House Of Ghosts Part 24

"No protests, no nothing," Joe said with a wave of his hand. "What about Father Charles Coughlin? He was a Jew hater right here in this country."

"We didn't listen to his program," Kopel said.

"There wasn't much talk about the German Jews in the synagogue that my family attended," Naomi said, cutting another piece of cake. "Where I lived in the Bronx, you just didn't talk about it. When I look back, I can't believe we were so indifferent to what was going on, and what would happen. Roosevelt was supposed to know more than we did and do what was correct."

They sat drinking their coffee. "There's a long entry in Paul's diary that tells of Sarah's cousin being rescued from the s.h.i.+p the St. Louis St. Louis."

"Sarah was also from the Bronx. As an only child, she was extremely close to her parents," Naomi said.

Naomi slipped a piece of cake under the table to Roxy. "One day, Sarah comes to school all excited. Mail from Germany took weeks, and the Greenbaums received the news just days before the s.h.i.+p was to dock in Havana. But within a few days, her euphoria turned to despair. I can still see her crying, telling us her cousin was going to be sent back to Germany to end up in a concentration camp."

After nearly sixty years, Naomi and Kopel could complete each other's sentences, Kopel continued, "We were going into the exam period when Paul said he had to go to Miami. No one I knew had ever been farther than Atlantic City. Naturally we were curious, and the more we asked, the more convoluted were the answers."

"What did Sarah have to say?" Joe asked.

"Nothing. She disappeared along with Paul," Naomi said.

"The history books say n.o.body got off that s.h.i.+p. Her cousin Minnah didn't drop from the sky. Paul later admitted his brother Jake pulled some strings to have the girl released." Kopel said.

"When did you find out that Paul died?" Joe asked.

"I followed Kope to Fort Knox where I got a job on the base. We were married before Kope went into the army as did Paul and Sarah. When we came back in the fall of 1945, we heard Paul had been killed in action. I tried to get in touch with Sarah, but could never locate her. The Rothstein's moved from Brooklyn. She vanished without a trace," Naomi said.

"None of your friends had any information?" Joe asked.

Kopel seemed a little perturbed. "We came home from the service after almost three years. We had to get on with our lives, and the first order of business was to get a job. I don't think that we found out about his death for seven or eight months."

"And that was by chance. We b.u.mped into Paul's best friend Dave Cohen in of all places, Times Square," Naomi said.

"Dave didn't have many details, just that Paul's plane was shot down," Kopel said.

"Did he say where he went down?" Joe asked.

"Somewhere over Poland. Paul was gone, what difference did it make where he went down." Kopel said. "Dave was always rus.h.i.+ng someplace even when we were in school. That day was no different. He was gone in a flash. We haven't seen him since."

Naomi flipped the yearbook pages to Dave Cohen's picture. "Dave was a real character." She handed Joe the book.

"Is Dave Cohen still alive?" Joe asked. The notation under the picture said "Lawyer to Be."

"Funny you should ask," Naomi said. "We received an alumni bulletin last week and it mentioned he received a life achievement award for community service in Westchester. It's under the Time Time magazine on the counter behind you. His picture is in the last few pages." magazine on the counter behind you. His picture is in the last few pages."

Joe retrieved the bulletin. Cohen's picture was taken at a Marriott hotel. The company's logo was on the draperies behind the dais. A brief bio listed Dave's awards and kudos for fifty years of being a C.P.A. "What about Jake Rothstein?"

"Give me two fingers more of coffee." Kopel handed Joe his mug. "His picture was in the papers."

Joe filled the mug, handing it back to Kopel. "Something about a murder. I can't remember the details," Kopel said.

"When?" Joe asked.

"Amy?" Kopel said.

"1946 or '47. Jake Rothstein was a gangster. Killed a guy for not paying up what he owed to a loan shark. He went away for a long time." Naomi said.

Roxy stared at Joe, then walked down the hall to the door. "Do you mind if I borrow this?" he asked, holding up the bulletin.

"One less thing to throw out," Naomi said. "Paul Rothstein is more than a curiosity for you. You're working on a case. I can read you like a book. Promise me you'll tell me what happened to Sarah."

"Everyone reads me like a book." Joe gave Naomi a kiss. "I'll be back, sweetheart," he said in his best Bogart impersonation.

Chapter 29.

WESTFIELD, NJ NOVEMBER 2000 2000.

"COMING TO THE LIBRARY IS NOT A DATE," Alenia protested. "We haven't been together for a week and you bring me here." She turned heads in her black cashmere sweater, diverting eyes from books and newspapers in the research section of the Westfield library.

