An Eye for Murder (3 page)

Mrs. Fleishman crossed to the window and opened it. A wave of frigid air floated in. “Everything’s in there.” She pointed to the cartons. “The first two are his clothes—I was going to give them away. His personal things are in the other.” Turning around, she saw me hovering at the door. “Come in, dear. They won’t bite.”

Reluctantly I stepped in and helped her move two cartons aside. She gestured for me to sit on the floor. I sat crosslegged and raised the flaps of the third carton. A plastic bag closed with a twist-tie sat on top. Inside were a razor, a package of blades, shaving cream, and two brown plastic prescription bottles. I checked the labels. Lanoxin and Inderal.

“Were these the ones—?”

“No. The people who picked him up took them. Those must have been from an old prescription.”

I studied the bottles through the plastic. “An accidental overdose, you said?”

Mrs. Fleishman nodded. “He was supposed to take Inderal four times a day and Lanoxin once a day, but they look so much alike, it’s easy to get confused. It even happens to me. I keep a chart down in the kitchen. Of course, then I have to remember to fill it in.”

I’ve glimpsed the decline that aging brings with my own father, who’s over eighty himself. But like most Boomers who cling to their youth, I’m more or less blind to the burdens of elderly people. Aging gracefully is an art form I’ve yet to master.

Underneath the plastic bag was a stack of books, including an Artscroll Siddur, the Orthodox version of the Jewish prayer book. The others looked like they were from the public library. I lifted out
Untold Stories of World War Two, The Nazi Doctors
, and
Shadow Warriors: Origins of the OSS
. There were also a couple of le Carré paperbacks.

“He took the bus to the library almost every day,” she said. “They opened a new branch not far from here.”

I flipped to the back of one book. It was overdue by several months. I handed one to Mrs. Fleishman. “They need to be returned.”

“Oh dear.” She sighed. “I hope they won’t make me pay.” Near the bottom of the carton was a beige metal box, about twelve inches square and three inches deep. It looked like it could hold fishing tackle. I lifted it out.

“I couldn’t get it open,” Mrs. Fleishman said. “Why don’t you try?” I held it in my hands. “Oh, come on, dear,” she said conspiratorially. “Don’t you want to know what’s inside?” I bit my lip. The man was dead; I felt like a vulture. She took the box from me and jiggled the clasp with her fingers.

It didn’t move.

“You know, I might have something in my room.” She put the box down and walked out. I heard a door across the hall open and close. A minute later she was back. “Here.” She handed me a metal nail file. “See if this works.”

“Mrs. Fleishman, I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t know Mr. Sinclair, and it seems—”

“Don’t worry.” She waved her hand in the air, her bracelets jangling. “Mr. Sinclair doesn’t care anymore. And if there’s something inside that tells us who he was and where he came from, well…” She shrugged, as if no further explanation was necessary.

Reluctantly I took the nail file. Using it as a lever, I tried to pry open the lock, but it didn’t budge. Then I inserted the pointed tip of the file and wiggled it around, thinking that might dislodge the clasp. It didn’t. Figuring gravity might make a difference, I turned the box upside down and repeated the levering action, but nothing shook loose.

Mrs. Fleishman watched impatiently. Finally, she grabbed the box and threw it back in the carton. “I give up.”

At the bottom of the carton lay a small gray velvet bag with a drawstring tie. I loosened the string and drew out a shiny silver cigarette lighter. An insignia showed the profile of a man with a jaunty hat leaning against a lamppost. On the back were three initials engraved against a blue background: S K L. I flipped up the cover and rolled the flint. Sparks flew.

“Look at this.” I held it out for Mrs. Fleishman. “I don’t have my reading glasses on, dear.”

“It’s a lighter. And it still works.” I snapped the top back and inspected the initials. “The initials say ‘SKL.’” I frowned. “Shouldn’t they be ‘BS’?”

“I would think so.” She knit her brow. “But, then, Ben Sinclair was a man with secrets.”

“Secrets?”

“When you get to be my age, you don’t ask too many questions. It’s enough just to spend time with someone. Mr. Sinclair never talked much about himself. Frankly, I had the feeling he might have had—uh—a shady background. If I hadn’t needed the money, well, who knows? But, like I said, he was a good boarder.”

