"This is a private matter," Joe said, holding the box of candy in plain view.

"My boy, might there be some chocolate delights in that cardboard conveyance?" Miller asked. The wrapping paper was a dead give away. "You're the..."

"Hero cop," Joe interrupted with a forced smile. "I heard you're addicted."

Miller's eyes twinkled as he opened the pound box, bringing the contents close to his nose. "Only my secretary knows." He chose a cherry filled chocolate drop. "Have a seat. You look as though you could take a turn in this place."

"Been there and done that," Joe said, pulling out a chair. A demure blonde in hospital togs sashayed into the room. "This is a far cry from the dump I was incarcerated for my re-hab."

"These nurses might look sweet, but under those smiles, live a collection of tyrants. They're working me to death," Miller said, savoring another piece. nurses might look sweet, but under those smiles, live a collection of tyrants. They're working me to death," Miller said, savoring another piece.

Joe watched the nurse wheel one of the patients to the door. "I'll only take a few minutes of your time."

"They'll be coming for me for my afternoon workout," Miller said. "What's on your mind?"

"Preston lived an interesting life."

"Interesting but conflicted," Miller said, checking through the box. "When Preston was a young man, he could be rough. There was an element in town that was against many things, and he fell in with them. People change. He re-discovered G.o.d."

The rain intensified, pounding the gla.s.s roof. "He must've had one heck of a re-discovery to have Rabbi Balaban say Kaddish Kaddish for him," Joe said, staring at Miller who suddenly looked uncomfortable. for him," Joe said, staring at Miller who suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"You'll have to take that up with Bernard," Miller replied, pushing the box across the table. "Have a piece."

"I'll ask him when he returns from Israel," Joe said, picking an orange truffle. "I understand you and the Swedges arrived in town around the same time and became pretty tight."

"Lieutenant," Miller said with a renewed irritation, "I've got to get these cards done. My relationship was personal."

Joe reached into his jacket, removing the girl's picture found among the scrum at the estate sale. "Do you recognize her?"

Miller paled, taking the battered photo, holding it like it was a hand grenade with the pin removed. "Where did you find this?" He turned the photo over, running his fingers around the edges before gently touching the girl's face.

"In Preston's bas.e.m.e.nt," Joe said, studying Miller's face.

"Preston held it to his heart when he was ill, not letting go for days." Miller said. "I'm surprised it survived."

"Looks like the picture has been through a war," Joe said.

"Preston's recovery was long and painful. He was fighting his own private war."

"I heard about his crackup. She have a name?"

"It's been many years." Miller stared at the face. "Rachel. No, No...Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca. Poor thing was so young."

Joe leaned on the five-iron. "What happened to her?"

Without emotion, Miller said, "Hit by a car. Lingered for a couple of days before the good Lord took her home. She was just seven years old."

"Queens beat Jacks!" roared from the card game.

"I look at the picture, and I say to myself, who does she look like?" Joe said, fighting the urge to stick a Marlboro into his mouth. "Rebecca doesn't look like Millie or Preston." He handed Miller the photo of the Swedges on vacation. "Wouldn't ever have guessed she was their child."

Miller glanced at both photos. "Rebecca was four when she was adopted." He handed the photos back to Joe. "Her father was killed on one of the islands in the Pacific during the war. When Preston's cousin died in a car accident, she was left an orphan."

Joe sensed there was more to the story. "No other pictures, nothing of her ever being in their lives, nor did I see a grave marker with her name at Fairview. Like it was boom and she was gone."

"Millie, may she rest in peace, couldn't bear children. She opened her home and her heart to the girl. Some build shrines to the departed, others remove all traces. Rebecca's body was interned with her biological mother."

"I can't imagine their pain." Joe said. Stuff like that reminded him of his daughter Emily. "Where's she buried?"

Miller looked suspiciously at Joe. "Michigan, that's what I was told."

"Told?"

"She pa.s.sed in 1950, two years before I became pastor," Miller explained. "I learned the sad story from Millie when Preston took ill."

"Preston had his breakdown in 1960. For eight years the subject never came up. I find that strange." Joe charged.

"Some people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves. What are you driving at?" The weather changed. The rain ended with the sun breaking through. He shifted on the chair, removing a Phillie's Cheroot cigar from a pocket in his warm-up.

"Call me cynical," Joe replied, thinking of Preston's romp with the gal at the Santa Anita relocation center.

