Murder At The Mikvah (40 page)

 Fifty-seven

Back at the station, Ron stood at the whiteboard, writing the names
Bergerman
and
Lyman
in black. “So much for our two mystery men,” he said, striking a line through the names just as quickly as he had written them.

John stared past him, tapping a pencil on the table. “Yeah, Bergerman was only interested in intimidating his wife.”

“And Gary Lyman was just being
neighborly,
” Ron added.

At the house, Saul had explained how he had called Gary Lyman and asked him to check on Tova. Even after leaving two voice mails about their daughter Esti going into labor, Tova still hadn't called him back. Saul was worried, and he wanted to be certain she got the message.

“It made perfect sense to call Lyman,” John said. “Tova knew him, and he lived close by, just across the field in
The Estates
.”

“But Tova
had
gotten the messages and by the time he got there, she was gone,” Ron said. “That's why she didn’t see him.”

“So what’s next?” Ron asked. “Peter Stem is not our killer; and the two other men—Bergerman and Lyman—are accounted for. Both were on the mikvah lot, but neither set foot inside the building.” He sighed. “So now what? Where do we go from here?”

For the life of him, John did not have a clue. But before he had a chance to admit this to Ron, his cell phone rang, and he stepped out to take the call. Minutes later he returned shaking his head. “What a day! Man oh man, Ron, you are
not
going to believe this…”

John had nearly forgotten that evening two weeks before when he and Robert had canvassed the neighborhoods surrounding St. Agassi. Thanks to the nor’easter, most people easily recalled the night in question—the storm and subsequent power outages—but few had noticed any activity at the old high school. One
thirty-something
woman couldn’t offer any assistance, but did seize the opportunity to go off on a long-winded tirade, ranting about the disgraceful response time of the local power company, and the inefficiency of the police department. The woman’s two young children were wrapped around her legs like monkeys, gaping at the two officers.

“And remember, I pay your salary!” she spat at them before slamming the door.

“Nice lady,” Robert said sarcastically. “Sheesh!”

John rubbed his temples and shook his head in disgust as they trudged on to the next house. Long before, he had stopped taking these outbursts personally, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit agitated about the kids standing there, looking on as their mother berated a police officer. This was the reason there was such little respect for authority anymore. But they moved on to the next house, and then the next, and in three hours time, John had distributed an entire stack of business cards, often times inserting them into mail slots or slipping them under front doors with a short note of explanation.

And now, John should have been thrilled. An unexpected eyewitness from the community coming forward was huge, but the truth was all of this, including the interview with Tova and Saul Katz, should have happened much earlier, despite the fact that they had a man in custody. Technically, Ron was responsible for the delay. From the beginning he was the one calling all the shots. Yet, John still blamed himself. Now that he thought about it, this was Ronnie's first big case—John's help was needed from the start. In hindsight, it was clear John should have put his own personal issues aside and insisted that protocol be followed. Officers should have been pounding the pavement within hours of the arrest.

“And what was this witness doing out at that time of night exactly?” Ron asked.

“Walking his dog. He says that while the dog was doing his business he got a nice long look.”

Ron was interested but skeptical. One thing he had learned from his dad was that enough so-called “witnesses” had more of an interest in notoriety than providing actual information. “He had good visibility?”

“He says they were standing on the sidewalk, right outside the parking lot,” John said.

“And he had enough time to take in the sights? How long does it take a dog to go anyway?”

“Long enough. It seems the dog wasn’t used to going on a leash.”

“So why was he that night?”

“He says he lost power at his house. The invisible fence line was out too. He didn’t trust the dog to stay in the yard without it; apparently he ran away twice before.”

“What kind of dog?”

“Dalmatian.”

Ron snickered. “Granted, they’re not the smartest breed.”

John knew the joke and went along with it. “You know what they say: any dog that runs into a burning building…”

“And your guy—he remembers details?”

