Dog is in the Details

by Neil S. Plakcy

  Rochester didn’t argue, so I continued.

  “He must have gotten suspicious about his father’s identity at some point and started looking for information. But that’s all in the past. Why would it matter now?”

  I stuck my hand out to stroke Rochester’s head, but instead he sat up and licked my fingers. I laughed. “You are such a love bug.” He yawned, and settled back in his seat.

  Love. I’d loved my father, to the point of idolizing him when I was young, something I was sure a lot of boys felt. How would my love for my father change if I found out he’d been lying to me all my life? Would I be sad? Angry? Take that anger out on others?

  It was his father’s secret – but it was his, too, wasn’t it? Suppose everyone in Trenton knew that Aaron Feinberg, big macher at Shomrei Torah and owner of several prosperous furniture stores in the suburbs, was the son of a concentration camp guard rather than a Holocaust survivor?

  It would be an explosive story that would ruin his family. He’d have to give up being temple president. It would be too much of a slap in the face of the congregation for him to continue. And he’d probably have to sell or shut down his business—who would want to buy from someone with his background?

  By the time we reached the office I felt sure that Aaron Feinberg had been behind the murders of Joel Goldberg and Daniel Epstein. I understood why he’d want to protect his secret, but I still couldn’t figure out what had set him on a collision course with his two victims.

  It was late that afternoon when my phone rang with an unknown number. “Steve? Aaron Feinberg here. Saul told me you’ve been talking to him.”

  I was stunned that Saul Benesch would have called Feinberg, after all we’d discussed. Wasn’t he worried about his own life? And how did I know that Feinberg hadn’t killed Benesch after that conversation?

  I decided to play dumb. “I have.”

  “Saul’s pretty upset about my using his email address and I’d like to explain the situation to you. Then maybe you can help me calm Saul down.”

  I hoped that meant Benesch was still alive.

  I doubted that there was anything Feinberg could say that would explain away everything that had happened, but I said, “Sure. When did you want to get together?”

  “We have a board meeting at Shomrei Torah tonight that I can’t get out of. You live in River Bend, don’t you? I have a friend who lives over there so I know it’s not too far from the temple. Maybe you could swing by when the meeting is over and we can talk? But don’t bring your dog, please. Take him for a walk before you leave.”

  Was that how he’d lured Joel Goldberg to his death, by arranging a meeting at Shomrei Torah? Hey, if it worked once. Only I’d make sure that Rick was there to look out for me.

  I agreed to meet him outside the rabbi’s study at nine o’clock that evening.

  Then I called Rick and explained the situation. “You’ll go with me, won’t you?” I asked.

  “Or I could just pull Mr. Feinberg in for questioning and leave you out of it.”

  “What are you going to question him about? You don’t have any evidence connecting him to either murder, do you? Everything we know is just supposition.”

  “I am a skilled investigator, remember? I do this for a living. I ask people questions and get answers.”

  I waited.

  “But you’re right,” he said eventually. “I can ask him all the questions I want but there’s no guarantee he’ll say anything that incriminates him.”

  We arranged that he’d pick me up at eight so that he could be in place to observe my meeting with Feinberg. “Do you want me to wear a wire?” I asked.

  He said he’d take care of everything, and as I drove home I thought about questions that I’d want to ask Aaron Feinberg. How could I ease my way into asking him about his father? I doubted that he’d admit he’d killed Joel or Daniel, but I wanted to get enough information so that Rick would have the ability to pull him in for interrogation.

  As we were driving into River Bend, I got a text from Lili that she had to stick around campus to meet with an adjunct who taught a night class, and that she’d be home late. When I stopped the car in my driveway, I texted her back a couple of kisses.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, boy,” I said. I ate dinner, fed the hound, and then took him for a long walk, still trying to put together the questions I wanted to ask Feinberg. I was so caught up those thoughts that I didn’t worry too much about meeting with someone who might have killed twice already—I was younger than Feinberg, stronger, aware of what I was walking into, unlike Joel Goldberg or Daniel Epstein.

