Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Through the dimness, Rosen barely discerned the figure across the room. But the fragrance of her perfume hung heavily in the air. She took a few steps, her high heels clicking on the wooden floor, and flung off her long coat. She wore a filmy chemise, garters, and stockings. Everything white and, in the pale light, gleaming hard as ivory.

  Throwing her arms around Masaryk, Margarita Reyes gave him a lingering kiss. She tilted back her head and grinned.

  “I brought it, just like you said. Here.”

  Masaryk took something from her hand, then walked back to his desk. Starting after him, she saw Rosen and froze in her tracks.

  “Porque esta aquí? Creía que—”

  “Speak English,” Masaryk said. “You’re Mr. Rosen’s guest, not mine.”

  “I don’t understand. The man who brought your letter—”

  “What man?”

  “He looked just like one of your men. Short hair, white shirt and tie. He brought me this.”

  She bent to retrieve something from her coat, then hurried to Masaryk.

  He stretched the envelope taut between his hands. “Company stationery—very clever.” He took out the letter. “In Spanish—even better. ‘Come to my study tonight at nine. We’ll be alone. Bring the cross. I have the chain.’ There’s no signature.”

  Rosen said, “I didn’t need a signature.”

  “No, I suppose you didn’t. I underestimated you. That has serious consequences in my profession.”

  Ita stamped her foot and shouted at Masaryk, “You told him! He’ll spoil everything!”

  Rosen shook his head. “He didn’t tell me. You did.”

  “Mentiroso! I never told you a thing!”

  “Remember going to Lucila’s apartment after the funeral? “You and Soldier spoke to one another in Spanish.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You laughed at him and said, ‘No te preocupes’—‘Don’t worry.’” Rosen paused, then repeated the phrase, “‘No te preocupes.’ You didn’t use the formal ‘se,’ but ‘te,’ as if Masaryk were a close friend or a lover. Why else would he protect Hector Alvarez, a man dealing drugs to his boss’s son? Under any other circumstance Alvarez would be in jail or worse. But he’s your cousin.”

  Ita stared hard at Rosen, then suddenly grinned, arms akimbo. “That’s right. We’re lovers. So how do you know—”

  Masaryk grabbed her arm to shut her up.

  Rosen finished the sentence, almost sighing. “How do I know that you killed Nina Melendez?”

  Masaryk and Ita exchanged glances, and she twisted her arm free.

  “I didn’t know for sure,” Rosen said, “until you walked in with the cross, the one that came from around Nina’s throat. That is what you brought?”

  Opening his hand, palm upward, Masaryk revealed a small cross of gold. “It was my birthday present to her.”

  “You’re the one who called Nina at ten o’clock the night she died.”

  “Yes. I told her to sneak out of the house and meet me in the park. She’d done it before. I wanted to give her the present.”

  Ita clicked her tongue. “I wasn’t enough for you.”

  Masaryk closed his eyes for a moment. “We’ve gone over all this before.”

  “But she’s right, isn’t she?” Rosen asked. “Ita wasn’t enough—too easy, like the young whores in Vietnam and Guatemala. What did you want—something more challenging? A virgin. What was that you told me—they’re either babies or women?”

  Glaring at Masaryk, Ita said to Rosen, “The bastard was in a hotel with me when he called her.”

  “The company suite in the Palmer House?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Said he had a present for her—something real special. I was in the bathroom; he thought I didn’t hear him on the phone.”

  Masaryk shook his head wearily. “I didn’t give a damn if you heard me. He’s right—you were too easy. Too common.”

  She moved closer to Masaryk, rubbing against him like a cat. “But you know better now, don’t you, querido?”

  “That’s right,” Rosen said. “Has any other woman ever killed over you?”

  Again the other man shook his head. “How did you know?”

  “It was the roses.”

  “Roses?”

