House of Ghosts (32 page)

Joe’s words snapped Miller back to the present. “Where was he from?” Miller asked.

“At the library, I found his obituary on
The New York Times
microfilm. His hometown was Brooklyn, New York. His wife Sarah, his mother and father Rachel and Abraham, and a brother Jacob survived him.” Joe lit another cigarette between coughs.

Miller stared at the ducks. “Paul Rothstein wasn’t a Princeton chum, was he?”

“I strongly doubt a Jewish kid from Brooklyn would’ve been admitted to Princeton in the Thirties,” Joe said with a wry chuckle. “He graduated from N.Y.U.”

“The look on Preston’s friend’s face as his buddy demonstrated the angle of the fighter’s dive sort of fixed the date of the barbecue in my mind. Like when Pearl
Harbor was attacked or John Kennedy was assassinated. It was the twentieth of August.”

“Are you sure? It’s almost a lifetime.”

“August twenty is my birthday,” Miller said flatly.

“That friend wouldn’t be Clark Johnson?” Joe asked.

Miller flicked the cigar against the bench arm, warily looking at Joe. “You must’ve been one good detective.”

“The Princeton roommates had a raucous past. Johnson dragged Preston into a few jams.” Joe explained. “Sounds like Clark was celebrating. What was Preston’s demeanor during Johnson’s demonstration?”

“Quiet. He sipped his standard Wild Turkey.” Miller puffed on the cigar, again lost in thought. “Johnson said something that struck me at the time as being the alcohol loosening his tongue. A crazed look overcame his face as he slapped Preston on the back. ‘We changed the world, we changed history.”

“And Preston?”

“He walked into the house without a word,” Miller said, sounding fatigued.

“Johnson learned to fly fighters,” Joe pointed out. “Did he make it overseas?”

“Wound up in Italy escorting bombers,” Miller said. Through the atrium glass, he saw the blonde nurse return with a wheelchair. “Oh, no! Nurse Ratchet is on her way. We only have a few minutes.” He took a final puff on the cigar before burying it in a sand filled bucket. “I came to know Clark Johnson and his wife fairly well. He was a braggart. I never knew when he was telling the truth. He complained mightily how he was robbed of being credited for two German planes that would have made him an ace.”

The nurse spotted Miller and Joe on the bench, and headed their way. “Reverend, did you think you could hide from me,” she said, pushing a wheelchair.

“Patricia, never,” Miller said, getting to his feet. He looked at Joe. “Preston and Clark were mixed up in something, and my gut tells me it haunted Preston to the day he died.” The nurse helped him into the wheelchair. “Talking to Gloria Johnson might help.” He opened his day planner. “She must have read about my hospitalization in the Synod bulletin and sent me a get-well card. I saved the address. We haven’t spoken since I officiated at Millie’s funeral thirty-five years ago. Call her and use my name.”

Joe placed the box of candy on Miller’s lap. “Clark is no longer alive?”

Patricia pushed the wheelchair toward the building. Miller held up his hand for her to stop. “Clark passed away suddenly in 1960. I thought losing his friend caused Preston’s mental collapse. After today, I’m not sure.”

“One last question, Reverend,” Joe said, taking Miller’s hand, “Why
did
Rabbi Balaban attend Preston’s funeral.”

Miller looked squarely at Joe. “I never asked.”

Joe watched Miller disappear into the building. He needed a beer and someplace soft to rest his aching head.

His cell rang. “Jozef,” Alenia said.

“How did you know I was thinking about you?” Joe answered, walking around the pond toward visitors parking.

“My grandmother
wuz
a gypsy. I’ll leave the side door open.”

JOE SILENCED THE CHIME ON HIS TIMEX. Running his hand down the curve of Alenia’s back brought a drowsy “hold me” from the one he equated to sexy comfort food. “I’ve got to get into the shower,” he whispered in her ear.

“What time is it?” she asked, pulling the sheet over naked rear.

“Ten-thirty. It’s still early for you. For the rest of the world, the day has long begun.” He planted a kiss on her forehead.

Alenia pushed his face away. “When will you sleep at my house so I don’t have to get up when you leave?”

Joe grabbed her around the waist. Sleeping with another man’s wife was one thing, sleeping in his bed was something else. “Rosa wouldn’t have a reason to change the sheets if we did.”

