Operator - 01

by David Vinjamuri

  “But that’s ridiculous. Mel had a restraining order out against George and everyone knew it. Even if he didn’t kill Mel, wouldn’t that at least get the cops wondering and asking questions about her supposed suicide?”

  “Yes, that’s the other problem. Buddy Peterson personally requested a copy of the 9-1-1 recording the day after the shooting. So that means he had his own reasons for going along with the scene staged in that apartment.”

  “Which were?” Veronica taps her lips slowly.

  I shake my head sharply. “No idea. And there’s no way to ask Buddy now. In fact, I’d say it’s pretty important that he doesn’t think we’re poking around this at all.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Didn’t you say Mel’s landlord lived upstairs from her?”

  “Yes, what’s his name?” Veronica asks herself as she flips through a slender notepad encased in antiqued green leather. “Harvey. Harvey Kastriner.”

  “Is he retired?”

  “Maybe. He said he was a widower.” Veronica squints and I can almost see her replaying her brief meeting with Kastriner in her mind.

  “Let’s go talk to Harvey,” I suggest, rising. “Maybe he can tell us what time he heard the gunshot.” I drop a twenty-dollar bill on the check before Veronica can protest.

  Mel’s neighborhood does not come alive in the daylight. Hundred-year oaks planted too close together loom over Orchard Road, their branches extended like bony fingers over the worn pavement. The sidewalk is uneven and disused. An abandoned Radio Flyer lies on its side at the edge of the yard. The house is painted a dull blue, faded almost to gray with white trim around the windows. A narrow walkway with cement stones leads from the sidewalk to the house. Three steps bring us up to a small landing. The landlord’s door faces us and the entrance to Mel’s ground-floor apartment is to the right. Veronica rings the bell to the upstairs apartment.

  I can hear Harvey Kastriner making his way down the staircase slowly, his cane preceding his feet on each stair. The creak of the old wood follows each of Harvey’s heavy footfalls and we both hear Kastriner’s puffs of exertion and exchange a glance. When the door opens, I see a weather-beaten man in his seventies. Kastriner wears a plaid bathrobe tied over boxer shorts and a dingy undershirt that peeks through as he balances two hands on his cane. His steel gray hair is combed neatly to one side, and his face is clean behind enormous steel-framed glasses, lending the impression that it is the only part of himself that he regularly observes in a mirror. The blue paint on the staircase Harvey has descended is peeling, a sign of neglect mirrored in the rickety railing and chipped mirror by the banister. Kastriner’s face seems to soften a little as he recognizes Veronica.

  “You’re Melissa’s friend from the other day, right?” he asks. Veronica nods and I wonder if she has also noticed that he didn’t say “yesterday.”

  “I’m very sorry to bother you again, but we wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Harvey looks around, checking the space behind us nervously before asking, “What about?”

  “The day of Melissa’s death.”

  Harvey shakes his head. “I don’t know, I already talked to the police. Why do you ask? You must know that your friend killed herself.”

  I take a closer look at Harvey. His fingernails are neatly trimmed, cut to the quick. The man has thick knuckles afflicted by arthritis and beefy hands covered in calluses. His eyes dart around, exploring the perimeter of his vision. I guess the man’s age and calculate backwards. “You served in Korea, didn’t you?” I ask.

  Harvey’s head snaps back in surprise. Then he inhales and seems to swell a bit. “Why, yes I did. Twenty-seventh Infantry Regiment, ’50 to ’54,” he says proudly. “How did you know?”

  “Infantrymen can spot one another,” I reply. “So you’re a Wolfhound? You must have seen a lot of action. Did you cross the Han River?” Veronica looks from me to the older man, not following the conversation.

  “Yessir. Toughest day of my life. But we won the Presidential unit citation for that one. What unit did you serve in, son?”

  “I was in combat with the Fifth Special Forces Group,” I reply evenly.

  “Then you must be the Herne boy. Thought I recognized you. I heard you won the Silver Star in Afghanistan,” Harvey adds enthusiastically. I can see that Veronica is surprised by the transformation in Kastriner, who seems to have shed a decade. I’ve seen it before.