This was Joe's second trip in as many days. His searches through archived issues of The New York Times The New York Times for articles about Jake Rothstein's legal troubles had been fruitless. "I need help. If you love somebody, it doesn't matter where you are." He batted his eyes like Groucho Marx. From a file cabinet, he removed a reel of microfilm marked January-June 1948. for articles about Jake Rothstein's legal troubles had been fruitless. "I need help. If you love somebody, it doesn't matter where you are." He batted his eyes like Groucho Marx. From a file cabinet, he removed a reel of microfilm marked January-June 1948.

"What are these films?" Alenia asked. "Motion pictures?"

Joe threaded the film into the viewer, pressing the forward b.u.t.ton. The front page of January 1, 1948 began to scroll. "Each frame is a page of the newspaper."

"I don't understand," Alenia said. "This is ancient history."

"I always tell you that you're as smart as you are beautiful," Joe said, giving her a kiss. "I want you to look for the 'bad' man."

Alenia squirmed on the hardwood seat. "The man who tried to break into the house?"

Joe stopped the film at January 20th. "I don't know if you'll see his face. I'll settle for his name-Jacob Rothstein or Ted Steele."

"He's brother of the soldier in the picture from the old man Swedge?" Alenia asked.

"That's correct. You keep reading. I'm going to look at the second half of 1948."

"These prices, I can't believe. Ladies skirt two dollars, ninety eight cents," Alenia read. "Ritz crackers, twenty-one cents." crackers, twenty-one cents."

"A man made twenty-five dollars a week," Joe said. "Everything is relative."

"Big bargains, no Rothstein," Alenia said. "I don't understand why you're wasting time. Even if you find out what Swedge was doing, what he was hiding all years, nothing changes. You can't bring back the dead."

Joe fast forwarded through the want-ads of September 5, 1948. "America is supposed to be the liberator of the oppressed and the champion of the downtrodden."

"Governments are all the same," Alenia spat.

"I hate Russian philosophers," Joe said, thinking that the retired exotic dancer was correct. "Shut up and keep reading."

"Stalin," Alenia said, pointing to the dictator's picture on the screen. The connected article concerned Soviet domination of Poland and Hungary. "The West did nothing to stop him. Maybe Swedge had his hand in that too."

Joe loaded 1949. "Preston was many things, but a commie-pinko, I doubt it."

"Nich-o-las Spag-no-la," Alenia said, twirling a lock of hair.

Joe spun toward Alenia's screen. March 23, 1948. He read, "Nicholas Spagnola and Jacob Rothstein were sentenced by Judge Marvin Hirschhorn to twenty years for the murder of Mordecai Stein. Their attorney, former Congressman Benjamin Goodman, said he would appeal immediately."

"This is what we're wasting our time?" Alenia asked.

"I think so." Joe continued to read. "Stein, owner of a business in the Manhattan garment center, fell out of an eighth floor window during a fight with Rothstein and Spagnola. The duo with known connections to waterfront boss and loan shark Thomas Bavosa paid a visit to Stein to collect on a loan that had fallen in arrears. The jury deliberated for just half an hour, convicting the defendants on the testimony of Selma Stein who referred to Rothstein by his alias Ted Steele as the one who had beaten her husband with a baseball bat three months prior."

"Jesus Christ!" Joe said. "If Rothstein did the minimum time he could have been paroled in 1960." He stared at the article. "1960 is when he surfaced in Princeton and when Preston had his nervous breakdown."

Alenia smoothed a nail with an emery board fetched from her Louis Vitton bag. "Now can we go?"

Joe made a copy of the Times Times article. "In a minute," he said, flipping open his cell phone. It was a few minutes to eleven. Stored in his contact list was the number for David Cohen. The phone rang twice. article. "In a minute," he said, flipping open his cell phone. It was a few minutes to eleven. Stored in his contact list was the number for David Cohen. The phone rang twice.

"This is your fourth call to my number," the craggy voice answered.

Joe envisioned the eighty-plus accountant sitting at his kitchen table with the paper and a tall gla.s.s of prune juice. Joe said the magic words, "Ted Steele." There was dead silence. Joe waited for the sound of Cohen's dentures. .h.i.tting the floor.

"I have business in the city and will be free by twelve-thirty. Do you know the General Motors building?" Cohen asked sarcastically.

Joe twisted his tongue holding back the F bomb. "Fifty-eighth and Fifth, across from the Plaza."

"There's a coffee shop on Fifty-eighth-Blintz. Be there."

Cohen was gone, no good-bye not even a drop dead. Joe looked to see if the call was dropped. "Let's go into the city."

