“Jesus Christ!” Joe said. “If Rothstein did the minimum time he could have been paroled in 1960.” He stared at the article. “1960 is when he surfaced in Princeton and when Preston had his nervous breakdown.”
Alenia smoothed a nail with an emery board fetched from her Louis Vitton bag. “Now can we go?”
Joe made a copy of the Times article. “In a minute,” he said, flipping open his cell phone. It was a few minutes to eleven. Stored in his contact list was the number for David Cohen. The phone rang twice.
“This is your fourth call to my number,” the craggy voice answered.
Joe envisioned the eighty-plus accountant sitting at his kitchen table with the paper and a tall glass of prune juice. Joe said the magic words, “Ted Steele.” There was dead silence. Joe waited for the sound of Cohen’s dentures hitting the floor.
“I have business in the city and will be free by twelve-thirty. Do you know the General Motors building?” Cohen asked sarcastically.
Joe twisted his tongue holding back the F bomb. “Fifty-eighth and Fifth, across from the Plaza.”
“There’s a coffee shop on Fifty-eighth—Blintz. Be there.”
Cohen was gone, no good-bye not even a drop dead. Joe looked to see if the call was dropped. “Let’s go into the city.”
“Harry will be back by seven. Okay, we go.” Alenia ran her hands over her chest, drawing an ogle from a senior citizen who wandered into the archive room. “We’ll have fun.”
Cajoled into driving, Alenia maneuvered the Mercedes along the New Jersey Turnpike, weaving between ten wheelers to maintain a steady seventy. With the morning crush long over, they zipped through the Lincoln Tunnel.
“Harry took me to the Plaza when we first met,” Alenia said, pulling into a parking garage adjacent to the hotel. She handed the attendant a twenty. “Keep the car on this level. I don’t want to wait an hour when we return.”
Joe smiled. The girl had learned the value of money from Harry. “I’ll call you when I’m finished. Give Harry a break and don’t buy out Bergdorf Goodman’s.”
“I’m going to replace the bra your dog ripped apart,” she said with a snarl. “Give me a kiss.”
Joe planted a light smoothie on her cheek, avoiding the red gloss that accentuated her lips. Painstakingly climbing the ramp to Fifty-eighth Street, he turned right for Fifth Avenue. Across the street, a line stretched from the F.A.O. Schwartz toy store located on the ground floor of the General Motors building. A banner hanging above its door announced the rollout of the latest video game Joe never heard of.
Following the stream of pedestrians crossing to the east side of Fifth, Joe bypassed the video queue. Blintz was four doors down. Despite Alenia’s race driving skill, he was fifteen minutes late.
The Greek run breakfast-lunch bistro was narrow as a submarine. Third in line to be seated behind two couples and a woman balancing a hatbox and a large brown shopping paper bag from Macy’s, Joe studied the faces of the diners. None came close to the picture of Dave Cohen clipped from the N.Y.U. alumni newsletter.
“Looking for someone?” the slender olive skin cashier asked, chomping on her chewing gum. A red stripe highlighted a head of bleached blonde spiked hair.
Joe showed her Cohen’s picture. “Supposed to meet the man for lunch.”
“You a cop?”
“Not after a perp tried to blow off my leg,” Joe said, leaning on the five-iron.
She pointed to the rear. “Last row of tables.”
With tables crammed inches apart, Joe turned sideways to make it through the aisle without knocking coffee cups off the tables. Cohen sat with his back to the wall. “Mr. Cohen.”
Cohen hovered over a plate of eggs over-easy and a slice of whole-wheat toast. “I’m never late for appointments,” he said, pointing his fork.
Cohen was the epitome of an accountant: square black-rimmed glasses, navy shirt with contrasting blue tie, and conservative gray suit. Notwithstanding a bad comb over, Joe gauged that for a man his age, Cohen was in good shape. He put the alumni article on the table. “Congratulations. The Weinsteins send their regards.” He sat, hanging the five-iron on the edge of the red Formica table.
“My God!” Cohen said between chews. “It must be fifty years since I’ve seen them.”
“Times Square, 1945 to be exact. After not seeing your good friends for nearly three years, you couldn’t spare the time to talk. Ring a bell?” Joe said, pushing silverware toward the middle of the table.