  “Yes, sir, but I’m sure it was nothing compared to what you guys saw in Pusan.”

  We fall into conversation for a few minutes. When Harvey asks me a question, I divert the conversation back to him. He’s a tough old sonofabitch, I can tell that much. I would have liked to serve with him.

  “You were Melissa’s boyfriend in school, weren’t you?” Harvey asks gently. I nod.

  “I’m so sorry, son. Sorry about your father, too. He was a good man. I worked with him for twenty years at the Godfrey Mill.” He places a large hand on top of mine. I’m surprised. I haven’t heard many men speak fondly of my Dad.

  “Look, we’re not trying to stir up any trouble,” I say, “but I’m sure you understand that I have some questions about Mel’s death.”

  “It was senseless,” Harvey shakes his head, “such a bright, beautiful young girl.”

  “Did anything happen around here the evening she died?”

  “Nope, it was quiet as a church,” Kastriner said, “until the gunshot, of course.”

  “Do you remember what time that was?” I ask, hoping.

  “Yes, it was right at the end of the evening news…6:30.”

  Veronica and I exchange a glance. Now we know that a man called 9-1-1 from Mel’s apartment nearly twenty minutes before Mel died.

  “What did you do after you heard the gun go off?”

  “Well, I could tell it was a pistol and that the noise came from downstairs, so I called 9-1-1 from my place. I know the trouble Melissa had with that old boyfriend of hers and I don’t move too quickly these days,” Harvey shakes his head ruefully. “I was afraid I might tumble down the stairs and then nobody would have called the authorities. I looked out front for a moment and I didn’t see anything. Then I grabbed the keys and went downstairs. I was knocking on Melissa’s front door when the Sheriff arrived, and I let him in.”

  “He beat the ambulance to the house?” I ask, only half-surprised. Harvey ponders this for a moment.

  “By a minute or so, yes.”

  “And you don’t remember hearing anything at all before that?”

  “No, not at all. I was watching Katie Couric.”

  On instinct, I take another tack. “What can you tell me about the rest of the neighbors on the block?” I gesture to the right and left of the house.

  “Well, the Simons are retired, they’re pretty quiet,” he says, pointing directly across the street to a blue colonial, “and the Martins are upstate for a couple of weeks,” he continues, gesturing to a somewhat larger brick house next door to the Simons’. “Over to the left, that’s a young couple, Jen and Brad Kyle – they have a two- and a four-year-old. Kyle works at Simmon’s garage. And the house on the right – that was a foreign family, but they moved out over the weekend.” The last house, the closest to Harvey’s door, is a Colonial painted a faded yellow and only in marginally better shape than Kastriner’s.

  “Foreign?” I ask. The little hairs on the back of my neck are tingling.

  “European or something,” Harvey says uncertainly, “but not very friendly. I went over to say hello after they moved in and the father just said ‘not speaking English’ and closed the door on me. Good-sized family, but you never saw any of them outside. And lots of visitors, at all times of day and night. I didn’t like them. They didn’t understand what we mean by neighbors around here.”

  “And they moved out this weekend?” I ask, studying the yellow house.

  “Come to think, it must have been Thursday. A big white panel truck came and took the stuff away. They wer
e gone in a couple of hours. Not that it mattered. They were only here for a coupla’ months. Not even long enough to take the ‘For Sale’ sign down,” Harvey gestures towards the road with a large callused hand.

  I thank Harvey and watch the big man retreat slowly back into the house, the cane preceding him step by step. That’s what it comes to.

  “Do you think it’s the guy from the 9-1-1 call?” Veronica asks as we walk onto the lawn of the yellow colonial.

  “I don’t know, maybe. Maybe he was in his back yard when he heard the shot. He went in and found Mel, called 9-1-1 then changed his mind and decided he didn’t want to get involved.”

  “But the 9-1-1 call came before the shot,” Veronica points out.

  “If Harvey’s right about the time, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on his memory. What if the neighbor was an illegal?” I speculate, unconvinced by my own scenario. “Still, I’d like to get a look inside the house,” I say, reaching into the front pocket of my jeans.

