Three More Dogs in a Row Read online

  Macarius sipped his tea, and I did the same. I thought about DeAndre Dawson, who had spent time in this place, probably happily – maybe playing that video game out front, or talking to the monks. I felt closer to him there, somehow, than I had in the presence of his remains.

  In the quiet we could hear Rochester crunching his treat. “DeAndre was an impatient young man,” Macarius said at last. “As so many are today. He wanted to be rich and successful immediately. Sadly that led him to make the wrong choices.”

  He sat back against the sofa. “He was born not too far away from here, and grew up in Alphabet City. Single mother, too many kids. Very common story. But DeAndre was smart and ambitious, and he was on his own after his mother died. He started working as a lookout for drug dealers when he was eight or nine. Then he moved up to dealing himself. He was in and out of juvenile hall a few times until he turned eighteen.”

  I had a momentary vision of a young black boy, hanging around a street corner when he should have been playing or studying. Sad. “How old was he?” I asked.

  “Twenty-four, I think. When he was twenty, he got caught in a crackdown, and charged with intent to sell. Went to Attica for two years. When he came back, he started hanging around here.”

  “Why?”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Macarius said. “DeAndre was smart enough to know that he was on the wrong path, but no matter what I did I couldn’t get him to see any other way. I tried to get him to finish his GED, but he couldn’t focus on it.”

  “Was he using drugs when he was here?”

  Macarius shook his head. “We have a very strict policy about that. You use, you lose. Did he smoke the occasional joint? Probably. We don’t make our clients take drug tests. But if he’d been on anything stronger one of us would have noticed.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Three brothers, and three lay workers,” he said. “Brother Anselm doesn’t do much these days. He’s almost seventy, and he can barely walk. But he refused to go with the Benedictines when they left Friar Lake. He wants to continue serving as long as he can. Brother James and I carry the load.” He nodded toward the front. “We have three counselors. Vivek, whom you saw out front, helps with government benefits and paperwork. Barbara works with recovering addicts. And Kefalexia comes in regularly to teach life skills workshops.”

  “Were any of them particularly close to DeAndre?”

  “DeAndre was fondest of Brother Anselm. They used to sit and talk for hours.”

  “Do you know if he ever went out to Friar Lake when Brother Anselm was there?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. But perhaps Brother Anselm can. The three of us share an apartment on the second floor. I can take you up there, if you’d like to talk to him.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  He finished his tea and put the mug down on the table next to him. “Let me see if Brother Anselm is up to visitors.” He stood and walked to a door at the back of the room. He unlocked it, and when he opened it I saw it led to a staircase. “Be back in a moment or two.”

  I sat back on the sofa and sipped more of my oolong tea. It was dark brown and the tannins were strong. I wondered what else I could find out while I was there. The connection was clear: Brother Anselm had been out at Friar Lake several times, and he had spoken to DeAndre, most likely telling him about the place. But what had drawn this street-smart young man from the city to the country?

  It was almost impossible to get to Friar Lake without a car. I supposed that DeAndre could have taken the train to Trenton, where he could have caught a bus that, with transfers, might get him as far as Leighville. From there he’d have to go on foot. Or conversely he could have taken a bus to Easton from the Port Authority, and then what? Hitchhiked down the river road?

  The more I thought about it, the more I knew he had to have gone there by car. But since we didn’t find a car on the property, that meant he had driven there with someone else. His killer? Perhaps.

  14 – Brother Anselm

  I was startled when the door opened again, and Brother Macarius stuck his head out. “Brother Anselm can see you. But he’s not up to coming downstairs.”

  “No problem.” Rochester and I both stood up and followed Macarius through the door.

  The stairway was narrow and dark, and Rochester balked. “Come on, boy, it’s just a staircase,” I said. “You climb stairs at home all the time.”

  Macarius waited halfway up the stairs.

  “Don’t be stubborn.” I grabbed Rochester’s collar and dragged him up the first couple of steps. Suddenly he took off, dashing ahead of me and passing Macarius too.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hurrying up behind them. “He’s not usually like this.”

