Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “I was thinking about Esther Melendez, the housekeeper.”

  The Mexican shook his head.

  “You must’ve seen her. Didn’t she come out with water for you and your men?”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember.”

  “And maybe sometimes you saw her daughter Nina come home from school.”

  “No, man.”

  “She was very pretty. Maybe you whistled or said something to her, like you said a few minutes ago to Lucila.”

  Pretending to concentrate on the ballgame, Alvarez didn’t answer, but his fingers slowly crushed the beer can.

  “And maybe you came back at night looking for her, and when she wouldn’t play with you, maybe—”

  Alvarez threw the can onto the floor. “Maybe you should go fuck yourself! Get out! Get the hell outta my house!”

  “But we haven’t finished talking.”

  Alvarez stood and, reaching deep into his pocket, thrust a business card into Rosen’s hand. “You wanna talk, talk to my lawyer! Now get out!”

  The card read “Nelson Harding of the firm of Tyler, Estes, and Webb,” with a Chicago address in the downtown financial district.

  Rosen asked, “How did you get a firm—”

  “Get the hell out!”

  Leading them into the hall, Alvarez flung open the front door so hard it snapped back and struck him in the shoulder. Putting his hand on Lucila’s arm, Rosen followed her from the house. The door slammed behind them.

  Rosen’s hand remained on her arm as they walked quietly up the street. Nearing the corner, they crossed the alleyway and passed three workmen gabbing in Spanish. One man, smelling of whiskey, stumbled into Rosen.

  “Excuse me,” Rosen said.

  Staying low, the man pushed him into the dimly lit alley, while the other two dragged Lucila after. Rosen wrestled with his assailant while watching the other two. One stood behind Lucila, his hand against her mouth, while the other pulled off her coat. She stood still as a statue, offering no resistance. The men starting laughing.

  “No!” Rosen shouted.

  His attacker struck him hard on the side of the face, then another fist rocked him. His head swinging like a signpost in the wind, Rosen grappled for the other man’s leg and pulled him to the ground. He couldn’t get up—could only watch what the other two men were about to do.

  Pulling down the straps of her halter, the man facing Lucila grinned and took a step forward. The grin froze on his face and his eyes popped wide as her knee flashed between his legs. He screamed and doubled over. Before he fell, she twisted free of the third man, and reaching into her purse, sprayed a half can of Mace into his eyes. He also screamed before falling beside his companion.

  She walked over to Rosen, still entangled with his assailant. Taking the lid off a garbage can, she smashed it over the other man’s head. Kicking him away, she helped Rosen to his feet.

  Gripping her tightly to keep from falling, he asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Am I all right?” She shook her head.

  “The police—”

  “No. I did more to them than the courts would. Come on.”

  She helped Rosen across the street and into the passenger side of his car. Sitting behind the wheel, she asked, “Would it hurt your ego if I drove home?”

  “No,” he said, wincing.

  She touched his cheek. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure, just give me a couple minutes.”

  He leaned back, closing his eyes, as she made a U-turn and drove down Green Bay Road. He thought about buckling his seat belt, but it hurt to move. Besides, what did he have to worry about? He was with Lucila.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Careful,” Lucila said, leading him through the darkened corridor into her apartment. “The switch is just around the corner. Here.”

  Blinking back the flash of light, Rosen looked into the enormous room, which was far different now from the way it had looked the afternoon of Nina’s funeral. Open space, except against the long wall to his right, where a frayed cloth sofa, metallic floor lamp, and overstuffed chair hunkered around an old captain’s chest. Filled with paints, brushes, and paper plates smeared with whirling colors, a large pushcart stood beside a half-finished painting near the corner window. Unframed canvases hung along all the walls. Fluorescent light, reflecting off the gray tile, gave the room a greenish glow that didn’t make his head feel any better.

  Tossing his jacket and tie over the chair, he eased onto the couch while Lucila went into kitchen. A few minutes later, she laid something cold against the left side of his head.

