An Eye for Murder

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Oh, that’s lovely. The books too?”

  I pursed my lips. A pleased smile fluttered across her face. As we started to tape the cartons shut, Ruth’s eyes fell on the lighter. She lifted it out of the box. “You know, Or Hadash doesn’t need this. Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “How about your boyfriend? Or your father?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, my father does.”

  “Why don’t you take it for him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like to encourage him.”

  She forced it into my hand. “Now dear, he is a grown man.” I looked at the lighter. It was a curiosity. I slipped it into my bag. “Thanks.”

  As I hauled the cartons out the front door, I noticed two men parked in a car near mine. The driver, who had long hair pulled back in a ponytail, was fiddling with the radio, and the other man slouched in the seat, head down, as if searching for something on the floor. Too bad. I could have used some help. But judging from their studied inattention to my plight, they were probably the type who got off on watching a woman struggle: the “you asked for it you got it lady” types. I stowed the boxes in the trunk. As I slammed down the trunk, Mrs. Fleishman called out from the house. “When you’re done, dear, come in for a nosh. I’ve got coffee and Danish.”

  I headed back in. She wasn’t that bad, once you got used to her. Anyway, how many people have Jackie Kennedy serving them Danish in Rogers Park?

  Chapter Three

  Or Hadash was wedged between a Korean dry cleaners and a tamale stand on Touhy Avenue, the commercial street that cuts a wide swath through Rogers Park. It looked well-stocked, cheerful, and closed. A sign on the window said donations were received on alternate Thursdays or by appointment. A phone number followed. “Just my luck,” I muttered, jotting down the number. At least I hadn’t taken the cartons out of the car. I climbed back into the Volvo.

  The Rogers Park library on Clark Street practically shouts new construction. A neat red-brick building with white trim, it clashes with the crumbling apartment building next door and the dilapidated American Legion Hall across the street. Inside, though, it was filled with after-school activity, and the cheerful buzz contrasted with the funereal silence of most libraries.

  The crowd, a mix of white, black and Hispanic kids, sat at long red tables in the center of the room, all apparently content to share space together. I waited at a counter of faux marble while the librarian, a gnarled, gray woman with a pince-nez around her neck, helped an Asian boy find a periodical. She reminded me of Miss Finkel, the strictest teacher in my elementary school. I set the overdue books on the counter.

  “Oh, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, when I explained why I was there. “We haven’t seen him in a while. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “No, he’s not.” I told her what happened. The lines in her face deepened. “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “I’ll pay for these, if necessary.” I picked up Shadow Warriors to show her the due date stamped in the back. As I riffled through the pages, a scrap of paper floated to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. The Internet address www.familyroots.com was scrawled on it in pencil.

  “Hey,” I said. “Look at that.” I showed the paper to the librarian. She inspected it and gave me a puzzled glance.

  “It’s a web site.” She frowned as if I’d somehow intruded into her well-ordered universe.

  “I know. I just never thought a ninety-year-old man would be surfing the net. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. But…uh…my father still thinks that computers are nothing more than fancy pencils.”

  She threw me a chilly look.

  “I mean, I didn’t see a computer at his home.”

  “Mr. Sinclair was online here nearly every day.” She pointed to the computers on some of the tables.

  “You’re kidding. What was he doing?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew. We have strict privacy rules here.” Her face softened. “But I can tell you he was usually here first thing in the morning, sometimes before we opened up. It’s a good time to go online. Less traffic.”

  “Was this one of the sites he went to?” I pointed to the scrap of paper.

  Her face was noncommittal.

  “Did you teach him how to log on?”

  She peered at me through her pince-nez. “It isn’t difficult, if you follow instructions. You could learn.”

  I didn’t correct her. She looked past me, her expression tight. I turned around. Several people had formed a line behind me.

  “Well, considering what happened,” she said briskly, “I think we can waive the fines. Thank you for returning the books.” She slid them toward her and looked at the person behind me. I had been dismissed.

  I was almost out the door when I felt a tug on my sleeve. I whipped around to see a young teenage boy with dark brown skin and wooly hair. A blue Georgetown baseball cap cocked to the right covered most of his head. Over his shoulder was a backpack decorated with black markings.