  We exited the staircase to a small living room with a couple of torn armchairs and another lumpy, worn-out sofa like the one downstairs. The walls were decorated with faded posters of Italy—St. Peter’s Square, the Spanish Steps, the Coliseum. A wizened old man in a similar plain brown robe sat in one of them. Rochester had already made a friend; he was sitting at attention next to Brother Anselm, with the friar’s liver-spotted hand resting on Rochester’s head.

  “Brother Anselm, this is Steve, who’s come to ask questions about DeAndre.”

  “And you’ve already met Rochester, I see.” I walked across the room and reached out for the old friar’s hand. That’s when I realized he was blind.

  I pulled my hand back awkwardly. “I’ll leave you to chat,” Macarius said, and walked back out to the staircase.

  “You have a beautiful dog,” Anselm said, as I sat in a chair across from him.

  It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Rochester’s inner beauty. “Yes, he’s a sweetheart.”

  “And you two have a very strong bond. I can feel that.”

  “I think so, too.” I hesitated, then said, “Brother Macarius said that you often spoke with DeAndre Dawson. “

  “I expected his death,” Anselm said. “He was too bull-headed to listen to reason, and he was too eager to make money without working for it.”

  “Brother Macarius had the same impression. Do you have any idea what DeAndre was doing out at Friar Lake? He wasn’t interested in a vocation, was he?”

  Anselm shook his head. “No, not DeAndre. He was out there searching for the reliquary that holds the thumb of Saint Roch.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not following you. He was looking for a thumb?”

  That was a creepy thought. Why were hands and fingers popping up all over the place?

  Brother Anselm settled back into his chair. “Let me explain. You have heard of Joseph Bonaparte?”

  I was starting to feel like I was in one of those dreams I used to have in college, where I showed up for class and hadn’t done the reading, and had no idea what the professor was talking about. That had already happened to me once that week, when President Babson began discussing Friar Lake with me before I knew what he intended.

  Was this another of those situations? Or was Brother Anselm crazy, as well as blind? The only way to find out was to follow along. I said, “I remember when I was a kid, we used to drive up along the Jersey Turnpike to visit cousins, and my father pointed out this old building up on a hill. He said that Napoleon’s brother had lived there. Was that Joseph?”

  As I said it, I realized that once again, my father had popped into my thoughts, and I wondered why. Fathers and sons. Brothers—of which I had none. And hands and thumbs. I shivered despite the heat in the upstairs room.

  “Joseph was Napoleon’s older brother, and I think sometimes the Little Corporal must have despaired of him,” Anselm said. “He made Joseph King of Naples, and when that didn’t work out, King of Spain. While Joseph was on the throne he systematically looted the Spanish crown jewels. When he abdicated from that position he came to the United States, specifically to New Jersey, and he sold those items to support a lavish lifestyle.”

  “That’s certainly interes
ting, but I don’t see—”

  “Patience, my boy. When you get to be as old as I am, you relish the opportunity to tell a good story.”

  Rochester looked at me balefully, as if he was saddened by my bad manners. “I’m sorry. Please, go on.”

  “Joseph was not particularly religious, but for some reason he took a liking to the Abbey of Our Lady of the Waters. You probably didn’t know that was the formal name of the place, did you?”

  I nodded, then remembered Anselm was blind. “Yes, a friend who used to go there for CYO outings told me.”

  “Joseph visited the abbey several times to pray with the brothers. The legend says that on one visit, a shepherd dog that the abbot kept to chase away predators became friendly with Joseph, and saved him from a fall on a path through the woods. In gratitude, Joseph made a donation to the Abbey.”

  “This reliquary?” I asked.

  “Exactly. The first time I went out to the abbey I was a younger man, recuperating from a broken hip, and I still had my sight. I became interested in the legend and researched it as best I could. “

  Rochester sprawled on his side, resting his head on the threadbare carpet.

