“Okay. I’ve still got a few stops to make myself. I assume you realize I’m going to have to call the cops and tell them what I know.” We walked around to the driver’s side.
“You have to do what you have to do,” he said. “I hope you won’t mention my actual name, though.”
I tilted my head a bit, thinking, but shook it. “No. It’s not my place to get you in trouble, although you might want to look into another line of work. You’re smart enough to do a good many things.”
“There are benefits to this,” was all he said.
We shook hands (well, gloves, really) and I got into the van, then rolled down my window as I started it up. “Hey,” I said. “Your real name is Duane.”
Big chuckled. “So is the Rock’s,” he said.
I closed the window and put the minivan in drive. As we pulled away, Ethan said, “The Rock’s real name is Duane? Really?”
I ignored it, and a little time went by with no sound as we headed home. There was time now to consider the fact that I’d just subjected my twelve-year-old son to a ride in a car and a dangerous situation with at least one cold-blooded killer, who didn’t hurt us because he was prevented by an admitted gangster. I don’t know why I had such confidence in Big, especially since it turned out he wasn’t infallible in keeping an eye on Kevin, but I did. Based on the way he was watching us, I had known that Ethan’s and my safety was his priority, and he’d see to it. Still, my judgment in bringing my son into this whole business was, at best, questionable.
“Were you scared?” I asked him out of the blue, and Ethan looked surprised.
“No,” he said. “It was like watching TV. I was paying attention to the story.”
“What did you think?” I’m not sure what I was looking for, but with Ethan, it’s best not to have expectations, because they’ll inevitably be exploded.
“Well . . . He seemed hesitant to explore his feelings, which was not unusual. That only awakened the nosy reporter in me.
“Well, what? Don’t worry about my reaction.”
“When you said what had happened, the only thing I could think of was that I wouldn’t go to jail for Leah. I’d be too scared.” He looked embarrassed, as if that was confessing he wasn’t a good brother.
I smiled a little, trying not to look like I was laughing at him. “I don’t think you’ll have to make that choice,” I said.
He looked at me sideways, then smiled. “No, I guess not.” We both broke out laughing at the thought of Leah doing something worth jail time.
When the hilarity died down, I waited at a red light, then dialed
Lieutenant Rodriguez in North Brunswick. Strikingly, he was there, and when I told him what had transpired (minus Big’s contributions), he immediately applauded my efforts and my resourcefulness.
“Are you crazy?” he said. “You could have gotten yourself and your son killed.” Some people have a harder time expressing admiration than others.
“You’re missing the big picture,” I responded. “We know who killed Michael Huston, and we know it’s not Justin Fowler.”
“You don’t know a damn thing. You just think you know,” Rodriguez said. “There are two things I know.”
“What?”
“First of all, we’d better find Kevin Fowler in a hurry. And second . . .
“Yes?”
“You’re making me work late on Christmas Eve. I want you to give me a written statement as soon as you can get here.” He hung up.
I was dropping Ethan off first, whether Rodriguez wanted to talk to him or not. Ethan had had enough. And then I could regroup and go down to talk to the lieutenant myself.
That was the plan, anyway, until out of the blue, my son turned halfway around in his seat to face me and said, “The dog didn’t growl when we came in.”
I came very close to slamming on the brakes. It took me a few long moments to collect myself and think things through, and then I handed Ethan the cell phone.
“Call your mom. She’s probably home early.”
He took it and started to push the number for home. I could have explained speed dial, but he knew the number, and what time was I saving? He stopped at the second four, and looked at me.
“What am I telling her?” he asked.
“That you just solved Michael Huston’s murder,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-One
Actually, I had more to say to Abby than Ethan did. As excited as he was at having noticed this important detail, Ethan was not entirely sure he should be happy that he’d figured out who killed someone.
Once I got on the phone with Abby, I asked for help with a question I’d meant to ask her days ago, but forgot. She admonished me for involving Ethan, but her heart wasn’t in it, and as her lawyer instincts kicked in, she was anxious to put the right person behind bars. So we got off the phone quickly.
After about ten minutes, Ethan and I pulled up in front of our house and he shot out of the car and into the house. This is unusual—quite often, we arrive home and he’ll sit in the car by himself for a few minutes, either unaware or unconcerned that we’ve reached our destination. In this case, I think Ethan wanted to get his mother’s appreciation for the fine work he’d done, and maybe a hug, just to reassure him that he was, indeed, safe.
I could have used a hug, too, but Abigail was too caffeinated to worry about such things. I did notice, however, that Ethan got the affection, and I got the information. There are trade-offs one makes as a parent, and some of them aren’t necessarily welcome.
“I’ve already found out most of what we need to know,” she said excitedly, already using the royal “we” when as little as a day previously, she was quite happy to be excluded. Success has many fathers, or in this case, wives. “I looked up the lawyer you asked about.”
“Arnold Rezenbach.”
“Yes. Very interesting. He’s supposed to be Karen Huston’s tax lawyer?” Abby’s lovely face was glowing with enthusiasm—she lives for this stuff.
“That’s the way I understood it.”
