Recovering Dad

by Libby Sternberg

  Kerrie, on the other hand, looks spectacular in an understated way. She’s wearing hip-hugging pants — pants, not jeans — in some soft lineny fabric of a natural hue and, over it, a white spaghetti-strap tank with a tapered gauzy blue shirt, tails out. That’s one of the rules of no-uniform day: No spaghetti strap tops without a shirt or jacket. She’s also wearing some cool jewelry — some twisted gold necklaces and giant gold hoop earrings, all of which look like real gold, not the goldtone stuff you get from the Avon lady who sells bling to your mom. She wears wedgy flip-flops of leather and rope, and even has an ankle bracelet going on.

  When she sees me admiring her ensemble, she beams. “It’s the bra. You have to get one. I’m throwing away all my old ones and replacing them.”

  Later, during our shared lunch period, I fill Kerrie in on my life, especially Paluchek’s proposal to Mom. For some reason, I hadn’t been able to share this info before. Saying your mom’s engaged when you’re not sure it’s a good thing makes me feel a wee bit uncomfortable. Before Kerrie can start the congratulatory gushing, I tell her the rest of the story. She’s appropriately somber and sympathetic.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asks, leaning into the table. “My dad might be able to help.” Her dad is a lawyer and he helped a friend of ours, who’s now at college, out of a jam a while back.

  “Thanks, I’ll let you know.” I don’t tell her about Brenda’s help. Kerrie is a great friend, but she has a hair trigger on the jealousy range. If she finds out Brenda’s helping me, she might think Brenda has replaced her as my best friend. Kerrie’s an only child. She’s used to undivided attention.

  Kerrie scarfs down her yogurt and candy bar lunch. I munch on a tasteless peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich and gulp down an iced tea before the lunch period is over. Kerrie asks me if I’ve decided on a Junior/Senior Ball dress yet, which causes a twinge or two.

  Nope, haven’t.

  She reminds me it’s getting late and all the good dresses will be gone soon.

  Yup, that’s true.

  But my indecision about a prom dress masks deeper problems— like whether or not my sort-of-boyfriend will actually go with me. Kerrie also thinks to remind me that I can check for my SAT scores online if I’m really anxious to get them, and I’m thinking, Wow, did she plan this double-shot to the heart, or was it merely an accident? Now I’m going to be fretting all afternoon about Doug and my SATs, not to mention everything that’s going on with Steve Paluchek.

  Kerrie and I are about to head out when she spies a handsome, mannequin-perfect guy across the room, and beams a smile at him. He’s Richard Glendale, the tennis team’s number one singles player and MIT-bound senior. He’s a perfect match for Kerrie — all self-confidence and good looks, wholesomeness and achievement. “We’re going to the prom together,” she whispers without taking her eyes off him. “I asked him.” I, meanwhile, spot Brenda, who brightens when she sees me wave at her. She’s standing next to a geeky guy whose name escapes me, some mop-headed dude from science club. When he sees me looking at their group, he looks down, as if my radioactive gaze will destroy his eyes.

  The rest of the week is same old-same old. Rise and shine (or not). Go to school. Come home. Eat dinner. Battle with Connie over “the case.” (She’s dug up precious little on Paluchek’s ex-wife, where he was that night, or the mysterious Gardenia.) Grinch at Tony. Tiptoe around Mom. Try to get the computer. Finish assignments. Don’t finish assignments. Lose myself in the world of MySpace.com and blogs and LiveJournals. Get dissed by teachers. Get praised by teachers.

  And before you can say, “Time for a new life,” it’s Friday and it is time for a new life — the weekend life.

  The weekend life used to mean dates with Doug. Did I mention I heard from him a total of zero times this week? I was doing an experiment, not contacting him and seeing how long it took before he contacted me. Apparently, eternity.

  At least my cold is completely gone. I mention this to Connie when she picks me up on Friday afternoon. She does not share my joy. But perhaps this is because, when I mention it, I blame her for the cold. I got it, after all, because of my dunk in Gardenia’s pool.

