Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Rosen had to stop himself from following them. No need, not when he had the name and phone number tucked in his pocket. Time enough this evening. He could go home now, because it was all right. He’d think about the case, knowing there was, after all, something to do.

  Chapter Ten

  It was just after seven and getting dark as Rosen left his condo and drove a few miles north, passing under the lizard green ironwork of the Davis Street “L.” He pulled over beside a fire hydrant across from the station and studied the commuters leaning against the wall. She hadn’t arrived yet; he’d better find a parking spot, walk back, and—

  A young woman broke from the crowd, hurrying across the street. It wasn’t until she’d slipped into the passenger seat that he recognized Lucila. She unbuttoned her long green coat. She was dressed like a schoolgirl—a brown jumper with white blouse, white stockings, and black patent leather shoes. Her hair was tied back with a thin white ribbon. Only her eyes were a woman’s, dark and still brooding over Nina’s death.

  He said, “Glad you were home when I called this afternoon. You had to go downtown for a meeting?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “With Kate Ellsworth?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I didn’t, but you do have a show coming up.”

  “It wasn’t just about me. Kate and I met with representatives from the Art Institute. They’re thinking of putting together a special exhibit on contemporary Latin American art, with an emphasis on younger artists.” She smoothed her jumper and smiled. “I wanted to look young. What do you think?”

  His face grew warm. The way she dressed, that little-girl softness and vulnerability, made her irresistible. The more he thought of her jumper and long white stockings, the warmer his face became. Not from embarrassment, but shame. What was there about a woman’s innocence that stirred a man? Did the same feeling motivate someone like Bixby? Rosen shivered in disgust.

  She said, “I guess you’re not crazy about my outfit.”

  “You look very nice. I just sort of picture you in jeans.”

  “Me too. Anyways, I’m glad you called.”

  “I don’t know how well this Mexican landscaper speaks English.”

  They reached the north end of Evanston, a tired old section of factories and warehouses. He took Green Bay Road, which traveled straight through Chicago’s North Shore. To their right, nearly hidden by a low ridge of trees and bushes, ran the Northwestern commuter railroad.

  “How’s your sister-in-law?” he asked.

  “She’s back at work.”

  “The funeral was just yesterday.”

  “She’s back at work, and waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For Bixby to be brought to justice. That’s why she could walk away from Nina’s grave. She still has to see justice done. Because I told her you would help, that you would make Bixby pay. Otherwise, I think she would kill him herself.”

  Rosen shook his head slowly.

  “What is it?” Lucila asked.

  “She shouldn’t make certain assumptions.”

  “Assumptions?”

  “That Nina was murdered, and that Martin Bixby is the murderer.”

  “But you said—”

  “I’d help you by trying to discover the truth, and that’s what I intend to do. That’s why we’re going to see Alvarez, to find out what he knows about Nina’s death.”

  “Her murder.”

  “It may not necessarily lead to Bixby.”

  “It will.”

  Rosen shook his head harder, as if to toss off her smugness. “I spoke with Bixby this morning at school. He said that Nina’s diary was just a class assignment.”

  She clicked her tongue. “And you believed him?”

  “I’m going to ask Sarah if Bixby really did give such an assignment.”

  “And if he did? He teaches theater, which means he’s an actor. What are actors but professional liars. Bixby did it. You’ll see.”

  The road suddenly swerved left, as if it had seen a rabbit, and Rosen slowed to keep from skidding. A few minutes later it curved again, and they entered downtown Winnetka, its exclusive shops wearing their brightly colored awnings like millinery.

  Lucila said, “It hasn’t been easy—what happened to Nina.”

  “Sure.”

  Looking out the window, she smiled. “Lifestyles of the rich and famous. I suppose you and your ex-wife lived like this.”

  “Bess and I had an apartment in Rogers Park about half the size of your studio.”

  “But now you’re a successful lawyer.”