  “Do you think it’s open?” Veronica asks.

  “No, but if you’re willing to be my wife for an hour I think we can get a guided tour,” I tell her as I dial the number for the realty agency on the sale sign out front. I observe the look on Veronica’s face as she considers the possibilities.

  * * *

  “This is such a lovely neighborhood, I can see why you two want to live here. Are you expecting, honey?” Mary Edwards asks, as she vigorously shakes Veronica’s hand. I have to stifle the urge to laugh. Edwards is an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties with straight brown hair spun up above her head in some complicated hairdo that involves a healthy volume of hairspray. Her slightly dark, rust-colored lipgloss complements brown eyes covered by a pair of small rectangular glasses with horn rims. She pulls a stray hair behind her ear as she speaks, emphasizing her talking points with a pen. Her navy pantsuit gives her an air of managerial authority, only slightly undercut by the elaborate brooch on her lapel.

  Veronica is about to make an angry retort but I squeeze her hand and she bites her lip. It’s a fair enough reaction, because Veronica’s stomach – or at least her sweater – is washboard-flat. I interject, “We’re not quite ready to talk about that if you know what I mean,” I wink at Edwards, “but we’d like to be in a nice neighborhood. How’s the school system?” I ask, instantly regretting the question. I do want to get inside the house, after all.

  “Well, there aren’t many top-rated schools in this area, but Conestoga High School has its advantages,” Edwards says brightly. An emergency room within two miles is all I can come up with.

  “So we heard this house just opened up,” Veronica comments, eager to move the conversation away from her reproductive health.

  “Let’s see,” Edwards says as she consults her clipboard. “No, you must be wrong, this house has been listed for seven months. I can’t tell you much more because I didn’t rep this property personally. Let’s see who did…hmm, that’s odd. The listing agent is Charles Vanderhook, but I didn’t think he handled any properties personally any more – he’s the founder of our firm.” Edwards looks momentarily puzzled but then shakes it off like a Labrador after a bath and moves purposefully towards the house. She uses a small key to open the lockbox on the door and withdraws the house key. It clicks neatly into the front door lock, which I notice is a new deadbolt in better condition than the rest of the place. Edwards strides purposefully into the house and Veronica and I step in behind her.

  The air in the house has a peculiar smell, and Edwards immediately pulls out an embroidered handkerchief and starts waving it around. “I’m so sorry – they really should have aired this place out,” she says as she struggles to open a window. “It’s a bank-owned property,” she adds by way of explanation or apology.

  “It’s okay. Why don’t you just give us a moment to take a look around on our own? If we have questions, we’ll ask you,” Veronica says smiling, and pecks me on the cheek. Edwards hesitates for a second, conflicted because she knows she’s not supposed to let us wander unsupervised. Then she sneezes, which makes the decision for her, and she shrugs and steps onto the front stoop as we walk up the half-flight of stairs separating the sunken living room from the bedrooms on the upper level.

  I whistle before we even reach the first bedroom. “They really cleaned the place out,” I remark. Veronica looks at me questioningly.

  “Look at the door,” I say. I pull the open door towards us until it closes. There is a hole just below eye-level. Then I examine the hole closely. “There was a deadbolt here,” I explain. I move through the room, the bare pine floors creaking. I see holes drilled in the window frame. As we move from bedroom to bedroom, we see identical holes on each door, and the windows in each of the four bedrooms have all been drilled. The rooms are otherwise immaculate, devoid of any sign that a family has lived here just days before. There is a strong smell of disinfectant, as if the house has been scrubbed clean. It isn’t any more pleasant than the sour smell in the living room.

  * * *

  I lean against the door of the black GTO, my arms crossed in front of me. I flick Mary Edwards’s business card between my fingers like a poker chip, giving the illusion that it is tumbling downhill.

  “So what do you think?” Veronica asks me.

  “There’s definitely something odd about that house. It wasn’t just deadbolts on the bedroom doors – there were bars on the windows. Whoever lived there was trying to keep someone in, not out.”

