Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Slipping from bed, Rosen gathered a clean set of clothes and walked through the hallway into the bathroom. He hesitated before turning on the shower, letting her scent linger on him a few more moments.

  “Idiot,” he whispered, then turned on the water full blast.

  Twenty minutes later he sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea, eating a bagel, and listening to the all-news radio station. It was the lead story under local news:

  “We have more information concerning the death of Martin Bixby in his south Evanston apartment. Police are now saying that the popular thirty-nine-year-old drama teacher, from Arbor Shore High School, may have committed suicide. However, Lt. James McCarthy of the Evanston Police cautions that his investigation is continuing. Otto Keller, Police Chief of Arbor Shore, who visited the victim’s apartment last night, refused to comment on whether Bixby’s death might in some way be connected with the death last week of Arbor Shore student Nina Melendez.”

  Rosen wondered how Sarah was taking the news of Bixby’s death. If she knew anything about his relationship with Nina, if he’d made advances toward Sarah, maybe she’d finally open up.

  He called Shelly’s house, but there was no answer. It was 9:15; Sarah and Bess were probably in school. He’d stop by later in the afternoon to see his daughter and pick up his car. There was something he could do in the meantime. He dialed the number.

  “Hermes Communications.” The voice, deeper and slower, wasn’t that of Elgin Hermes’ daughter-in-law Sherry.

  “Good morning. I’d like to speak to Mr. Hermes.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Nate Rosen.”

  After a long moment, the secretary said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Rosen. It seems that Mr. Hermes is out of the building. He’ll be gone all day.”

  “Can you tell me where I might reach him? This is very important.”

  “I’m afraid not. He didn’t leave his schedule with me. However, I will leave a message that you called.”

  “Sure. Where’s Sherry?”

  The woman hesitated. “She . . . uh . . . she’s home sick today.”

  “Is Mr. Hermes’ son Jason in?”

  “He’s with his father. I’ll tell Mr. Hermes you called. Good-bye.”

  Rosen squeezed the receiver in his hand, as if that might force the truth from it. It was obvious that the publisher, who’d been so friendly, who’d even offered Rosen a job, not only wanted to avoid him, but wanted Rosen to know he was avoiding him. Could that also have something to do with Bixby’s death?

  “Morning.”

  Lucila walked into the kitchen. She had showered and dressed and was toweling her wet hair.

  She asked, “You don’t have a blow dryer?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll look in the hall closet.”

  “That’s all right, I’m almost done. I never sleep so late. What’s for breakfast?”

  “There’s tea.”

  “Of course.”

  “And cereal. I have bread for toast, or bagels.”

  “Bagels—that would be good. Cream cheese?”

  “In the refrigerator. Here, let me.”

  “I can help myself.”

  Polite chatting, more like the conversation between acquaintances than lovers. Were they lovers? Coming into the kitchen, she hadn’t kissed him or even smiled shyly to acknowledge what had happened between them last night. Maybe for her a moment of weakness, an embarrassment she was trying to forget. Or worse, something she did so often, it wasn’t worth a second thought.

  Tucking the towel like a turban around her head, Lucila made herself breakfast, then joined Rosen at the table. Her face was beautiful; freshly scrubbed and without makeup, she looked like a teenager. She looked like Nina.

  She nodded toward the radio. “Any news about Bixby?”

  “The police are leaning toward suicide, but the investigation’s not closed.”

  “Suicide. So that’s that.”

  “The report also indicated there may be a connection between Bixby’s death and that of your niece.”

  She chewed the bagel thoughtfully. “Did the radio mention you or me?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Why don’t we drive up to Arbor Shore? You need to pick up your car, and I’d better see Esther. Besides, she’ll want to thank you for all your help. With Bixby dead, she can begin to put Nina’s death behind her.”

  Lucila spoke casually, as if their disagreement over Bixby’s death hadn’t taken place last night, or that it had been resolved in bed. Rosen didn’t want another argument, but he also wanted her to know that, for him at least, it wasn’t over.

  He said, “I need to go downtown. You can drop me at the “L” station on your way to see Esther.”

  “Your business—it can’t wait? I’m sure Esther would like to hear from you what happened to Bixby.”

  Lucila was giving him one last chance. What would they do after seeing her sister-in-law? Go out to dinner, then back to her place to make love? Or would that too be over?

  He shook his head. “It really can’t wait.”

  They finished their breakfast in silence. Afterward, as he was washing the dishes, she stood beside him and dried them. How often he and Bess had done the dishes just like this. No need to speak, just being together had been enough. He almost sighed, feeling a greater longing than he’d had last night.

  Lucila left the kitchen, and a few minutes later returned with her long hair, brushed to a luster, once again gathered by the red scarf. They put on their jackets, and he followed her out the door.

  Five minutes later she stopped her car across from the Davis Street “L.” Rosen might have been any commuter being dropped off by his wife. Bess used to drop him off like this, a quick kiss before hurrying to catch the train. Should he kiss Lucila, or at least say something about seeing her later?

  “Thanks,” he said and walked across the street.