"Call me stiff as a board, how about we take a walk?" Miller asked.

"Great idea," Joe said, unable to fight the nicotine urge, and not sure how far he could push Miller before the old guy decided to call it quits.

Miller placed the thank you notes into a day planner, zipping the leather case closed. Using a metal cane, he struggled to raise himself from the chair. "Grab the candy."

At a turtle's pace, they headed for the exit closest to the pond, where Joe held the door. A practical joker, Miller flipped him a quarter. The temperature rebounded with the sunshine. "Let's sit on the bench," Miller suggested. "I can't go another inch." Joe put his arm under Miller's elbow, helping him into a controlled collapse.

Joe retrieved a Marlboro from his jacket. Flipping the Zippo, he held it under Miller's cheroot. "One of life's pleasures," Miller said, savoring the smoke. "The doctors insist I give it up."

They sat a few minutes watching a pair of Mallards paddle around the pond.

"Preston's...," Miller hesitated, "illness put a strain on their marriage, a marriage that was already drowning in the booze he was consuming. I counseled Millie, and believe I made a difference."

"I understand Millie was a terrific lady."

"That's an understatement." Miller took several quick puffs on the cigar. "I came to town not knowing anyone. I suppose she took pity on this confirmed bachelor by offering an invitation for dinner. That invitation turned into a weekly event. I often wondered what had attracted her to Preston."

"Did you ever meet this guy?" Joe handed Miller the photo of the airman Rothstein.

Miller held it at arms length. "Should I...."

"Turn it over," Joe said.

"Rothstein!" Miller shrieked. "I can't believe it. Is this the face that haunted Preston?"

"I think so," Joe said, gesturing with the cigarette.

Leaning back on the bench, Miller drifted to another time. "I first heard the name Rothstein at a summer barbecue at the Swedges in the late Fifties. A college friend of Preston's got pretty sloshed, making a diving fighter plane with his hand. He toasted Rothstein, even sang a round of Bless Them All Bless Them All. I thought Rothstein was a college chum who died in the war."

"He died alright." Falling under a coughing spell, Joe ground the cigarette into the gra.s.s. "A veteran's website lists Paul Rothstein, United States Army Air Force, killed in action August 20, 1944."

Joe's words snapped Miller back to the present. "Where was he from?" Miller asked.

"At the library, I found his obituary on The New York Times The New York Times microfilm. His hometown was Brooklyn, New York. His wife Sarah, his mother and father Rachel and Abraham, and a brother Jacob survived him." Joe lit another cigarette between coughs. microfilm. His hometown was Brooklyn, New York. His wife Sarah, his mother and father Rachel and Abraham, and a brother Jacob survived him." Joe lit another cigarette between coughs.

Miller stared at the ducks. "Paul Rothstein wasn't a Princeton chum, was he?"

"I strongly doubt a Jewish kid from Brooklyn would've been admitted to Princeton in the Thirties," Joe said with a wry chuckle. "He graduated from N.Y.U."

"The look on Preston's friend's face as his buddy demonstrated the angle of the fighter's dive sort of fixed the date of the barbecue in my mind. Like when Pearl Harbor was attacked or John Kennedy was a.s.sa.s.sinated. It was the twentieth of August."

"Are you sure? It's almost a lifetime."

"August twenty is my birthday," Miller said flatly.

"That friend wouldn't be Clark Johnson?" Joe asked.

Miller flicked the cigar against the bench arm, warily looking at Joe. "You must've been one good detective."

"The Princeton roommates had a raucous past. Johnson dragged Preston into a few jams." Joe explained. "Sounds like Clark was celebrating. What was Preston's demeanor during Johnson's demonstration?"

"Quiet. He sipped his standard Wild Turkey." Miller puffed on the cigar, again lost in thought. "Johnson said something that struck me at the time as being the alcohol loosening his tongue. A crazed look overcame his face as he slapped Preston on the back. 'We changed the world, we changed history."

"And Preston?"

"He walked into the house without a word," Miller said, sounding fatigued.

"Johnson learned to fly fighters," Joe pointed out. "Did he make it overseas?"

"Wound up in Italy escorting bombers," Miller said. Through the atrium gla.s.s, he saw the blonde nurse return with a wheelchair. "Oh, no! Nurse Ratchet is on her way. We only have a few minutes." He took a final puff on the cigar before burying it in a sand filled bucket. "I came to know Clark Johnson and his wife fairly well. He was a braggart. I never knew when he was telling the truth. He complained mightily how he was robbed of being credited for two German planes that would have made him an ace."