“Colors, tags everything… That dog of his was taking his sweet old time.”

“Okay then, bring him in. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

 Fifty-eight

Mickey Landis was short and burly and liked to talk. He showed up at the station dressed in a button down lumberjack shirt with his undershirt showing. His faded jeans hung below his huge belly. Every few minutes he’d grab hold of his waistband and yank them up; a futile effort since they’d invariably inch down to their original position within seconds. His feet were shaped like blocks; his filthy sneakers were as long as they were wide. Originally from north Jersey, Mickey moved to Arden Station after his divorce two years before and now lived with his brother Patrick in a two-bedroom twin on Westmont Street, about six blocks west of St. Agassi.

“I always felt sorry for my big
bro
, you know, seeing that he never found anyone; but turns out he had the right idea all along,” Mickey told the detectives. “Talk about being taken to the cleaners! My ex-wife never worked a day in her life, and somehow she gets half my money!” Mickey removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m still waitin’ for someone to explain that one to me!” He looked expectantly at John who merely smiled politely and held up his empty hands.

“Sorry. Can’t help you there. I’ve been married for almost forty years.”

Mickey looked down and shook his head. “Forty years! My condolences go out to you, man.”

“Mr. Landis, what is your street address?” Ron asked.

“2059 Westmont.”

“Your brother Patrick Landis owns that home?”

“Yep. I don’t have any assets in my name. With paying alimony and all, its better this way.”

“And what do you do professionally?”

Mickey stood up and reached around his back pocket for his wallet. He handed Ron a card and yanked up his pants before sitting down.

Mickey Landis, Husband for Hire.
Ron looked up. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m a handyman,” Mickey said, leaning back and crossing his arms proudly. “I’m not one to generalize, but the men in this town are pussies! These sons of bitches have loads of money, but somehow they’re not man enough to change a light bulb in those McMansions of theirs!” He looked at John and snorted. “I’m still waitin’ for someone to explain that one to me!”

Ron coughed. “So, you fix things?” he asked. He looked again at the card. The caption read:
No job too small. Mickey Lands does it all.

“Yeah, that’s right. But I do anything, really. Plumbing, electric, build an addition…”

“Build an addition?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ve got a couple of guys that I work with on the bigger jobs.” Mickey suddenly regretted his
pussy
remark. “Uh, if you need something done, either of you two detectives, I can set you up… give you a discount too, like the one I give the group home two miles up the road from my brother…”

Ron waved him off. “Thanks. I’ll let you know. Have you always done this type of work?”

“I used to manage a hardware store. But you know, since the divorce.”

“Right.”

“Things are tight.”

“Okay.”

“Are you divorced, Detective?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “No, actually I’m not.”

Mickey crossed his arms and rested them comfortably on top of his stomach. “Ha! Well, I’ll tell you what: you wait! You just wait!” He wagged his finger and nodded his head, knowingly. “You wait ‘til things start going sour. You’ll think it’s nothing, just PMS or somethin’. Then she’ll start telling you some bullshit about growing apart. She'll say she wants a divorce, and before you know what hit you, you'll see money flying out of your paycheck every frickin' week! Man oh man, talk about being blindsided! Ha, you just wait til it happens!” he snorted, “you’ll be knocking on my door wearing your painter’s pants!”

Ron nodded slowly, mentally debating whether to point out his single status. Maybe it would shut Mickey up. “Okay then…”

“See, when you work for yourself,” Mickey interrupted, “the money you bring in varies week to week. Sometimes it’s good, but most of the time it’s not. Thankfully, most of my customers don’t mind paying in cash.” He winked at John. “You know what I’m sayin’ right?” But he didn’t wait for an answer… “I gotta look out for me—Mickey Landis,” he said, poking himself several times in the chest. “You think I feel guilty about keeping a few bucks for myself? Well, I don’t and I’ll tell you why…”

John and Ron looked at each other.
Great. Here we go.

