Part 23 (2/2)

Joe followed Roxy to the gate where the dog danced in antic.i.p.ation. Joe reached for the latch. ”Get him!” he said, putting a shoulder to the cedar slats. Bursting into the yard, the ninety pound cookie killer stopped in her tracks, growled at a squirrel foraging in the decaying tree stump in the far corner, and then looked at Joe. ”The 'bad' man isn't here. Let's go.”

Disappointed, Roxy slinked back to the Volvo. ”You'll get another go at him.” Joe said, opening the rear hatch.

Cruising through the center of town, Joe detoured to Elm Street, double parking outside Basics and Bras. Kim scrambled out of the small shop at the sight of the white Volvo. Joe rolled down the pa.s.senger window. ”I have a craving for Italian. How about I pick you up at six?”

”Make it five-thirty. It'll give us more time to watch PBS after dinner,” she said with a wink. Joe hated PBS and NPR radio-his tax dollars weren't meant to support socialist propaganda. He held his hands over his heart. ”I'll be in pain until then.” He watched the complete package return to the sales desk.

The Westfield Senior Citizen Complex, located a good tee-shot and three-wood from the OptimaCare Center, was a pair of ten story buildings, ill designed and looking more decrepit than their thirty years. Joe parked in the designated fire lane of building One, putting his W.P.D. credentials on the dashboard. He searched the mess in the console between the front seats, coming up with a pair of wrap-around sungla.s.ses. A sign next to the main entrance warned that only service dogs were permitted. Taking the coffee cake and five-iron, he maneuvered to the rear of the station wagon and opened the hatch. Despite not having visited the Weinsteins for close to a year, Roxy bolted for the door. Naomi's unlimited supply of dog treats was ingrained on her brain. Inside the vestibule, Joe pressed the intercom key for 8D.

”Who is it?” Naomi crackled.

”Judge Crater.”

”Joe Henderson, I could give you the beating of your life.” The electronic lock buzzed.

Joe crossed the lobby with Roxy in tow. One elevator was out of service, the other stuck on floor eight. Roxy sat at the elevator, her tail swis.h.i.+ng against the aquamarine tile floor. Taking the stairs was out of the question. A bench and four chairs had been stolen and hadn't been replaced. Joe rested against an eight foot turkey erected for Thanksgiving. The red lights began to move on the overhead indicator. Joe counted down the floors, ”Three, two, one-the eagle has landed.” The elevator door slid open. An EMS crew hovered over a woman hooked to an oxygen tank, her complexion the color of day-old oatmeal. ”Lieutenant, have you gotten the flies out of your hair?” asked one of the paramedics who had been at Preston's house the day his body was found.

Joe pulled Roxy out of the way. ”I got that fly, but I think one crawled up you know where.”

The old lady moaned, trying to remove the mask over her nose. ”Maybe you should seek professional help,” the uniformed medical wise guy offered.

”I have, but the girl got busted,” Joe laughed. The trio moved away.

Joe and Roxy got on the elevator. In a series of fits and starts, the Otis model 1970 made it to the eighth floor. Once lily-white, the senior towers were a cross section of the United Nations. When applications from town residents fell precipitously in the 1990s, the rolls were opened to non-residents. An ambient temperature mimicking the Amazon acted as a catalyst to turn essences of curry and kimchi to lethal weapons. Joe tried to hold his breath as he limped toward the end of the hall.

Roxy's tongue a.s.sumed its August position, drooping to the floor. Panting, she pawed the metal door, flaking chips of yellow paint onto the soiled blue carpet. Joe pressed the chime. Naomi Weinstein, wheelchair bound, answered the door. ”Let me guess. You're Ray Charles,” Naomi said. She didn't wait for Joe's answer, turning to Roxy. ”My special friend, I've missed you.”

Roxy licked Naomi on her cheek. The three-room, postage stamp size apartment was adorned with prints of horseracing greats. Naomi could cite chapter and verse from The Daily Racing Form The Daily Racing Form. A series of portraits memorializing the Weinstein's departed Corgis were prominently on display.

”I've missed you,” Joe said, bending to give Naomi a kiss. He deposited the cake in her lap.

”You're a s.h.i.+t, but I missed you, too.” She grabbed him around the neck.

”Where's the big guy?” Joe asked.

”On his throne in the living room. Kope, we have a visitor!” she yelled from the hall.

”Is that Joe?” Kopel asked from his recliner, unable to see more than a few inches past his nose. A combination of macula degeneration and glaucoma robbed him of the ability to read. Television was reduced to figures in a gray haze.

”Yeah, Kope. It's me.”

Roxy raced down the short hall that opened to a living room/dining area crammed with possessions moved from a home they occupied for four decades. She cut around a wingback chair, hurtling into Kopel, knocking an extinguished half-smoked cigar from his mouth. The old man rubbed her head. ”Mel told us you broke out of your coc.o.o.n. If I knew you were coming, I would've dressed for the occasion.” Kopel was still in a pajama bottom and T-s.h.i.+rt. Electronic digital vision enhancing goggles were balanced on his nose.