Cohen put his fork down. “I don’t remember.”
Before Joe could utter “bullshit,” the waitress came by with a carafe of coffee and two cups. “Everything all right?” she asked Cohen.
Cohen didn’t answer, staring at the front of the room. “Everything is hunkydory, but I could use a cup,” Joe replied. The girl poured the coffee and moved to her next station. “Ted Steele rang a bell this morning. Do you know where I can find him?”
The octogenarian came back to earth. He fiddled with his right ear. “Damn hearing aid picks up all the background noise. What were you asking?”
Joe wasn’t sure if Cohen was busting his chops or his hearing aid really wasn’t working properly. “Ted Steele.”
“Why the interest?” Cohen asked, finishing his eggs.
Joe wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions. “I stumbled into some papers that included your friend Jake and his moniker Ted Steele.”
Cohen took a sip of coffee, then nonchalantly said, “I haven’t seen Jake since 1948 when he went to prison. After he was paroled, I heard he was killed somewhere out west.”
“When was that?”
“Sixty-two or sixty-three,” he mumbled.
Having interviewed more than a few suspects, Joe had a feel for scripted responses. Cohen was playing with him. Joe wanted to look under the table to see if his new best friend was holding a cheat sheet. “And you didn’t make arrangements to see him?”
“Why would I? It wouldn’t have looked good for me professionally to associate with a felon. I’m an accountant, not an attorney.”
The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee, topping off their cups. Joe poured a splash of milk into the coffee that had the density of roofing tar. “How did you end up in debits and credits? You were supposed to be an attorney?”
Cohen shrugged his shoulders. “Things changed after I came back from the army. I had a wife and son. Going back to school, even at night, would have been impossible.”
“What about Sarah?” Joe asked, studying Cohen.
“The Weinsteins really filled you in about the old crowd,” Cohen mused. “When I got home at the end of 1945, she had moved upstate and I never saw her again. I heard she took ill and passed away a young woman. Tragic.”
“You were Paul’s best friend and you didn’t want to know what happened to his widow?” Joe said, fixing Cohen with a glare. “What about Paul’s parents?”
“Abe Rothstein passed shortly after Paul and I went into the service. Paul’s mom didn’t last long after his death.”
“I thought all you guys were tight, the old neighborhood togetherness routine. Let’s not forget about blowing up the Bund.”
The color drained out of Cohen’s face. He shot Joe a puzzled look. “The Weinsteins weren’t that close to me or Paul to know such things. Where did you get your information?”
The lunch crowd filtered back to work. The Blintz was now three-quarters empty. “I got it from Paul Rothstein’s diary.”
Cohen choked on a piece of toast. He drank half his coffee. “Paul’s personal effects were sent home to his mother after he died in 1944.”
“I hate to break the news to you,” Joe said, lighting a cigarette. “I found his diary in a pile of trash at an estate sale.”
“In Westfield?” Cohen cautiously asked.
Joe edged close to the table. “A matter of fact, it was.”
“You don’t seem the type to go to estate or garage sales.” Cohen white-knuckled the spoon as h
e stirred his cup.
“I like silk underwear, too.” Joe’s smart-alecky comment didn’t draw a blink.
Cohen drained his cup. He slammed a hand on the table. “I remember. Paul had a buddy in his unit who came from New Jersey. I’m at a loss for the name. Who owned the house?”
It was Joe’s turn. They were in a chess match, each skirting the truth. Joe ran through the exchanges. Hitting Cohen with Jake’s alias didn’t compare to the effect of Paul’s diary. “The house changed hands seven times after it was built in the mid-1950s.” He considered making up a name, but didn’t. “Preston Swedge. Ever hear of him?”
Cohen unconsciously took a deep breath, eyes darting left to right. “No.” He pushed his plate to the middle of the table, unfolded his napkin, and then carefully wiped his mouth. “Paul was big on keeping a journal in college,” he paused. “I wonder if he kept one during his time in the service.”
Joe had gone to the Blintz with Jake Rothstein and or Ted Steele in mind, nothing more. Cohen had just put him on another track—there had to be more than one set of Rothstein diaries. His father’s words, uttered at his graduation from the police academy reverberated, “Never let up, keep punching the bastard in the ribs.” Joe kept punching, “Pretty amazing stuff. Paul Rothstein was a hero. I should have brought the four volumes, stupid me.”
