House of Ghosts (47 page)

“Jake will do,” he said. “You’ve been looking for me. Freezing your ass off in that Volvo rattletrap had to be fun.”

“Ringing my bell instead of playing cat and mouse would’ve saved me a boatload of trouble,” Joe said, gripping the five-iron.

“How about a cup of coffee? I’m buying,” Jake said, moving out of the way of a woman with three kids hanging onto her shopping cart. “I’d say we go for a drink, but I know you’re on the wagon.”

Joe wondered what other personal info Jake had, chasing the thought that he had been tailed by the suspect he was searching for. Jake had the advantage and Joe knew it. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the coffee bar in the rear of the store. Jake ordered two regular coffees and found a bistro table away from a keyboard player pounding out a Billy Joel song to the delight of the mostly female latte drinkers.

“Why did you leave the sandwich?” Joe asked, carefully taking a sip through the plastic lid.

Jake maneuvered his legs under the short table. “I got rattled.” He wiped his nose with a napkin. “Swedge was grabbing his chest, gasping for air, and pressing the button on the pendant around his neck as the mailman was shoving his delivery through the slot. I knew when I got out the back door, leaving the sub would become a problem.”

“Why run?”

“I’m an ex-con, it’s a tough habit to break.” Jake removed the lid and slurped an inch off the near black coffee. “They never put in enough milk.”

“It was a game with Preston, wasn’t it?” Joe asked.

Jake laughed. “At first, I traveled in from the city to bust his chops. It was tricky when his wife was alive. After she passed, I took an efficiency apartment in
scenic Garwood to screw with his mind. I’d get right behind him in the bank, in the grocery store, and even at the town council meetings he loved so much.”

Garwood, a blue collar town with multiple unit housing, bordered Westfield. It was an ideal location for a single guy to lose himself. Joe had shown the mug shots in the only gin mill in the borough and the mom and pop stores on the one block business district, but not to the Garwood cops who wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. Hard feelings refused to die after Joe refused to drop DUI charges against a Garwood detective who had sideswiped four parked cars outside Westfield High during school hours. “Why didn’t he give you what you wanted?”

“He was a hard ass,” Jake said, throwing up his ham-hock size hands. “I guess deep down, I’m glad he didn’t. He was my
raison d’être
as the French say.” His eyes followed a top heavy brunet. “I assume you’ve got them.”

Joe nodded. “Amazing stuff. You’re mentioned a few times.”

“Why in the world did you get involved?” Jake asked, pouring a splash of cream into the muddy brew.

“My father hammered into me that shit just doesn’t happen. Preston was bugged out of his mind for a reason, and I couldn’t resist finding out why.”

Jake’s neck descended into the turtleneck as he hunched his shoulders. “I waited damn near forty years to get my brother’s journals and that dried up old prune Ruth Ritchie hands them to you. Of all the weeks to take a cruise, I have to pick the one that they cleaned out his house.”

Holding his cup to his lips, Joe was astounded that Jake made no mention of Preston’s diaries. “You can have them.” He tossed his cup in the garbage. “Follow me home.”

“Too bad Alenia has gone to Florida with Harry,” Jake said with a sigh. “Some rack.”

Joe kept Jake’s ’85 Corolla in the rearview mirror. The old guy was a card— on the hood “Man of Steele” was painted in blue Gothic letters. The mini convoy crossed through Midowaskin Park and passed the cemetery on Broad Street. Jake may have looked half his age, but he drove like Joe’s father in his last years. He slowed the Volvo to 20 mph to keep the gap to a hundred yards, passing through the Wychwood gate to meander into Joe’s driveway.

Jake took a long look at the house under construction on the former Swedge lot. Snow and ice caused a complete secession of work leaving the 4,000 square foot monster half framed. “They should’ve kept the old girl,” Jake said as he negotiated
Joe’s ice laden walk.

“It’s the Westfield disease. Tear ’em down and build ‘em bigger,” Joe said, firmly griping the railing on the front steps.

Joe kicked fallen icicles off the threshold and unlocked the door. Roxy, waiting in the entranceway, gave Jake a wag of her tail. “Like old home week,” Joe said. “She’s normally wary of strangers until she gets to know them. How many times did you let yourself in?”

