A Murder Too Close

by Penny Mickelbury

  The front door opened and people spilled out—young, old, male, female, all colors, one in a wheelchair. Some carried shoes in their hands but most were in their sock feet and I moved out of the way so they could put their shoes on. “Mr. Rodriquez!” I heard, and found Patty Starrett smiling at me. “Phil! What a surprise!”

  “Hi, Patty,” I said, and was pleased that she embraced me instead of offering me a hand to shake. “How’s Pam?”

  I got an even bigger smile and her eyes sparkled with tears. “She is an amazing little girl and she’s doing really well, with Dr. Mason’s help.”

  “And yours, too, Patty. The kid’s got an amazing mother, don’t forget.” And I meant that. If it could be said that any good could come from something as horrific as the serial rape and murder of little girls it would be that the people who loved and cared for those little girls found within themselves reserves of strength they probably didn’t know they had—people like Patty Starrett and Carmine Aiello—and that strength rubbed off on people like me and I’m better for it. I know this is true. “Give Pam a hug for me.”

  “I will, Phil, and she’ll be sorry she missed seeing you. You’re her hero, you know. You are!” she insisted when she saw me start to protest. “She knows you’re the one who got the bad man who hurt her, and the bad man who hurt Dr. Mason. You’re all the X-Men rolled into one for her.”

  I was still being warmed by the memory of Pamela Starrett, a smaller version of her mother, when I heard my name called again, this time by the monk I was here to see.

  “Good morning, Mr. Rodriquez. Come in, please.”

  “Should I leave my shoes out here?”

  “You can remove them inside. There’s a bench just inside the door.”

  I followed him inside and the first thing I saw, at the end of the room directly opposite the front door, was a large altar in the center of which was a large golden Buddha statue in front of which was a huge golden bowl of fruit. And there were flowers and candles and incense. There was a raised platform just beneath the altar and a dozen or so pillows faced each across on either side of the altar. I wasn’t certain what I’d expected, never having been inside a Buddhist place of worship before, but I didn’t expect it to be so . . . church-like. With the exception of the pillows instead of pews, it looked and felt like church. I sat on the bench just inside the door and took off my shoes while the monk waited for me, then I followed him through an arched doorway into a surprisingly large, bright kitchen.

  He was a big man, this monk, tall and obviously muscular beneath his robes. He was bald and he wore wire-rimmed glasses and I didn’t think there was anything fake or phony about the smile constantly on his face. He waved me into a chair at the table in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Coffee or tea?” he asked.

  “Whatever you’re having is fine as long as it’s hot,” I said.

  He put two big mugs and a couple of plates on the table, then a platter of some good-looking muffins, spoons, and some napkins. He didn’t seem to feel the need to say anything, and he didn’t seem bothered by the silence. I didn’t mind it either, so we both just waited for the water to boil. When it did, he put some loose tea into a pot, poured the water it, put the top on the pot, and brought it to the table. It was like something out of a British mystery novel or a PBS special. “Eat as many of those muffins as you like,” he said. “Patty made them.”

  I looked at the muffins. “What’s wrong with them?”

  He laughed, and it was a good laugh. “They’re delicious is what’s wrong with them and if you don’t eat them, I’ll end up eating them, and that’s the other thing wrong with them: They are totally irresistible. You can’t eat just one.”

  I put a muffin on my plate, broke it in half and took a bite. Before I was done chewing I put another muffin on my plate. “Better than delicious,” I said with my mouth full. “Sinful.” I chewed a moment. “Do Buddhists have sin?”

  “No, and I’m really glad we don’t because I’m happy thinking that the only thing really wrong with me eating three or four of these at one time is that I don’t need to gain another pound.”

  I gave my own mid-section a pat, thought about Yolanda and her ass-widening comment about the Napoleons, and took another bite of muffin. “What should I call you?” I asked the monk.