  “The morning after Nina’s death, the police found rose petals scattered on the ground where she tripped and fell. Esther Melendez said her daughter didn’t bring the flowers from the house. It seemed obvious that some man brought her a bouquet. At first, like everyone else, I assumed the man was Bixby. Later I thought he was Ellsworth, then you. But if one of you had brought her roses, they would’ve fallen down the cliff when she fell. They didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “There weren’t any stems. That Friday night, you were with Ita in the company suite. Dinner for two, roses ordered from the florist downstairs. When she overheard you calling Nina and mentioning that special present, I can imagine how Ita felt. She’s not exactly the most understanding of God’s creatures.”

  Masaryk rubbed his forehead. “You’ve noticed that.”

  “You made some excuse to end the evening early and drove her home around ten-thirty, the bouquet of roses cradled in her arms. Her house is just around the corner from the park, but instead of going inside, she followed on foot, as you drove down the side street, across the bridge, and into the park.”

  “That’s right,” Ita said. “I stood behind a tree and listened to them goo-goo together. He kept saying how sweet she was, so soft and gentle. When they kissed, he kept his hands on her shoulders. Not like me, eh, querido? Not like when you can’t wait to run your hands up my skirt and into my panties. I bet she smelled me on your hands, that little Snow White of yours.”

  Rosen asked, “And when he gave her the necklace?”

  “Even from where I stood, I could tell it was expensive. What had he ever bought me—nada. Nada menos las flores.”

  “Then what?”

  “They kissed, that’s all.” To Masaryk, “What would you’ve expected from me for something like that. On my knees, right?”

  Masaryk grabbed her arm and pulled her down beside him. Ita tried twisting free, but his grip only tightened. She stifled a scream, biting her lower lip, then moved her hand slowly up his thigh. Masaryk released her hand. She rested her head on his lap while he stroked her hair.

  Ita spoke very softly to Rosen, “After Soldier left, Nina stayed in the park. She was leaning against the fence railing, watching the moon and still trembling from his touch. She didn’t hear me coming.”

  “Then what?” Rosen asked.

  “Nina turned. She had a small smile on her face, like she thought he’d come back. I told her about Soldier and me, about how good I made him feel, and what a little bitch she was. No way was she getting that expensive piece of jewelry, so I ripped it from her throat. The chain fell onto the ground somewhere, but I held the cross in my hand.”

  “She went for it?”

  Ita shook her head. “I expected her to fight for the cross, but instead, her hands moved down to her side. She couldn’t stand to touch me. Like I was trash.”

  “So you pushed her over the cliff.”

  “Yeah, I pushed her. She grabbed at me but came up with a handful of petals before going over the cliff.”

  “You just watched her fall.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And walked home, still holding the bouquet of roses.”

  “He gave them to me, didn’t he? Besides, I wanted him to see—to know what I’d done for us.”

  Rosen rubbed his eyes. The room seemed smaller, warmer—much too warm. His hands were sticky and his mouth dry.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “That’s why the police didn’t find any stems. You took the bouquet home. I bet you put them in a vase. If the police had only bothered to look in your room.”

  “They were beautiful,” Ita said. “I liked the damaged ones the best. I pressed one of them into a book so I’d always have it. I
showed it to Soldier.”

  “You showed him the cross too?”

  “No, I was afraid he’d take it away. I wanted a gold chain for the cross, but he wouldn’t get me one—said it was too dangerous. Then I got his letter . . . your letter.”

  Rosen said to Masaryk, “So you covered for her—even killing Bixby.”

  Lifting her head, Ita grinned, the laughter rippling through her body. He looked into her widening eyes and realized it was more horrible than he’d imagined.

  “My God, you killed Bixby. I should’ve known—risking murder in the middle of the day, the throwaway gun that might’ve blown up, no silencer. An act of impulse . . . of insanity.”

  She giggled. “Since Esther thought Bix killed her daughter, I figured his suicide would stop people from asking any more questions. So I cut school and went over to his apartment. I used the back stairs. He let me right in.”

  “You were one of the girls he . . .”

  “Played his little games with. Yeah. Oh, how excited he got when he saw me. When we sat down in the kitchen, I told him I had a special surprise in my purse. Maybe he was expecting a new nightie, maybe a whip. When I took out a pair of white gloves, he started smiling, he was even licking his lips. Then I pulled out my cousin Hector’s gun. Bix put up his hand, but it was too late. The look in his eyes, just before . . .”

