Father's Day Murder (16 page)

I wondered how much of the description was true and how much Arthur Wien had made up. Not that it mattered. It was a terrible scene, a terrible episode in the lives of the boys. The family was religious and the funeral was the next afternoon. They were spared an autopsy. Except for the son himself, none of the other boys attended the funeral. Funerals were not for children, their mothers told them, although they were technically all men by this time, having reached their thirteenth birthdays and been bar mitzvahed. But being a man in the eyes of God was one thing; being a man in the eyes of your mother was quite another. Several of the mothers went, however, and even a couple of fathers took time off from work to go. The narrator’s father was one of them. That night was one no one would ever forget.

The bereaved family, the boy and his mother and several aunts and uncles who lived in the city, sat shiva for the rest of the week. Each of the boys in the group put on his best suit and went to the apartment with his mother to pay their respects.

It was a turning point in all their lives. This wasn’t war; it was peace. This wasn’t Germany; it was the Bronx. This wasn’t a sick man or an old one; it was a man with his health and with enough of his youth that he could have expected to live for decades. And he was gone.

I had lost my father when I was younger than Fred Beller, and my mother when I was slightly older. Perhaps it was those twin events in my life, those two catastrophes from which I had never completely recovered, that made me feel so deeply for the child in the book. I read on, how the boys were embarrassed when their friend returned to
school after the mourning period, how long it took for things to creep back to a kind of normality.

I pressed on in the story. The death weighed heavily on the narrator but life continued. A semester ended, a season changed, a holiday was celebrated. They were getting ready for high school, applying to the special high schools that required high marks and entrance exams, doing things that occupied their time and their thoughts. Even so, death had entered their lives and had affected them. They had changed.

Jack had everything from the carton organized by the time I put the book down. He had thrown out the sneakers and a few other things, but some of the contents that were left surprised me. People in the precinct had written him letters thanking him for his help over the past years. Some were beautifully typed, as though by secretaries, others handwritten on fine paper. Many of them were scrawled in pencil or ballpoint on lined yellow or white paper in marginal English. I picked up several and read them.

“You never told me about these,” I said.

“I just chucked them in the locker.” He sounded very offhand.

“You have to save these to show your son. You never talk about these letters. You did wonderful things for these people.”

“Every cop does, Chris. Every cop has a lockerful of nice letters. There are others, too, you know, the nasty ones. I just toss them.”

“Let me put these away somewhere.” I started gathering them up, smoothing them. “These are real love letters.”

“I guess you could say so. I never thought of them that way.”

Real love letters, thanks for getting my father to the hospital in time, thanks for getting the social worker to come and help me, thanks for finding the guy who killed my brother, thanks and thanks again. I wondered, as I made a neat pile of them, what color ribbon would be right to tie them up with.

“I’ve been avoiding asking you this,” I said. We were in bed, and my energy, what was left of it, was fading fast.

“Ask before you fall asleep.”

“You said the police think Dr. Horowitz did it because of a relationship between Mrs. Horowitz and Arthur Wien.”

“That’s what they told me.”

“How do they know, Jack?”

“She visited him at his apartment in Manhattan.”

“Do you know when?”

“The detective I talked to didn’t say. Not recently. But she was there several times.”

“How do they know? How do they know it was Mrs. Horowitz?”

“The detective said they showed a bunch of pictures to the doorman. He identified Mrs. Horowitz.”

I closed my eyes. Mrs. Koch had said one of the wives. David Koch and Morton Horowitz were best friends. That meant that their wives knew each other well and might well be friends on their own, maybe even confidantes. “Jack, none of these women could have been considered suspects in the murder when it happened. Where do the police get pictures of them?”

