Читать книгу Confluence - Stephen J. Gordon - Страница 16

10

Patterson Park is a large, square shaped area of green – 137 acres – just northeast of Fells Point. Within its setting are a boat lake, tennis courts, a swimming pool, an ice rink, and a four story pagoda that dates back to the late 1800s. For a long period, the neighborhood of classic Baltimore row houses adjacent to the Park had become depressed, but now it was an up and coming area, with many of its units being bought and remodeled by young professionals.

The address Nate had given was toward the middle of a run of row houses near the southwest corner of the Park. Due to a dearth of parking spaces, I had to leave the Grand Cherokee around the corner and walk back. As I came up the block, the row houses stood wall-like on either side of the narrow street, with some second story windows blistered out in a bay construction. In general, the exteriors were well kept, and mainly faced in brick, however a number had the Baltimore kitschy formstone façades. Three police cars parked near a door halfway down the block left no doubt where to go.

“Major Aronson for Captain D’Allesandro,” I said approaching two officers.

They nodded and told me he was probably still downstairs. I pulled open a screen door near them and stepped inside.

The house was deep, but narrow – maybe nine feet across – and the walls were painted a gray-blue. To the left was a mismatched, old yellow and green floral sofa and to the right a small chest and a television. Further back in the house were two sets of steps. The first led downstairs, and then almost immediately beyond it was a set of steps heading to the second floor. Voices drifted up from below and I followed them down to the basement.

The lower level matched the narrow dimensions of the main floor, but was more claustrophobic due to a seven foot plastered ceiling and unpainted gypsum board walls. I saw Nate and Detective Medrano immediately. They were huddled over a long white resin plastic folding table; a uniformed officer stood nearby. As I approached, the officer spoke to Nate: “Captain?” and nodded to me.

Nate looked over. Without a greeting, he simply said, “Gidon, take a look at this.”

I stepped over to see what they were examining. In front of them was a laptop with a photo of Josh and Shelley’s house pulled up, plus a series of papers and printed photographs spread out beside it. The photos were all of the Mandels: Josh and Shelley walking into their house, Josh and Shelley in front of the synagogue, Josh next to his car, Shelley with their girls in front of a school.

“And there are these,” Medrano said. He was wearing latex gloves and pointed to a set of lined legal sheets. They were a list of times and events – when Josh left the house in the morning, when he went to the synagogue, where he had lunch. There was also a sheet detailing Shelley’s daily schedule.

“How far back does this go?” I asked.

“Almost two weeks,” Medrano answered.

“So who are these guys?”

Nate looked at me. “The guy you single tapped flew into Kennedy two weeks ago, traveling on an Algerian passport. His buddy, Mazhar, was Turkish and also came into Kennedy two weeks ago. And guess what?”

“They were on the same flight.”

Nate nodded.

“So who are these guys?” I repeated.

Nate shook his head. “Not a clue. That’s all we got on them so far. We’ll take the laptop in and check the hard drive. See what we can find.”

“I tried to go through the e-mails,” Medrano said, “but they were all encrypted.”

“How big a problem is that?”

“Don’t know. We’ll see.”

“We do have another piece,” Nate said. “You gave me the license plate of the guy in the Buick…the guy who dropped off these guys.”

I nodded.

“It was a rental from BWI. Hertz. Its most recent driver rented it this past Thursday. We got this…” he took out a folded photo print of a man standing at a Hertz service counter. He was photographed straight on from a slightly high angle; the camera must have been at ceiling height behind the clerk. The customer was broad shouldered and was wearing what looked like an all weather coat, sunglasses and a baseball cap. It was impossible to clearly see his face.

“We have guys who can play with the picture to get an idea what he looks like without the sunglasses,” Medrano said. “You saw him Friday night, right?”

I shrugged. “He was a pair of eyes reflected in a side-view mirror.”

Nate continued: “We ran his name. Joseph Belard. Immigration says he came in on a British Air flight last week.”

“Into Kennedy?”

Nate shook his head. “Providence, Rhode Island. Flew in on Wednesday, and then took a US Air flight here on Thursday. He returned the car on Saturday, yesterday, but there’s no record of him taking a flight out.”

Medrano added, “The desk clerk at Hertz said that there were two men with him. No description worth anything, but his impression is that the men were picking him up after he dropped off the rental.”

“So,” I said, “Belard returned the car, but he could still be here.”

“Ain’t life grand?” Nate said. “And while you may not have seen him, he could’ve gotten a look at you. You, my friend, need to watch your back.”

“I will.”

Nate nodded.

“By the way, thanks for having officers watch the Mandels.”

“Don’t know how long we can do that, but we’ll see. Be nice to wrap this up soon.”