"Harry will be back by seven. Okay, we go." Alenia ran her hands over her chest, drawing an ogle from a senior citizen who wandered into the archive room. "We'll have fun."

Cajoled into driving, Alenia maneuvered the Mercedes along the New Jersey Turnpike, weaving between ten wheelers to maintain a steady seventy. With the morning crush long over, they zipped through the Lincoln Tunnel.

"Harry took me to the Plaza when we first met," Alenia said, pulling into a parking garage adjacent to the hotel. She handed the attendant a twenty. "Keep the car on this this level. I don't want to wait an hour when we return." level. I don't want to wait an hour when we return."

Joe smiled. The girl had learned the value of money from Harry. "I'll call you when I'm finished. Give Harry a break and don't buy out Bergdorf Goodman's."

"I'm going to replace the bra your dog ripped apart," she said with a snarl. "Give me a kiss."

Joe planted a light smoothie on her cheek, avoiding the red gloss that accentuated her lips. Painstakingly climbing the ramp to Fifty-eighth Street, he turned right for Fifth Avenue. Across the street, a line stretched from the F.A.O. Schwartz toy store located on the ground floor of the General Motors building. A banner hanging above its door announced the rollout of the latest video game Joe never heard of.

Following the stream of pedestrians crossing to the east side of Fifth, Joe bypa.s.sed the video queue. Blintz was four doors down. Despite Alenia's race driving skill, he was fifteen minutes late.

The Greek run breakfast-lunch bistro was narrow as a submarine. Third in line to be seated behind two couples and a woman balancing a hatbox and a large brown shopping paper bag from Macy's, Joe studied the faces of the diners. None came close to the picture of Dave Cohen clipped from the N.Y.U. alumni newsletter.

"Looking for someone?" the slender olive skin cas.h.i.+er asked, chomping on her chewing gum. A red stripe highlighted a head of bleached blonde spiked hair.

Joe showed her Cohen's picture. "Supposed to meet the man for lunch."

"You a cop?"

"Not after a perp tried to blow off my leg," Joe said, leaning on the five-iron.

She pointed to the rear. "Last row of tables."

With tables crammed inches apart, Joe turned sideways to make it through the aisle without knocking coffee cups off the tables. Cohen sat with his back to the wall. "Mr. Cohen."

Cohen hovered over a plate of eggs over-easy and a slice of whole-wheat toast. "I'm never late for appointments," he said, pointing his fork.

Cohen was the epitome of an accountant: square black-rimmed gla.s.ses, navy s.h.i.+rt with contrasting blue tie, and conservative gray suit. Notwithstanding a bad comb over, Joe gauged that for a man his age, Cohen was in good shape. He put the alumni article on the table. "Congratulations. The Weinsteins send their regards." He sat, hanging the five-iron on the edge of the red Formica table.

"My G.o.d!" Cohen said between chews. "It must be fifty years since I've seen them."

"Times Square, 1945 to be exact. After not seeing your good friends for nearly three years, you couldn't spare the time to talk. Ring a bell?" Joe said, pus.h.i.+ng silverware toward the middle of the table.

Cohen put his fork down. "I don't remember."

Before Joe could utter "bulls.h.i.+t," the waitress came by with a carafe of coffee and two cups. "Everything all right?" she asked Cohen.

Cohen didn't answer, staring at the front of the room. "Everything is hunkydory, but I could use a cup," Joe replied. The girl poured the coffee and moved to her next station. "Ted Steele rang a bell this morning. Do you know where I can find him?"

The octogenarian came back to earth. He fiddled with his right ear. "d.a.m.n hearing aid picks up all the background noise. What were you asking?"

Joe wasn't sure if Cohen was busting his chops or his hearing aid really wasn't working properly. "Ted Steele."

"Why the interest?" Cohen asked, finis.h.i.+ng his eggs.

Joe wasn't in the mood to play twenty questions. "I stumbled into some papers that included your friend Jake and his moniker Ted Steele."

Cohen took a sip of coffee, then nonchalantly said, "I haven't seen Jake since 1948 when he went to prison. After he was paroled, I heard he was killed somewhere out west."

"When was that?"

"Sixty-two or sixty-three," he mumbled.

Having interviewed more than a few suspects, Joe had a feel for scripted responses. Cohen was playing with him. Joe wanted to look under the table to see if his new best friend was holding a cheat sheet. "And you didn't make arrangements to see him?"

"Why would I? It wouldn't have looked good for me professionally to a.s.sociate with a felon. I'm an accountant, not an attorney."