  “My name is Kusala.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Kusala,” I said, then waited for him to pour the tea. It had a rich, spicy smell, like it would go really well with the muffins. I put some honey in the tea, stirred it, sipped it, and wondered if I could get Patty to make muffins for me and where I could buy this tea. “I need your help but I’m not sure what to ask you.”

  “Suppose I just talk, then if you have questions you can ask them?” And when I nodded, he told me that during the first week of January, two Homeland Security agents interrupted the morning meditation and demanded to see his proof of citizenship. “I think they were angry because they’d knocked, then pounded on the door—all they had to do was open it—but nobody stopped meditation to get up to open the door. I finally did and when I opened the door they showed me their identification, asked for me by name, though they mispronounced it, and demanded the proof of citizenship. It just so happened that we had two lawyers and a newspaper reporter present that morning. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what transpired in the next several moments.”

  I grinned widely, imagining three barefoot defenders of freedom going up against two DHS agents that early in the morning, but I quickly sobered. “They’re not known for their well-developed sense of humor, those guys.”

  “They definitely were not amused, especially after I showed them my passport. They had trouble believing I’m an American—born and raised in upstate New York—and they had real difficulty with my frequent travel to Thailand, Tibet, and India. They asked all kinds of questions, and they were asked all kinds of questions from the people whose morning meditation they had interrupted. And DHS agents aren’t accustomed to answering questions, but they finally got around to telling me that I had been reported as a possible terrorist suspect. DHS agents also don’t like being laughed at.”

  Buddhist monks apparently don’t like being called terrorists, either, because for the first time I saw the man’s serenity crack. He didn’t quite look angry but he definitely hadn’t gotten over the experience. “So, after they got laughed at, you must have said something that convinced them they’d received erroneous information?”

  “They absolutely refused to discuss the accusation, who made it or exactly what was said. They left and I’ve heard nothing further.”

  “Nobody from DHS ever told you that you’re no longer a terrorist suspect?”

  He shook his head with a heavy sadness. “But I can’t travel. My name is on some kind of list. My passport is blocked for foreign travel and the airlines have my name on some kind of domestic watch list.”

  “What were their names? The Federal agents?”

  “I have no idea. They never gave their names, they only flashed their ID cases, and to tell you the truth, I was so startled I didn’t think to look for names.”

  “Do you remember what they looked like? Can you describe them?”

  “One of them I can, the angry, belligerent one, because he stood so close to me I thought we’d merge,” and he described to a tee my friend from the Taste of India fire. Angry, belligerent, and in your face. That’s him.

  There was a contractor’s van and a plumbing truck parked in front of Mike Kallen’s Avenue B building when I got there, and Kallen himself was standing at the top of the steps, arms crossed at mid-chest, legs widespread and feet planted, as if he planned to block entry by a whole army of plumbers and contractors. Only his eyes moved, restless, scanning, searching. For what, I wondered? Me, maybe, because when he saw me he relaxed his stance and beckoned for me to join him. “Thanks for coming, Phil,” he said, as if I’d accepted an invitation to breakfast.

  I pointed to the trucks. “Spending the comp
any’s money early, I see.”

  “What is that saying, you must spend money to make it, yes?”

  “And it’s a true saying from what I can tell.”

  “Then let me show you how the money is spending,” he said, and turned toward the front door—the new front door that had been an early morning surprise to one shallow young man—and pressed a button. After a moment there was a beep.

  “Who is there?” said a voice from the buzzer box.

  “It’s me, Boris. Please open the door.” And there was a louder buzz, a click, and Kallen pulled open the heavy door. He gave a satisfactory nod of his head, smiled at me, then closed the door. It swished closed and clicked loudly as it locked. “No more people coming into this building who don’t belong,” he said. Then he took out a key ring, selected a key, and unlocked the inner door. He stood aside so I could enter first, and it wasn’t out of politeness. He wanted to see my face as I saw the transformed lobby.