“I have to use the facilities,” Cohen announced. “I’ll be right back.”
The rest rooms were located down a hallway out of Joe’s sightline. He checked his watch—ten minutes had passed. Cohen was about the same age as Joe’s father who needed time to do his business. At the fifteen minute mark, Joe became concerned, not over the possibility that Cohen had keeled over the bowl, but that he skipped out. Joe made a quick check of the men’s room. The pair of feet under the stall were wearing Nikes. Joe stuck Cohen’s picture in the face of a Latino busboy mopping the hallway. He pointed to the fire exit. Joe shouldered open the door to face a garbage dumpster in the alley running behind the building. Joe laughed. The old guy had stuck him with the check.
Chapter 30
WESTFIELD, NJ NOVEMBER 2000
“I THOUGHT AN AFTERNOON AT THE PLAZA would’ve gotten you in a better mood,” Alenia said, looking at Joe from the corner of her eye. The Mercedes sped through the E-Z pass lane in the New Jersey Turnpike interchange at Newark Airport.
“I was preoccupied,” Joe pouted.
Alenia switched lanes for Route 22. “I could’ve been with Harry.”
Joe opened the passenger window and lit a Marlboro. “It was the wine.”
Alenia laughed. “Maybe you have the diabetes like Harry.” She laughed again. “It’s alright Jozef. I’m used to old men.” She held out her hand palm up, indicating that she wanted Joe’s cigarette. “This Swedge business is driving you crazy.”
Joe handed her the cigarette, lighting another for himself. “There’s no way that Cohen doesn’t know what happened to Sarah Rothstein, and I don’t believe Jake Rothstein just up and went out west. The guy never ventured outside New York City.”
Alenia took a deep drag on the cigarette. “You’re being a schmuck.”
“I’m hearing Harry.”
Alenia zipped past the lake in Newark’s Weequahic Park. “Don’t you know someone in the secret police?”
“We don’t have the secret police in this country,” Joe said, flicking his cigarette out the window. “I know a guy in the FBI.”
Mimicking Joe, Alenia popped her cigarette out the driver’s window. “KGB, FBI same thing. If they want to arrest you, they arrest you. Your guy will find Sarah Rothstein and the bad man Jake. The KGB would have them in two hours.”
Hitting the power button on the fourteen speaker CD, Joe settled back, wrapping himself in the hand sewn leather. Classic rock and roll filled the cabin. “I used Ted Steele as bait for Dave Cohen, but he met me with an agenda. He was ready with his quips and attitude, but not for my possessing Paul’s diaries. I’d bet the thing between my legs that Cohen knew they existed but was shocked that I have them.”
“Why did he run away?” Alenia asked, pulling into Joe’s driveway.
Joe looked at the Swedge house. “Cohen split when he figured I didn’t have a second set of diaries.” He got out of the car. “We’re going across the street. They’re in there someplace.”
Alenia shook her head in the negative, rolling down her window. “Harry is coming home.”
Joe removed two flashlights from the Volvo’s trunk. “Let’s go.”
Sticking out her tongue, Alenia got out of the Mercedes. “It’s getting dark. The house gives me the villies.”
An orange plastic mesh fence surrounded the Swedge property. Joe helped Alenia step over the three feet high barrier. The couple rounded the curve behind the grove of evergreens. The house looked sad as it awaited its fate. A John Deere bulldozer was parked nose to nose with a dump truck. “They’re going to bring the old girl down tomorrow. Let’s go through the back door.”
There wasn’t any door. The inside of the house was painted in shadows. Preston’s state-of-the-art 1950s kitchen had been stripped. Gaping holes were punched in the walls to strip the copper pipes.
“I feel ghosts,” Alenia whispered. “Where do we start?”
“When in doubt, trust a hunch,” Joe said, moving toward the basement steps. “The stuff that brought me into this puzzle was in the basement.” He aimed his flashlight down the steps, freezing on the landing.
The cat urine smell was still present. “It stinks,” Alenia said, squeezing next to Joe.
“Be careful! A few of the steps are loose,” he warned, proceeding down. Sweeping the base of the steps with his flashlight, Joe stepped on the concrete floor.
