Chapter 6
WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000
ALENIA HAD JUST STEPPED OUT OF THE SHOWER when her cell phone chimed her back to the reality of being married to Harry. She packed the G-string into a side pocket of her Gucci carry-all and slipped on a pair of what she called babushka underwear—non-see-through white bra and plain cotton panty. “Harry is on his way back from Atlantic City.”
Joe backed the Volvo onto the street to let Alenia’s Mercedes SUV out of the garage. When she arrived on his doorstep, the Benz was sequestered in the garage just in case Harry lost his shirt at the crap table and decided to come home to nestle his head in the bosom of his loving wife.
Joe flashed the Volvo’s high beams to signal that Tanglewood Lane was clear of prying eyes. Alenia screeched onto the street, blew him a kiss and was off.
It was 2:45. Finding the Rothstein photo put working on his research paper into the category of “I’ll get to it later.” He headed for The House of Beers to buy a six pack of Guinness Stout.
The parking lot of the converted gas station on the south side of town was deserted. Sunday football enthusiasts had completed their forays and were sitting at the feet of their televisions. Joe breezed into the store, gave a nod to the Pakistani clerk behind the register and fetched the beer from the cooler. The clerk robotically began to ring Joe’s weekly purchase of a twenty-four can carton of Budweiser, but caught his mistake. Distracted by a kid who looked about fifteen browsing the aisles, he handed Joe change from a twenty and hustled from behind the counter.
For an instant, Joe moved in the direction of the expected confrontation, and then stopped. Juveniles were somebody else’s problem. He put the change in his pocket and walked out the door.
Joe placed the six-pack on the Volvo’s passenger seat. It had been too long since he visited John Beauchamp, a retired Westfield detective who had taken Joe the rookie under his wing. It was on a reported break and enter call with Beauchamp that Joe was introduced to Preston Swedge.
Beauchamp’s small yellow, two bedroom ranch was two blocks from The House of Beers. Parking on the street, Joe walked through an ivy covered red cedar arbor bound by hedges running the length of front yard. A wood ramp extended from the driveway to the front door. The tough guy cop cheated death when he suffered a massive stroke that left him paralyzed on his right side. Joe and the crew, who helped remodel his colonial, built the ramp and widened the interior doorways to make the house wheelchair accessible.
Helen Beauchamp, John’s bride of fifty years, answered the door. “I feel bad I haven’t been around,” Joe said, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he stepped inside.
“I was on my way out to do some shopping,” Helen said. “The girls okay?”
Joe wasn’t going to get into his domestic mess. “They’re good.” He held up the Guinness.
“John’s favorite. He’s in the Florida room watching his beloved Giants.” She put the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger.”
What Joe and the crew couldn’t widen were the halls. Chair rails attested to the limited width with deep scars and chipped paint from the armrests of John’s wheelchair. The wood floor in the hall between the front door and the kitchen was worn by its wheels. Directly off the galley kitchen was the Florida room.
Joe stood in the doorway. The original screened porch was enclosed using sliding glass doors to let John view the outdoors during his painfully slow rehabilitation. Plants, thriving in the hot-house like temperatures, filled clay pots and hanging baskets. John, despite being propped against a pillow, was slumped to the side of his motorized wheelchair. A plastic cup of water and a bowl of pretzel nuggets were in easy reach on a wicker end table that matched a loveseat and rocker.
Joe’s rapping on the indoor/outdoor carpet with the five-iron was no match for the sound blasting from a fifty inch projection television. “Old man!” Joe yelled.
John hit the joystick control with his left hand, spinning the chair around. A gauze strip, tied around his right hand to the wheelchair’s seatbelt, prevented the arm from dangling into the wheel. The right side of the ex-cop’s face was permanently in a frown. With vision in only his left eye, John took a moment to focus on the face in the doorway. “You look like shit,” he paused, lowering the volume with a remote Velcroed to the side of the wheelchair. “What the fuck have you done to yourself?” He stuck out his left hand.
Joe took his hand. “Too much time on my hands gives me the munchies. What’s the score?”
“They’re getting creamed. 27-3 Eagles. It’s the same tune year after year. They can’t throw the ball. Will I live to see the day that a pass is completed for more than ten yards?” As John spoke, saliva dribbled across his chin. Using a dishtowel tucked between his thighs, he wiped his mouth.
Joe put the six pack on the end table. “I haven’t been over…”
“Save it,” John interrupted. “You’ve got stuff, I’ve got stuff. Do me a favor and open a bottle of that heavenly creation.”
Joe twisted the tops off of two bottles, handing one to John. The room was hot from the still potent fall sun. Joe removed his windbreaker and sat on the wicker loveseat. “Preston Swedge,” Joe said.
“I read in the paper the old shithead croaked a couple of weeks ago.” John struggled to hold the beer bottle in his left hand racked with arthritis. He turned the wheelchair to face the television. “You got a cigarette? Brunhilda went out. She watches me like a hawk.”
“Helen’s not going to be happy.” Joe removed two Marlboros from his pack, lit both with his lighter, and handed one to John.
“I’ll blame the smell on you,” John laughed, taking a puff. “What about Swedge?”
Joe stretched out on the loveseat and propped his right leg on the armrest. “The obituary in the Ledger omitted the detail that the deceased had turned into a maggot farm. He was found sitting in his kitchen ten days after he met his maker.”
The Eagles recovered a Giant fumble, returning it for a touchdown. “Bastards!” John yelled. He took a long sip from the beer bottle. “People die and aren’t missed all the time. If I didn’t have Helen, the same could happen to me.” He took a puff on the cigarette, choked on the smoke and had trouble catching his breath. He put the cigarette in the glass of water.
Joe tapped his cigarette on the edge of the water glass. “I found this at Swedge’s estate sale.” He removed the 2x2 photo of Paul Rothstein from the breast pocket in his golf shirt.
“Can’t see a fucking thing without my glasses,” John said, grabbing a pair of readers on the end table. He took the photo, turning the wheelchair so the light from the windows came over his shoulder. “Handsome fella. Flyboy.”
“Turn it over,” Joe said.
“Paul Rothstein!” John gasped. “I thought his ranting and raving about a guy named Rothstein was nothing but him being a lunatic.”
Joe finished his Guinness and lit another cigarette. “I have Preston’s passport. Did you know what he did for a living?”
“Something with oil,” John said with a far away look. “It was in the obit.”
Joe grabbed the arm of the wheelchair and turned John to him. “He worked for the State Department.”
“People leave government jobs. They got to do something.” John turned the wheelchair back to the television. “
“Other papers I found lead me to believe he was on a secret mission during the war, and I think Paul Rothstein was involved.” Joe said, leaning on the five-iron.
John finished his bottle. “A long time ago, I told you if you wanted to be a detective, you had to think like a detective. Find out if Paul Rothstein is alive, and if he isn’t, find out when, how and the circumstances of his death. If you figure it out, come back and tell me why Swedge acted like an ass for forty years.”