Mickey’s face reddened. “You know what she did with my money? Went and got herself a boob job! Guess she thinks she’s Pam Anderson or somethin’!” he snorted.

He flicked some beads of sweat off his forehead. “Man, I’ll tell you what—she got those boobs for her new boyfriend. She’s old enough to be the kid’s
mother
and she goes and shacks up with him! Disgusting! Ha! I’d like to see the look on his face when he finds out how old she is!” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “From what I hear, he makes a decent living though—wears a suit to work everyday. An accountant or something.” Mickey sighed. “I have to hand it to the old broad; she’s no dummy. She knows the second she marries him, or anyone, the alimony payments stop. So the two of them get to play house in
my
house while I foot the bill!”

John could hear the contempt in Mickey’s voice. It was making his head spin. He knew that divorce brought out the worst in people, but he often wondered why couples didn’t just stay together since they were going to keep right on hating each other after the split anyway.

Mickey’s eyes suddenly widened and he sat up at attention. “Hold it. You’re taping this right?”

John and Ron eyed each other.

“We told you earlier that we’d be recording your statement,” John said.

“Uh, so this tape will be played in front of a judge or something?”

Ron didn’t try to hide his annoyance. Mickey Landis should have thought of this half an hour ago; maybe then he wouldn’t have wasted everyone’s time with his rambling.

“The purpose of the recording is to collect information about the night in question—October 24
^th
,” John said. “Anything
not
having to do with our case will
not
be admitted as evidence.”

Mickey leaned back, only slightly relieved.

Ron coughed, an indication that he wanted to get back on track. “Okay then. You were out the night of Monday, October 24th, walking your dog. Is this correct?”

“Yes, Actually it's my brother’s dog—his name’s Charlie.”

Ron smiled. Mickey’s rambling had officially ended.

“What kind of dog is Charlie?”

“Dalmatian.”

“What time was it when you walked him?”

“I left the house at 9:45 PM.”

“You’re sure?”

Mickey nodded. “Positive. I wanted to be back in case the power came back on before my show.”

“A television show?”

“Yeah.
The Best of
Divorce Court.
It's starts at 10:30.”

“I see. And what route did you take?”

“We walked from Westmont to Belmont and made a left on Trinity. I noticed the power was on at the construction site next to the church and I wanted to check it out—see if they had a generator, or what.”

“So you reached St. Agassi High School at what time?”

“About 10:00 PM or so. Charlie had a bunch of stops and starts along the way. He’s not used to doing his business on a leash.” Mickey looked over at John. “I think I told you that before.”

John nodded.

“And what happened when you reached St. Agassi High?” Ron asked.

Mickey shrugged. “Nothing much. We stood on the sidewalk, right outside the parking lot. ”

“You saw some vehicles?”

“That's right.”

“And what do you remember about those vehicles?”

“The first one was a minivan, parked in the lot. It was a blue Honda Odyssey. The license plate was PA T894PR.”

Ron looked down at his notes.
Impressive
. Mickey had just provided the exact plate number of Hannah Orenstein's van. “You have quite a memory Mr. Landis.”

“Thanks, but it’s only with plates. I drove a sixteen wheeler for ten years. Come to think of it, my wife was probably screwing around on me while I…”

Ron raised his eyebrows and motioned with his pencil toward the tape recorder.

Mickey grimaced. “Sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, there were days I’d be on the road twenty-four hours straight. Memorizing license plates kept me awake. I’d repeat them back to myself, sometimes ten at a time. Guess it worked. I’m still alive.”

“The van was empty, I assume?” Ron asked.

Mickey shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“You told John there was a second vehicle.”

“Yep; sure did. Flew in to the lot just as I was about to head home with Charlie. Nearly ran us over! I’m not positive about the color. It was either dark blue or black. A Toyota Camry.”

“And were you able to get the plate on it?”

Mickey smiled. “Now
that
, I am sure of.
JAM 29
.”