Dead Street

Most of her trinkets were what girls would keep in their desks. I wondered how old Dr. Brice had gotten his hands on them. Several were cards with holiday greetings lavishly splashed across them. Two were office photos and one showed the back of an unidentified man talking to her old boss. His face was turned away from the lens; he was a big guy, but beyond that there was no way to identify him. The next picture showed Burnwald with a smaller, younger man dressed in casual clothes and though it only showed part of his face I could tell it was the same young tech in the Credentials pamphlet with the 20th anniversary photo. The man in the picture looked familiar somehow.

I looked at the picture a long minute and Bettie asked, “What’s the matter?”

When I described the photograph, she frowned and said, “They must have come out of the collection Florence had. She owned an old Nikon camera and was always snapping shots of anything.”

Maybe old Doc Brice had tracked Florence down and, without tipping Bettie was still among the living, somehow snagged some items that he hoped might help jog Bettie’s memory. Now, finally, those odds and ends were doing that very thing. And maybe it was time to bring Florence back into the game.

“Think I could find her?”

Bettie raised her eyebrows at the request and said, “It’s been a long time, Jack. But I do... I do remember she lived in her family house taking care of her parents. After all these years I’d assume the parents must have died and she’d own the house now. Is that helpful?”

“Maybe. Where was the house?”

“In Brooklyn. Near the Parade Grounds.”

“What street?”

“I think it was...” She flipped through mental files, then smiled as she remembered. “Beverley Road! I think it was Beverley Road.”

“Remember the number?”

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“You know... Dr. Brice told me one of the things he was able to turn up was my old address book. It might be in there...”

She got up again and rummaged through her desk drawer and brought out a small leather-bound pad and handed it to me. I found Florence Teal’s name, address and phone number and transcribed them into my own notes.

I wasn’t going to go back to New York for this information, so I picked up Bettie’s phone and dialed the number.

And it was still active.

I asked, “Florence Teal?” when the lady answered and she said, “It’s Florence Randall now. Who is this?”

“My name is Jack Stang, ma’am.” It was a big secret to share with Bettie’s old friend. But Bettie trusted her, and I would have to. “I’m here with someone you used to work with at Credentials — Bettie Marlow.”

“That can’t be,” she told me abruptly. “Bettie has been dead a very long time.”

“Presumed dead, Mrs. Randall. How would you like to speak to her?”

“First, who are you?” Her tone was very sharp, though an element of hope was in there, too.

“I am a retired New York City police officer, ma’am. If you want I can give you my badge number and you can call the city police and verify my identity.”

The whole episode must have been a little too heavy for her and she said in an odd tone, “Put Bettie on.”

I handed the phone to Bettie.

She said, “Florence, this is me, Bettie. It really is me.”

And that was all she had to say.

Her friend recognized her voice at once and I could hear her squeal and watched Bettie laugh with pleasure and for five full minutes they exchanged innocuous information... and one not so innocuous exchange, Bettie making her old friend swear to keep this contact absolutely confidential.

Bettie laid the facts out and I could hear the sharp intake of breath Florence made after each revelation.

Finally, Bettie got to the photos and waited while her friend got out her old scrapbook of duplicates and turned pages until she found the ones Bettie described. The big man’s name she didn’t know, but he had come in several times over two months to check information in his files.

The other was the young computer repair tech from downstairs. Apparently he must have been working on some difficulty on their floor the day the photo was taken. She remembered he had a “cowboy name.”

I wrote that down too.

Bettie stayed on the phone another half hour while I rubbed Tacos’ head. The dog would look up at me and bang his tail down on the floor and finally he sat up and put his chin on my leg. I was getting to be a real part of this family.

Bettie asked me, “What’s a ‘cowboy’ name?”

“Like an old-time western star. Tom Mix, Roy Rogers...”

“Who?”

“Before your time, doll.” Before both her times. “Listen, do you remember that young computer tech at all? I know I asked you before, but has anything solidified in your mind?”

She shook her head and came back and sat down beside me. “Is it that critical?”

“Non-entities disturb me. His work would have taken him all over the place. He should have been noticed. Remembered.”

“That was a long time ago, Jack. I only seem to recall things when you thrust them right in my face.”

Funny thing for a blind gal to say. “Like what, doll?”