  “You don’t get colds from getting wet. You get them from germs,” she says, taking us down Erdman Avenue. “No wonder you’re worried about your SATs.”

  Ouch! “Germs thrive in compromised immune systems,” I say. “Mine was compromised by the dampness.”

  “It was probably compromised by that boyfriend of yours,” she snorts. “You were snogging it up with him at the mall last Saturday, right?”

  Two bulls-eyes in a single conversation! Mentioning the SATs and Doug in virtually the same breath. She must read the same relationship books as Kerrie. I pull the arrows from my fragile ego. “You mean that ex-boyfriend. He hasn’t coontacted me all week.” I cross my arms and stare out the window.

  After a few seconds of silence (translation: Aw geez, did you have to go and make me feel sorry for you?), she tells me she hasn’t had much chance to pursue the Paluchek/Dad case this week because she actually had a paying client taking up her time, but she’s going to be doing some work on it Saturday.

  “You free tomorrow afternoon?” she asks. “You could come with me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I WAKE UP on Saturday filled with sisterly love.

  The feeling lasts thirty-seven minutes.

  That’s how long it takes me to eat breakfast, throw on some clothes, and search for earrings. It’s the earrings that quash the sibling devotion. I want to wear my silvery bangle earrings, the set with tiny filigreed balls at the end of them. I’ve decided they will strike just the right tone of “sophistication meets insouciance” when paired with my jeans and black tee. (Hey, I ironed that thing, and it’s lasting me two days. I sniffed it and it’s okay.)

  But I can’t find one of the earrings. It’s not in the small lacquered box that houses all my other earrings. It’s not in the big wooden box that houses my necklaces and oversized bracelets. It’s not even in the medium-sized, hand-painted box that keeps my bangle bracelets safe. And Doug gave me this set of earrings. Losing one of them is just too much prophecy karma for a Saturday morning. I can’t face it. I have to find that earring!

  So while I paw through scarves and socks in my dresser, Connie yells from the living room that we need to get going. And as I creep around the floor searching for a glint of silver, Connie threatens to leave without me. When I finally find the darn thing (in my underwear drawer) and loop it through my ear, Connie throws out an insult — nay, more than an insult. It’s a dare — a glove across the face, if you will.

  “I don’t know why I’m taking you anyway. You’re probably just going to slow me down.”

  Slow her down? Was I not the one who found the check in Gardenia’s apartment? Was I not the one who got Brenda to unlock the files to my father’s case? Was I not the one who kept Virginia Winslow from leaving our meeting? Was I not the one who suggested we look at the murder and not just Paluchek, and who … well, I’m sure I’ve done something else spectacular, but it’s too early to think of it. It’s only nine o’clock, you see, and I’m still getting used to the fact that there’s a nine o’clock on Saturday mornings.

  In the car, Connie tells me how we’ll play this. She will ask the questions. I will remain mute. After I ask her if she wants me to actually pretend I’m deaf and mute, she actually considers it before saying, “No, you’d probably react to a noise and blow your cover.” And why would a deaf, mute girl come along on an interview, anyway?

  “The man we’re meeting is Kerwin Moffit,” she says.

  I can’t help it, I laugh. “Kerwin Moffit? Sounds like … a muppet.”

  Connie ignores me. “He’s a high-priced lawyer. He was Jimmy Winslow’s lawyer.”

  Jimmy Winslow again.

  Connie talks out the case as we know it. “Dad was filling in for our buddy Paluchek that night. Paluchek and Winslow were being investigated as a team. Maybe t
hey were both up to the same something.”

  “Winslow and Paluchek were being investigated together?” I thought it had been just Steve. If she has this info, maybe Connie’s more on top of things than I imagined.

  But Connie doesn’t respond. She heads into downtown, where traffic is light on a Saturday morning, but she’s a little unsure where Moffit’s condo is, so we end up going through Charles Village, down St. Paul, over Lombard, and around several other loop-de-loops until we find the right combination of one-way streets to get us to the spanking new condo complex by the harbor. Still, we end up three blocks away on a side street. As we walk toward the harbor, Connie continues.