  “Do you know what a reliquary is?” Anselm asked.

  “I can guess. Something that holds a relic?”

  “Yes. In this case it was a small box made of hammered silver, encrusted with precious gems. Most likely made by a Turkish craftsman during the reign of the Byzantine emperors, then taken to Spain by looting Crusaders.”

  “It holds a saint’s thumb?”

  “So it is believed-- Saint Roch, the patron saint of dogs, as it were. Hence the reason why Joseph chose that particular object to donate.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about saints,” I said. “Was Saint Roch a particularly important one, to deserve such an object?”

  “The history is unclear. But the legend surrounding him says that he was a mendicant, like those of us here, and that he was a healer in the time of the plague. When he became sick, he isolated himself in a forest hut so that he would not infect others. A dog belonging to a local noble is said to have brought bread to him, and licked his wounds, healing them. There is a statue of St. Roch in Prague, with a dog by his side. That’s why he popularly became the patron saint of dogs.”

  I sat back against the worn fabric of the sofa to sort through everything Anselm had said. “So Joseph Bonaparte gave this jeweled box to the Benedictines. Where is it now?”

  “That is the question, my boy. At least a hundred years ago, it disappeared from view. Some believe it was stolen, or sold to fund the abbey’s good works. There is also speculation that the abbot hid it somewhere on the abbey grounds.”

  The pieces were coming together. “You told this story to DeAndre, didn’t you?”

  “We talked of many things. But yes, I did tell him. I’m afraid I might have mentioned that there is a black market for such items. Unscrupulous people and avaricious collectors.”

  “Did he come out to Friar Lake when you were there?”

  “This last time, yes. Perhaps six months ago, just before the Benedictines closed the property and moved west. He joked with me that he was going to find the reliquary, and then he would sell it to one of those collectors, and use the money to help our outreach efforts here.”

  “An unselfish gesture.”

  Anselm nodded. “And quite uncharacteristic of DeAndre. That’s why I referred to it as a joke.”

  “Did anyone else know about this reliquary?”

  “DeAndre was the only one who was willing to sit and listen to the ramblings of an old man. But he may have told others. I don’t know.”

  “Friar Lake isn’t an easy place to get to,” I said. “How did you get out there when you needed to recuperate?”

  “The Jesuits. They have several vehicles, and Brother Macarius borrows a car from them now and then—for trips to the Super Wal-Mart and so on.”

  I could imagine Macarius, in his long brown robe, shopping the aisles and loading up his cart. Friars needed food, toilet paper and household cleaners like the rest of us.

  “And DeAndre? When he came out to visit you? Do you know how he got there?”

  “I don’t believe I ever asked him. I assumed that he had come along with the Jesuits on one of their visits.”

  I tried to arrange a chronology in my mind. “So about six months ago, you were at Friar Lake, and DeAndre came to visit. Did you see him after that?”

  Anselm nodded. “I spoke with him here in New York after I returned.”

  “When was that?”

  “I can’t say for certain. Perhaps Macarius can tell you. I know we keep records of when our clients visit.”

  Rochester pulled himself up on his haunches and nuzzled Anselm’s hand. “You must be tired,” I said. I stood up myself. “Thank you very much for your time.”

  “It has been a pleasure. Do you think you will find the person who killed DeAndre?”

  “I’m not a police officer,” I said. “That’s not for me to say. But I hope there will be some justice for him.”

  “Justice,” Brother Anselm said, nodding. “He will have justice, in the next world, even if not in this one.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for DeAndre, or not.

  15 – Shenetta Levy

  Rochester charged past me going down the stairs. When I followed him into the main part of the storefront I found Macarius talking with Vivek, the young blond man who handled paperwork. The homeless woman he had been helping was gone.

  “Was Brother Anselm able to help you?” Macarius asked me, as Rochester crossed the room and curled up next to Vivek’s desk.

  “Yes, he was. He said DeAndre had been to see him after he returned from his recuperation at Friar Lake. Do you have any idea when that might have been?”