  “Hold this compress for a while. It should help the swelling go down. You’ll be good as new in a few days.”

  “Will I be able to play the violin again?”

  “God, I hope not. I hate the violin. It always reminds me of a cat in heat. I’ll make some coffee.”

  “Do you have any tea?”

  “I’ll check.”

  Cabinet doors banged open in the kitchen, and she called from somewhere under the counter, “Got an old package of Lipton!”

  “That’s fine!”

  Resting his cheek against the compress, Rosen was about to close his eyes when he felt a vague uneasiness—the sensation of being watched. No one else was in the room—

  Then he saw their faces.

  The afternoon of the funeral, Rosen hadn’t taken much notice of Lucila’s paintings. They’d been hidden from view, much as their subjects in real life, poor campesinos and their children who were ignored by the rest of the world. But now in the naked green light, the children gazed at him. They were dark with soft dark eyes and, had they smiled, their smiles would have been gentle. The children reminded him of Nina and, although he never knew her, of the murdered black girl, Denae Tyler. Their gaze hardened, as if he were a criminal in the interrogation room. The questions about to be asked—the demands. What did they want?

  “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

  Sitting beside him, Lucila placed a tray of tea and cookies on the captain’s chest.

  “Sure.” Reaching for the cup, he sloshed some of the tea onto the tray.

  “You’re not okay. You’re very pale. . . .” Her fingers felt cool against his forehead, “. . . and a little warm.”

  “I’m fine—really.”

  “Drink your tea. These cookies are very good—made by an old woman down the street. Do you want an aspirin?”

  Afraid to shake his head, he half whispered, “No.”

  She turned on the lamp, which glowed softly, then walked to the kitchen and switched off the overhead light. Returning to the couch, she asked, “Better?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “The tea okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s pretty old. I don’t know if tea can go bad. Drink it while it’s hot. We don’t have to talk.”

  He sipped his tea, glad Lucila was sitting beside him. She idly played with her long tresses, just as Bess used to do. How many evenings had he spent like this with Bess? He’d be working on a brief while she graded papers, and hours might pass without a word between them. But it was a good silence, warm like a blanket around them both. He felt that way with Lucila now, and so he nursed his tea, thinking somehow the feeling would last as long as the liquid in the cup.

  When he finally finished, Lucila asked, “More?”

  “No, thanks. I’m feeling better.”

  “Good.” She touched his right hand. “How’d you get the scar? A duel over a lady’s honor?”

  “Shattered glass from a shopkeeper’s window. A bombing involving a case I was working on.”

  “You’ve got another scar on your inside left wrist.”

  “Someone with a knife went after a client and got me instead. You’re pretty observant. Having an artist’s eye, you would be.”

  She smiled. “I bet you’re pretty tough.”

  “Not half as tough as you. Remember, I’ve seen you in action. Besides, real tough gu
ys don’t get any scars.”

  Her smile slowly faded. “I have scars.”

  “You mean Nina.”

  “Yes, Nina and my parents who worked themselves to death back home, so I could get an education. And my brother . . . my dear stupid brother.”

  “Nina’s father?”

  Lucila nodded, biting her lip.

  “What happened to him?”

  Hands balled into fists until her knuckles whitened, she stared past Rosen, as if something terrible was being replayed in her mind.

  Finally she said, “I thought that was all behind us, when we left the Dominican Republic. But maybe violence is genetic in certain families, like cancer. To be so alone. You don’t know what it’s like.” Her eyes glistened. “Oh, Nina.”

  She wasn’t tough anymore, but Rosen liked her better this way. He hadn’t seen Lucila cry, not even at the funeral, and wanted to think she’d touched some protective instinct of his. But it was more than that. He watched her tremble, watched her breasts heave against the white cotton blouse. If he touched her, would she tremble that way?

  Then he noticed how her halter straps were torn where only an hour ago two men had attacked her.

