Chapter 16: Rachael

 

This evening, Jeff Rosenberg sat alone on the roof garden of his penthouse apartment as he thought back over the events of the day. February could be a brutal month in New York but this evening was mild, and with the heat of the city warming the rising air, he needed only a sweater to keep himself warm. He shivered, not with cold, but with fear and foreboding. Was it all going to end this way, him a criminal, his assets forfeited?

 

It was already dark, and the lights of the traffic on the streets below accentuated the blackness of what was Central Park stretching out in both directions. When the moon rose in a few hours, the few patches of snow that remained would glisten in its soft light, enhancing the impression of emptiness, and mirroring his mood. As he stared into the blackness of the treetops, he could not see any movement below, nor could he hear the cries of pain or feel the sighs of anguish. If he could have, how could he have known that he would have watched his own daughter die? 

 

Jeff’s daughter Rachael was now seventeen. She and her brother Colin, three years her junior, still visited Jeff for a weekend every month and he treasured these visits, the last connection he had with his idyllic life of so long ago.  As much as he could, he ensured that he kept them apart from his new life, but the reality was that they were already a part of it, perhaps more than he was. They knew the signs of his drug taking, and being inquisitive teenagers, it was only a matter of time before they discovered where he kept his supply.

 

At first they played a pretend game. Pretending to be adult and sophisticated, pretending to be just like Dad. Later, a small test of the white powder, only Rachael of course, she would never let her beloved brother get into this sort of thing. Each time a little more. Little by little this teenage girl, this unspoiled, still a virgin, lithesome beauty, got hooked.

 

Her brother, to whom Rachael was the rock of his life, a goddess who could do no wrong, was always there with her. He was old enough to know what was real, but perhaps by a quirk of psychology, to him it was a still a game. A game in which she played the femme fatale, a game in which his part was to be there, to pick her up when she collapsed in drug induced ecstasy, and to carry her home. In the game they exchanged their real life roles; she became his responsibility, for him to protect and shelter, while he became the one in charge. So in the game he repaid his sister, the only person he deemed to be real family, for her love and devotion. For him, there would be no price great enough to eliminate his debt. Her love for him was true undemanding love, the sort of love that has no restrictions, no quid pro quo. This was the love that had saved him from depths of despair. He returned her love unreservedly.

 

This day the game began as usual late afternoon in the alley behind JoJo’s, where the man had said the stuff was the best. He had mumbled something about being careful, but wasn’t she always. As the darkness spread over the park, they hid in the trees as she sniffed to get her high. It had happened before that her nose bled a little, but when her back started to arch, and her body was racked with shivers, he knew it was bad. He was scared, couldn’t decide if he should call for help and risk the consequences, or wait to see if she would recover. He waited, just ten minutes, but that was too long. When finally the paramedics arrived, they could detect no pulse, Rachael, the gorgeous flower of youth, the only person in this cruel world who really loved him, was dead.

 

Colin sat in the park for hours, he wasn’t sure for how long. His mind churned with thoughts of guilt, and of grief. He could not see a future without his sister, without his rock, what to do, where to go, why? Why? Emotions tumbled through his body, emotions he could not understand, but as his brain began to clear, he knew just two things. First he was cold, cold to the bones, and second he would avenge the senseless death of his sister.

 

As this realization overtook him, the fear departed, the confusion abated, even the chill became less extreme. He formed his plan, and knew he could carry it out. First, he needed a gun. His father had one. His father would not be home at this time of the evening, he had his key. Easy.

 

Then he had to find the man. Colin knew where to look. He had been with Rachael several times. The man would return every few hours to the alley behind JoJo’s. Colin went there and waited. Waited in the darkness. There he was, there was the man who gave them the drugs. There was the man who killed his sister. He waited unseen in the shadows till the alley was empty except for the two of them, then he pulled the trigger, once, twice, a third time. The noise of the first shot deafened him, the second and third where just flashes in the darkness, and by the light of third flash he saw the man fall. He dropped the gun and ran. Ran till his lungs burst with the effort. Ran until he fell into an alley, exhausted beyond his experience. He dragged himself into the shadows and crouched in a doorway, hiding from his fears, hiding from himself, and mostly hiding from his future. As the adrenaline left him, his body shook uncontrollably, and he shook until he wept, and he wept until he could cry no more. 

 

JoJo had heard the noise in the alley. He was the third to reach the body of his brother. One shot had grazed his shoulder, the second had hit his thigh, but the third had gone through his left eye, directly into his brain. He had been dead before he hit the ground. Oh God, why his brother, what could he say to his father who loved them both so much. They found the gun and took it into the light. Attached to the trigger guard was a label, left there by some past service man, and on the label was a name. Jeff Rosenberg. Could it be the Jeff Rosenberg that was his friend, the same man who perhaps earlier that evening had been drinking in his own club? He had to be sure before he told his father. Telling his father was the equivalent of sentencing the man to death, and the sentence would not be subject to appeal, and would be carried out quickly.

 

Two calls to his contacts at the local precinct confirmed that the gun was licensed to the same Jeff Rosenberg who frequented this club. Now he was sure, he had to tell his father. He had to tell Frankie.

 

 

The two men came to the door of Jeff’s apartment just before midnight. Jeff was not yet asleep. “We’ve got a package from Frankie.” Jeff let them in, smiling a welcome. He was shot in the head with his own gun, and he died with that smile still on his face. “It had to be suicide”, the papers would say.