“My God, Harry. I thought it was you,” Phyllis said when he came in the office, 6:30 in the morning.
“What happened?”
“Somebody shot Jerry.” Phyllis started crying. “He wanted to be you, Harry. Even dressed like you.” She dried her eyes with a tissue. “What was he doing with your car?”
“We traded. Jerry was supposed to take it in for a tune-up. Lives right near the dealership. He was doing me a favor.”
“Police want to talk to you, the Eye-talian detective with the hair.” There were two Detroit Police cruisers and an unmarked Plymouth sedan in the lot when he pulled in, wondering what the hell was going on. Phyllis handed him a black coffee. He sipped it and walked down the hall, two uniformed cops standing outside his office. Went in, shades up, bright sunlight coming through the window on the east wall. Somebody was taking photographs of Jerry Dubuque dead on the leather couch, blood pooled on the beige industrial carpeting under him, two shell casings on the floor. Harry felt bad, he liked Jerry, felt responsible. Knew Hess had done it. Who else?
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were the intended victim, Mr. Levin,” Detective Mazza said, standing on the other side of his desk in the tan wash-and-wear suit he’d had on last time.
“You sound disappointed,” Harry said.
“You going to tell me what’s going on?”
“If I could,” Harry said.
“Why don’t you try.”
“Want me to make something up? ’Cause that’s what I’d be doing.”
“First an acquaintance of yours, Cordell Sims is shot and now one of your employees.” Mazza took a pen out of his shirt pocket, squatted and picked up a shell casing with it, holding it up so Harry could see it. “But you don’t know anything.”
Mazza smelled like a smoker and had nicotine stains on the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
“What was Jerry Dubuque doing in your office?”
“By the look of it, sleeping one off,” Harry said. “It’s happened before. Jerry occasionally hits the bars in Hamtramck after work. Has a few too many, comes back to the office. It’s the only couch in the place. I’d rather have him sleep here than get on the road.”
“Mr. Dubuque have a drinking problem?”
“He did, he doesn’t any more,” Harry said.
“No sign of forced entry.”
“Jerry wouldn’t have worried about locking the door. Wouldn’t have crossed his mind. The gate out front is locked at night. I’ve got a security man who keeps an eye on the yard, sits in his car and listens to music.”
“What’s his name?”
“Columbus Fletcher. Phyllis, Miss Wampler can tell you how to get in touch with him.”
“What time’s he leave?”
“Between six fifteen and six thirty.”
“What time do you usually get here?”
“Seven.”
“Shooter must’ve parked in front or on a side street across Mt. Elliot, waited for your security man to go. Came through the gate saw your Mercedes in the lot, saw Mr. Dubuque on your couch and shot him. Miss Wampler said she arrived at six fifteen, and I believe the perp was still here. Heard her and went out the bathroom window. It was still open.”
The photographer finished and nodded at Mazza. “All set.” He put the camera in a black bag with a strap, and walked out of the room.
“You keep money around, Mr. Levin?”
“There’s ten thousand dollars in the safe. I told you the last time you were here, it’s a cash business.”
“Do me a favor, check and make sure it’s all there.”
Harry had a vintage Mosler bolted to the floor behind his desk. He turned the chair around, sat leaning forward and opened it. Saw banded stacks of fifties and hundreds. “Looks like it is.”
“So,” Mazza said, “we can rule out robbery as a motive.”
“Unless whoever it was tried to open the safe and couldn’t.”
Mazza took out a pack of Camels, tapped one out, put it between his teeth and lit it. “I think it was planned. Perp comes here sees your car in the lot, sees someone on the couch in your office, thinks it’s you. Same type of gun used on Cordell Sims. There’s something you aren’t telling me. Quite a bit I’d say.” Mazza paused, taking a deep drag on the Camel, blowing out smoke. “This a dope deal gone wrong? You and Cordell in business together?”
“Not even close.”
“Laundering money through the scrap yard?”
Harry frowned, let that one go.
Mazza ran his tongue over his teeth and spit out a loose piece of tobacco. “Where were you last night?”
“Home watching TV, Columbo and Johnny Carson.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Why?”
“Mr. Sims decided to check out of Detroit Receiving about midnight,” Mazza said, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on Harry’s desk.
“Can’t say I blame him. Whoever shot him was probably coming back to finish the job.”
“Know anything about it?”
“Why would I?”
“Security guard described you in detail.”
“I doubt it.”
“Then we’ll have you come down, appear in a line-up. How’s that sound?”
“Like you don’t have anything and you’re trying to force it.”
“Any idea the penalty for harboring a fugitive?” Mazza said, pushing his hair off his forehead.
“No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”
Harry did have one thing going for him. Hess thought he was dead.
Cordell felt pain in his shoulder and leg before he opened his eyes and saw her, cute little white girl sitting in a chair, smiling at him. “Who’re you?”