“Let me tell you how it works.” He pushed his pillow up and sat. “When the detectives arrive at the scene, like the night Arthur Wien was murdered, they’ve got a group
of people who are potential suspects, the people at the party. But you don’t get anything out of people if you treat them like suspects so what you do, you tell them they’re possible witnesses and you need everything they can remember to help you find the killer. And you treat them very politely. You try to convince them that they are the most important witness and anything they can remember is golden. You say things like, ‘It could help to catch your friend’s killer.’ You divide them up, keep them apart, and talk to them separately. I’m sure they had several detectives over at that restaurant to do the job.

“By the time the detectives are finished, they’ve figured out a few things about the victim. He’s an older guy with a trophy wife; he spreads money around. Chances are good he’s a womanizer. Could be he had an affair with one of the women in the group and the husband got wind of it. They find out Wien has an apartment in New York, and they go over and talk to the doorman. New York doormen know everything that goes on in their buildings. The doorman tells them, ‘Yeah, Wien had women visit him. Some of them came around a lot.’ So they start by getting pictures of the wives of the men, and the best place to get them is Motor Vehicles.”

“I see.”

“They’re not great pictures but if a doorman says, ‘Yeah, I think I remember this one,’ they’re on their way.”

“It doesn’t fit,” I said.

“Why?”

“Mrs. Horowitz is in her sixties.”

“You never saw a good-looking woman in her sixties?”

“Sure I have, plenty of them. But Wien liked them young. Look at his wife. She’s probably half his age.”

“That’s who he married. Doesn’t mean he didn’t have the hots for Mrs. Horowitz.”

And Mrs. Koch knew it and spilled the beans. And at the party, Mrs. Horowitz had asked someone to move so she could sit next to Arthur Wien. “Then she could be the killer,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be her husband. He might not even know. Maybe she’s been dying of jealousy since Wien married Cindy Porter.”

“Could be. Murder is an equal opportunity business.”

“Do you think the Horowitzes know that he’s now a suspect because of this?”

“I doubt it. I think the police are being careful, gathering their evidence so it looks good when they make an arrest.”

“Do you mind if I talk to her? Mrs. Horowitz?”

“Go ahead. Just so long as you didn’t get it from me.”

“I didn’t,” I said, scrunching down in bed. “I got it from someone in the group. I don’t like this at all.”

“It’s murder. What’s to like?”

I had a busy and possibly complicated day on Tuesday. I had to be home at one to call George Fried, and I wanted very much to talk to Mrs. Horowitz before the police got to her. That meant I could see her in the morning if I could make the arrangement or I could drive over after Eddie woke up, in which case I’d have to have something for dinner that didn’t take a lot of preparation. But that shouldn’t be too difficult, I thought, now that grilling season was here. In a pinch, I could do a steak or some fish or pick up some lamb chops. That gave me more flexibility.

I called Mrs. Horowitz’s daughter, Lila Stern, a few minutes before nine to make sure I would get her before
she left the house. It was Janet who answered, and she got her mother to the phone as soon as I asked.

“Chris?” Lila Stern asked.

“Yes, good morning.”

“I’ve gotten little messages here and there that you’ve been very busy. Do you have anything?”

“Not much, but I need to talk to someone and I’d like you to arrange it for me.”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to visit your mother.”

“Let me call her and I’ll get back to you. What’s a good time?”

“This morning or this afternoon about four.”

“I’ll call you right back.”

I wasn’t surprised that the return call didn’t come for twenty minutes. Mothers and daughters always seem to have a lot to say to each other. I’ve been at Melanie’s when her mother has called, and they seem to have more to say to each other than old friends who have not seen each other for years.

Lila said her mother was home this morning and anytime I came would be fine. I asked if I might bring Eddie with me, and she said she was sure her mother would love it. It was a little unsettling, the prospect of taking my little child to the home of a possible murder suspect, but I didn’t really think Mrs. Horowitz had killed Arthur Wien, not that I knew who else had.

Lila offered to come with me, but I told her it would be best if I spoke to her mother alone. The last thing I needed was to confront Mrs. Horowitz with evidence of an old love affair in front of her daughter. Lila gave me very good directions, and Eddie and I started out.