  And I’d have Rick watching my back.

  It was a cool night and I was glad to get back home. Rick arrived around eight and parked his truck beside my car. When I opened the door to him, Rochester kept nosing around, wondering why Rascal wasn’t with him.

  “Take off your shirt so I can hook up the wire,” Rick said. I did as asked, and he taped a wire to my chest. “Sorry, this is going to hurt when it comes off. Unless you want to shave your chest.”

  “I’ll suffer for justice.”

  The recorder went into my pants pocket, and then I put my shirt on. Rick opened a big bag and pulled out a black vest.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Finest Kevlar,” he said. “Stops a bullet up to a .44 magnum. I borrowed it for you from one of the other guys.”

  The vest looked bulky, with a front panel made of something shiny with a cross-hatched pattern across the front.

  “You think I need this?”

  “If we’re correct, this guy has already shot and killed two men. I don’t want my best friend to be the third.”

  Aw, that was sweet. It was also kind of scary. I was glad I was leaving Rochester behind. I slipped the vest on, and Rick tightened the straps on the vest. For a moment I had trouble breathing. “Too tight?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I gasped.

  He loosened it a bit, then I put my windbreaker on over it. “Looks good,” he said. “Let’s hope he doesn’t try for a head shot.”

  “I don’t know about this, Rick,” I said. “Maybe you’re right, you should just pull him in for questioning.”

  “You know I don’t have enough evidence for that.”

  I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked bigger, tougher. Maybe that was just the vest, but I felt more confident. “I should take Rochester out for a quick pee before we go.”

  “I’ll stay here. I have a couple of phone calls to make.”

  I put on Rochester’s leash and we went outside. The streets of River Bend were pretty narrow and there wasn’t much guest parking, so sometimes it was difficult to navigate around parked cars. To our right, a car idled on the other side of the street, its headlights on, waiting for someone to come out of the house, so we turned left instead.

  Rochester made a beeline for one of his favorite spots and lifted his leg. Behind me, I heard the car begin creeping forward, and I tugged Rochester’s leash and stepped onto a neighbor’s lawn to let the car pass.

  “Come on,” I said out loud. “Not you, boy. I hate it when cars go so slowly while we’re waiting for them to pass.” I turned around to look at the approaching headlights.

  Everything happened so quickly that it was hard to figure out what was going on. I heard three quick pops, and at first I thought the car was backfiring. Rochester freaked at the sound and tugged me away from the street, toward the neighbor’s house.

  Then it felt like someone had punched me, hard, in the back. Three times.

  I tripped over a low hedge and went down, and Rochester began to bark.

  29 – Dangerous Path

  I heard a door bang open, and Rick yell, “Steve!”

  “I’m okay,” I called, though I wasn’t sure I was. “Go after him!”

  Rick jumped into his truck, turned the flashing light on, and zoomed down the street in pursuit of whoever had been driving that car. Rochester licked my face, and I
petted him. “I’m okay, boy,” I said, though my back hurt.

  I gingerly stood up. What in the world had just happened?

  It couldn’t have been Aaron Feinberg in that car. He was supposed to be at a temple board meeting. Who else? Saul Benesch? Henry Namias? Someone I hadn’t considered?

  I was surprised none of my neighbors came out as I limped back toward the house with Rochester close beside me. Hadn’t anyone heard the gunshots? It felt like I might have pulled a muscle in my leg when I fell. But if that was all that was wrong I was grateful.

  A set of headlights approached, coming from the direction the car had gone. Was the shooter coming back to finish the job? I scrambled across the street, tugging Rochester behind me, and made it to the door as the headlights swung into the driveway.

  Rochester barked and barked. “It’s okay, puppy,” I said, stroking his head. “It’s just Mama Lili.”

  She hopped out of her car. “What’s wrong with you? Why were you limping? And what are you wearing?”

