Joe flicked his Zippo and held it for Ruth. "You don't look like the estate sale type," she said.

"I hate garage sales, estate sales and any other scam that redistributes junk from one house to another." He moved to the fireplace, bending to inspect the bricked hearth.

Ruth's rapid long drags produced ash an inch long. She flicked the ash onto the rug. "Then why bother coming in?"

"I knew Preston a long time. Call me curious," Joe said, running his hand along the brick and mortar closure. "He must have been afraid of Santa Claus."

Ruth spit a piece of tobacco. "Mr. Swedge wasn't just afraid of Santa Claus. There are dead bolts on a couple of the interior doors."

"d.a.m.n it James, pull on the rope!" Willie yelled in the hall.

The sound of tinkling crystal turned Ruth on her heels. She ran into the hall. Joe followed. Mutilated plaster and wire lathe hung from the ceiling where the chandelier tore the electrical box from the floor joist above. Willie scrambled down the ladder and placed a gray woolen blanket under the chandelier as James lowered the two-hundred pounds to the floor.

Ruth ran her fingers across the crystals. "Amazing none are broken. Here are the addresses. Make sure it gets there in one piece and make it your first stop." Ruth handed a sheet of paper to Willie.

"One day...," Willie left off as he s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper. "James, get the dolly."

"I've got a couple of things to finish. Joe, you've got about ten minutes." She headed for the kitchen.

Resting on alternate steps, Joe climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hall seen from the bottom of the staircase led to a master bedroom, two small bedrooms, and a full bath. The small bedrooms had been picked clean except for odd sc.r.a.ps of tissue paper.

Joe leaned heavily on the five-iron in an attempt to keep pressure off his throbbing leg. As with the other bedrooms, the master at the end of the hall was devoid of furniture. Preston's suits lay crumbled in the s.p.a.ce where the bed was once situated. That section of the oak hardwood was pristine. A Crucifix remained above where the headboard marred the plaster.

The floor was grooved and worn between where the bed was located and a small study directly to the right. Joe envisioned Preston pacing with his hands clenched behind his back. Preston explained in an alcohol fueled rant that the eight foot by eight section was formerly his wife's dressing area. He had the vanity replaced with a built-in bookcase which was empty except for a 1942 Princeton University yearbook on the top shelf. Torn and faded Time Time and and Newsweek Newsweek magazines lay strewn on the floor, along with a few issues of magazines lay strewn on the floor, along with a few issues of Christian Monthly Christian Monthly.

A leather satchel without its handle sat in the corner. Sweeping dust off the front flap with his hand, Joe could barely read Preston's faded monogram. The lone contents, a Post-It note with "6 down 3 across" scrawled in pencil. Using the five-iron, he scooched the yearbook off the shelf. Opening the cover, he read the dedication to Hans Schmidt, a math professor killed in a n.a.z.i bombing raid on London. Joe thumbed to the S section. A weasel face with hair combed and slicked like Errol Flynn's stared back. Preston Swedge hadn't changed in nearly sixty years except for his hair going snow white.

Joe placed the yearbook into the satchel and returned to the bedroom. From the pile of suits, he found a matching black gabardine pants and jacket. He held the pants to his waist. At five-ten the pants were three inches long. He folded the suit and stuffed it into the bag.

Joe made his way down the stairs. Willie Reynolds had managed to remove the chandelier. An eerie stillness filled the house. The five-iron echoed off the walls of the hallway. Solitary bulbs in plastic receptacles replaced the bra.s.s wall sconces. He entered the kitchen.

Ruth stopped counting the day's take from a cash register on the Parson's table. "The briefcase is definitely a keeper."

Joe dumped the suit and yearbook on the table. "Got these too."

Ruth raised an eyebrow. "Yearbooks are collectible, but a sixty year old suit?"

Joe looked under the table. A faint stain remained where Preston had melted into his shoes. "It'll make a good scarecrow for the garden." Growing tomatoes and cuc.u.mbers was on the same list as going fishing. He had no reason for taking any of the items. "What do I owe you?"

Ruth swatted at a fly as she continued to count the receipts. "It's on me."

The fly was a holdover from Preston's gourmet buffet. Three of its cousins were perched on top of the refrigerator. "That's very kind," he said, trying not to laugh. Joe returned his treasure to the satchel and pointed to an opened door. "What about the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

Ruth looked up. "Nothing of value down there," she said. "The light switch is one step down on the left."