  “I live in a place so small I can’t eat and read at the same time. I can illuminate the whole place with my daughter’s old night light. I can—”

  She laughed, and he loved how it softened to a ripple.

  He added, “Don’t get civil liberties confused with corporate law. The money, I mean.”

  “But you help people—there must be many compensations.”

  “At times.”

  They drove through Glencoe and Highland Park, under a bower of tall trees lining either side of the residential area. It was beautiful, like the place where Bess and Sarah were living. Quiet and safe; how could these people not be happy?

  Rosen almost smiled, remembering the saying his old rabbi had loved to quote: “‘Do not look at the jug. There are new jugs filled with old wine and old jugs without even new wine.’” What was behind the façade of these homes?

  He said, “Arbor Shore is just past Highwood. After seeing Alvarez, we could visit your sister-in-law.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’ll expect you to tell her something about Bixby. What can you tell her, unless this Alvarez says something?”

  “I’d like to talk to her anyway.”

  “She has nothing to say.”

  “She can tell me about the house.”

  “What house?” Lucila turned to stare at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The Ellsworth house. The house where your sister-in-law lived with Nina. The house where Nina received a phone call that sent her out to the park, where she fell from a cliff and died.”

  “That house has nothing to do with my niece’s death.”

  “Edward Masaryk was with the police chief this morning. They were discussing Alvarez. Why would Masaryk be there if the Ellsworths weren’t somehow involved?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because Bixby’s a friend of Kate Ellsworth. Maybe she sent Masaryk there.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Lucila narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  “You saw Mrs. Ellsworth this afternoon. Didn’t you ask her about Bixby?”

  “What would she know about Bixby—about that part of his life? They share a mutual interest in art, that’s all. Like I said before, he’s an actor. I’ve seen him at exhibits. Oh so charming. He paints his face with layers of lies.”

  He asked, “What can you tell me about the Ellsworths, as a couple?”

  “That doesn’t have a thing to do with what happened to Nina.”

  “I get a sense that Kate and Masaryk are pretty close. At the funeral, for example—”

  Lucila turned to face him, her eyes flashing. “You leave Kate out of this. I don’t want her name dragged in the mud. You understand?”

  Rosen nodded. He understood that there was something wrong in the Ellsworth house.

  He slowed the car as they entered Highwood. The poor relative among North Shore suburbs, the town was a mixture of old Italian families, who still played boccie ball and fed Pavarotti when he sang at the Lyric Opera, and Hispanics tending rich people’s lawns or working in nearby factories. Bisected by the railroad, Highwood’s small square and rectangular buildings lined the street like a toy train set. Yet interspersed with the bars and auto repair and barber shops were some of the most expensive restaurants in Chicagoland.

  Glancing at the st
reet signs, Rosen said, “I found Alvarez’s address in the phone book, then checked a map. He lives off Maple Avenue, which should’ve already intersected Green Bay. I’d better ask directions.”

  He parked the car and crossed the street. From up the block two young women walked toward him. They wore short, tight skirts and leather jackets. Both smelled of liquor, and the taller one was smoking.

  “Well if it isn’t Mr. Rosen,” the shorter woman said.

  He looked at her closely. “You’re from the high school. The dancer.”

  She nodded. “Margarita Reyes. This is my cousin Francisca.”

  “Do you know where Maple Avenue is?”

  Francisca pointed behind her. “The next corner, where the bar is.”

  Margarita said, “Hello, Luci.”

  Lucila had crossed the street to join him. “I thought it was you, Ita.”

  “Yes, it’s my mother’s night off, so we’re visiting my cousins.” Looking Rosen up and down as if examining a horse before a race, she added, “I didn’t know you two were dating. You’re always so busy with your painting, I didn’t even know you liked men.”

  Rosen asked, “Isn’t it late for you girls to be out alone?”

  Her cousin laughed as Margarita said, “We don’t plan to be alone for long.” Watching Rosen, she scratched the inside of her thigh, letting her skirt ride up another three inches. He looked away.