  She closed her eyes for a moment to linger over the memory. “Afterward, I pressed his hand on the gun handle and set up everything to look like suicide. Everybody thought it was suicide. Everybody but you!”

  Rosen waited for his trembling to stop, then asked Masaryk, “Was it worth it?”

  “He loves me,” Ita said.

  Rosen shook his head. “He’s protecting himself. If the police found out about you, they’d find out about him and Nina. That would bring lots of publicity to the Ellsworths. Soldier couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t be doing his job.”

  Like a petulant child, she struck her fist on Masaryk’s knee. “He loves me! Show him, Soldier. Show him how much you love me.”

  Opening the desk drawer, Masaryk took out a service revolver. Ita ran her hand lightly over the gun barrel.

  “See, I told you he loves me. I killed for him; now he’s going to kill for me.”

  “Not here,” Rosen said. “Not in his own room in his employer’s house.”

  Masaryk shrugged. “You’ll be taking a trip with some of my men.”

  “I won’t need to pack a toothbrush.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have an accident, but the bravado’s another nice touch. Am I to worry that you’ve been in contact with the police?”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “That phone call I made, when you first arrived. One of my men checked the neighborhood for police cars—nothing but the usual patrol. And Chief Keller left yesterday for a long weekend in Wisconsin. Besides, I don’t think you trust the police. I think you came here all by yourself.”

  Rosen shifted in his chair. He had to get Masaryk off balance. “Why would I do that?”

  “Maybe you hoped to get Ita and me going at each other. Or that we’d admit everything, and in my megalomania, I’d let you walk out of here—to show I wasn’t afraid of you. You do think I’m megalomaniacal.”

  “I think you’re both crazy.”

  “The real reason you came is because you had to discover the truth, even if it cost your life. So which of us is crazy?”

  “You’re going to kill me and live happily ever after with Ita? You’ll never be able to trust her.”

  “Trying to pit us against each other after all. I know my Ita very well. I’m willing to take the chance. I’ve seen a lot of this world—too much. Nothing really excited me anymore, even her. But when she murdered Nina, then Bixby . . . remember what Oscar Wilde said about fucking stable boys—it’s like feasting with panthers; the delight’s in the danger.”

  “You and your little whore.”

  “Kill him!” Ita yelled.

  Masaryk reached for the phone. “Not here.”

  She grabbed for the gun. “If you won’t shoot him, I will.” The receiver clattered onto the desk as Masaryk moved his gun hand away from Ita. When she stretched across his body, he threw her onto the floor like a bothersome cat.

  Rosen started from his chair.

  “Hold it,” Masaryk said. “The both of you—just hold it.”

  For a moment Ita’s jaw set tight, then she grinned, running her tongue across her upper lip. Leaning forward, she whispered into his ear, her hand inside his shirt. Masaryk closed his eyes tight for a moment and nodded. She reached for his gun.

  “No,” he said. “No, I’ll do it.” To Rosen, “Plans have changed slightly. I’m sorry. I really wished you’d let well enough alone.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Go on,” Ita said. “Now, do it now!”

  Grabbing the armrests, Rosen jerked as two shots cracked in the air. For a moment, everything held still as a painting. Then Masaryk slumped forward, sliding from the chair as his gun clattered along the floor.

  Rosen turned to see Lucila leaning against the door frame. She’d been outside the door, as they’d planned. The gun quivered in her hand.

  Rosen knelt beside Masaryk, where rivulets of blood formed a delta down the side of his chest. Swallowing hard, Rosen fought back the hot flash before his eyes as his left hand clawed at the desk.

  “Take it easy. I’ll call for an ambulance.”

  Grimacing, Masaryk gripped Rosen’s right arm. “That girl of yours . . . didn’t hesitate. Good soldier.”

  Another sound, soft whimpering like a frightened animal, but Masaryk wasn’t breathing anymore. It was Ita pushing past him, on her knees, toward the gun on the floor. Rosen couldn’t stop her; Masaryk’s hand still gripped him like an iron claw.