  “I’ll check,” Macarius said. He walked over to his desk, and I turned to Vivek.

  “Did you know DeAndre?” I asked.

  “Just in passing. Most of my work is with the homeless and the poor, those who need help with government assistance.”

  He had an interesting accent that I couldn’t quite place. “May I ask where you’re from?”

  “I was born in Poland, but came here when I was ten. I know, I still have some Polish in my speech.”

  “What brought you to work here?”

  “Growing up under Communism, you gain an appreciation for bureaucracy, and how to get around it,” he said. “I am studying for my master’s in social work, and I was able to get an internship to work here.”

  “Did DeAndre ever talk to you about Friar Lake, the place where Brother Anselm went to recuperate?”

  He nodded. “He asked once where it was. I didn’t know, but we looked it up together. He was surprised that there was no bus or train he could take to get there.”

  Macarius rejoined us. “The last time DeAndre was here was May 2.”

  “And it’s July now,” I said. “Was he a regular visitor?”

  Macarius shrugged. “So many of our clients come and go, whether they are hospitalized or incarcerated. It’s hard to say.”

  “So you wouldn’t have noticed that he wasn’t coming around.”

  “No. Is there anything else we can help you with?”

  I pursed my lips together and thought. I had a good guess as to why DeAndre had gone to Friar Lake. But I believed he had to have gone with someone else. The question was who?

  “Can you tell me anyone else who knew DeAndre? Any friends or family?”

  “He brought his girlfriend in one day for help with Medicaid,” Vivek said. “Let me look in my files and see if I still have her paperwork.”

  He turned to his file cabinet and began sorting through folders. A buff-looking guy in his mid-thirties arrived, wearing a sleeveless muscle T that showed off the intricate tattoos along both arms. His cargo shorts revealed an artificial right leg. “Hey, Jimmy,” Macarius said. “Steve here was just asking about DeAndre. You knew
him, didn’t you?”

  “Just to say hello to,” Jimmy said. He walked over to Macarius and the two of them sat down in a conversation.

  Vivek wrote something on a piece of lined yellow paper. “Her name is Shenetta Levy. Here’s her address. The little boy’s name is Jamarcus.”

  I took the paper from him. The address was nearby, on Avenue D near the corner of Houston. I thanked him, and waved goodbye to Brother Macarius.

  As we passed where I had parked, I added more money to the meter, and Rochester and I continued on foot, passing bodegas and loading docks and low-rise tenements. Every so often there was a sign of gentrification—an upscale coffee shop or a cell phone store. The sun was bright and reflected off the cars lining the streets.

  Shenetta Levy lived in a four-story brownstone apartment building shaded by a couple of big plane trees. Four young women with toddlers sat in the shade as their children played. When Rochester and I walked up, a pair of the boys ran over to him. “Jawayne! Jamarcus! You let that dog alone!” one woman called, in a lilting Jamaican accent. She wore a pair of green scrub pants and a nurse’s blouse covered with pictures of small animals.

  “It’s okay, he’s very friendly.” I looked down at the two boys, who were both about four or five. “You can pet him if you want.”

  One boy was much bolder than the other. He stuck his hand out, palm down, and I was pleased to see that someone had trained him how to approach a strange dog. Rochester licked his palm, and the boy giggled. Then they both began petting his head and stroking his soft golden fur. Rochester opened his mouth and yawned, and the bolder boy said, “He got big teeth.”

  “He sure does.” I looked over at the cluster of young women. “I’m looking for Shenetta Levy,” I said. “Do you know if she’s around?”

  “What do you want with Shenetta?” the woman in the nurse’s blouse said. Her hair had been knotted in precise cornrows, with tiny blue beads at the end.

  “I want to talk to her about DeAndre Dawson,” I said.

  “That fool,” another woman said. “You turn and walk away, Mister. Shenetta don’t need nothing to do with DeAndre no more.” She had a New York accent, and a New York attitude to go with it.