The nurse spotted Miller and Joe on the bench, and headed their way. "Reverend, did you think you could hide from me," she said, pushing a wheelchair.

"Patricia, never," Miller said, getting to his feet. He looked at Joe. "Preston and Clark were mixed up in something, and my gut tells me it haunted Preston to the day he died." The nurse helped him into the wheelchair. "Talking to Gloria Johnson might help." He opened his day planner. "She must have read about my hospitalization in the Synod bulletin and sent me a get-well card. I saved the address. We haven't spoken since I officiated at Millie's funeral thirty-five years ago. Call her and use my name."

Joe placed the box of candy on Miller's lap. "Clark is no longer alive?"

Patricia pushed the wheelchair toward the building. Miller held up his hand for her to stop. "Clark pa.s.sed away suddenly in 1960. I thought losing his friend caused Preston's mental collapse. After today, I'm not sure."

"One last question, Reverend," Joe said, taking Miller's hand, "Why did did Rabbi Balaban attend Preston's funeral." Rabbi Balaban attend Preston's funeral."

Miller looked squarely at Joe. "I never asked."

Joe watched Miller disappear into the building. He needed a beer and someplace soft to rest his aching head.

His cell rang. "Jozef," Alenia said.

"How did you know I was thinking about you?" Joe answered, walking around the pond toward visitors parking.

"My grandmother wuz wuz a gypsy. I'll leave the side door open." a gypsy. I'll leave the side door open."

Chapter 25.

WESTFIELD, NJ OCTOBER 2000 2000.

JOE SILENCED THE CHIME ON HIS TIMEX. Running his hand down the curve of Alenia's back brought a drowsy "hold me" from the one he equated to s.e.xy comfort food. "I've got to get into the shower," he whispered in her ear.

"What time is it?" she asked, pulling the sheet over naked rear.

"Ten-thirty. It's still early for you. For the rest of the world, the day has long begun." He planted a kiss on her forehead.

Alenia pushed his face away. "When will you sleep at my house so I don't have to get up when you leave?"

Joe grabbed her around the waist. Sleeping with another man's wife was one thing, sleeping in his bed was something else. "Rosa wouldn't have a reason to change the sheets if we did."

Irritated, Alenia propped herself on an elbow. "You go to this meeting after not going for a year. Why?"

Joe scooted off the bed, stumbling on an empty bottle of sparkling burgundy tossed onto the floor in the early hours of the morning. "I'm trying to regain my civic responsibility."

"Keeping me happy is your your responsibility," she shouted back. responsibility," she shouted back.

He turned on the shower, hoping the hot water would remove knots in his back caused by the Russian emigre's bedroom contortions. His pleas that he wasn't a gymnast brought "if you think like old man you'll be one."

To his relief, Mrs. Gilbert had fallen back asleep by the time he finished shaving. Joe collected his clothes, making his way downstairs.

Roxy stood at the base of the stairs holding Alenia's two hundred dollar Bergdorf Goodman designer bra in her mouth. "Come on girl," Joe said entering the kitchen. He held a biscuit above her nose. "Drop it!" The lacey rhinestone studded holder of male dreams was exchanged for the canine treat. Joe hung the prize on the metal filigree of the Tiffany lamp over the dinette set, a.s.sured that Alenia would be thrilled to find a chunk missing from the top of the right cup. Roxy c.o.c.ked her head to the side. Joe gave her another biscuit. "I would have gone for the thong."

Joe fumbled with a Windsor knot, not having tied a tie in a year. Successful on his third attempt, he shook his head in the mirror near the front door. There was a time he could do it with his eyes closed and make the ends even. Slipping on his new navy blue blazer, he took four steps back to take stock of the package-Alenia was right. The sky blue tie with red piping looked sharp against his starched white shirt.

He stepped out onto the porch, closing the door with a faint click. "Hey Joe!" Ed Stovall called from across the street, his omnipresent bamboo rake in hand. "Some guy was snooping around the Swedge place."

Joe made his way down the landing to the driveway. "Probably from the wrecking crew. They're supposed to start work any day."

Stovall shook his head. "He looked too old to be working. I asked him what he was doing, and all I got was a dirty look. I watched him get into one of those d.a.m.n j.a.panese compact cars parked down the block."