I ran my finger over the lighter. Maybe it belonged to one of his friends or a relative. And somehow came into his possession. I wondered how. There was a story here somewhere; everyone has one. That’s why I became a filmmaker, to help people tell their stories.

“Which reminds me.” Ruth went to the desk and opened a drawer. “Take a look at this, would you?”

She handed me an old snapshot, the sort that fill my parents’ photo albums. Shot with a wide lens, probably a Brownie, the picture was of a couple posing on a cobblestone path at the side of a bridge. Edged by a low stone wall, the bridge was flanked with statues and overlooked a building with the kind of tiled roof you see in European countries. On the far side of the bridge were more buildings, and in the background, high on a hill, the graceful Gothic spires and towers of a castle. A narrow river flowed underneath.

The man in the picture was young, wiry, and compact, with dark, piercing eyes. He held a snap-brimmed fedora. The woman, dressed in a sturdy suit with padded shoulders, had thick dark hair piled on top of her head. She cradled an infant in her arms. Despite their stiff poses, the couple smiled into the camera.

“Is this Ben Sinclair?”

“I think so,” Ruth said, touching her brow. “The eyes.”

I turned the picture over, hoping for a name or date but knowing I wouldn’t find anything. “When was it taken, do you think?”

“Judging from the clothes, during the war. Or soon after.”

Ruth plucked the bracelets on her wrist, moving one in front of the other. “I asked him when he first moved in whether he had any family, but he said no. I didn’t press it.”

I handed the picture back. “Mrs. Fleishman, I did some research last night. I found a number of Ben Sinclairs around the country. I’ve got the list in my purse. Let me get it for you.”

“Why?”

“Well, you might want to call some of them. You never know. One of them may turn out to know him.” A queer look crept into her eyes. Figuring she was concerned about the cost of calling long distance, I added, “There were only about twenty listings.”

She shrugged and looked at the floor. I stood up and dusted off my hands. My reflection in the window, sharpened by the overcast outside, showed dark hair against light skin. Like the woman in the picture.

“Hold on,” I said slowly. “Do—do you think I have something to do with this picture?” She reddened. “My god. You think I’m the baby in the picture.”

“I…I wasn’t sure. We watched your show, and he seemed to recognize your name. And then, after he died, I found your name and the picture—”

“And you figured I might be his daughter.” I gestured toward the snapshot. “A long lost daughter. Possibly from Europe.” Damn. Did I really look that old? “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fleishman. I was born right here in Chicago, well after the war, and my father is alive and well. I never knew Ben Sinclair.” Her face crumpled. “I knew it was a long shot.” Sighing, she dabbed her fingers on her wig, as if to soothe her nerves. “Well, I do appreciate you coming all this way. I’m sorry it was all for nothing.” She gazed at the cartons. Her eyes brightened. “Well, actually, there is something else. Could you do me just the tiniest favor?”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like his clothes to go to
Or Hadash
, but I don’t have a car, and they don’t pick up. Would you mind taking his things over there? It’s not far from here.”

Or Hadash
was the Jewish charity agency in Chicago. Figures. She’d just met me an hour ago, and she was already asking me to do her errands. I should say no. I’d done enough. I looked over; she was plucking at her bracelets, looking helpless and vulnerable. I glanced at my watch—barely three. Rachel wouldn’t be home from soccer until five. I sighed. “Okay.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. The books too?”

I pursed my lips. A pleased smile fluttered across her face. As we started to tape the cartons shut, Ruth’s eyes fell on the lighter. She lifted it out of the box. “You know,
Or Hadash
doesn’t need this. Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“How about your boyfriend? Or your father?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, my father does.”

“Why don’t you take it for him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like to encourage him.”

She forced it into my hand. “Now dear, he is a grown man.” I looked at the lighter. It
was
a curiosity. I slipped it into my bag. “Thanks.”