  “Wow,” I said, and meant it. The walls and ceiling had been painted a warm and friendly pale yellow, the stairway banisters stripped, sanded, and polished, the tile floor repaired and polished. The bare bulb in the ceiling was replaced with a multi-light ceiling fixture that threw out a lot of light, and smaller versions of the fixture now lit the stairway. The mailbox room, off to the right of the lobby, had been painted, too, and the brass boxes cleaned and polished. I walked around, looked up and down, touched the glowing wood of the banisters, the brass of the mailboxes, looked through sparkling clean windows out to the street. “This is truly impressive, Mike,” I said.

  “I, too, think it is very beautiful. Come,” he said, heading toward the stairs. I followed, noting that the improvements carried all the way down the first floor hallway and included installation of a new, heavy-duty metal door leading down to the basement, which is where we were headed.

  New paint, here, too, and bright fluorescent ceiling lights. The steps still were too steep and narrow for my liking, but the hand railing had been replaced. The basement floor was concrete and sections of it had been painted. We followed the painted floor to the laundry room, which now required a key for entry, and which now had bright fluorescent ceiling lights, a new folding and sorting table, and a bench. The machines had been cleaned, as had the sink, and the mildew smell that had permeated the air on my first visit was gone. “You’ve got a good plumber,” I told Kallen.

  “For what he charges he should be able to make the East River drinking water.”

  Kallen led the way out of the laundry room toward the trash room, which also now was brightly lit but where lots of work still needed to be done. “I’m trying to figure out how to fix this,” he said, waving his hand at the stacks of newspapers and bins of plastic, glass, and aluminum. “I hear from the tenants that they don’t want to have to use a key to unlock the gate to the recycling bin. They just want to toss the stuff in and go.” He shrugged, a weighty, elaborate gesture that lifted his massive shoulders all the way to his ears, then slowly dropped them.

  “If what I’ve seen this morning is a guide, whatever you decide will be the right decision, Mike. What you’ve done in such a short time is really to be admired.” I knew I might be spreading it on a bit thick, but I also meant what I said, and Kallen truly deserved the compliment. He also liked it. He did everything but blow on his nails and buff them on his chest, but he didn’t have a chance to comment because his cell phone rang. He flipped it open, listened, and his mood shifted way too fast for my comfort level.

  “I pay you to handle these things, not to bother me with them. I won’t always be here to hold your hand. Then what will you do?” Then he said something in a foreign language and slapped the phone shut. “I apologize, Phil, but I must go take care of a matter. You know the way out, and I’ll call you when you can view the finished product.” And he turned and ran up the narrow steps two at a time. I couldn’t figure out how he did it. He was bigger than me, so his feet must be bigger than mine, and it was only with care that I got back upstairs to the first floor. One step at a time.

  The lobby was empty so I took my time examining the work. It was very well done, real professional work, and good paint, not the cheap, shoddy stuff that’s so prevalent now in commercial construction and contracting.

  “Hey, you, housing department guy!” I heard behind me and turned to see a short, wide woman coming down the stairs, holding the railing tightly with one hand and waving at me with the other. “Wait just a minute.” She was probably mid-sixties, I guessed, but part of the new breed of what used to be called seniors. The energy flowed out of her like water from a faucet. Her hair was dyed a little too black but everything else about her was age-appropriate, including her expectation that I’d do as told, which I did: I stood where I was and waited for her. “I see you looking all around, up and down, inspecting, but don’t be fooled by the cute little cosmetic touches.” She whipped a fat envelope out of her purse and thrust it at me. “You can save me a trip to the post office and give this to your boss and make somebody come here and deal with Mr. KGB. Tell him he’s not back in Russia. This is the United States of American and people still have rights. Don’t we?” Her question demanded an answer and she was waiting for it.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “And people have the right not to be moved out of their apartments where they’ve lived for many, many years, I don’t care how much fresh paint and pretty lights the KGB bring in. You tell your boss to tell that to Mr. KGB.” She looked at her watch and headed for the door.