The kitchen's overhead fluorescent light failed to illuminate the area immediately inside the door. Joe eased his left foot to the edge of the tread. The angle of the staircase seemed excessively steep. He froze. Twice he had lost his balance on his own bas.e.m.e.nt steps after returning from the rehab facility. Three times was a charm he wanted to avoid.

Chalky paint crumbled on his hand as he searched the wall. There wasn't a wall plate. He could feel the outline of the old Bakelite switch. Antic.i.p.ating a shock, he timidly flicked the lever. A clear light bulb at the base of the steps glowed then burned out. A second bulb hanging in the middle of the room dimly lit the lower half of the staircase. He took a deep breath and proceeded one step at a time. Dust and the hint of aged cat urine irritated his nose. Joe was besieged by a coughing fit as he cleared the last step.

A half-hearted cleaning job had been made. Broom marks were left in the grime build-up of more than six decades. The windows had been removed and replaced with bricks. Black-green mold crept up the cement walls in the stagnant air.

Joe cleared a patch of cobwebs hanging from the exposed beams with the club, making his way to the center of the room where sheets of paper and an a.s.sortment of manila envelopes were piled. A badly stained and crumpled map caught his eye. It wasn't from the AAA. It was a U.S. Army Air Force map from WWII.

Joe poked the paper scrum with the five-iron, exposing a rectangular cordovan leather wallet. With Preston's miserly reputation, Joe expected pre-historic moths to emerge, having hatched between the first George Washingtons Preston earned. It wasn't a wallet, but Preston's pa.s.sport declaring him a representative of the State Department. The last entry was an Israeli stamp dated 1956. Joe thought it odd that the obituary in The Star Ledger The Star Ledger only mentioned his employment in the petroleum industry. only mentioned his employment in the petroleum industry.

Joe picked up a manila envelope and opened the flap. Three photos were stuck together. He peeled them apart. A girl, he guessed to be around six, posed in what resembled a communion dress. A parasol rested on her shoulder. He turned it over. There was no date or notation. The second, a black and white wallet size photo of a boy dressed in a suit and tie looking scared stiff. A tallis tallis was draped around his neck. It was the kid's Bar Mitzvah picture. The third-Preston and Millie Swedge on vacation taken in front of a non-descript motel. was draped around his neck. It was the kid's Bar Mitzvah picture. The third-Preston and Millie Swedge on vacation taken in front of a non-descript motel.

He poked around. A 1010 of Preston resting a foot on the b.u.mper of his beloved Fairlane caught Joe's eye. A large chunk had been ripped away. Joe picked it up and moved under the light. The person standing next to Preston had been cropped out, just leaving the tips of John Doe or Jane's fingers.

Cat-like, Ruth descended the stairs. "Are you finished?" she asked, standing on the fifth step from the bottom.

Startled, Joe jumped. "What's going to happen this?" he asked, motioning to the papers.

"I have a crew coming in to clear the place out."

"Would anybody mind if I took this stuff?" Joe asked.

"Absolutely not. Mr. Hargrove, the attorney handling the estate, instructed nothing is to be kept. He needs this wrapped up by Monday afternoon," Ruth said. "I have some large trash bags upstairs." She disappeared.

A wad of black plastic garbage bags landed with a thump. Joe managed to get the mess into one bag. He placed the five-iron under his arm and grabbed the bag by its drawstring. His leg screamed with each of the twelve steps. Out of breath, he dragged the bag into the kitchen.

The cash register was no longer on the table. "For someone who hates other people's junk, you hit the jackpot." Ruth searched her handbag for a cigarette. She held up a book of matches. "Can I b.u.m a b.u.t.t?"

Joe handed her a Marlboro. Ruth lit the cigarette, savoring the smoke. "What's the attraction?"

"I don't know," Joe murmured.

Chapter 5.

WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000 2000.

JOE'S SUNDAY MORNINGS BEGAN after eleven. The routine, perfected over the months of his wife's absence, consisted of reading the rag-sheets and drinking enough coffee to kick up his ulcer. Joe settled in at the dinette armed with The New York Post, The New York Times, The New York Post, The New York Times, and the University of Arizona mug filled to the brim. The TV on the counter was tuned to the ESPN football pre-game show. and the University of Arizona mug filled to the brim. The TV on the counter was tuned to the ESPN football pre-game show.