Jake ignored the question. “Why do still have him?” he asked. Preston’s face affixed to the top of the coat tree smiled from the dining room. Jake had circumvented the security system and searched the house on a half-dozen forays.

Roxy, drooling, stared at Jake’s pocket where a trove of treats had pacified the beast. “I ask again, how many times?” Joe said.

“You don’t want to know,” Jake replied, giving Roxy a piece of kibble.

“And all the time I thought it was mice trashing the place,” Joe quipped.

“I was respectful,” Jake said, sounding wounded. He followed Joe who walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light. It was 3:30, the sun was setting.

Joe removed a shoebox hidden in the rear of a corner cabinet. “While I’m getting the diaries, take a gander at these.” He placed the box on the kitchen table and disappeared down the basement steps.

Jake sorted through the box containing maps and other military paraphernalia found in Preston’s basement. He was holding the map detailing the route to the I. G. Farben plant dated 20 August 1944 when Joe returned. “The navigator on Paul’s plane had one like this?”

“All navigators at the mission briefing received one,” Jake said. “I had these in the wall behind the hot water heater if you’re wondering.” He handed Jake the diaries.

Recognizing Paul’s school composition books, Jake reverently caressed their covers. “What are these?” he asked, holding Preston’s leather bound journals.

Joe lit a Marlboro. “They’re Preston’s, covering the years ’38 to ’44, the same as your brother’s. I’m surprised you didn’t know about them.” He had just thrown four aces on the table. From the look on Jake’s face, the hand he was holding was a pair of deuces.

“If you don’t mind,” Jake said, his hands tremoring imperceptibly. He began to read.

“I’ve got a few things to do in my office.” Joe signaled for Roxy to follow. “Don’t steal the silverware.”

“Stainless crap,” Jake grunted. Roxy snuggled at his feet. “One heck of a watchdog. At least the Russian broad screamed.”

Joe settled at his desk, working on the required reading list for a course at Rutgers. A sob story written on Dr. Headcase’s letterhead aided his sweet talking an admissions counselor into reinstating him. The spring session would begin in a week.

Clicking of Roxy’s nails on the hardwood broke Joe’s concentration. Two hours had passed. Jake stood in the doorway, holding a can of ginger ale with the dog at his heels. He had removed the turtleneck. An athletic undershirt accentuated his chiseled upper body. “I helped myself.” Gone was his Ted Steele tough guy persona. “McCloy played us like a concert violinist handling a Stradivarius.” He sat on the couch, flexing his arthritic knees. “I was a naïve schmuck to think we could have outsmarted the powerbrokers. McCloy knew when we farted. Maybe the lips I thought were sealed, weren’t.” He threw up his hands. “Who knows?”

Roxy changed sides and sat in the cutout of the desk. “Playing with the big boys is and will always be rough.” Joe shut down his computer. “Did you get an official explanation concerning Paul’s death?”

“We received a note from his commanding officer about how Paul was such a great pilot and a credit to his country, and his wallet with a few personal effects. Nothing else. In Sing-Sing, I met Otto Schrup, the B-17 waist gunner who accused Vinnie of shooting down one of their own planes. Schrup was in the joint for a piddly confidence scheme. If a guy ever was a bullshitter, he was the ultimate.

“Schrup was in the upper layer of the formation. Smoke was coming out of two engines on Paul’s plane, and he fell behind the rest of the group. One of the escort fighters followed Paul to provide defense against enemy attack. Clark Johnson flew that fighter and claimed a Messerschmitt came out of the sun, catching the
Brooklyn Avenger
with a burst of machine gun fire. Schrup swore there were no enemy fighters in the area. Without proof that Johnson was lying, the episode was swept under the rug.” Jake was breathing hard. “In my wildest dreams, I never thought that he would get shot down by one of our own planes.” Jake wiped his eyes with his undershirt. “You still have the Johnny Walker in the bottom drawer?”

Joe handed him the bottle of scotch. “Did Shep Peterson ever get in touch?”