“Well, that’s not his regular field. Rezenbach is a real estate lawyer. He farms out his tax work, and does a tiny bit of financial planning for a few well-heeled clients. The idea that he’d be doing the taxes of a middle-class housewife, even one with a husband doing well financially, is pretty fishy.” Abigail, her hair tied back in a ponytail, was almost too adorable to resist, but I did my best to concentrate on what she was saying.
“So Rezenbach is doing Karen Huston a favor for some reason,” I said. “What’s he getting out of it? You don’t think there’s a sexual thing going on between them, do you?”
“God, I hope not,” Abby said, “not after the other little piece of information I gathered.”
She gave me a devilish grin that, under most circumstances, would have been enough to distract me from, well, anything. But she was clearly bursting with her discovery, and wanted to present it to its full effect. Why not indulge a wife once in a while? She might indulge you.
“Okay, Marlowe. Spill it.”
“It’s amazing the things you can find online,” she said, clearly having rehearsed this particular part. “I found Karen Huston’s name in an Emerson College Alumni Magazine article, and that led to their engagement announcement from nine years ago.” She paused.
“And . . . ?” I said, since that appeared to be my line.
“And, that led me to her maiden name. Karen Huston used to be Karen Rezenbach of Madison, New Jersey.”
It took me a second. “She’s his daughter. Okay. She’s Arnold Rezenbach’s daughter. So that makes it a lot less suspicious. Why shouldn’t he be helping with his daughter’s financial arrangements?”
Abby’s grin got just a little bit more Cheshire cat-like. “All right, Nancy Drew,” I said. “What else did you find out?”
“Here,” she said, “is where it gets really interesting.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The drive up to Millburn didn’t take long,
but it was already after two on December 24th, and I could easily foresee that the traffic coming home would be heavier. There was no avoiding it, though. This trip was necessary to ensure my family’s safety.
Luckily, the lack of a blindfold in the black SUV the last time I made the drive enabled me to note landmarks and street names, and I happen to have a very good sense of direction, as long as I stay out of lower Manhattan, where the streets no longer have numbers and everything is one way in the wrong direction.
I drove up to the gated home and spoke into the intercom. The gates opened, and I made my way to the front door after figuring out where a visitor might park his battered minivan with 122,000 miles on it. I was willing to bet this was the first such vehicle to make it up the drive since the last party here was catered.
The tall doors in the front of the house were opened very quickly by a man I hadn’t seen before, leading me to believe that Big, Bigger, and Biggest were all out searching for Kevin Fowler, and that they were not the only employees here at the matzo ball compound. Without a word, a very large man escorted me back to the drawing room where I had been once before.
Hyman Shapiro, dressed in sweatpants and a 92nd Street “Y” sweatshirt, was walking on a treadmill I hadn’t noticed on my previous visit. Being convinced your life is about to end might actually decrease the powers of observation. He wasn’t walking fast, but he was walking.
“Aaron Tucker,” he said as I came in and the enormous butler closed the door. “It’s nice to see you, although I have to say, it’s somewhat unexpected.”
“Somehow, you failed to give me your phone number the last time I visited, or I would have called ahead,” I said.
He chuckled, then turned off the treadmill, picked up a small towel hung on the handlebar, and wiped his face. “You’re not afraid,” he said, stepping off the machine and draping the towel around his neck. “I like that. I don’t want people to be afraid of me. Well, most people, anyway.” He chuckled again, this time at his own wit.
“Of course I’m afraid. I just cover it up better than most,” I told him.
“Well, you’re honest, too. Most people aren’t.” I didn’t contradict that one, since discussing honesty with the Capo of the Knish seemed slightly surreal. “But I imagine you’re not here simply because you’ve run out of Sonny’s bagels.” Shapiro sat behind his desk and drank from a bottle of Poland Spring water left there for that very purpose.
“You’re right. I’m here because I found out who hired Kevin Fowler to kill Michael Huston.”
He didn’t so much as blink. “It wasn’t me.”
“I know.”
“So why are you here?” He seemed genuinely puzzled, but I knew he wasn’t.
“Because you do have an interest in it, and I need a certain degree of security. I want to know that you’re not going to retaliate after I blow the whistle on the culprit. And please, if you really do value my honesty, don’t pretend you don’t know who the culprit is.”
He frowned and drank more water. “Of course I know who it is,” he said. “I’ve known from nearly the beginning, though if I’d known before the beginning, it wouldn’t have happened. You know, I was asked first to take care of Huston, and I refused.”
“I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised you refused. There was no upside in it for you.” The smell of frying potatoes and onions from the kitchen, which must not have been far from here, momentarily broke my concentration. It seemed incongruous, but I was getting hungry.
“That’s absolutely right. No upside. You’re smarter than half the idiots who work for me. You know that?” I wasn’t sure how to take the compliment, so I let it go. “But someone who worked for me wasn’t as smart as you, and he took the job behind my back.”
“Kevin Fowler.”
“No names,” he said testily. “I never discuss names in this room.”
“Why, you got it wired, like Nixon?”
Shapiro didn’t answer, so I assumed he was no longer as enamored of my wit. Just as well.