“Be nice to know what the hell is going on,” I said. “Meanwhile, just found out that our rabbi has another side to him.”

Both Nate and Medrano looked at me. I explained what Sakolsky had told me about Josh, the Torah rescues, and the conflict he once had.

“It may be nothing,” Nate said.

“I’ll talk to him about it tonight.”

“Anyone notice the collection of people so far?” Medrano asked. “A dead guy with a Turkish name, a dead guy with an Algerian passport, and a live guy with a French name. You guys notice that?”

“Yeah,” Nate said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“So, you and Katie coming to dinner Monday night?” Nate asked, apparently moving onto the next topic.

“Looking forward to it.” I let a moment pass. “If that’s it for now, gentleman, I need to take off. I have a hot date tonight.”

“You?” Nate asked. “With who? Katie?”

“With whom,” Medrano corrected.

Nate just looked at him.

“Yes, with Katie, of course,” I answered. “Every date with Katie is a hot date.”

S

Two hours later, I was freshly dressed in khaki chinos and a short sleeve black Henley. Interestingly, Katie had changed into something similar: a black knit top and white capris. Without having to search too hard, we parked in a spot near the Square in Canton, actually a rectangular series of streets encompassing a small park. On the outside of the rectangle were rows of shops and restaurants. The Patterson Park neighborhood where I had met Nate was not far away, and I felt as if I had just left the area – which I had.

Our parking spot was next to an old, beautiful Lutheran church – its stone structure easily could have gone back to the early 1900s – and we walked to a restaurant-tavern on O’Donnell Street called The Magnificent Seven. The owner must have been an aficionado of the classic western, for lining the interior walls were posters and stills from the movie. As we entered, a curvy, raven haired, twenty year old in a long flowing maroon dress slid off a stool to greet us. The front of her dress had a plunging neckline and revealed plenty of cleavage. Katie jabbed me in the side with her elbow. I looked at her, then turned to the hostess. “Two for dinner, please.”

“The restaurant is upstairs. Just seat yourself and a server will be right with you.”

“Thank you.” We headed to the rear of the tavern and to a flight of old wooden stairs. Before we walked up I said to Katie, “Why’d you poke me?”

“I was helping you focus.”

“I was focusing just fine.”

The upstairs restaurant was of modest size, but filled with perhaps fifteen small tables. The room was relatively dark; the walls were paneled in a dark wood, and the floorboards were black-brown six-inch wide planks. They must have been original to the building and refinished. Half the tables were occupied, so we moved over to an available one near the front window. Within a few minutes a server came over. She was also about twenty and wearing the same flowing maroon style dress as the woman downstairs, but our server was more modestly endowed. She showed us a pair of menus and took our drink order. By the time she returned, we were ready to order. Katie chose a chicken fajita wrap and a garden salad; I ordered a salad as well and an entrée of pistachio encrusted grouper and a baked potato.

“So,” I said once we were alone, “how’s life?”

Katie smiled. “We haven’t talked in a while.”

I shook my head.

“Life is great, I suppose. Not as crazy as yours.”

“Doesn’t matter. I need to apologize to you.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ve only been connecting at night and mostly rolling in the sack.”

She reached for my hand. “I like rolling in the sack with you.”

“Ah, but is it enough?”

“You’ve got a lot going on.”

“Don’t apologize for me.” I let a moment pass. “Okay, I accept your apology.”

Katie smiled again. After a second she asked, “Do you think we’re good together?”

“Do you mean like Laurel and Hardy good, or like the Princess Bride and Westley good, because I’m partial to Westley.”

She laughed.

I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. “We’ll see.”

“As you wish,” she smiled.

Our meal came, and we ate over small talk, staying away from the intensity of the last few days, at least for me. We passed on dessert, and instead headed out to take up Sakolsky’s suggestion of the promenade walk. I moved the Jeep closer to the Canton marina, and after locking up we meandered toward the waterfront. We cut between a pair of three tiered condos, and walked around a seafood restaurant at the edge of the marina.

As we turned right onto the promenade, we could see the walkway winding along the water’s edge off toward Fells Point in the distance. Harborwalk, as the signs named it, was paved with bricks, and was bordered on the left by a fully berthed marina and on the right by the townhouse units. At the property line some homes had short hedges separating the public and private space.

Overall, the area was calm and peaceful. The sun had already set off to the left and city lights had taken over. As we strolled, we were far from alone. Joggers, both men and women, ran past us, some coming up from behind, others approaching on the left. Almost universally, all joggers, whether male or female, had white wires running down their torsos from ear buds.

“Sakolsky was right,” I said as a couple passed us going the other way. “This is pretty cool.”