Irritated, Alenia propped herself on an elbow. “You go to this meeting after not going for a year. Why?”

Joe scooted off the bed, stumbling on an empty bottle of sparkling burgundy tossed onto the floor in the early hours of the morning. “I’m trying to regain my civic responsibility.”

“Keeping me happy is
your
responsibility,” she shouted back.

He turned on the shower, hoping the hot water would remove knots in his back caused by the Russian émigré’s bedroom contortions. His pleas that he wasn’t a gymnast brought “if you think like old man you’ll be one.”

To his relief, Mrs. Gilbert had fallen back asleep by the time he finished shaving. Joe collected his clothes, making his way downstairs.

Roxy stood at the base of the stairs holding Alenia’s two hundred dollar Bergdorf Goodman designer bra in her mouth. “Come on girl,” Joe said entering the kitchen. He held a biscuit above her nose. “Drop it!” The lacey rhinestone studded holder of male dreams was exchanged for the canine treat. Joe hung the prize on the metal filigree of the Tiffany lamp over the dinette set, assured that
Alenia would be thrilled to find a chunk missing from the top of the right cup. Roxy cocked her head to the side. Joe gave her another biscuit. “I would have gone for the thong.”

Joe fumbled with a Windsor knot, not having tied a tie in a year. Successful on his third attempt, he shook his head in the mirror near the front door. There was a time he could do it with his eyes closed and make the ends even. Slipping on his new navy blue blazer, he took four steps back to take stock of the package—Alenia was right. The sky blue tie with red piping looked sharp against his starched white shirt.

He stepped out onto the porch, closing the door with a faint click. “Hey Joe!” Ed Stovall called from across the street, his omnipresent bamboo rake in hand. “Some guy was snooping around the Swedge place.”

Joe made his way down the landing to the driveway. “Probably from the wrecking crew. They’re supposed to start work any day.”

Stovall shook his head. “He looked too old to be working. I asked him what he was doing, and all I got was a dirty look. I watched him get into one of those damn Japanese compact cars parked down the block.”

“What make and what color?” Joe asked.

“It was white,” Stovall answered. “I don’t know the make. All those pieces of shit look the same.”

“How about a plate number,” Joe asked, already knowing the answer.

“Too far away. My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” Stovall admitted reluctantly.

“You should’ve tackled him and made a citizen’s arrest,” Joe said with a suppressed laugh.

“Not with this guy,” Stovall said, shaking his head. “He must’ve been six-six and two fifty.”

Joe opened the driver’s door of the Volvo. “Big dude.”

“Where you going dressed to the nines? A funeral?”

“The Downtown meeting.” Joe held up his hand. “Don’t ask me why I’m going after a year.”

Stovall had remained active in the group despite selling his sporting goods business. “I’d like to see you make your grand entrance, but I can’t. I’ve got an urologist appointment.”

Joe felt pain below his belt thinking of having his privates checked. “I’ll give you a report.” Using a withered newspaper to sweep crumbs and cigarette ash off the driver’s seat, Joe settled behind the wheel. He tossed the paper on top of a collection of coffee cups, assorted fast food wrappers, a pizza box, and half
dozen empty beer cans.

Slipping the key into the ignition, he said a prayer to the lemon god. For seven hundred dollars the dealer could assure the starting problem would become a painful memory. He’d sooner arrange with a Plainfield homeboy to have the damn piece of junk
disappear
and use the insurance to buy a new Explorer.

The gods were smiling. A ten second groan from under the hood and a tap on the accelerator brought the V70 wagon to life. The dashboard clock read 11:17. He had plenty of time to take care of a little business before the twelve-thirty Downtown Association meeting.

Driving time from Tanglewood Lane to the Westfield Police headquarters on Broad Street was a half of a Marlboro. Joe turned into the municipal complex. Like tying a Windsor knot, he hadn’t stepped inside the place he had called his home away from home in a year.

His first inclination was to leave the Volvo in the space designated for Chief Willard Saurbraun. Their tumultuous head banging relationship ended with the U.S. Attorney for New Jersey’s forceful suggestion that Joe’s disability claim be honored or allegations of bribery and extortion would be referred to state prosecutors. Dr. Headcase said he needed to let go of his anger, not to live in the past. He had the ability to keep his hand off the switch that turned on his anger. After a crisp “Fuck you!” he parked in the lone handicapped parking space.