“So this person went out and took the money that was offered, and then did the thing. I didn’t know about it. I didn’t want it to happen.” Shapiro might have been performing for the tape machine, but I believed what he was saying.
“I understand that. I’m just asking that you grant me immunity after I finish what I’ve started. The right people have to be in jail, and the wrong one has to stay out.” After a while, you get the hang of this not-mentioning-names thing.
Shapiro shook his head. “I don’t know that I can do that,” he said.
“You’re a nice man, Mr. Tucker, but this is different. This is family. You’re not family.”
I held my trump card for the moment, and pressed on. “It’s not blood,” I told him.
He raised his eyebrows and, closing his eyes, sniffed a little. “Family’s family,” he said. “You ever have a brother-in-law, Aaron?”
I rolled my eyes a bit and nodded.
“Then you know. My wife has been gone for seven years. And she was always close to her brother. How can I betray her trust like this? No, I’m sorry, Aaron. I like you, but I can’t promise you anything if you turn everybody in. I can’t offer you immunity or protection.”
This was the answer I’d feared. “How about my family?” I said.
“That’s something you have to consider. It’s your choice, not mine. You do what you think is right, but you or those you love might suffer.” That wasn’t cute or cuddly at all. This man may have resembled my grandfather, but he wasn’t my grandfather.
It was time to bring in the big guns. “I’m afraid that if anything happens to me, or someone I love, Isobel Ramirez is going to be very unhappy.”
His eyes widened and stared at me. Luckily, I’d known Mrs. Mahoney’s maiden name, so I didn’t have to check with her son before bandying it about with a reputed multiple felon.
“Isobel Ramirez!” The special smile that an old man can conjure only for his first love found its way onto Shapiro’s lips. “How do you know Isobel Ramirez?”
“Let’s just say she insists I call her ‘Mom.’”
He looked surprised, and assessed my face for traces of a resemblance. Naturally, he didn’t find any. “You’re her son?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Shapiro sat back in his chair, looking at me but not seeing me. “Isobel Ramirez,” he said more softly. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long, long time.”
“Actually, you heard it about a week ago when she called you for, let’s say, human resources advice, but we’ll put that aside because it’s not relevant, although I have to say, for a guy who’s a myth, you seem to know everybody. But more to the point, Isobel has a vested interest in me. She’d be very upset if something unpleasant were to befall me or my family.” It was the first time in my life I’d used the word “befall,” but I felt I’d saved it for the right moment.
“How is she?” The words practically escaped from his mouth, as if he’d been afraid to hear them aloud himself.
“Married,” I said. “To a very nice man, for forty-seven years.”
“You’re not going to tell me her married name, are you?” Shapiro said, coming back to earth.
“I never mention names in this room,” I told him. “Besides, if she didn’t tell you her name, I don’t see a reason I should. But I can tell you that a piece of correspondence is addressed to her, and if something were to happen to me, it would be delivered, and she would know exactly who to blame.” Once again, it should have been “whom,” but that just doesn’t sound natural in conversation if your first name isn’t “Sir.”
“That’s not playing fair, Aaron,” Shapiro chided me. “Bringing up the past like that.”
“You’re a businessman, Mr. Shapiro. As you know, when the stakes are high, you use whatever you have.”
He exhaled loudly and seemed to wilt in his chair. Finally, he looked like an old, old man.
“Okay, Aaron. You have
my word. I won’t lift a finger against you. But you know I’m not happy about it.”
“I can live with that,” I said. “Literally.”
He nodded, then seemed to gather up his Jolly Jewish Imp persona and put it back on. Shapiro stood and motioned to me. I walked to him, carefully, and he put an arm around my shoulder. He started leading me to the door.
“It’s almost Chanukah,” he said, “but I can’t wait. We’re making latkes. Can I get you some to take home?”
I shook my head. “My wife makes the best there ever were,” I told him. “She is to potato pancakes what Sonny Amster is to bagels.”
He looked impressed. “Wow,” Shapiro said. “I might have to come by and try some.”
“Anytime,” I said, “but don’t bring your friends.”
He chuckled. “Aaron, my word is my bond. You don’t have to worry about me or my employees anymore.” We were reaching the office door.
“There’s just one thing . . .
I stopped and braced myself. Shapiro’s eyes betrayed just a little hope.
“Does Isobel ever . . . talk about me?”
“How else would I know to mention her name?” I asked.
Hyman Shapiro’s face took on a glow. “Ah, Isobel Ramirez,” he said. “What a dish. If only she’d been Jewish . . .
Chapter Twenty-Three
Several cell phone calls and one time-consuming drive later, I was back at the North Brunswick home of Karen and, until recently, Michael Huston. In late December, the New Jersey sun doesn’t stay out very late, and by the time I arrived, it was almost dark out. I sat in the minivan for a few minutes, then got out and looked up and down the street, checking to see which cars were parked in the driveway and nearby, and walked to the door to ring the bell.
The house bore no holiday decorations, as it hadn’t earlier in the day, but with night falling, it was especially obvious on this street. All the other homes were so tastefully decorated, you wanted to throw tomatoes just to sully the perfection a little bit. I resisted the temptation. For one thing, I didn’t have any tomatoes.
As Dog Is My Witness Page 22