”You look very debonair,” Joe said, picking the stogie off the floor. ”Do the new cheaters help?” An arc welder could have used the contraption.

”Barely, but any change is better than none,” Kopel said. ”Amy, how about some coffee.”

”I've got it covered. Come to the table,” she yelled from the kitchen.

Joe led Kopel to his chair at the mission style dinette. ”Amy, I'll give you a hand,”

”To h.e.l.l you will, sit down,” Naomi ordered.

Joe did as told, hanging his Yankee baseball jacket on the back of the chair. He was amazed that Naomi was able to take care of the both of them. Roxy trailed Naomi as she maneuvered her wheelchair around the galley kitchen while balancing a tray laden with a coffee carafe, three mugs, plates and utensils. She positioned the wheelchair at the end of the table. A ledge four inches lower than the table top allowed her to sit in her wheelchair and eat without reaching for her plate.

”Did you go to the Series?” Kopel asked. Kopel shared two of Joe's pa.s.sions- the New York Yankees and golf. ”I watched the games on the radio.”

”Beating the Mets was never in doubt,” Joe said. ”As Casey used to say, the boys done good.”

”Mel said you were asking about our graduating from N.Y.U. in 1942,” Naomi said, pouring the coffee. She handed Joe two mugs. Black coffee was the rule of the house. Naomi considered putting anything into the beans sent by G.o.d, sacrilegious. ”You working on a case?” Homebound, she devoured mystery novels to kill the time. d.i.c.k Francis and his racetrack novels were on top of her list.

Joe put one of the mugs in front of Kopel, bringing his hand to the mug's handle. ”A diary has come into my possession. I'm fairly certain that the writer graduated from N.Y.U. in 1942. Maybe you knew him.”

”Years ago when I could get around, I found a signed 1942 yearbook at a garage sale,” Naomi said, placing slice of cake on gla.s.s plates. She handed the desserts to Joe. ”I didn't know the guy.”

As he did with the coffee, Joe placed the cake before Kopel then handed him a fork. ”Cake is in front of you.” He fished Rothstein's photo from his s.h.i.+rt pocket, handing it to Naomi.

Naomi sat looking at the face. Without turning the photo over she said, ”Paul Rothstein. He was one of Kope's friends. It's been so many years since I thought about him.”

Kopel struggled with his cake, scattering the powdered topping on the tablecloth. ”I sat next to him in most of my accounting cla.s.ses,” he said, managing to snare a piece. ”Thirty-two of my cla.s.smates died in the war. Paul was one of them.”

”Old diaries are a dime a dozen. Every estate sale has one,” Naomi said. ”This is part of a case. I knew it.”

”I'm retired. This is a personal project,” Joe said, sipping his coffee. ”From his diaries, Paul sounds like a great guy who came from a tight knit family. Can you tell me about him?”

”I came to know Paul pretty well from being in many of the same courses,” Kopel said without hesitation. ”His family was dirt poor, and if it weren't for his older brother, he couldn't have paid the tuition. He was sharp, with a knack for math, far better than I. He married a gal right after graduation, before he went into the service. Naomi and I did the same. Now I am stumped. Amy, do you remember her name?”

”Sure, her name was Sarah Greenbaum. In fact, she was in a few of my cla.s.ses, a real sweet kid. They were really in love, an item almost from the beginning of our freshman year.” She rolled away from the table. ”I'll be right back.”

”His Brooklyn accent still rings in my ears,” Kopel said, closing his eyes. ”Paul was concerned about what was going on in Europe, far more than I was. I'm talking about 1938. I only knew of the n.a.z.is from what I read in the papers.”

”I thought that the n.a.z.is were everybody's concern,” Joe said.

Naomi returned with their N.Y.U. yearbook opened to Paul Rothstein's picture. ”That's not the way it was,” Naomi said. ”I'm not just talking about the non-Jews. On the whole, the Jewish students weren't concerned about what was happening in Europe. When the Germans took over the Czechs, there wasn't much of a reaction. I remember how Paul was upset. He couldn't understand why Jewish students weren't worried about Hitler. Am I correct about that Kope?”

”To us, Hitler was a distant problem,” Kopel said. ”I remember when Kristalnacht Kristalnacht, the night of broken gla.s.s, happened. There wasn't much reaction even in New York to the n.a.z.is breaking the windows of every Jewish business and burning down synagogues. Paul came to school more agitated than ever.”

”I find it hard to believe that American Jews sat on their collective a.s.ses as the n.a.z.is were killing their European brothers. Weren't there any Jewish student organizations on campus that organized a response to at least throw rocks at the German emba.s.sy?” Joe asked.

Kopel continued to fish among the crumbs on his plate. ”There weren't any organized Jewish groups per say. It was 1938, not 1968. You You people of the sixties have a different set of values, taking on the government over Vietnam. We didn't think about doing anything like that in 1938. Besides, the Jewish population wasn't so much concerned with the n.a.z.is, as being labeled communists.” people of the sixties have a different set of values, taking on the government over Vietnam. We didn't think about doing anything like that in 1938. Besides, the Jewish population wasn't so much concerned with the n.a.z.is, as being labeled communists.”

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