House Of Ghosts Part 20

"What make and what color?" Joe asked.

"It was white," Stovall answered. "I don't know the make. All those pieces of s.h.i.+t 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, a.s.sorted 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 G.o.d. For seven hundred dollars the dealer could a.s.sure the starting problem would become a painful memory. He'd sooner arrange with a Plainfield homeboy to have the d.a.m.n piece of junk disappear disappear and use the insurance to buy a new Explorer. and use the insurance to buy a new Explorer.

The G.o.ds 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 a.s.sociation meeting.

Driving time from Tanglewood Lane to the Westfield Police headquarters on Broad Street was a half of a Marlboro. Joe turned into the munic.i.p.al 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 s.p.a.ce designated for Chief Willard Saurbraun. Their tumultuous head banging relations.h.i.+p 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 "f.u.c.k you!" he parked in the lone handicapped parking s.p.a.ce.

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 gla.s.s 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 princ.i.p.al thinks it's a f.u.c.king 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 h.e.l.l 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 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 p.o.r.no collection."

"I'll bring him back to reality." Joe crossed the forty by forty austere s.p.a.ce, shaking his head at Fredericks' name on the doorplate, still not understanding how the kid was promoted to be his his replacement. In a deadpan imitation of Chief Saurbraun, Joe boomed within inches of the burled walnut door, "G.o.d d.a.m.n it Fredericks, stop jerking your chain." He pressed his ear to the door. replacement. In a deadpan imitation of Chief Saurbraun, Joe boomed within inches of the burled walnut door, "G.o.d d.a.m.n it Fredericks, stop jerking your chain." He pressed his ear to the door.

"One second, Chief." The door opened with Fredericks b.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt 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."

"Who's the kid?"

"Preston Swedge's adopted daughter Rebecca. Died after being hit by a car," Joe said. "I want you to do me a favor and dig up the accident report and death certificate."

"When did she die?" Fredericks asked, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face.

"December 1951, I think."

Fredericks was on his feet. "You're kidding. Those records aren't computerized. I've got five cases- four burglaries and a suspected hate crime that has everyone and his sister screaming. I don't have the time or the resources to go on scavenger hunt. "

Joe lit a Marlboro despite the "No Smoking" signs throughout the building. "You forgot Mrs. Fox and the great garbage can caper."

"Why the interest?" Fredericks placed a metal wastebasket on his desk.

Joe took the hint, flicking ash into it. "Part of my therapy. My therapist thinks acting like a cop will lead to getting back into a productive life." The burning sensation returned to his chest. He crushed the cigarette inside the wastebasket.

Fredericks sighed. "Bulls.h.i.+t, more bulls.h.i.+t, and truckloads of bulls.h.i.+t. Your master degree should be in bulls.h.i.+t." He drummed on the desk with his fingers. "Give me a couple of days."

"I need two other things," Joe said, resuming the tone of Fredericks' boss. "Run a DMV check for the license of Jacob or Jake Rothstein and check Ted Steele for a long shot."

Fredericks removed his 9mm Glock from its shoulder holster. "Get out of here before it gets messy."

Joe tapped the desk with the club. "Appreciate it."

"Alice! I've got a job for you," Fredericks called.

Joe stopped at Alice's desk. "He has a Hustler under his desk," he said, cupping a hand over his mouth.

"I thought so." Alice gave Joe a hug. "Don't be a stranger."

Joe fought back a tear. He missed Alice and the d.a.m.n job. What he didn't miss was Willard Saurbraun standing in the hall with his hands on his hips. Gripping the five-iron, he advanced toward his ex-chief.

"What in h.e.l.l are you doing here?" Saurbraun demanded. "I thought we had an understanding."

Saurbraun's begrudging acquiescence to Joe's disability claim included a pledge by the injured cop to stay away from headquarters-no Christmas parties, commendation ceremonies, or dropping by for a cup of coffee. "Advocating for all the missing garbage cans in town. Garbage cans have inalienable rights of government protection. Where's the public outcry?" Joe said as he drew even with Saurbraun.