  “You know Sinclair?” he asked. His voice was accusatory, almost belligerent. If I hadn’t heard the crack in it, I might have felt uncomfortable.

  “Kind of,” I answered.

  “You say he dead?” He fingered his ear. A gold post protruded from it.

  I nodded.

  The kid didn’t flinch. “Were you a friend of his?”

  “Yeah.” He looked as if he was trying out the concept and liked it. “He was cool with me.”

  “I’m Ellie Foreman.” I stepped through the door. “What’s your name?”

  “Boo Boo.”

  I got a clear view of his backpack. The markings on it were Jewish stars.

  “He be your friend, too?”

  “To be honest, Boo Boo,” I said, staring at his backpack, “I didn’t really know him. But I think he knew me.” I looked at him. “I—I know the lady he lived with.”

  “Aww, man. The old lady?” The boy grinned. “Shit. She used to dis him all the time. Rag on him, too. Least that’s what he say.”

  I smiled. “Did you meet him here? At the library?”

  “Yeah.” He straightened up. “I teached him things.” His chest puffed out. “Computers.”

  I opened the outside door, and he followed me out. I saw the trace of a swagger.

  “You taught him how to go online?” I raised my voice above the afternoon traffic, already crawling down Clark.

  His turn to nod.

  My eyes strayed to his backpack. “Boo Boo, you’re not Jewish, are you?”

  I pointed to the backpack.

  He took it off his shoulder and offered it to me for inspection. Two pitchforks formed an X behind some of the stars. Above the designs were the initials “GDN.”

  “What’s that?” I pointed to the letters.

  “GDs,” he said, and then added impatiently, “Gangster Disciples, man. Gangster Disciple Nation.”

  “Oh,” I said, instinctively tightening my hold on my bag. “Are you a member?”

  He drew himself up. “Sinclair done ask me the same thing.” We eyed each other carefully. “My brother is. I be one soon.”

  I relaxed my grip. What kind of gang-banger spends time at the library?

  “Ben was Jewish.” I cleared my throat. “I am too.”

  “Damn.” His brow wrinkled.

  “Did you teach him how to surf the net? The lady at the desk said he taught himself.”

  He threw a cold look back inside the library. “She don’ know shit.”

  We walked past a building with a disintegrating façade and a blue and white “Medicos” sign out front. I wasn’t sure what to make of this kid. Part geek, part gangster. A modernday centaur.

  “Hey, Boo Boo,” I said, “you can help me with something.” I pulled out the scrap of paper. “Was this one of the sites you helped him log onto?”

  He glanced at it and shrugged.

  I searched for the right words. “Look. I don’t want to make trouble for you, bu
t Ben had my name on a piece of paper. Mrs. Fleishman, the lady he lived with, found it. I’d like to know why.”

  “You one of dose people he E-mailed?”

  “E-mail?” I raised an eyebrow. “He had his own E-mail?” A grimace shot across his face, as if he realized he’d said too much. Two doors past the Medicos building was a small Middle Eastern eatery. “Boo Boo, how ’bout a Coke?”

  He nodded, and I ducked inside. A man with a dirty apron and sweaty brow grunted at me from behind a counter. I ordered a falafel pita with cucumber-yogurt sauce and two Cokes.

  Ben Sinclair had his own E-mail account. He’d been sending messages. Probably through the library. Funny. I wasn’t sure the library allowed that kind of thing. I didn’t even know how you did it without the right software. I paid for the food and took it outside. Boo Boo was gone.

  Chapter Four

  I dumped the drinks but wolfed down the sandwich. I kept glancing in the rear view mirror, hoping Boo Boo would reappear, but after twenty minutes with no sighting, I started back to Lunt Street. It was nearly four-thirty; I had to get home. Ruth Fleishman would have to dispose of Ben Sinclair’s things after all.