  “It smelled really odd in there, too. I feel like I know that odor, but I just can’t put my finger on what exactly it was,” Veronica adds, gathering her thoughts for a moment. “Did it sound to you like the owner of that real estate firm was illegally subletting a foreclosed house to that family?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking. It sounds like a pretty good sideline for a realtor these days,” I reply, wondering how any real estate agent in this area managed to survive the recession.

  “So if these people got scared off and left, doesn’t it make sense that they’d go somewhere else – maybe another house that’s been empty for awhile?” I nod. “So how do we find them? It seems like half this town is vacant.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be very difficult at all,” I answer, and the ghost of a smile passes my lips.

  * * *

  “That’ll be $96.35,” the man behind the register tells me, and I wince as I hand over five twenties. I take possession of a handful of helium balloons from the florist along with a hefty vase of flowers. I pause before leaving the shop.

  “Listen, I’m going to surprise my girlfriend at work. Is there any chance I could borrow a hat and apron from your shop?”

  The florist, an angular man with thinning white hair and a pair of reading glasses perched near the tip of his nose considers the question for a moment. “Can I trust you with the responsibility that goes along with wearing the Phil’s Florist hat?” he asks seriously. I stare at him blankly for a second. Then he smiles. “I’ve got an extra set from my assistant who just quit, but you’ll need to promise to bring them back or give me an extra $20 so I can replace them. I nod and hand the man another twenty.

  * * *

  Vanderhook Realty is based in a converted row house just off Main Street in Conestoga. Main Street itself shows few signs of life on a cloudy Tuesday afternoon, and the block Vanderhook sits on is positively moribund. The row house at least has a fresh coat of paint in that jaunty yellow that only a real estate agency or an ice cream shop can pull off. As I approach the building, I pull the Phil’s florist cap down low over my eyes.

  Any good performer knows that magic is about directing the audience’s eyes to where you want them to be. As I push through the door to Vanderhook Realty, a brace of Mylar helium balloons and a dozen yellow roses almost ensures that nobody is looking at my face. There are six desks on the main floor, but only a couple of agents are here as it’s nearing the end of the day. Veronica has called ahead to en
sure that Mary Edwards is not about. I walk over to the receptionist. A plaque tells me that her name is Dolores Ledbetter. She is a middle-aged redhead with long, fake, elaborately lacquered nails and a pen stuck behind her ear that she’s forgotten about. As I approach her I can see that she’s on the real-diets.com website, calculating points for her meals. She looks hopeful as she catches sight of the roses.

  “I have a delivery for Mr. Vanderhook,” I say politely but not too warmly. Dolores looks skeptical.

  “This is Vanderhook Realty, are you sure those aren’t someone for else here?”

  “Uh, it says Charles Vanderhook. Is there someone by that name here?”

  “Well, he won’t be here until Thursday,” Dolores looks both cross and uninterested, as the flowers clearly aren’t for her. I can see her reappraising the value of the yellow roses downwards. “Could’ja come back then?”

  “Uh, I’m sorry, I kind of have to delivery them now. Umm, I can put them on Mr. Vanderhook’s desk if you want. They’ll keep for a few days if you water them. But they’re pretty heavy so I’d appreciate it if you could point his desk out to me.” Dolores gets up from her station, leaning forward to grab a set of keys. She tries to catch me taking a peek down her sweater but I’m not looking at anything in that vicinity. She sighs and steps around in front of me.

  “Okay, I hope you don’t mind a set of stairs,” she says and leads me up to the upper level. Vanderhook’s office is the large one at the end of the hallway. Dolores uses her key to open a deadbolt lock. It’s a large room with a traditional walnut desk with a wingback leather chair between the desk and a matching credenza. A lateral steel filing cabinet sits just inside the door to the right and a small round conference table with two chairs is to my left. I put the vase down on the table, taking a good look out the rear window to the office as I do. There isn’t much of a view through the old paned window. The townhouse shares walls with a hairdresser and a veterinary clinic. Vanderhook’s office looks out back to the small employee parking area shared with the other businesses. There are a few trees between it and the residential buildings behind.