Saurbraun took two steps back. "You're a crazy son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"No Chief, I'm a romantic." Joe said, visualizing the anger switch. Oh how he wanted to throttle the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He faced the security camera that had captured the confrontation. Without a word, the gate opened.

Joe blew a kiss to the civilian dispatcher and exited the building glad not to have run into any other familiar faces. It wasn't the forced small talk but the questions behind the looks looks. Word of his falling into the bottle had traveled through the Department. He didn't know if it was blabbered by Fredericks or Fielder, but a rumor about a botched suicide by overdosing on pain pills smacked of Chief Willie.

Joe lit a cigarette, watching Saurbraun get into his unmarked cruiser. Joe followed in the Volvo, keeping two car lengths behind for the quarter mile trip on Broad Street to the center of town. He didn't need to follow Chief Willie under the railroad overpa.s.s. For ten years, Tuesday meant an afternoon kickback with a woman in a duplex near the 7-Eleven. Joe found it ironic that the man who restricted hiring black officers to one "n.i.g.g.e.r" to police the rundown section near the vehicle inspection station had a girlfriend the color of brown sugar.

A plethora of "FOR RENT" signs and vacant storefronts lined the shopping district. The movie theater had shown its last flick the month before. "Seedy," Joe said to himself. Making a right turn onto Prospect Street, he pulled into the munic.i.p.al parking lot, a half block up the street from Forno's Restaurante. The lot was full of bargain hunters picking through the remains of The College Shop, a family business slated to close after sixty years. Once a destination store for kids going away to school, it had lost its edge to the hip fas.h.i.+on places in the mall. Circling the lot, he found a spot between a BMW and a British racing green Jaguar with LBI decals plastered on the rear window. LBI was the place at the Jersey sh.o.r.e where those in the know had summer places to booze it up and barbeque. The Jag belonged to his sometime friend and attorney Mel Katz.

He s.h.i.+fted the Volvo into park. He hadn't spoken to Katz for six months since the former county prosecutor suggested a stint in a re-hab facility might save his life and his marriage. With scant inches between the cars, Joe twisted his legs to get out, knocking a sandwich bag of change to the pavement from a pouch in the door.

Bending to pick up the fistful of coins brought him eye level to a pair of shapely legs camouflaged by shear gray stockings. "How's my favorite lingerie shop owner?" Joe asked, pus.h.i.+ng himself upright with the five-iron.

Kim Angreen, a pixyish five-two and no more than a hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet brunette, locked an arm around his waist. "Joseph Henderson, where the f.u.c.k have you been?" She let out a hearty laugh.

A good ten years his junior, Kim had that that special something- beauty, ribald sense of humor, and brains. Over the years, they had shared coffee and cigarettes at the local hash house and an occasional round of golf. Joe often wondered what might have been in another time and place. "Mostly nowhere," Joe replied. He put the bag on the seat, locking the car with the key remote. "I saw the sign in the window." special something- beauty, ribald sense of humor, and brains. Over the years, they had shared coffee and cigarettes at the local hash house and an occasional round of golf. Joe often wondered what might have been in another time and place. "Mostly nowhere," Joe replied. He put the bag on the seat, locking the car with the key remote. "I saw the sign in the window."

"When my lease is up at the end of next month, I'm going on vacation. I can't compete with Victoria's Secret," Kim said with a glint of remorse. "I tried, but I can't cover the overhead." She was one of many local merchants drowning in the rising tide of escalating rents. When a coast-to-coast music chain was willing to pay ten times the rent than an existing bagel shop, the handwriting was scrawled on the brick walls for the mom and pops. The landlords were holding out for their s.h.i.+ps to sail in with both the Golden Goose and the pot of gold.

"Elm Street won't be the same," Joe said.

Pitching a half-eaten apple into a trashcan, she said, "I heard about Elaine."

"s.h.i.+t happens," Joe replied. "Maybe it's for the best."

Kim wrinkled her nose, but didn't say anything. They walked to the corner stepping around a young fas.h.i.+onably dressed white woman in a pink jogging outfit and her Jamaican woman pus.h.i.+ng a baby in a stroller. "What's the difference between an au pair and a nanny?" Joe asked Kim as they stopped at the crosswalk.