  I collapsed onto a kitchen chair. “It’s a bulletproof vest. Hopefully it worked.”

  “Steven.”

  It was rare to hear Lili use my full name, and the tone of voice she used did not bode well.

  “Rick was here,” I said. “He fitted me out with this vest, and a recorder, so I could go to Shomrei Torah tonight and meet with Aaron Feinberg. But someone took a couple of shots at me just now, and Rick went off after whoever it was.”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “I think so. Can you help me get my jacket and this vest off?”

  “Ai yi yi. What am I going to do with you? Stand up.”

  I stood, trying not to put pressure on the leg that felt strained. She slipped the windbreaker off and turned me around. “There are three bullet holes in this vest,” she said, her voice shaking. “Oh, Steve. Sweetheart. Before I take this off I’m getting the first aid kit.”

  “I’m okay,” I protested, but she hurried upstairs to the bathroom. I undid the front buckle on the vest but couldn’t flex my arms enough to get it off.

  When she returned, carrying a plastic box with a bunch of first aid supplies, she undid the straps. Then she took a deep breath and slipped the vest off me.

  “Well, at least the vest did its job,” she said. “Nothing got through.”

  I undid the buttons of my shirt and she took it off. “There’s some redness and swelling on your back,” she said. She pressed her finger into one of the spots.

  “Ouch!”

  “Good. Maybe if these hurt for a few days you’ll think twice about putting yourself in danger again.”

  “It was going to be fine,” I protested. “Rick was going to be right there with me.”

  She made a show of looking around the room, even under the table. “And where is Rick now? I don’t see him.”

  “I told you, he went after whoever shot me.”

  “I think I preferred it when you were just hacking,” she said. “At least you weren’t in danger of getting killed.”

  “Just of going to prison,” I said.

  She glared at me.

  I held up my hands. “Sorry. You’re right. But honestly, I didn’t think I was in any danger, with this vest, and Rick right there for backup.”

  My phone trilled with the Hawaii Five-O ring tone. “You all right?” Rick asked when I answered.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Three bullets in the vest, though.”

  “Hold on to them. I’m going to need them for ballistics. I chased that car through River Bend and saw the driver throw a weapon out the window. But he got stuck waiting for the gate to open to let him out.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Aaron Feinberg. I’m waiting for a couple of uniforms to get here and take him in, and I’ll go back and look for the gun.”

  I was angry at Feinberg and wanted to do something. “Tell me where you’re going to look for the gun and I’ll meet you there.”

  “I can manage. You rest up and I’ll talk to you later. I’ll need to get a full statement from you and get that vest back, but that can wait until tomorrow.”

  I hung up and looked at Lili. “You are never going to change, are you?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath, and pain shot through my back. “I’m never going to stop trying.”

  “I guess that’s all I can ask for,” Lili said. “Let’s go upstairs. There’s some bruise cream I can rub on your back to reduce the swelling.”

  * * *

  I didn’t hear from Rick again until late that night, and that was only a text suggesting we meet at the Chocolate Ear the next morning. When Rochester and I got there, Rick was already sitting in the annex, with a café mocha for me and a biscuit for Rochester.

  “There was no board meeting, you know,” I said, as I sat down across from him. “I checked the Shomrei Torah website—the meeting’s next Tuesday night.”

  “Might have been a good idea to check that earlier,” Rick said dryly.

  He had arrested Aaron Feinberg and spent a couple of hours questioning him. He hadn’t admitted to killing anyone, but Rick had found the gun, a .38 millimeter Ruger semi-automatic, and which was registered to Feinberg.

  I handed him the vest, and he looked at it, then whistled. “Not a bad shot for an old man,” he said. “If you hadn’t been wearing the vest these could have done some real damage.”

  “I was thinking about what Feinberg said to me when he asked me to meet. That he knew I lived in River Bend. That he suggested I take Rochester for a walk before I left for the temple.”

  “So that he could be in place to shoot you. A smart guy, though pretty twisted.”