  He looked away, disgusted with himself. “I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about what happened to you earlier this evening. Those men could’ve hurt you badly. What they were trying to do.”

  Lucila blinked hard, then looked down at her torn halter. “What they were trying to do they could’ve done only to my corpse. You understand?”

  She took his teacup. Slowly walking to the kitchen and returned with a steaming refill. She also sopped, with a sponge, the tea he’d spilled earlier.

  “These clothes are dirty,” she said. “Do you mind if I take a few minutes to clean up?”

  “Of course not. It’s getting late; maybe I’d better leave.”

  “No.” The word came at him like a foot in a closing door. More softly, “I won’t be long.”

  “All right. Can I use your phone to call my daughter?”

  “It’s on the wall in the kitchen.”

  Lucila walked into the bathroom and a moment later, the shower began hissing. Bracing himself against the dull pain lapping inside his head, he walked into the kitchen.

  “Hello.” Shelly’s voice.

  “This is Nate. Can I please talk to Sarah?”

  “She’s in bed. Just a minute.”

  In the background he heard Shelly and Bess arguing. Then a long moment of silence.

  “Sarah’s taken a mild sedative,” Bess said. “We were expecting you earlier this evening.”

  “Sorry. I had an appointment.”

  “Did it have to do with Nina’s death and your fixation on Martin Bixby?” When he didn’t reply, she continued, “I don’t want you to bring that up anymore, especially with Sarah.”

  “How did it go with Mrs. Agee this afternoon?”

  “They talked for nearly an hour, alone in Sarah’s bedroom. Afterward, Linda said that Sarah’s emotional state is pretty typical for an adolescent who’s lost someone very close, but she’s got to get on with her life. Linda suggested private therapy and gave me a few names. Maybe tomorrow we can discuss it.”

  “Sure. I’d like to talk to Sarah.”

  “Now?”

  “Just for a minute. Something important I need to know.”

  “About Bixby, isn’t it? Didn’t I just tell you—”

  “The questions surrounding Nina Melendez’s death didn’t get buried with her body. You don’t know all the answers, and neither does your psychologist friend. Finding out what really happened to that girl is going to help Sarah—”

  “Stop it! This isn’t about Sarah. It’s about you. This drive for ‘Justice,’ like some avenging prophet, even when the innocent are as likely to be struck down as the wicked. Your father would be very proud of you.”

  The throbbing inside grew so intense Rosen had to shut his eyes. Sweat slid down his neck, and blood pulsed in his ears.

  “Nate?”

  Taking a deep breath, he replied, “We have joint custody of Sarah. I can come over right now and talk to her.”

  “A lawyer’s answer. Why don’t you try acting like a father.”

  “I am.” His head was splitting. “Look, I don’t have to talk to her. Ask her something for me. It’s about some schoolwork.”

  “What?”

  He explained Bixby’s contention that Nina’s diary was only a homework assignment, an assignment she’d begun but never completed. “Just ask Sarah if it’s possible. I’ll wait.”

  “All right.”

  He was about to splash some cold water on his face when Shelly picked up the other receiver.

  “How’s your investigation going, Nate?”

  “Okay.”

  “You know, if you need any help, just ask. I can make some calls, do some legwork for you. Maybe we could go over to see Chief Keller.”

  “So you like playing detective.”

  “Don’t get me wrong—the human foot is an exciting thing, but anything to help Sarah. She’s a good kid.”

  “I . . .”

  Rosen’s voice cracked, not because of the pain in his head. Ever since Bess had first met Shelly, Rosen had only ridiculed the podiatrist. And what was Shelly—a loving husband for Bess, and for Sarah a stepfather who was always there.

  Before he could try again, Bess said, “Sarah remembers the assignment. Nina did hers as a dialogue with a famous person, Joan of Arc.”

  “Did Nina talk about the other assignment? Maybe start it, then put it aside?”

  “No.”

  “You asked Sarah that?”