  “After Dad died, Paluchek and Winslow split as partners. Then Paluchek paired up with a fellow named Gregory Holdene. Nobody on the force is quite sure where Holdene landed. I tried forwarding addresses, but he didn’t turn up. But meanwhile, I got the Moffit name.”

  “Why did Window have a lawyer? Did Paluchek get one too?”

  “Winslow. Not Window.” She might as well have added “you idiot.” “I told you already. He had a lawyer because he got into trouble with the force some years ago. Some Internal Affairs thing. Those records are like Fort Knox. I was real lucky to get Paluchek’s and I only got a small piece of it. I don’t know yet if Winslow’s investigation was related, but it would make sense if it was.”

  I wonder if my friend Brenda has any short stories in her about Internal Affairs investigations.

  We arrive at the condo community. “This time, I do the talking,” Connie says to me before pushing the buzzer. “Or else.”

  I just hope she keeps it together this time.

  “May I get you another soda?” Kerwin Moffit leans forward on his white chair, an armless curvy thing that looks more like sculpture than furniture. Connie and I sit on the sofa that matches it, and all I can think about is whether my jeans might have picked up any dirt from Connie’s car or anywhere else and, if so, will I stand up to see a dirty stain that will turn my face a shade so red it matches the Georgia O’Keefe-style painting of poppies on this dude’s dining room wall?

  “No, thanks,” I say, and Connie shoots me a glare. Uh-oh. Guess even two words is talking too much.

  We’ve been in Kerwin’s place for nearly a half hour and, I must say, it’s been an odd visit so far. I’m bad at guessing ages, but he has a Taylor Hicks head of salt-and-pepper hair, matching laugh wrinkles around his eyes, and less than taut jowls. My best estimate — he’s past fifty. The sleekly decorated condo makes me wonder if he’s gay, but he’s flirting enough with Connie to nuke that idea. In fact, he seems to fancy himself a lady’s man. He wears a crisply-ironed white shirt open at the collar, revealing a tuft of gray hair and a single gold chain, rolled up sleeves above tanned arms, and gray cuffed pants made out of some light shiny fabric that shows absolutely no wrinkles when he stands.

  His condo is expensive-looking. In addition to the not-from-Furniture-Bob’s-Warehouse sofa and chair set, there’s a coffee table of what looks like a piece of petrified wood, some African-American art in bold reds and oranges, and a flat-screen TV behind two decorative panels above the marble fireplace. He was watching some pre-game show when we came in.

  As it turned out, Connie had made no appointment with Moffit. We weren’t expected. Connie did all the talking, explaining she was a PI working on a “very personal” case. She made up a phony reason for looking into Dad’s death — something about maybe suing a gun manufacturer. Not the company that manufactured the gun that killed him, but the company that made his gun. She claimed the police report said his gun misfired that night.

  Kerwin asked her about her PI work first and requested her card, telling her he occasionally used a private detective for cases and would keep her in mind. Then he offered us drinks (Connie said no, but I was thirsty, and if I’m not allowed to say anything, I might as well drink something), and then he talked a lot about Dad.

  “I never had the chance to actually meet him,” Kerwin said. “But I was told …”

  And then he went on to list the things he’d been told, all of which jibed with the things I’d always heard — that Dad was a hero, a kind and gentle man who wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it was going after somebody, and how Dad’s funeral closed off three streets around the church because so many people attended.

  Most of it I’d heard before, but he had a few new details — like how Dad used his gun only once while on the force, and that was to stop a robbery in progress, and he aimed at the robber’s leg, winging him, even though the culprit was pointing a gun at Dad’s face. The story kind of left me sad, realizing all these strangers know more about Dad than I do. It makes me wish I could send out a broadcast e-mail to the world asking for details about my father so I’ll be the only one with the complete picture.

  This recitation of things about Dad seems to have knocked the wind out of Connie, too, because she just clams up and listens, not asking a question or taking a note. So when Kerwin asks me if I’d like another soda, I decide to dive into action.

  After declining his offer, I lean forward, hands between my knees, and break my silence.