"The level of education?" Kim guessed.

Joe shook his head. "Nannies come from Jamaica with their belongings stuffed in a two dollar suitcase. Au pairs come from Sweden fully loaded with large chests and blonde hair."

"I think I know the source of all your troubles," Kim said. "You weren't breast fed."

"Bingo! That's what my shrink said. I'm supposed to make up for lost time," Joe said, crossing his eyes. Broad Street lunch hour traffic was routinely heavy. One of the Downtown a.s.sociation's pet projects had been placing traffic cops on the busiest corners. Prospect Street was penciled into the duty schedule six days a week. "Officer, I have a pressing appointment," Joe called, stepping off the curb.

"Stay on the sidewalk!" the uniformed officer barked.

Joe looked at Kim, mustering a shrug of his shoulders. "Doesn't he know that I'm the the hero cop? d.a.m.n rookie." hero cop? d.a.m.n rookie."

"Doesn't look like he's old enough to shave," Kim cracked.

The cop held up both hands, stopping traffic. A Lexus screeched to a halt, drawing a glare. "Cross."

Joe slipped his arm under Kim's, escorting her across the street. Kim stopped ten feet from the entrance to Forno's. "I make a mean filet mignon."

"Is that an invitation?" Joe asked.

"Not until I give you the time." Kim paused, "Seven-fifteen."

"You drive a hard bargain," Joe said.

Kim squeezed his arm. "Like you said, s.h.i.+t happens."

Forno's, located between Shoes-Like-Nu and Country Corners Home Furnis.h.i.+ngs, became the official meeting place for the Downtown a.s.sociation for one good reason: Carmine Forno declared the food was on the house along with the use of the private party room. That was when the original number of members totaled an even twelve. The present roll numbered thirty five, and Carmine was negotiating for relief. He needed ten dollars a head or the a.s.sociation could go back to the YMCA.

Carmine ran the kitchen, but Mama, as his wife Savina was called by anyone who stepped through the door more than once, stood guard over the cash register.

"I've got to sit with the women. I'll see you later," Kim said, stepping into the restaurant.

"It's our little secret," Joe said, placing his index finger to his mouth. He didn't understand why the delectable package in her Burberry tailored suit never had been swept off her feet by some lucky guy.

"I don't believe it," Mama said, moving around the counter. Mid-sixties, statuesque in a black silk dress complete with a strand of pearls that reached the apex of her ample cleavage, she clasped Joe around his neck, giving him a kiss on each cheek. "Joe, you better never stay away so long."

Joe kissed her olive toned hand. "I promise."

"I have to tell Carmine you're here," Mama said. "Isabel, take the counter." She disappeared through the kitchen's swinging door. Four preschool girls gnawed on pizza slices, finger painting the table with fruit juices and soda while their stick thin mothers debated the advantages of one private school over another.

Forno's was divided into two sections: paper plates and pizza to the right of the register; linen tablecloths and leather bound menus to the left. Joe meandered through the empty dining room. His entering the rear private room drew curious looks and a smattering of sarcastic applause. Four chaffing dishes and two large gla.s.s salad bowls occupied a rectangular table against the wall to the right of the entrance. Six round tables set with Forno's fine china and lead crystal were dispersed around a ten by twenty hardwood dance floor. Oil paintings of Rome, Venice, and Florence adorned the walls.

Mel Katz sitting alone at a table for eight pointed to a chair next to him. Joe wandered over. "Let's see some identification," Katz joked, working on a plate of baked ziti and chicken Marsala.

Joe gave him the middle finger. "I'm still waiting for your return call," he said with mild irritation, pulling out a chair.

Taking a bite out of a piece of bread, Katz said, "It's on my to-do list for this afternoon. What's so important?"

Joe plucked a breadstick from a vase in the center of the table. "Elaine e-mailed her desire for a divorce."

Katz b.u.t.tered his bread. "Intentions are nothing until the sheriff serves the papers. Women like to talk."