The clock above the sink read 12:30. He refilled the Mr. Coffee. "Come on girl, I've got to finish my homework," Joe said to Roxy lying under the table. The Giant-Eagle game didn't start until one. He needed to polish his research paper.

He headed toward the den armed with the mug of coffee and a new pack of Marlboros. Roxy followed but detoured to sniff the garbage bag and Preston's leather satchel on the dining room table. She pawed at the drawstring.

Joe placed the mug and cigarettes next to the bag. "Nothing good in there." He untied the drawstring, dumping the musty contents on the table. Roxy took one more sniff then returned to the kitchen.

Joe felt the supple leather of the cordovan wallet. The pa.s.sport declared the holder to be employed by the U.S. State Department. The message was clear: Preston was a big-shot. Why Preston's government service wasn't mentioned in the three line obituary gnawed at the retired detective.

Joe flipped a stack of utility bills to the side. Time and humidity had taken its toll on the a.s.sortment of stray papers. Typing paper had turned to a brownish mush. Ink and pencil were illegible.

Joe put the pictures of the young girl in her communion dress, Preston and Millie on vacation, and Preston standing next to the Fairlane convertible to the side. He laid the crumpled loose-leaf size map on the table. Lines drawn in red ink ran between Foggia, Italy and Manowitz, Poland. Several numbers were circled on either side of the lines. He recognized the map as a navigation aid from memorabilia saved by an uncle who flew a B-17 based in England. The numbers were alt.i.tude rendezvous points.

"Where's my Jozef?" the sultry voice asked, breaking the silence.

"In the dining room. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Grab a cup," Joe said, looking toward the hallway.

Alenia Gilbert, the raven haired beauty from down the block, entered the dining room barefoot. One of Joe's T-shirts strained to contain her 38DDs. The creations were the handiwork of a plastic surgeon the girls at the strip joint considered the G.o.d of silicon. "I felt for you, but you were gone," she said with a pout.

Retired from the "trade" for two years, Alenia still possessed the moves that caused sane men to throw twenty-dollar bills onto the stage. On the other side of forty, the Russian emigre was devoid of fat, cellulite and stretch marks.

Joe followed her deeply tanned legs rounding the table. Her rhinestone encrusted G-string reflected the light streaming through a French door opened to a redwood deck. Joe reached behind him, flipping the door closed. "I don't want to be responsible for giving Charlie Pond a heart attack. The old guy is always looking over the fence."

Alenia sat on his lap. "I haven't killed you, no?" she said, running her hands through his hair.

"Not yet," he said with a laugh.

"What is this?" Alenia asked, pointing to the pile.

"It's my treasure from the Swedge estate sale."

Alenia scrunched up her face. "I didn't didn't like the way he looked at me. I told Harry and you know what he said?" like the way he looked at me. I told Harry and you know what he said?"

Harry's high blood pressure and diabetes were a fatal combination in the bedroom. Joe liked Harry and rationalized bedding his wife as doing him a favor. "Not to be half naked when you went for your walk?" Joe asked as he rummaged through the mess.

"No. To smile and tell him to f.u.c.k off."

A check laying at the edge of the pile caught Joe's eye. It was dated October 2, 1975 made payable to Westfield's only Jewish temple, Temple Emanuel, for $5,000.

Alenia playfully squirmed on his lap. "Looks like garbage. I'm still tired. Let's go back to bed."

Joe let Alenia's suggestion pa.s.s without comment. He stared at the check and took a gulp from the mug. "The Five Books of Moses Five Books of Moses on the kitchen table, the rabbi at the cemetery, and a donation to a temple. The man was closest to being an anti-Semite as one can be. Doesn't make sense." on the kitchen table, the rabbi at the cemetery, and a donation to a temple. The man was closest to being an anti-Semite as one can be. Doesn't make sense."

She leaned back to nibble on Joe's ear. "Jozef... I don't care."

Joe moved his head away. He rummaged through the mess. A sheet of carbon paper was sandwiched between a sheet of onionskin typing paper and a faded photo clipped out of a newspaper of a man in a gla.s.s booth. Joe strained to make out the face. Only one word was legible in the caption beneath. "Eichmann," he said. "This was taken at his trial in Israel. Do you know who Eichmann was?"