  He rode the “L” to Grand Avenue, the last exit before the Loop, and walked three blocks east to Michigan Avenue. It was another clear day, in the upper fifties. Leaning into the wind that sliced off Lake Michigan, Rosen zipped the jacket to his throat and wished he’d also worn a sweater.

  He turned north to walk briskly up Michigan Avenue. The stores and upscale boutiques were filled with shoppers, whose bags thumped against their bodies like battered flags in the wind. Just across Ontario he pushed open the door to Brissard Jewelers. An electric chime tinkled “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

  The store was shaped like a box, with cream-colored walls and plush carpeting the color of pewter. One long glass-enclosed counter, shaped like a boomerang, occupied three of the corners. A variety of jewelry was displayed in the cases, as well as on the earlobes and swanlike necks of black velvet busts. Several chains were crafted with the same twisted strands of gold as the one found in Nina’s hand and the one he’d seen in Esther’s room.

  Two salesladies, one old and one young, were dressed identically—a white-embroidered blouse and long black skirt. Each wore earrings, a necklace, and a ring like those in the display case. The younger woman was helping a businessman in a crisp blue suit select an engagement ring.

  “Such simple elegance will always be fashionable,” she said, while the man smiled in agreement.

  The older woman waddled along the opposite side of the counter to where Rosen was standing. Her back curved slightly, making her lean forward like a goose.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “I hope so. I’m thinking of getting my daughter a necklace for her birthday.”

  “Very wise. So many parents these days settle for Nintendo games. How long do they last? But jewelry—not only a gift but also an investment.” She swept her hand over the glass. “Do you have any particular necklace in mind? I’d be happy to make several suggestions that would please a young lady.”

  “Actually, I wanted something like the necklace worn by a friend of mine. Esther Melendez.”

 
“Melendez . . . no, I don’t believe I know that name. We’ve done business with a Mr. Martinez from the Spanish consulate.”

  “The necklace was purchased for her by Mr. and Mrs. Byron Ellsworth.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, Mr. Ellsworth. He and his corporation are one of our most important clients.”

  “His corporation?”

  “Why yes. Ellsworth-Leary often purchases gifts for its customers. Individuals in the corporation buy presents as well.”

  “Which are charged to the corporation’s account?”

  “I’m sure it’s just for billing purposes.”

  The color rose in her pale cheeks like claret filling crystal. They both knew what was really going on—executives buying presents for their mistresses through the corporation, so that their private charge cards wouldn’t show evidence of the purchase.

  She cleared her throat. “I really shouldn’t be—”

  “Of course. Just idle curiosity on my part. If you could look up the type of necklace Mr. Ellsworth purchased for Mrs. Melendez.”

  Again the color rushed to her cheeks.

  “It was a Christmas present from Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth.”

  “Oh, I see. Of course. One moment please.”

  She waddled to the middle of the counter and returned with a leather-bound ledger. She turned the pages slowly.

  “The order would probably have been placed in late November. Here we are. Oh yes, a beautiful piece from our DeLiani line. Tuscan craftsmen, really superb artists. Like these.”

  She placed a tray from the display case on the counter. “Exquisite, aren’t they. All handmade in eighteen-carat gold. Here, this is the one the Ellsworths purchased—a yellow-gold rope with a white-gold box link twisted in. Let it run through your hands. It feels just like silk, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

  “This one came with a gold cross. Would your daughter like a cross as well?”

  Rosen suppressed a smile, which felt sticky against his lips, as he thought about his next question. It was a question he’d been formulating ever since seeing Ellsworth in Esther’s room.

  “Didn’t Mr. Ellsworth order two such necklaces?”

  “No, I only see one here.”

  “Perhaps the second was ordered more recently.”

  “Let me see.” She flipped through the ledger. “Why, yes. Now I remember. A second necklace was delivered last month.”

  “With a cross?”

  “Yes—identical.”

  “Delivered to . . .?”

  “The Leary Building, as usual.”

  “But Mr. Ellsworth placed the order personally.”

  “No. We haven’t seen him in a few years. Once a bond of trust is established . . . you understand. Besides, our jewelry speaks for itself.”

  “So he just calls in the order.”

  The saleswoman cocked her head slightly. “I really think it would be better to concentrate on your purchase. Now that we’ve settled on the chain, we can turn our attention to an appropriate charm. If you’d step over to this counter.”

  Rosen said, “It’s a beautiful necklace, but I’d like to think it over. Thanks for your time.”

  Standing very still, she said in the same pleasant tone, “You weren’t intending to make a purchase. This was just a ruse to gather some information about one of our clients.”

  He shrugged.

  “I should have known. You have the look of a cheap detective. Your jacket—Sears, no doubt.”

  Rosen nodded. “Such simple elegance will always be fashionable.”

  Leaving the jewelry store, he walked down Michigan Avenue. He trembled—not from the wind, but from the ultimate conclusion drawn from the last question he’d asked the saleswoman. Martin Bixby was as much a victim as Nina.

  He crossed the street, hailed a cab, and ten minutes later was in the heart of the Loop, in front of a small gray building. Climbing the stairs, he walked into Elgin Hermes’ office.

  A heavy black woman, her hair set in poodle ringlets, smiled from behind the desk. “Hello. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Hermes.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but he’ll want to see me.”