As I hauled the cartons out the front door, I noticed two men parked in a car near mine. The driver, who had long hair pulled back in a ponytail, was fiddling with the radio, and the other man slouched in the seat, head down, as if searching for something on the floor. Too bad. I could have used some help. But judging from their studied inattention to my plight, they were probably the type who got off on watching a woman struggle: the “you asked for it you got it lady” types. I stowed the boxes in the trunk. As I slammed down the trunk, Mrs. Fleishman called out from the house. “When you’re done, dear, come in for a nosh. I’ve got coffee and Danish.”

I headed back in. She wasn’t that bad, once you got used to her. Anyway, how many people have Jackie Kennedy serving them Danish in Rogers Park?

Chapter Three

Or Hadash
was wedged between a Korean dry cleaners and a tamale stand on Touhy Avenue, the commercial street that cuts a wide swath through Rogers Park. It looked well-stocked, cheerful, and closed. A sign on the window said donations were received on alternate Thursdays or by appointment. A phone number followed. “Just my luck,” I muttered, jotting down the number. At least I hadn’t taken the cartons out of the car. I climbed back into the Volvo.

The Rogers Park library on Clark Street practically shouts new construction. A neat red-brick building with white trim, it clashes with the crumbling apartment building next door and the dilapidated American Legion Hall across the street. Inside, though, it was filled with after-school activity, and the cheerful buzz contrasted with the funereal silence of most libraries.

The crowd, a mix of white, black and Hispanic kids, sat at long red tables in the center of the room, all apparently content to share space together. I waited at a counter of faux marble while the librarian, a gnarled, gray woman with a
pince-nez
around her neck, helped an Asian boy find a periodical. She reminded me of Miss Finkel, the strictest teacher in my elementary school. I set the overdue books on the counter.

“Oh, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, when I explained why I was there. “We haven’t seen him in a while. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s not.” I told her what happened. The lines in her face deepened. “I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “I’ll pay for these, if necessary.” I picked up
Shadow Warriors
to show her the due date stamped in the back. As I riffled through the pages, a scrap of paper floated to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. The Internet address
www.familyroots.com
was scrawled on it in pencil.

“Hey,” I said. “Look at that.” I showed the paper to the librarian. She inspected it and gave me a puzzled glance.

“It’s a web site.” She frowned as if I’d somehow intruded into her well-ordered universe.

“I know. I just never thought a ninety-year-old man would be surfing the net. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. But…uh…my father still thinks that computers are nothing more than fancy pencils.”

She threw me a chilly look.

“I mean, I didn’t see a computer at his home.”

“Mr. Sinclair was online here nearly every day.” She pointed to the computers on some of the tables.

“You’re kidding. What was he doing?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew. We have strict privacy rules here.” Her face softened. “But I can tell you he was usually here first thing in the morning, sometimes before we opened up. It’s a good time to go online. Less traffic.”

“Was this one of the sites he went to?” I pointed to the scrap of paper.

Her face was noncommittal.

“Did you teach him how to log on?”

She peered at me through her
pince-nez
. “It isn’t difficult, if you follow instructions. You could learn.”

I didn’t correct her. She looked past me, her expression tight. I turned around. Several people had formed a line behind me.

“Well, considering what happened,” she said briskly, “I think we can waive the fines. Thank you for returning the books.” She slid them toward her and looked at the person behind me. I had been dismissed.

I was almost out the door when I felt a tug on my sleeve. I whipped around to see a young teenage boy with dark brown skin and wooly hair. A blue Georgetown baseball cap cocked to the right covered most of his head. Over his shoulder was a backpack decorated with black markings.

“You know Sinclair?” he asked. His voice was accusatory, almost belligerent. If I hadn’t heard the crack in it, I might have felt uncomfortable.

“Kind of,” I answered.

“You say he dead?” He fingered his ear. A gold post protruded from it.

I nodded.

The kid didn’t flinch. “Were you a friend of his?”

“Yeah.” He looked as if he was trying out the concept and liked it. “He was cool with me.”

“I’m Ellie Foreman.” I stepped through the door. “What’s your name?”

“Boo Boo.”

I got a clear view of his backpack. The markings on it were Jewish stars.

“He be your friend, too?”

“To be honest, Boo Boo,” I said, staring at his backpack, “I didn’t really know him. But I think he knew me.” I looked at him. “I—I know the lady he lived with.”