The Horowitzes lived closer to New York than we did,
and it took only about half an hour for me to get to their home. It was a house that had been lived in for a long time. The trees were tall with heavy trunks and leaves that shaded the lawn. Eddie toddled up the walk, pointing to things, and by the time we got to the door, Mrs. Horowitz had opened it.

We spent a little time getting to know each other and getting Eddie situated on the floor of the family room where he could play with the toys I had brought, look out a floor-to-ceiling window, and carry on a conversation with the Horowitzes’ dog who was on the patio on the other side of the window watching Eddie with as much interest as Eddie showed for him.

I watched him for a minute and then turned to the unpleasant task at hand. My quick appraisal of Robin Horowitz was that she was no beauty but a fine-looking woman who would not be mistaken for a woman ten or fifteen years younger than her true age.

“This is hard for me,” I began.

“I don’t understand. I thought you just wanted to hear about Artie Wien and the Morris Avenue Boys.”

“I need a little more than that. I have heard something that I want you to explain. I believe you used to visit Mr. Wien at his apartment in New York.”

She stared at me. “Can you tell me how you know this?”

“I can’t. But I believe it to be true. I’d like you to tell me about it.”

“I can’t.” She had beautiful large eyes which looked directly at me. Her hair had crossed from dark to gray but there was still plenty of dark in it. She had worn glasses when she opened the door, but she had taken them off when we sat down. “It was a private matter.”

I didn’t want to press her. I looked away, watching
Eddie for a moment. He was sitting on his haunches in that maddening way that little ones have, his knees sticking up, and he was giggling at the dog whose tail was wagging furiously.

“Do you think the police will find out about it?”

“I expect they will.”

“You don’t think I had an affair with Artie, do you?”

“I don’t know what went on between you, but I think it may have some bearing on his murder.”

“I don’t really know,” she said as though she were thinking of it for the first time.

“If you could tell me about it, Mrs. Horowitz.”

“I can’t. It was something very personal and I cannot break a promise. Are you going to tell the police about this?”

“I will not.”

“Thank you.”

“Does your husband know about these meetings?”

“No!” she said, raising her voice. Eddie turned and looked at her, and she smiled and said, “I didn’t mean you, honey. You’re doing just fine.”

The dog barked to regain Eddie’s attention and the love affair resumed.

“This is just terrible,” she said. “I can’t believe this is coming back to haunt me this way.”

“You know how this looks, don’t you, when a woman goes to meet a man at his apartment several times?”

“You think Artie and I were having an affair?”

“It certainly looks that way.”

“Well, if people want to misinterpret events, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Please think about the consequences,” I said. I didn’t
want to go into detail. It was easy enough for her to think the situation through without my assistance.

She looked at me as if the word
consequences
had just sunk in. “They’re going to think Mort killed Artie because I was having an affair with him, is that it?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“How can this have happened?” She said it to herself.

“Would you tell me something honestly, Mrs. Horowitz? Did you have an intimate relationship with Mr. Wien?”

“I did not.”

“I was told that one of the wives of the Morris Avenue Boys did have an affair with him.”

“Well it wasn’t me, and I couldn’t guess who it might have been. Artie was an attractive man, especially when he was younger and thinner. He had plenty of girls interested in him, always. And he encouraged it. But I wasn’t one of them, and I’m not going to break my word and tell you why I met with him to prove it.”

“I also heard that you insisted on sitting next to Mr. Wien at the reunion dinner.”

She looked almost confused. “I did sit next to him. There was a vacant chair and I took it.”

It wasn’t the way Arlene Kaplan had described it. “Thank you.” I stood and looked over at Eddie. He was bouncing from his squatting position, laughing, steaming up the glass where his nose pressed against it, marking it with his hands. On the other side, the dog was trying to lick him through the glass. All in all, the window was a mess.

I took a diaper out of my carryall and went over to fix things up.

“Don’t bother to do that,” Robin Horowitz said. “It’ll
take care of itself.” She went over to Eddie. “Would you like to touch the dog, Eddie?”