  Then another figure swept past him, her long skirt brushing his cheek. Esther, holding a butcher knife, reached Ita just as she fumbled for the gun. One hand twisted in the girl’s hair, Esther jerked back Ita’s head to expose her throat. Jerked it back and let the body dangle, arms flailing like beating wings and strangled cries guttering as eyes grew wide.

  But no wider than those of Esther, whose knife, slicing through the air, plunged into Ita’s throat. Blood spurted over her chest, spraying her white chemise and spattering the wooden floor with droplets as finely shaped as rose petals.

  It didn’t matter that the girl hung lifeless under the woman’s hand. With a sob, Esther made a second thrust through the first to complete the cross, Nina’s cross, that Ita had so wanted to wear.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The fog was damp enough for the wipers to sweep occasionally across the windshield, like a hand brushing away an irritating fly.

  “Turn left here,” Rosen said to Lucila. “Park anywhere on the street. Don’t forget to turn off your lights.”

  Sunday morning it was easy to find a spot near the corner. Rosen and Lucila got out first, while Sarah moved carefully from the rear seat, trying not to damage the bouquet of flowers wrapped in green paper. Turning up his collar and zipping Sarah’s jacket to her chin, he led them across the street into the little Jewish cemetery.

  They were in his old neighborhood, a few blocks north of Gompers Park. The cemetery was small and almost forgotten, tucked between an auto-body shop and a Korean realtor. Its iron gates, mottled with rust, yawned open to an asphalt path bisecting the graveyard. In the fog everything looked gray or black—the path, monuments and headstones, benches, evergreen trees, and the catalpas, naked and tall, that stretched their limbs broadly as if just awakening.

  They were alone; not even the sound of birds. Rosen wouldn’t have come—too close to Friday night and the deaths of Masaryk and Margarita Reyes—but he was catching a plane for D.C. in two hours. Before leaving, he had to see his mother.

  Sarah had wanted to come along. She’d spent the night with Rosen. They’d talked; rather, he’d talked while she listened to everything that had gone on among
Bixby and Ita and Masaryk. She’d heard Rosen say, again and again, that her friend Nina had done nothing wrong. An innocent victim who’d done nothing wrong.

  All night Sarah had listened. She’d nod, ask an occasional question, look off, then change the subject. She didn’t ask why, or clench her fists, or lash out, or cry—as if Nina were no more than a stranger mentioned in a thirty-second news spot. With Mrs. Agee’s help, Bess was arranging private therapy for her. Rosen didn’t want to leave, but the counselor said Sarah might take months to make any real progress.

  “How far?” Lucila asked.

  He nodded down the path. “To the left of that monument.”

  They passed a granite lion stretched over a family headstone.

  He said to Sarah, “The first time I brought you here, you were maybe three or four. I thought the lion would scare you, but you said next time we needed to bring milk for the kitty.”

  Lucila laughed, but his daughter merely nodded.

  Past the lion and a concrete bench, under a giant catalpa, rested a headstone that fronted a double plot. “ROSEN” had been carved across the top. Below, on the right half, were the words, “Rivka—Beloved Wife and Mother.” Under that, the carver had inscribed, in Hebrew, words from Genesis 24:67, “and he took Rebekah as his wife. Isaac loved her.”

  There was also her picture, locket-shaped, set into the stone. She wore a dark, heavy dress, her head covered as it always had been. Her face, broad like Aaron’s, but with a generous smile and soft, dark eyes that smiled too. Rosen could almost feel her arms around him while she sang him a lullaby.

  The left side of the stone, blank, had waited patiently over twenty years for his father’s remains to be interred beside her. He imagined the words forming inside his head, sent like lightning bolts through his eyes to burn into the stone: “Honor your father.”

  Sarah was saying something.

  “What?”

  “The flowers, Daddy. Here.”

  Kneeling beside the grave, he carefully unwrapped the roses. In the mist their redness took on a vibrant luminosity, as if, at that moment, all the color in the world had been concentrated into those flowers. As he laid them carefully across his mother’s grave, Sarah spoke in a faraway voice.