  There was no answer when I rang the bell. I peeked through the front window, expecting to see two floppy ears and a wet black nose poke through the curtains, but there was no hint of dog or human. Maybe they were out for a walk. Rummaging in my bag for a pen, I found a gas station receipt and scrawled a quick note. I squatted down to nudge it under the door when something caught my eye.

  At the bottom of the doorframe was a line of brass weather stripping that had been hidden by the screen door. Behind it I saw empty space. The door was ajar. I straightened up and tried the doorknob. It twisted freely in my hand.

  I debated what to do. I didn’t know Mrs. Fleishman well enough to barge into her house, but I didn’t relish the idea of coming back again just to drop off two boxes.

  “Mrs. Fleishman?” I called out. “It’s Ellie Foreman. You there?” There was no answer. Then I remembered the dog. “Bruno? Here, Bruno. Come here, boy.” I whistled. Nothing.

  I stepped across the threshold. The house was still, but there was a predatory weight to the silence, as if something had been disturbed, and tranquility had not quite been restored. Even the dust motes seemed lethargic. Intuition told me to leave. To take the cartons and go home. But something else tugged at me too; curiosity perhaps, or the same sense of obligation that made me take the cartons in the first place. I slowly climbed the stairs to Ben Sinclair’s room.

  Ruth Fleishman was sprawled on the floor.

  When the cops arrived, I was on the porch steps taking big gulps of fresh air. One of the cops was young, with a leather jacket, crisp uniform shirt, and a pencil-thin mustache that looked pasted on. His partner, older and more rumpled, wore an expression that said he’d seen it all. After asking me a few questions, they went inside.

  A few minutes later they came back out. The younger cop dug out a cell phone and started tapping in numbers.

  The older cop grabbed it away from his partner. “Don’t waste your minutes.” He yanked his thumb toward the house. “Use hers. She won’t be needing it.”

  The younger cop slipped his phone into a pocket and headed inside.

  “Is she—?” I asked shakily. The older cop, whose shield read Mahoney, nodded. I gripped a stake on the porch railing. “But I was just with her an hour ago, and she was fine. What happened?”

  Interest flickered on Mahoney’s face. “You were here earlier?”

  “I left around three.”

  “Powers. Get back out here.” The younger cop reappeared. “Why don’t you tell us about it.”

  Midway through my first sentence, the older cop raised a hand, cutting me off. “Notes, Powers. You gotta take notes.” Powers lowered his chin and pulled out a notepad. He wrote furiously as I told them how I’d come down to Rogers Park at Mrs. Fleishman’s request. How we went through Ben Sinclair’s things. How she persuaded me to take the boxes and how, when I came back, she was on the floor.

  Mahoney stopped me. “You say she wrote you a letter?”

  “Yes.” I told him about Celebrate Chicago.

  “You did that show?” He looked me up and down. I tensed. “I saw it. I grew up on the East Side.” His face melted into a grin. “You hit it right on the money.” I relaxed.

  The medical examiner’s car pulled up, and Mahoney cut short our interview. I heard snatches of their conversation as they moved into the house: “no cuts, abrasions or evidence of trauma”…“maybe an hour or two”…“place seems to be in order.” When he pointed to me, I stood up, felt the world spin, and sat down again.

  By the time the paramedics brought Ruth out on a stretcher, a small crowd had gathered. Among them was an elderly woman in a shapeless dress and sweater, hugging herself against the cold. Tan stockings were rolled at her knees. She walked over and introduced herself as Shirley Altshuler, Ruth’s neighbor and friend.

  “What happened, dear?”

  The only other dead person I’ve ever seen was my mother, but that was in a hospital after she died of cancer. I started to answer, but tears unexpectedly stung my eyes. Mrs. Altshuler laid a hand on my arm. Then she spied Powers ambling out, notepad in hand.

  “Officer, what happened to Ruth?” Mrs. Altshuler asked.

  Powers studied his notes as if she wasn’t there. “Officer, what happened to my friend? I had coffee with her, not even an hour ago.”

  He looked up. “You did?”

  She told him she’d come over about three-thirty, a few minutes after I left. They visited for half an hour. Powers started scribbling again.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Altshuler asked again.

  “Looks like heart failure, ma’am.”