  “What I don’t understand is how Joel Goldberg made the connection to Feinberg. He couldn’t have read that document in Yiddish that I found at the old shul.”

  “And see, he didn’t have to,” Rick said. “Feinberg told me that Joel was angry about the way he’d been treated when he showed up at the blessing of the animals. He had looked up Feinberg’s address online and went to the house in Hiltonia to complain.”

  “The night that he died?”

  Rick nodded. “He says that while he was there he showed Feinberg a paper he’d found hidden away at the old synagogue.”

  “It couldn’t be what Myer Hafetz wrote. That was in Yiddish, and Joel couldn’t read that. And I found it in the box behind the Belgian block wall.”

  “Apparently there was an English translation, and he brought that to Feinberg’s house, and they went over it together. He says that he convinced Joel the document referred to someone else, and suggested that he turn it over to his brother. That Joel left, and that’s the last he saw of him.”

  “Didn’t the police pick up Joel in Hiltonia that night? Near Feinberg’s house?”

  “Yup. If I were a betting man I’d say that Joel left Feinberg’s place, wandered around for a while, then went back to talk more. When Feinberg wouldn’t open the door he got angry, and that’s when a neighbor called the cops.”

  “So the police took Joel to the train station, and he got on the bus to Shomrei Torah,” I said. “How did Feinberg know he was going there?”

  “This is all conjecture, but I think maybe Joel said something like ‘I’m going right over to the synagogue,’ and so Feinberg went after him. He insists that he stayed at home that night, and his wife agrees he was there. Of course, I don’t believe her.”

  “Did he admit to knowing about his father’s background?”

  “He told me he’d found some letters addressed to his father, calling him Karl. That he had done some looking around online, because he was curious. But he didn’t know the whole story until he saw that document.”

  “Did he know that his father killed the rabbi and Myer Hafetz?”

  “He swears he didn’t. But he also says he didn’t kill Joel Goldberg or Daniel Epstein.”

  “Why did he shoot at me, then?”

  “He won’t say. All he was willing to talk about was the p
ast. Wouldn’t say anything about Epstein, either, but I could tell he was lying from his body language. I’ll leave the rest of the interrogation up to the district attorney. All I had to do was deliver probable cause, and I’ve done that.”

  We finished our coffees and Rick left. I walked Rochester back to the car but instead of heading up to Friar Lake, I detoured into Trenton. I drove past St. Francis Medical Center, where I was born, and then past where my grandmother and my great-aunts and uncles had lived.

  Rochester sat up eagerly in the seat beside me. He didn’t know where we were going – but then, neither did I. It wasn’t until we passed the Rescue Mission and where the house with the two red doors had been that I realized I was heading for the old shul.

  When we got there, a makeshift fence had been put up around the site and a construction crew was working on demolishing the last remnants of the building.

  So much of my past was gone, I thought as I sat there in the car, petting Rochester. Every relative of my parents’ generation. Many of the landmarks of my childhood and young adulthood. Trenton was a different city than the one where I’d spent so much time when I was a boy. Even Stewart’s Crossing had changed in small ways. The feed store had been replaced by a real estate office. Stores and restaurants like Gail’s café catered to a more upmarket clientele.

  But despite all the changes, I still felt connected to the Delaware Valley, to the ghosts of old Jewtown. I would not have children to pass that connection on to, which was a shame, but perhaps some legacies needed to end—like Aaron Feinberg’s.

  Rochester and I watched the destruction of the last wall of the old shul, and then we drove quietly upriver to Friar Lake.

  Friday night, Lili accompanied me to Shomrei Torah, where Rabbi Goldberg thanked me for all my help in establishing what Joel had wanted, and what had happened to him.

  “Aaron Feinberg has resigned as temple president,” he said. “He wouldn’t tell me why, but Saul Benesch told me that Aaron was been arrested for Joel’s murder and that he’s out on bail now. Is that true?”