"He killed the Jews in the Great Patriotic War," Alenia said flatly. The Great Patriotic War was what the Kremlin dubbed World War II and drummed into children.

"You're as smart as you are beautiful," Joe said, patting her rear.

"Many of my family died in the war," she said without emotion. "Maybe Mr. Swedge liked n.a.z.is."

"Preston was a lot of things, but I doubt that he was a n.a.z.i lover." Joe turned to the carbon paper. He hadn't seen or handled the stuff in years. The paper was severely creased looking as if any manipulation would cause it to split. "Do me a favor. Get a pencil and the tweezers from the top right drawer in my desk."

Alenia popped the G-string with her half-inch French manicured nails as she walked to the den. Joe felt where Alenia used the daggers to scratch the middle of his back. She returned with the pencil and tweezers tucked in the half-dollar size patch covering her nether region.

Joe held out his hand. Alenia snapped the items into his palm. Using the pencil's eraser, Joe tried to hold the carbon sheet down on the table. "This isn't working. Give me your fingers."

Alenia held out her hands, pushing a two carat diamond toward Joe's face. He guided the nails on her index fingers to the edges of the carbon paper. "Don't move," he ordered.

Joe lifted the carbon paper with the tweezers just enough to slide the pencil under the flap, ever so slowly unfolding it along the crease. "You can let go," he said.

"Do I get a reward?" Alenia asked, puckering her lips.

"Later," he replied, using the tweezers to hold the carbon paper to the light. Alenia snuggled next to him. Joe read the typewriter impressions aloud, "31may1944. Photo Reconnaissance Fifteenth Air Force: Mission 60 PRS/462 Can D Exposures 4056-8. Height 27,000 feet. Aerial photographs of Manowitz, Poland; Synthetic rubber production facilities; also noted barracks and railroad lines to the concentration camp Auschwitz."

Joe put the carbon paper and tweezers on the table. He studied the loose-leaf sized map. "I don't believe what I just read." Stunned, he leaned back in the chair. Fumbling with the cellophane wrapper on the pack of cigarettes, he handed the pack to Alenia.

With the zip of a nail, she removed the wrapper and opened the pack. She handed a cigarette to Joe and took one for herself.

"What's got you in this punk?" Alenia asked. She moved a chair away from the table and sat.

"The word is funk," Joe corrected, taking a huge pull on the cigarette. He opened the door a crack to air out the growing haze of smoke. "The American Air Force took pictures of the Auschwitz concentration camp and didn't do a f.u.c.king thing. You see this map?"

Alenia nodded yes. "What do the red lines mean?"

Joe traced his finger along the straight line from Foggia, Italy to Manowitz, Poland. "This is the route bombers took to bomb a synthetic rubber plant less than four miles from the concentration camp. The crooked line is the return path to Italy."

"Syn-tetic rubber?"

"In the 1940s, tires were made from real rubber. The n.a.z.is had limited supplies. They invented a way to make rubber from oil. We use something like it to make tires today." Joe flicked ash into the mug.

From between two crusty pieces of cardboard, Alenia removed a second piece of carbon paper. This piece was in pristine condition and easily read. She held it up to the light.

EYES ONLY: JOHN P. McCloy a.s.sISTANT SECRETARY, U.S. ARMY.

20 August 44 Re: Mission completed.

Will return to Washington ASAP Preston Swedge, Captain U.S.A.A.F.

"This McCloy a big shot?" Alenia asked with the cigarette dangling from her lips.

"I'm a little hazy on details about McCloy," Joe said, tossing the cigarette into the coffee. "I've read some stuff about him-he was a big shot before, during and after the war. I'll be right back." He got up from the chair and walked out of the room.

Alenia looked through the pile and found a credit card sized envelope sealed with Scotch Tape. She removed a 2x2 photo of a young man in his dress army uniform.

Joe returned carrying the coat tree kept next to the front door. "Who's this Rothstein?" Alenia asked, holding up the photo.

"Rothstein?" Joe asked as he placed the coat tree beside the French door. Alenia handed him the photo. The uniform bore the wings of a pilot. Joe turned the print over. Paul Rothstein was written in blue ink. "I'll be a son of a b.i.t.c.h. Another Rothstein. How many ghosts did he have?"