  “That’s meshuga. Ruth was as healthy as a horse.”

  “She was in her seventies, Mrs. Altshuler,” I said.

  “It’s Shirley.” She turned back to Powers. “I’ve known her thirty years, and she always took her medication. Walked every day. She had the stamina of a woman half her age.”

  I looked at Powers. “Are you sure about heart failure? The front door was open when I came back. Maybe—”

  Powers cut me off. “There’s no sign of forced entry. And the place is clean.” He glanced at Shirley. “Old people forget to close their doors.”

  Shirley’s face tightened.

  “But this was so soon after Mr. Sinclair,” I said.

  “It happens,” Powers said. “One goes and the other doesn’t want to go on. I’ve seen it a million times.”

  “But they weren’t—I mean, she and he weren’t—” Powers stopped me. “Sure they weren’t.”

  “Officer.” Shirley drew herself up. “There was nothing unseemly in their relationship.”

  Powers shrugged. As I glanced from one to the other, something occurred to me. “What about the dog?”

  “The dog?” He frowned.

  “Bruno. Mrs. Fleishman’s dog. He’s not here. He was earlier.”

  He frowned. “Our priority is people, not animals.” Thinking about Bruno wagging his tail and wiggling all over at his first sight of me made me start blinking again.

  “Young man,” Shirley cut in. “My niece lives in an apartment building in Skokie. Someone broke into her neighbor’s home, and killed her neighbor’s dog. Dismembered it, she said. Turned out it was a Russian street gang. The Russian mafia.”

  Powers’s jaw twitched. “This isn’t Skokie, ma’am. And there’s no evidence of foul play. The dog probably ran away.” He gestured toward the door. “Especially with the front door open. But I’ll tell the M.E. about the coffee. Maybe the caffeine…” He closed his notepad. I took it as a signal he was ready to move on.

  Mahoney joined us and gestured for Powers’s notepad. Powers offered it to his partner. Mahoney glanced at it, then asked Shirley about next of kin. Ruth had a nephew in the western suburbs, she said. She thought he was divorced.

  Despite
everything, I felt a tug at the corners of my mouth. “We’ll get in touch with him,” Mahoney said.

  “Where are you taking Ruth?” Shirley asked. “Evanston Hospital.”

  She dipped her head and started back across the lawn.

  Suddenly Mahoney, still holding Powers’s notepad, pointed, and jabbed his elbow in his partner’s side.

  “Excuse me,” Powers said, traipsing after Shirley. “What was your name again?”

  I drove home thinking about the fragility of life and the permanence of death. Rachel was camped out in front of the TV. I hugged her longer and tighter than usual. Then I stowed Ben Sinclair’s things in the basement. I let Rachel fell asleep in my bed, where I listened to the steady whisper of her breathing until the birds began to sing.

  Chapter Five

  “Hey Mac, how’s it going?” I stuck my head in his office the next day.

  Mac rolled his eyes toward the phone, cradled between his neck and his shoulder, and waved me in with his free hand. “They undercut us by how much?”

  MacArthur J. Kendall III, my director on Celebrate Chicago, owns a small production studio in Northbrook. He started out doing sweet sixteens, bar mitzvahs, and weddings, but quickly parlayed that into corporate videos. Over the years, he’s established a solid reputation for high quality and low prices. But today, apparently, they weren’t low enough. “Does that include all the post?” Silence. “Graphics too?”

  He started doodling with a pencil. “I can’t compete with those rates, Fred. All I can tell you is to make sure you’re comparing apples to apples.” Another pause. I dug the lighter out of my jeans. “I understand. Well, if things don’t work out, we’re here for you.” He hung up the phone and shook his head.

  “What?” I sat down, scanning his face. The only thing that prevents Mac, with his crewneck sweaters, button-down collars, and insufferable name from being a caricature of himself is an ugly scar running down his left cheek. When I first met him, he said he got it running drugs out of Mexico. It wasn’t until we made our first video together that he admitted to being in a serious car accident as a teen. Whenever he’s upset, the scar flares up in angry red streaks. Now it was blazing.