The heating system had been removed, leaving a depression in the floor. Grease stains led across the room to the set of metal doors which opened to the rear yard. Disconnected air conduits hung from the floor joists like curlers in a head of stick straight hair. Joe moved to the middle of the room trying to think like Preston.
Alenia slipped on the second to last step, almost landing on her rear. “Jozef!” she yelled, wiping cobwebs from her face.
“Itsy bitsy spider,” Joe sang, crisscrossing the basement. “I don’t think the opening has to be much larger than a notebook. The real estate people re-painted the basement. Try to find differences in the contours and colors.”
“Everything’s the same gray in this light,” Alenia said, sweeping cobwebs away from her face. “I want to go home.”
Light taps came from the kitchen floor above. “Sssh! Turn off your flashlight,” Joe whispered. “Move to the back of the cellar.”
“Jozef,” Alenia whispered. “The bad man?”
Joe reached for his Glock secured in its shoulder holster beneath his sports jacket. Another step. He aimed the flashlight with his left hand, giving one pulse. Two yellow eyes reflected back. Joe turned the flashlight on. “It’s Nelson, Ed Stoval’s cat.” Giving a sigh of relief, he returned the pistol to its holster. The twenty pound black and white tomcat slinked up the steps.
“He’s smart. I want to go with him,” Alenia said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Harry’s going to be home soon.”
Joe moved to the steps. “Six down, three across.”
“Crossword puzzle. Jozef, you’re crazy.”
Joe tapped each step with the five-iron as he climbed. “It was on a scrap paper in Preston’s satchel,” he said from the landing. Shine your light up here.”
Alenia moved to the base of the steps, focusing the light at Joe’s feet. “You’re going to kill yourself.”
“Six,” Joe counted the steps as he descended. He swung the flashlight to his left. The beam caught nothing but floor joists. He turned to the wall to his right, moving for a closer look. The white painted plaster was intact.
“Jozef, there’s nothing,” Alenia said, climbing two steps. “The paper is junk like the bag.”
Joe tapped the grip end of the five-iron on the wall. “
Solid.” He shifted three inches to the left, tapping twice. “Bingo, it’s hollow.” Using the blade end of the club, he smashed the wall, sending gypsum wallboard flying. He reached into the opening and took hold of the same type of twine that secured the volumes found in the upstairs study. He held a bonanza of six books.
Alenia climbed the steps. “Those are your new girl friends,” she said. “You don’t need me anymore.”
Chapter 31
ITALY, JUNE 1944
STAZ DI AMENDOLA, TWELVE MILES NORTHEAST of Foggia, Italy was home to the 2nd Bombardment Group consisting of six squadrons, the 429th, 49th , 96th, and the 20th. A tent city had been hastily erected for its initial inhabitants in an olive grove in January 1944. Regular army barracks were planned, but five months later, the tents were still standing and would serve as homes for pilots and crewmen for the duration of the war.
Amendola was in constant motion. The airfield was shared with the 97th and a RAF unit that participated in British night raids. Two runways were laid just south of the hills where local shepherds grazed their sheep. Occasionally, wayward animals would stray onto the runways.
Before leaving the States, Second Lieutenant Paul Rothstein was counseled that he and the other replacements were going to be considered outsiders by a close knit fraternity which didn’t accept newcomers until the pledge had passed the test. With the high rate of casualties, new men didn’t last long. It was better not to get too friendly, friendships were hard to forget.
Paul was assigned quarters with three other pilots of the 20th squadron. Stenciled above the tent’s canvas flap was The Alamo. It didn’t take thirty seconds for Paul to figure out who was responsible for naming the digs. “Welcome to The Alamo and sunny Italy, it’s sure nice to have company. Been kind of lonely around here for a couple of days. Take one of the empty cots, ain’t anybody using them.”
“Liquid sunshine,” Paul quipped, shaking water off his rain poncho. Rolled mattresses on the three cots bore an ominous message. Paul evaded a kerosene lantern hooked to the center tent support and a coal burning Franklin stove to drop his duffle on a cot opposite Peterson’s. The clapboard floor, resting on pilings driven into the mud, swayed with each step. G.I. olive-drab steamer trunks in front of each cot provided storage. “What happened to the previous renters?”
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