“Franny, Harry’s niece. He asked me to check on you, see how you’re doing.”
“Been better.”
“I’m a nurse. Let me see your wounds.”
She got up, came over to the couch. Took three aspirin out a bottle on the end table, put them in his hand and gave him a glass of water.
“This should help take the edge off.”
He swallowed the aspirin and drank some water, handed her the glass. “What hospital you work at?”
“Providence, but I’m still in school. Not registered yet.”
“Know what you’re doing?” Cordell said.
She gave him a look like, pardon me? Pulled the blue hospital blanket down, lifted his gown and pulled the bandage off his thigh. Stared at it, poked the skin around it. Pulled the bandage off his forearm, looked at the little hole‚ was black ’n’ blue around it. Lifted his arm, checked the other side where the bullet came out. She slipped his right arm out of the gown and checked his shoulder and nodded.
“Am I gonna make it, Doc?”
She grinned. “Looks good. You’re healing well.”
“Motherfucker itches.”
“That’s normal. I want to take you upstairs, put you in a hot tub.”
She helped him up to the bathroom, filled the tub with warm water and Epsom salt, and helped him in.
“Just soak for a while.”
Girl was cool. Didn’t seem nervous seein’ a naked brother. “Want to go out some time?”
“I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“I’ll teach you how to do the Freaky Deaky.”
“I already know it,” Franny said. “If you don’t keep your freak clean you might get shot.”
“How you know about that?”
“I read it in the paper. Call me when you want to get out,” she said, stepped into the hall and closed the door.
When the police left Harry paged through a stack of transaction reports and shippers Jerry had put on his desk the day before. Without Jerry he’d have to put Phyllis in charge for a few days. She could handle it. He gave her a couple blank checks and told her to get more money when she needed it.
“Harry.” Phyllis on the intercom. “Someone named Joyce is on the phone for you.”
“Put her through.” He picked up the receiver. “How you doing?”
“Going out of my mind.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m staying at a friend’s house on the island. Let me give you the address and phone number.”
Harry wrote it down.
“Have you seen Hess? Is he there?”
“No.” He didn’t want to worry her.
“When are you coming down?”
“Tomorrow. Hang in there.”
It was 10:37 a.m. when he got home. Galina’s car was gone. Harry was now convinced that she’d had one too many and walked home. Cordell was on the couch in the den, watching TV, eating a bowl of cereal.
“You’re looking good.”
“Feelin’ better, thanks to your niece. She’s something, Harry.”
“You see a woman come by and get her car that was parked in the driveway?”
“No, but I’ve been noddin’ off.”
“I don’t want to ruin your day but the police are looking for you. And unless I’m wrong they’re going to be coming here with a warrant.”
“What do got in mind?” Cordell said.
“You up to traveling?”
“Depends on where you talkin’.”
“Palm Beach.”
“I can get next to that.” Cordell said. “Already packed. One question. How we getting there?”
Harry checked his messages, one from Colette.
“I’m still in Bergheim. My mother is in the hospital. Call me when you can. I’ll explain everything.”
He tried her again. No answer.
Hess could feel the hot humid air as he stepped out of the aircraft into the jet way at 3:30 p.m. He had had a window seat, and enjoyed seeing the blue ocean, the green palm trees, and the orange tile roofs of Palm Beach as the plane came in for a landing. He had checked out of the Statler Hotel in Detroit, driven to the airport, returned the Chevrolet Malibu to Avis. Three hours later he was in Florida. No customs agents asking questions this time.
He walked through the terminal to baggage claim and waited for his suitcase. He had disassembled the Walther and wrapped each piece in an article of clothing. He waited outside for a bus to take him to the Hertz lot, surprised how warm and bright it was after being in Detroit.
He rented a Lincoln Town Car that drove like a bus, cruising with the windows down to Palm Beach, checking in at the Breakers, a lavish architectural gem on the Atlantic Ocean. He insisted on a room with an ocean view and stood staring out the window, watching waves roll onto the shore.
Hess unpacked his suitcase and assembled the Walther, locking the weapon in a safe in the closet. His clothes were inappropriate, too heavy for the warm climate. He had seen a men’s shop downstairs off the lobby, and went there, purchasing golf shirts, one red, the other yellow, a pair of aviator sunglasses, khaki trousers, sandals and a black golf cap with the Breakers logotype on the front. He returned to the room, changing into the red golf shirt, the khaki trousers, the cap and sunglasses, studying himself in the mirror, amazed at the transformation, seeing a pale fifty-year-old American tourist.
Worth Avenue was one-way. He parked on the north side twenty meters from Cocoanut Row. It was 5:15. Sunset Realty was on the corner next to an Italian restaurant. He studied color photographs of homes for sale in the windows of the real-estate office. He could see a dozen desks through the glass but only three were occupied-all by women on the phone. He opened the door and went inside, saw a stack of elegant brochures in a metal display rack. Take one, it said. He did, and walked out.
