note of reprimand from your PE. teacher. It seems you’ve . . . uh . . . been peeking through a hole into the girls locker room. Is this true?”

  The other boy shook his head as if on a spring. “Oh no, Dr. Winslow, sir!”

  “But your . . . uh . . . saliva was found dribbling through the hole.”

  “There must be some mistake. I have two dozen witnesses who say I was in Aspen at the time.”

  Chip lifted one hand, palm upward. “Well, taking your teacher’s eyewitness account . . .” he lifted the other, “. . . against the testimony of your drunken unreliable friends whose fathers hired me . . .” He shrugged. “I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you.”

  The other students applauded loudly, as did Bixby.

  “Well done!” the teacher said. “Time for one more. Ted and Hayley, you’re next. Let’s do the door-to-door salesman.”

  The girl, a pretty blond with a ponytail, stood in front of an imaginary door, which the boy approached, stamping on the floor to simulate a knock. He tried selling her “an artificially intelligent, user-friendly, solar-powered potato peeler.” The more adamantly she refused his sale pitch, the more frustrated he became.

  Finally he walked away. “That’s not fair!”

  Bixby led the boy back to the girl. “Don’t give up so easily. You were making headway.”

  “No, she wasn’t cooperating.”

  “Well, you’re such a dork,” the girl complained.

  Bixby stood between them, putting an arm around each of their shoulders. “The most important rule in business is that anybody can be sold anything—it just takes the right approach. The same is true of acting. You just have to decide upon your approach. Watch me.”

  He took a step back, closed his eyes for a moment, then approached the girl. “Now, Miss, young as you are, you may not consider how important it is to maintain your beauty. With all the other lovely young ladies trying to catch that certain someone’s eye, you can use every edge. Our remarkable potato peeler can keep this hand . . .”

  He paused to take the girl’s hand in his. Blushing, she giggled nervously.

  “. . . forever beautiful as it is right now.”

  Bixby gushed over the girl, while continuing to hold her hand. Reddening even more, she stood very still, not knowing how to respond.

  Watching Bixby insinuate himself with the girl, Rosen imagined the teacher touching Nina Melendez. It would’ve been easy to start innocently like this, in front of twenty other students. And last week, while the students rehearsed their performances behind the auditorium, hadn’t Bixby touched Sarah’s shoulder?

  Rosen was disgusted yet fascinated by the teacher’s performance. For those few minutes, Bixby was the perfect salesman. The way his lips oozed the pitch and wheedled the product made a sale inevitable. What had he said—“. . . anybody can be sold anything—it just takes the right approach.” Bixby was such a good actor; had he been acting during the meeting last Friday, when he’d protested his innocence? The principal, Kate Ellsworth, even Bess had been eager to “buy” his protests, just as the girl at that moment was nodding as he rang up a sale.

  “That’s how you do it!” he declaimed.

  The bell was barely heard above the class’s applause. Rosen waited at the center aisle, where the students passed him on their way out.

  “Chip.”

  The boy stopped and kicked at the worn carpeting.

  “Chip, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Mr. Rosen. You know my daughter Sarah.”

  “Mrs. Gold’s kid—sure.”

  “She was also Nina Melendez’s friend. I’d like to talk to you about Nina’s death.”

  The boy looked at his friends, who waited at the door. “I gotta get to class.”

  “This will just take—”

  But Chip ran past him, banging the door open.

  “Can I be of help?”

  Bixby sat on the stage. He wore an old gray Northwestern University T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. He ran a hand through his curly brown hair and grinned. Like a teddy bear on a toy shelf.

  Rosen walked down the aisle.

  The teacher held out his hand, which, after a moment’
s hesitation, Rosen took. “I missed Sarah in class today. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s very upset over Nina’s death.”

  “Yes, Sarah’s a sensitive child, and so talented. I can’t tell you how impressed I was with her performance the other night.”

  Again, Rosen remembered the teacher’s hand on Sarah.

  “I want to discuss Nina’s death.”

  “Yes?”

  “Esther Melendez thinks you killed her daughter.”

  “Absurd. I mean, I can understand the woman’s grief, but really.”

  “Do you have an alibi for the night of her death?”

  “Not really. I’m single and live alone. That Friday night I was home watching a video, My Fair Lady. One of my favorites—yours too?”

  Rosen shook his head impatiently.

  “I thought not. Something more brooding. More . . .” He stopped and, for a split second, broke into a grin. “. . . analytical. You’re the kind of man who, like the Apostle Thomas, would say, ‘Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, . . . I will not believe.’ Come along.”

  Bixby led Rosen behind the stage, through the large rehearsal room, and down the narrow corridor into the teacher’s office. He opened a desk drawer.

  “Before I forget.” He handed Rosen two baseball tickets. “The students who participated in last week’s festival are going to Wrigley Field tomorrow afternoon. Those are Sarah’s tickets, in case she’s feeling better. She’d bought an extra one for you—said you’re quite a Cubs fan. Do sit down.”

  Rosen remained standing while the teacher opened his file cabinet’s top drawer and rummaged through the papers.

  Bixby said, “I can understand why you, as a parent, would be concerned about the innuendos made against me. And then, poor Nina’s death under . . . well, less than clear circumstances. Ah, here we are.” He pulled out a sheet of paper. “These erroneous allegations—that I was personally involved with Nina—stem from that diary of hers.”

  “Erroneous?”

  “Yes.” He handed Rosen the paper. “This is an assignment sheet I gave the students about a month ago.”