  “Goodbye, Ita,” Lucila said and, taking Rosen’s arm, led him past the two girls. It wasn’t until they’d reached the bar that she released him, half whispering, “Puta.” Whore.

  Turning the corner they crossed an alley that led behind the bar and continued under the streetlights down Maple Avenue. Rosen felt a great sadness—both for Margarita, a girl giving up her childhood for much less than Esau’s bowl of stew, and for Sarah, whom he could no longer shield from such things. Strange, but Lucila’s anger comforted him. It was harsh and unyielding, just as the Old Testament anger of his father had always been. Rosen didn’t want any mercy when it came to his daughter’s welfare. Yes, strange, because his father had probably felt the same way toward him.

  “Is this the street, Nate?”

  He looked up at the signpost and nodded. Checking the addresses illuminated on each side of the street, he said, “Alvarez’s number is 1185—should be on this side.”

  The homes were small two-story dwellings, mostly frame, with peaked roofs and concrete stairs. There were as many pickups as cars parked in the street, including Alvarez’s landscaping truck.

  Eleven eighty-five, in the middle of the block, appeared more tired than the others. Chipped and peeling, its forest green had long ago faded to the color of a worn dollar bill. The windows needed caulking and the gutters cleaning.

  Rosen knocked on the door, which was opened by the woman he’d seen earlier at the police station. She wore the same baggy dress but her earrings and necklace were gold. She held the doorknob tightly and waited—no greeting, no questions. From somewhere inside, the television blared a baseball game.

  “Mrs. Alvarez?” Rosen asked.

  She nodded.

  “We’d like to see your husband.”

  “Por qué . . . why?”

  “We’re looking into the death of Nina Melendez and want to ask him some questions about last Friday evening.”

  She looked at him helplessly. “I don’t . . .” Then she held up her hands.

  Lucila spoke to her rapidly in Spanish. Alvarez’s wife blinked several times, and her reply was slow and tentative. The two women continued their conversation with the same rhythm until Lucila stopped to translate.

  “Her husband has had a long day, and she’d like us not to bother him.”

  Rosen said, “Tell her we know her husband has spoken to the police.”

  The women started, as if the word “police” had pricked her. A man shouted something from inside the house, and the woman’s voice scurried like a mouse to reply.

  “Es la policia?” he demanded.

  She shook her head, then, remembering he couldn’t see her, replied, “No!”

  Lucila quickly added something, and for a few moments the house grew silent.

  Alvarez said, “Okay. Come in.”

  “What did you tell him?” Rosen whispered to Lucila, as they followed the woman into the house.

  “Just that we’re friends of the Ellsworths.”

  The living room was as worn as the house’s exterior, with peeling wallpaper and a big water stain in the corner above a window. However, the furnishings looked new, including a foldout leather chair and matching sofa. A big-screen television was hooked to four-foot stereo speakers, and three racks filled with compact discs stood beside a state-of-the-art sound system.

  Hector Alvarez sat in the leather chair in front of the TV, one hand holding a beer and the other a bag of “chicharrones”—fried pork rinds. A sleeveless T-shirt and baggy pair of work pants hung loosely on his body. His dark face with its wide cheekbones and thin mustache seemed so typical. Lucila had accused Dr. Winslow of seeing all Hispanics alike, yet Rosen couldn’t distinguish this man from the dozen others he must’ve encountered each day—grass cutters, busboys, fast-food clerks, or even the migrant workers he’d defended a few years before.

  Taking a long swallow of beer, Alvarez squinted over the can. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he motioned them to the couch, Rosen sitting kitty-corner to him.

  Rosen asked, “Mind lowering the volume?”

  Alvarez pressed the remote control until the game was barely audible.

  On the TV was a large framed photograph of Alvarez, his wife, and several others, including a girl who looked familiar.

  “Isn’t that Margarita Reyes?” Rosen asked.