  “Wait! Miss . . .” I followed to the door and out. “Miss!”

  “I don’t have time, young man, if I miss my bus I’ll be late for work. Anyway it’s all there in the letter, all spelled out for you. All you have to do is read it.” And she hurried off down the block. I looked at the envelope she’d thrust at me. It was addressed to The New York City Department of Housing, Bureau of Inspections. All it needed was a stamp. I turned it over. It wasn’t sealed. So, I’d put a stamp on it, seal it, and mail it. I stuffed it inside my carryall and headed toward the office, wondering if the lady had ever called Kallen Mr. KGB to his face, decided she probably had. She didn’t appear to be the type to be intimidated by secret police. Then I had another thought: Suppose Mr. KGB wasn’t Kallen at all, but Boris, who had been strangely invisible this morning. Kallen wasn’t in residence here, Boris was. And come to think of, he did bear a striking resemblance to Vladimir Putin, who had been, in a previous incarnation, the head of the KGB. An interesting thought to be sure, but one I had no intention of indulging. My job wasn’t to help foster warm, fuzzy feelings between Mike Kallen and Boris and their tenants; it was to help KLM Property Management make sure their buildings were safe and secure, and as a result, protect them from negligence lawsuits. It just so happened some of those safety and security measures corresponded with housing department regulations. Maybe the tenants had complained to the housing department before and saw the recent improvements as a response to their complaints, and when the tenant saw me this morning inspecting the work, she reached what for her was a logical conclusion. Logical but erroneous, which she’d find out soon enough. As impressed as I was with what Kallen had accomplished in so short a time, however, I still didn’t like him and I still wanted to be finished with him and KLM as soon as possible. And I wanted to turn my full attention to Jackie Marchand and to Raul. If I didn’t hear from him today I’d suck it up and pay a visit to Willie, ask him where his nephew was.

  Dave Epstein was walking out of my office door when I turned the corner and, fortunately, he headed in the other direction. I didn’t want him and his problems in my head, either. I was finished with him and his son unless his son had something to do with Jackie Marchand’s murder. I didn’t think so but then I’d never have thought Sam Epstein would burn down a man’s business because of the color of the man’s skin or his religious beliefs. A Jew hating a man because of his religion. A Mafioso hating a mobster because of his nationality. What was the wor
ld coming to?

  Mike and Eddie were inside and Yolanda looked happy. The only thing that could have made the scene any better would have been for Connie to be there, too, but a man can’t have everything, or so my Papi always told us. But as I’d learned, my Papi hadn’t been a happy man so his take on things left a lot to be desired. “Buenos dias, and what’s happening, y’all,” I said.

  “Y’all?” Mike Smith laughed at me. “You borrowing pages from my Georgia kinfolks’ dictionary, bro?”

  I laughed with him as I dumped everything I’d been carrying on to my desk and shrugged out of my coat. That was a sure sign to me that I’d had enough of winter—when winter wear became burdensome. “I like that word. Y’all. It has a nice sound to it, a warmth to it, you know? I wouldn’t greet just anybody that way. It’s a word for the people you like the most.”

  Mike was laughing even harder now. “If you’re thinking that Southerners only call family and friends y’all, you’ve got another think coming, bro. Southerners call everybody y’all—people they like and people they don’t. A Southern cop walking into a room full of rapists and murders and general lowlifes would say, ‘What the fuck are y’all doin’?’ ”

  We all were laughing now. I guess we all needed to, to slough off some of the ugliness we’d been splattered with the past couple of days—a cleansing of sorts before we had to go wading in the cesspool again. “What did Epstein want? I saw him leaving.”

  Yolanda looked even happier, rushed back to her desk and rushed back out, waving a check. “He came to ‘settle his account,’ to use his words.”

  “We billed him already?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I hadn’t even finished tallying up the charges, but he had the check made out. Told me to take and if it wasn’t enough to call him. I told him it was probably too much, but he said no price was too much to pay for his son’s return.”