  “Indeed. Your name, please?”

  Her hand reached for the intercom button.

  “Nate Rosen.” When the woman’s hand froze in midair, he continued, “Go ahead. I think you’ll find he’s changed his mind.”

  She pressed the button gently, as if tapping her boss’s shoulder.

  “It’s Mr. Rosen.”

  “I told you to say I’m not in!”

  “But he’s here. He’d like to see you.”

  The intercom went dead.

  “Mr. Hermes?”

  “All right. Send him in.”

  Hermes sat behind his desk, the fingers of his right hand drumming on a yellow legal pad. He motioned to the chair opposite him. Rosen noticed that the pad’s top sheet was blank. It was there as a prop, to make Hermes appear busy. But his red eyes, the stubble on his face, and the wrinkled suit told another story.

  Rosen said, “I thought you were anxious to see me.”

  “Hmm?”

  “About the job offer.”

  “Oh that. Could we take it up another time? I’m pretty busy.”

  “Writing another scathing editorial?”

  Hermes stared at the blank pad. “Yeah.”

  “Maybe I can help you.”

  “No, you can’t help me.”

  “What’s it about? Some sort of corruption, I’ll bet. Threats, intimidation.”

  The publisher fixed his gaze like a knife on Rosen. “What is it you know?”

  “It’s what I don’t know. What you promised to get for me—remember? Information on Byron Ellsworth and his family.”

  “Like I said, I’ve been busy.” His fingers returned to drumming on the legal pad. “Besides, I thought you wouldn’t need any information.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because of Bixby.”

  “What about Bixby?”

  “Goddamnit, because he’s dead. Because he must’ve killed that friend of your daughter’s, then committed suicide.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Hermes rubbed his raw eyes and winced. “It’s been on the radio all day. And the newspapers.”

  “They’re all guessing, just like the police are guessing. No one knows for sure. That’s why I need your help.”

  The other man shook his head wearily.

  “I need your help to get to Ellsworth. At least to get him somewhere alone, away from Masaryk and his army of well-dressed goons. I think Ellsworth’s the key to the deaths of Nina Melendez and Bixby.”

  “Now you’re guessing.”

  “Maybe. Let’s deal with what we both know. They got to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Ellsworth or, more likely, Masaryk acting for Ellsworth. Somehow they got to you. Not with money. They’ve got something on you or threatened you. Either way, I’m disappointed.”

  “What the hell do you know?”

  Rosen nodded up toward the portrait on the wall. “Your grandfather would’ve been disappointed. What do you think he’d have said?”

  Hermes glared at Rosen. “He would have quoted Shakespeare. I’m sure you know the passage: ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?’ This investigation of yours—you’re doing all this for your daughter, right?”

  “Yes.”

  His jaw trembled. “Well?”

  “Well?” Rosen suddenly caught the glint of fear in the other man’s eyes. “Your daughter-in-law. Where is she?”

  “She’s home safe. There was an accident last night. Nothing much. Sherry and my son Jason took the train to the station where their car was parked. From there it’s only a five-minute drive home. At a stop sign one block from their house, one of those big four by fours—some kind
of jeep, hit their car from behind, then took off.”

  “Were they hurt?”

  “Shaken up a little. Jason banged his knee. You know, Sherry’s pregnant. It’ll be my first grandchild.”

  “I’m glad they’re all right, but I don’t understand. If it was an accident—”

  “Last night, fifteen minutes after coming home from the hospital, I received a call from Masaryk. He offered his condolences over the accident. He said the kids needed to be careful—that there were crazy drivers all over the streets and something like that could happen anytime, anywhere. That we’d better have a good lawyer, but not some out-of-town Jewish lawyer. He was warning me to stay away from you.”

  “How did he know you were helping me?”

  The publisher shrugged. “I’d begun making some inquiries about Ellsworth. Masaryk must’ve backtracked them to me. He also said we should be especially careful, since Sherry’s expecting.”

  “How did he know that?”

  Hermes banged his fist on the table. “The son-of-a-bitch knows everything!” Breathing heavily, he leaned over the table. “Sometimes I think he’s the devil himself. Know what else he said?”

  Rosen shook his head, afraid to ask.

  “Had some good news for me, he said. Ellsworth-Leary had decided to present the city college system with a performing arts scholarship in my grandfather’s name. Something I’d been planning to do for a long time. The Oliver Jones Scholarship. Know why they did it?” He looked away. “It’s a little lesson, so that I won’t ever forget their intimidation.”

  Ashamed for Hermes, Rosen also looked away. Neither man spoke, but as Rosen got up to leave, he saw Jason Hermes standing in the doorway. The young man leaned on a cane, his right leg bent at the knee.

  He grimaced. “Dad, tell him what he wants.”

  “You’re hurting. Why don’t you go home.”

  “Damn right I’m hurting, but not from the knee. It’s the same thing that’s hurting you. I want you to help Mr. Rosen.”

  “You don’t know what this Masaryk is like. If you don’t want to think about yourself, think about Sherry. Think about your baby.”

  “I’ll protect her. I’ll get a gun if I have to, but I won’t live like this.”