Hess sat in the Town Car, studying a map of Palm Beach. He turned right on Cocoanut Row and right on Peruvian Avenue, and drove all the way to South Ocean Boulevard, gazing out at the ocean, feeling an easterly breeze, whitecaps breaking out to sea. He turned right again, passed the Winthrop House, Frau Cantor’s residence, driving along the water, glancing at the oceanfront estates, trying not to drive off the road.
He turned around and went back to Worth Avenue, parked next to the seawall, smelled the salty breeze. The Winthrop House was across the street. The apartments had balconies. Hess wondered if he would see her, wondered would he recognize her if he did. He had seen her the one time on Leopoldstrasse in Munich. At first he thought she was drunk, coming at him the way she did. People on the street had stopped and taken notice. How could they not? A crazy woman was raising her voice, accusing him of being a Nazi murderer. Instead of confronting her he had walked away, hailed a taxi.
Rausch had followed her and found out her name and where she lived. Hess was certain he had killed her that night in Washington DC, and was surprised weeks later when he discovered she was still alive.
Hess went back to the Breakers, sat in the bar sipping a Martini, cold gin and vermouth, two olives. He was paging through the real-estate brochure, glancing at photographs of premium properties.
Mediterranean-style waterfront compound, stunning white stucco with red tile roof, 387 feet of ocean frontage, 10,287 square feet, 8 bedrooms, 10 bathrooms, pool, tennis court. Listing #1137.
The next one:
Oceanfront Estate, 288 feet of frontage, 8,940 square feet, 2-bedroom pool house, 60-foot Italian marble pool, 7 bedrooms, 11 bathrooms. Listing #1089. Listing Agent: Joyce Cantor
A color photograph of her, head and shoulders, pretty face and radiant smile, late forties. No sign of the ranting lunatic accusing him on Leopoldstrasse.
After the listings was a profile of Frau Cantor under the heading: Integrity, Experience, Professionalism.
The text read:
Whether Joyce is representing an oceanfront buyer or listing a 2-bedroom condo she treats her clients with equal commitment.
Nobody maintains a higher level of ethics and professionalism.
Hess grinned, amused by the lie, feeling the warmth of the gin settling over him. He dipped his thumb and index finger into the liquid, pinched an olive and popped it in his mouth. Hess finished his martini, paid the check and took the elevator to his room.
Harry pulled into a motor court outside Valdosta, Georgia just before midnight, eleven and a half hours straight, stopping for the first time in Knoxville when Cordell said he couldn’t hold it any longer, was going to go on the floor of the car if Harry didn’t find a rest stop. Now he was stretched across the backseat asleep. The only interesting part of the trip was driving through the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.
The room had twin beds and smelled of disinfectant. Harry carried the bags in, helped Cordell and fell asleep with his clothes on as soon as his head hit the pillow. It was still dark when he opened his eyes at 5:20 a.m. He took a shower, woke Cordell and got back in the car.
“Sure you never been in the military?” Cordell said to Harry. “What the hell kind of schedule you on?”
“I’m doing all the heavy lifting,” Harry said. “All you have to do is get in back and sleep.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Cordell said, saluting.
“I’m trying to get to this survivor before Hess does.”
“How you know he’s going after her?”
“I don’t. But Hess thinks he got me and she’s the only one left. Am I getting through to you?”
“Harry, lose your sense of humor somewhere back in Tennessee?”
“Ohio,” Harry said. “Most boring state I’ve ever driven through.”
“You think so, huh? Try Nebraska sometime, you go out of your mind.”
“What were you doing in Nebraska?”
“Taking a load to LA for Chilly.”
Cordell was in back, snoring when they crossed the Florida state line.
Hess phoned Sunrise Realty at 10:00 a.m., asking for Joyce Cantor.
“I am sorry, sir, Ms. Cantor has taken a temporary leave of absence to address some family issues.”
Hess grinned at the woman’s choice of words, but decided that getting shot could be considered a family issue.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Mr. Emile Landau,” Hess said, using his Southern accent. “Joyce has come highly recommended by a mutual friend. I am from Atlanta, here for a few days. I was planning to look at oceanfront estates today.” He sipped his coffee waiting for a response.
“Lenore Deutsch, our top-selling agent, is handling Joyce’s listings in the interim. No one knows more about Palm Beach real estate than Lenore.”
“Is she ethical and professional?” Hess said, thinking of Joyce Cantor’s real-estate profile.
“Extremely, sir. Lenore always has her clients’ best interests in mind.”
“How can I disagree with that? Tell Lenore I will meet her at 1160 South Ocean Boulevard, one this afternoon-and I will have my checkbook with me.” A nice touch, Hess thought. How could she resist such an invitation?