  The second Bess hesitated before saying, “Yes,” told him she was lying. She just wanted him off the phone, and he was hurting too much to argue.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. Tell Sarah I love her. Bye.”

  He dabbed cold water on his face while waiting for the pain to subside. The sink held a tin can filled with paintbrushes, as well as an old rag. He looked closer; the rag was a torn pair of Lucila’s pantyhose. They were pink. Settling back into the couch, the soft glow of lamp light snuggling around him like a cat, he barely noticed the portraits staring from the wall.

  Rosen touched the spot where Lucila had sat, and his imagination drew another portrait. The steam rising from his tea was like the steam in her shower, and looking through one, he tried to imagine the other. How she’d appear stepping from the bathroom—her hair damp and clinging to her shoulders; moist skin scented with some delicate perfume; and a long silken robe tight around her body, split by her long legs as she walked. She’d be smiling; those lips would be smiling at him. And she’d ask him to stay, just like in the movies. He felt the teacup tremble in his hand.

  “There now. That wasn’t long.”

  Blinking hard, Rosen stared from the bathroom door to the couch where Lucila was sitting. He blinked again, then burst into laughter. Wincing, still he laughed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing . . . nothing really.”

  “Do I look that funny?”

  She wore a baggy canary yellow sweat outfit, and a turquoise towel had been wrapped like a turban around her wet hair. He liked the way she smelled, of soap and shampoo, and the way she was almost laughing with him.

  “You look just fine,” he said.

  “That’s what comes from living alone. You don’t have to impress anybody.”

  He ate one cookie, then another.

  “So you are feeling better. That guy really laid into you.”

  “Just a slight headache.” He nodded at her paintings. “Are these for your exhibition?”

  “Three of them.”

  “I stopped by Kate Ellsworth’s gallery and saw one of your paintings—quite remarkable. What’s it called?”

  She waited a long time before replying. “The Flowers of Madness.”

  “From a poem by Gabriela M
istral. The woman in the gallery read it to me. Something about climbing the rocks, wasn’t it?”

  She almost whispered,

  “‘I scaled the rocks with deer

  and sought the flowers of madness,

  those that grew so red they seemed

  to live and die of redness.’”

  He asked, “The girl in the painting is Nina?”

  “Who else could show such innocence?”

  “The other woman in the painting, the mad woman with fire in her eyes. Whom did you use as a model?”

  Lucila shrugged.

  “The reason I asked—she looked familiar. Not so much the face, but her expression.”

  “Nobody special.”

  “But—”

  “Why does it have to be anybody special? You see them everywhere, don’t you—in the dirtiest streets of Santo Domingo or the richest houses in . . .!” She shook her head hard. “Anywhere there’s not enough food in the belly or love in the heart. Anywhere.”

  Massaging her face, she tried to smile, her lips tight as a mask. “Did you call your daughter?”

  He nodded.

  “How is she?”

  “Making progress, I suppose.”

  “She’s a wonderful girl, like Nina. Did you discuss Bixby and his story about Nina’s diary?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t remember Nina writing the diary as a class assignment.”

  “Of course not. We both know Bixby’s lying. What’d you think of Alvarez?”

  “He’s lying about something.”

  “Do you think he saw what happened to Nina?”

  “Maybe, or he might just be lying because he’s dealing drugs.” Rosen remembered the jewelry Alvarez’s wife was wearing, then the scene of the crime. “I wonder if he’s the kind who’d bring a girl roses and a necklace.”

  “You don’t think that Nina would take up with somebody like Alvarez.”

  “I doubt it. Still, he had access to the estate and probably a lot of money to flash around.”

  “She’d never dirty herself with scum like that!”

  “All right,” Rosen said, “but why did Masaryk talk to the police chief about Alvarez? What’s a landscaper to the Ellsworths? And how did Alvarez retain the services of some law firm in downtown Chicago? Something’s not right. Another thing.”