“Sent a letter that clued me in on Paul’s missing diaries,” Jake said, pouring more than a tumbler into the near empty soda can. He took a long sip and placed a forearm over his eyes.

Joe removed a pack of cigarettes from the center desk drawer. Puffing on the Marlboro, he gave Jake time to compose himself. “Dave Cohen fed me nothing but bullshit.”

“Nah, not all.” Jake took another pull on the ginger ale scotch mixture. “He
might have left out a few details, but the background was factual.” A pained smile broke across his face. “I was sitting a table away and heard the entire conversation. Dave waited for my signal. We learned as much as we needed, and his leaving like he did, I figured would get into your head. We succeeded on all points.”

“Sticking me with the bill was your idea?” Joe asked, taking the last puff on the cigarette down to the filter. He tossed the remains into the coffee can on the desk.

“Dave never needs to be coached on being a skinflint.” Jake poured two more fingers of scotch into the can. A ruddy complexion crossed his face.

Joe propped his leg on the desk. “What about your family? Dave left me hanging.”

Jake swirled the can, now one-hundred percent alcohol. “My father passed away right after Paul married Sarah. Alex was conceived in Florida, the last leg of Paul’s training mission before flying to Italy. Vinnie had the inside shake on their schedule, and I got Sarah a flight to the Sunshine state for nothing. My brother never had the chance to hold him. This is going to sound like a soap opera, but my mother was stricken with a heart attack when she read the telegram from the War Department. She didn’t last two months. Sarah and Alex lived with me in the Brooklyn apartment because her parent’s place was too small.”

Jake cleared his throat. “The Greenbaums didn’t own a car and took a bus to the Catskills for their summer vacation. The bus got creamed in an accident. Luckily, Alex was sick and Sarah didn’t make the trip. Her parents, aunt and uncle, and her cousin were crushed to death.”

“The gal you got off the
St. Louis
?”

“Yeah, Minnah the whiner. Sarah was left with no one but me. A couple of years later, she met and married an engineer who worked for General Electric and moved to Schenectady. Her last name is Blumberg. Sam died in 1972. A damn good man. He raised Alex as his own. Their daughter Phyllis is named for Paulie. My nephew became a physicist and works for NASA. Phyllis is a pediatrician. Both have two kids.” Melancholy had taken over his voice.

Joe scooted his chair to the bookcase and removed Winston Churchill’s
The Hinge Of Fate
. From the mid-section of the book, Joe plucked the two photos rescued from the scrum in Preston’s basement. “Alex?” He handed one of the photos to Jake.

“This is Alex’s bar mitzvah picture,” Jake said, bolting upright. “Where did the prick get this?”

“I don’t know.” Afraid of Jake’s reaction, Joe hesitated handing over the picture of the young girl. “Do you have an idea who this is?”

Jake held the photo at arms length. “It looks like Alex’s daughter who is a spitting
image of his wife Rebecca.” He looked stone cold at Joe. “Is it possible?”

“I suppose it is. Preston’s daughter came cross country to attend Columbia. Where did Alex go to college?”

“You know the answer, Columbia.” Jake flipped the pictures onto Joe’s desk.

Joe raised an eyebrow. “What are the odds that Preston’s daughter would marry the son of the man he murdered?”

“I’m getting too old for shit like this.” Jake took the last slug left in the can. “Drive me home. I’m too blitzed to get behind the wheel.”

“When we’re finished,” Joe said, lighting a second cigarette. “Did Sarah ever learn the truth?”

“Paul died in combat like a bunch of guys who lived in the neighborhood.” Jake looked down at the floor. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth.”

“Among the papers I hauled out of his basement were canceled checks made out to the local temple and drawn for money orders. All were written at the time of the year when the Jewish high holidays fell. That in itself piqued my curiosity.”

Jake nodded his head indicating that Joe was on the right path. “Sarah began receiving checks in 1960. At first, I didn’t know why, but after putting two and two together, I figured that they were coming from Swedge. I told them my inquiries led down a dead end.” He drained the can. “It’s news to me that he was sending money to the temple. Just proves even a low life can have some sort of conscience.”