Armed with the five-iron and a smile as fake as the town’s colonial image painted on a mural above the wall of bulletproof glass surrounding central receiving, Joe faced a civilian dispatcher hired after his retirement. Open access to the operations end of the police department ceased during the year of Joe’s absence after a detainee grabbed a firearm.

“Buzz me in,” Joe requested, standing at the door of a 1800s jail cell outfitted to open electronically.

“I don’t recognize you. Please show your I.D.,” crackled over the intercom.

“It’s okay, buzz him in,” Bill Fielder the sergeant-in-charge ordered. “Lieutenant, I’ll meet you in the hall.”

The whirl of gears retracting the gate coincided with Fielder’s entrance into the hall. “You should’ve called,” he said, giving Joe a rap on the back. “Sure is good to see you lost the caveman look.”

“All good things have to come to an end,” Joe answered. “Fredericks around?”

“He just came back from a meeting at the high school,” Fielder said. “A kid was selling pot in the cafeteria. The principal thinks it’s a fucking joke.”

“Nothing changes,” Joe said, inching down the hall trying to get away before
being asked to dinner.

“The missus keeps asking when you’re coming over,” Fielder said with a hand on Joe’s arm.

“Soon, Bill, soon,” Joe said with a disguised wince. He wanted to add “don’t hold your breath,” or “when Hell freezes over.” Fielder was a great guy, but his wife’s cooking and his two sons who were one step above Neanderthal man on the evolutionary ladder didn’t make for an evening to die for.

“I’ll be waiting.” Fielder disappeared through a side door.

Spotlighted photos of past police chiefs and officers killed in the line of duty and military service lined the hall. Joe turned his head away from a montage chronicling the John List arrest. Chief Willard Saurbraun bedecked with battle ribbons and commendations, including those Joe claimed he ripped off in the Cub Scouts, had wormed his way in between Joe and the host of
America’s Most Wanted
. Seeing the pudgy spider lined face was capable of raising Joe’s blood pressure by twenty points.

“No need to throw rose petals,” Joe said, entering the five man detective unit. A renovation done under Joe’s watch placed four desks into cubicles, each complete with a computer. None were occupied. Bringing his own PC into the computer-less station in 1987 reinforced Saurbraun’s view of the sergeant from the city across the Hudson River as a New York know-it-all.

Unit secretary Alice Croyston dropped the file she was holding. “I thought you were dead.” The two had become “close” over twenty years. Joe’s self-imposed agoraphobia tried her understanding. She stopped calling.

Looking uncomfortable, Joe said, “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “The boys out?”

“One sick, one on vacation, two at a burglary,” Alice said, picking up the file.

“Fredericks?” Joe asked.

“Locked in his office,” Alice said, thumbing over her shoulder. “I think he has a porno collection.”

“I’ll bring him back to reality.” Joe crossed the forty by forty austere space, shaking his head at Fredericks’ name on the doorplate, still not understanding how the kid was promoted to be
his
replacement. In a deadpan imitation of Chief Saurbraun, Joe boomed within inches of the burled walnut door, “God damn it Fredericks, stop jerking your chain.” He pressed his ear to the door.

“One second, Chief.” The door opened with Fredericks buttoning his shirt cuffs. He looked at Joe. “Funny to the extreme.”

Alice turned away, stifling a laugh. It was times like this she missed the most after Joe left the department. “Mrs. Fox called concerning her missing garbage
cans for the fifth time.”

Fredericks waved her off. With hands on his hips, he said to Joe coolly, “It must be important if you’ve gotten up before noon.” He returned to his desk.

Joe entered the office he occupied for ten years. Nothing was the same. It was like he was eleven again, standing in the living room of the house he lived in for the first five years of his life. “I shouldn’t have tossed you out of my house when you gave me the print results. I’m sorry.”

Fredericks leaned back in his chair. Joe’s apology was a first. He looked at a folder on the desk. “Forget about it.”

“We’ve got to get together and continue out discussion on St. John,” Joe deadpanned.

Fredericks looked up, his mouth agape. “It would be my…,” he paused, “You don’t mean a word of it.”

Slapping the five-iron against his leg, Joe broke into a smile. “Detective Lieutenant, I’m insulted.” He handed Fredericks the photo of Rebecca Swedge.”