  “Maybe if you tell us where we can find his partner that night …”

  Connie reacts as if struck by lightning, sitting bolt-upright and opening her eyes wide. We both know Winslow is dead. But hey, Kerwin doesn’t know we know, and maybe he’ll divulge more than just that fact.

  “Jimmy.” Kerwin nods his head slowly. “I’m afraid he died in a car accident about a year after your own father was killed. It was all very sad.”

  Now Connie springs into action. “I understand he was in trouble with the force.” Once again, my sister wins the Ms. Subtlety Award.

  The corner of Kerwin’s mouth lifts into a rueful smile. “There were some differences. I was his lawyer. And I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about it. His records were sealed and I won’t break that confidentiality even now.” He stands and walks to a bar by the fireplace, pouring himself something clear. Water? No, it smells like alcohol.

  “Did he ever tell you anything about our father’s death — the night he was killed?” Connie asks.

  “Yes, yes, he did.” Kerwin sits down and stares Connie in the eye as if taking a dare. He doesn’t release his gaze the entire time he speaks. His voice is low and emotionless, as if he’s reciting a story he’s memorized or been asked to repeat many times.

  “Winslow and Balducci were on patrol together. Around midnight, Winslow asked if they could stop by the downtown Post Office so he could mail his gas and electric bill in one of the lobby slots. He left your father in the patrol car and went into the building. The street was empty. It was a routine patrol, and they’d had no trouble that night — just sent a drunk on his way home, and helped an elderly couple with a flat tire. They were going to get coffee after the Post Office run and Winslow was wondering if they had time to get a burger, too. As he came out of the Post Office, Winslow was looking down because he tripped on some cracked concrete on the way in. He heard two gunshots, looked up, and saw Balducci lying on the ground near the steps to the door. He hadn’t heard him get out of the car. He ran to the patrol car and called for help. As he did, he saw two hooded men running south, southeast. They were never caught and the murder weapon never recovered.”

  This is the same story Brenda wrote, with only the names changed — the story I didn’t share with Connie because the very details that made it real to me would make it doubly real to her. I know she knows the story. But knowing it is different than hearing someone else talk about it. That makes it real.

  When I look at Connie, her face is as white as the sofa, her mouth hangs open, and her eyes are watery. Crap! I look at Kerwin. His face holds no clues.

  “He was investigating an immigrant-smuggling gang at the time,” I say in a clear, no-nonsense voice.

  This jolts Connie back to the present and she nods seriously. “Yes, something to do with blackmail and—”

  �
��And terrible things,” I add. Connie shoots me a grimace. That’s good. The old Connie is coming back.

  Kerwin reaches forward and opens a box on the table, pulling out a thin cigarette. He asks us if we mind if he smokes. I do mind, but it’s his house, so I shut up. After lighting up and blowing a plume of smoke my way, he pauses. He pauses for so long I’m wondering if he’s angry about something, or if we said something wrong. At last, after another drag on his cigarette, he speaks.

  “There’s nothing in the report about your father’s gun misfiring. Why are you really here?”

  “The smuggling ring,” I say at the very same moment Connie says, “Paluchek.”

  Kerwin smiles. “Which is it?”

  “Both,” Connie says. “I have a client who might have gotten on the wrong side of that gang. And as for Paluchek — he was Winslow’s regular partner. He was supposed to be there that night.”

  Kerwin leans back, his arm around the top of the chair. “That’s true. Jimmy Winslow was a good cop. But from what I hear, Steve Paluchek had eyes in the back of his head.” He looks at us with a grimace that relaxes so quickly, an unobservant visitor wouldn’t notice. “Paluchek had some problems, as I’m sure you know,” he says. He looks smug, as if eager to reveal uncomplimentary gossip but unwilling to divulge it without prodding.

  “Yeah, we know,” I say, picking up on the cue.

  Kerwin nods. “The IA problems. I understand there was some question he was protecting someone. Never proved, of course. But he was watched. Probably still is.” He smiles. “Has he stopped drinking?”

  Connie is struck dumb now that she actually has the dude give up intel. I, however, jump into the gap. “Not sure. We’re looking into it.” Good grief, Con, get a grip. You’re supposed to be the Big PI!