  Alvarez nodded. “Ita—my wife’s cousin. She got me some jobs up in Arbor Shore. House where her mother works, and the Ellsworths.” He pointed at Lucila. “Sure, I know you. I see you at the Ellsworths when I work on the lawn. You do know them. Good. I like people who tell the truth.”

  “Me too,” Rosen said. “Tell us what happened last Friday night.”

  He took another swallow of beer. “I already told the police.”

  “Tell us.”

  Crinkling his eyes, Alvarez repeated what he’d told Keller that morning. Then he fished a cigarette from a pack on the floor, leaned back, and puffed contentedly.

  Rosen said, “So, after dark you returned to the park for the grass clippings, to avoid paying another fine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you work alone?”

  “Me—I’m the boss. I got three men working for me.”

  “Why didn’t you send one of them?”

  “It was too late. I have to pay them overtime.”

  “And then you became sick?”

  Alvarez made a face. “That McDonald’s—qué malo. I ate something bad.”

  “So you were pretty sick.”

  “Just for the night.”

  “Yet the police couldn’t find you for two days.”

  “I was at a friend’s.” He grinned, cupping his hands around a pair of imaginary breasts.

  “Or maybe you went on a trip.”

  Alvarez leaned forward in his chair. “Why would I go away?”

  Rosen locked his eyes on the other man’s. “Maybe you went to buy something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Look around this house. It’s falling apart, yet you’ve got all this electronic hardware. You know . . .”

  “Despacio!” Alvarez shouted. “Slow down.”

  “You know who lives like this. Drug dealers.”

  “Drugs? You crazy, man! You watch what you say.”

  “Maybe you went to pick up your supply. Just a little business trip.”

  “I said you’re crazy! I don’t mess with drugs. I got my own business.” He slapped his chest. “Comprende, I’m the boss. I tell other people what to do.”

  “But you didn’t tell somebody else to take care of the
grass clippings last Friday night.”

  Alvarez crumpled back in his chair, his jaw set tight.

  Lucila spoke. “Maybe he didn’t understand you.”

  She spoke rapidly in Spanish. Reaching for his beer, Alvarez pretended to watch the ballgame, but his face grew darker until he could no longer bite back the words.

  “Cállese, mujer!”—Quiet, woman!

  The exchange became more heated until Alvarez suddenly stopped, his lips twisting into a grin.

  “Me gustas, chica. Te deseo.”

  Lucila froze, as if a spider had crawled onto her, but said something to melt his grin and make him wipe his mouth hard.

  “Hell, I’m gonna get me another beer.”

  Alvarez strode past them, through the hall and into the kitchen. A few moments later, Rosen heard the murmur of conversation; either the Mexican was talking to his wife or someone on the phone.

  Rosen asked Lucila, “What was all that between you and Alvarez?”

  Her shrug was almost a shiver. “He started saying things.”

  “What things?”

  “Oh, the kind of things men in my country say to women they see walking down the street. ‘I want you, baby,’ things like that.”

  “How’d you get him so upset?”

  “I said if he ever tried anything with me, I’d tie his balls into a necktie.”

  “I guess his wife doesn’t talk to him like that. I knew something was wrong when he used the word ‘te’ with you. That’s pretty familiar.”

  “Too familiar. I should’ve slapped him right then.”

  “Sure. He’d probably . . .” Rosen stopped, trying to catch a thought flitting through his memory. Something Lucila had just said. But not about Alvarez.

  “Nate?”

  He rubbed his eyes. What was it?

  Sauntering into the room, Alvarez sat down while popping open another can of beer. He turned up the television’s volume and said, “I had a long day. You better go.”

  Rosen raised his voice to match the TV “You said before that you recognized Lucila when she visited the Ellsworth home. Did you get to know the people living in the house?”

  Alvarez snorted into his beer can. “Yeah sure, man. Me and my wife, we go partying with the Ellsworths all the time. I even let him use my lawn mower sometimes, just for kicks.”