Back from the Dead (15 page)

The man who had followed Colette from the train station was sitting in a paneled VW bus, the kind tradesmen drove, parked across the street from her building. Colette zoomed in on his face with her telephoto lens. It was Franz Stigler, the MC from the Blackshirt rally. She hoped he was better at electrical wiring than he was at spying.

Hess had obviously been in contact with Stigler, told him to follow her. And although Hess was a wanted criminal, he evidently still held sway with the Blackshirts. Stigler looked to be alone although the rear of the van could have been filled with armed thugs.

Colette was leaving and wouldn’t be back for a while. She didn’t know what to do with the Van Gogh, couldn’t take it with her, so she hid it in her bedroom closet. Packed a bag and carried it to the front door.

She went into the kitchen, opened a drawer and took out a cook’s knife, touched the sharp edge with her thumb and sheathed the knife in a deep side pocket of her overcoat.

Colette walked out of her apartment, carried the suitcase down to her car, which was parked behind Stigler’s van. She could see his face in the van’s side mirror, watching her. She opened the car door, folded the seat forward against the steering wheel, lifted the suitcase in the backseat and pulled the front seat into the driving position. She kept the door open and moved toward Stigler’s van, crouched next to the rear wheel and drove the cook’s knife into the tire. There was a
whoosh
of air as the tire deflated, rubber resting on wheel rim.

The driver’s door flew open. Stigler came charging. “What are you doing?”

Colette ran back to her car, got in, closed the door and locked it as Stigler, in a rage, banged on the window, yanked on the door handle. But Colette was already rolling, Stigler running next to the car, and then he was in the rearview mirror, receding fast.

Colette had received Anke Kruger’s address from Gunter at
Der Spiegel.
Anke’s relationship with Ernst Hess had raised her profile in the tabloid press. Colette waited in front of Anke’s apartment building and hoped she wasn’t as obvious as Franz Stigler, or she would never get the information she needed.

She had been waiting for a couple hours when a taxi drove up to the apartment building. Leggy Anke got out with two shopping bags. Colette raced across the street and intercepted her on the sidewalk. “Anke.”

She was taller than Colette and prettier, long blonde hair and high cheekbones.

“Do I know you?”

“My name is Colette Rizik.”

“You’re the journalist. You have a lot of nerve coming here. I have nothing to say to you.” Anke moved away from Colette as if she had been rigged with high explosives.

“Ernst Hess stole paintings during the war,” Colette said, following her to the door.

“I am going to call the police.”

“No you’re not,” Colette said. “You don’t want to get involved, have your picture in the paper for helping a war criminal.”

“I’m not helping Ernst. I haven’t seen or talked to him for weeks.”

“Tell me what you know.”

Anke unlocked the door, pushed it open with her hip and shoulder, glanced back at Colette and said, “Okay, you can come in.”

The apartment building was big and solid, pre-war, old-world. It had six floors. Anke’s apartment was a corner unit on the fifth. They sat in trim black leather chairs in the salon, Anke clearly uneasy, meeting with the enemy, obvious tension between them.

“I don’t believe what you wrote about him.”

“You think I made it up? All of the facts are documented. Hess is a murderer.”

“Ernst is a good man, kind and generous.”

“Tell that to the six hundred Jews he murdered.” That seemed to take the wind out of her protests. “The photos from the article are from Hess’ apartment. His mementos. Can you imagine murdering innocent people and keeping photos to relive the memory?”

“You don’t know that.”

“There are two witnesses, survivors who were there.”

“I still don’t believe it.”

“Well you’re the only one who doesn’t.” She brought a photo of the painting out of her bag and handed it to Anke. Colette had gone to the library and verified that it was a Van Gogh titled
The Painter on the Road to Tarascon.
“What do you know about this?”

Anke studied the image. “Nothing.” And handed it back to Colette. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Hess must have stolen it during the war.”

“How do you know it belongs to Ernst? The Nazis confiscated thousands of paintings and works of art from occupied countries.”

“Where are the other paintings?”

“I only know about one. It was a Durer Ernst sold to an art broker in New York City. I was with him.”

“Who’s the broker?”

“I can’t remember his name. He had a gallery on Park Avenue.”

“Did Hess say where he got it?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. There was no reason to. Ernst is wealthy.”

“Did you travel with him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where did he take you?”

“A lot of places. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Gstaad, and one time, a villa in Nice.”

Neither Colette nor her colleagues at
Der Spiegel
had been able to find any record that Hess owned property other than the apartment in Munich and the estate in Schleissheim. “Where is the villa?”

“In the hills northwest of the city. It was owned by someone else.”

“Do you remember the address?”

“No. Ernst brought me there one time years ago.”

“Did Hess mention the name of the owner?”

“I think it was Victor.” Anke paused, thinking. “No, not Victor. Vincent. Vincent Chartier.”

“Did you meet him?”

“No. I saw the name on a bill for electricity or water, I don’t remember. I said, ‘Ernst, who is Vincent Chartier?’ And he said, ‘The man who owns the villa.’ And I said, ‘How do you know him?’ He said, ‘Monsieur Chartier is a friend.’ ”

“And that was it? You never discussed it again?”

“There was no reason to.”

“Does Ernst Hess speak French?”

“Yes, fluently.”

“Can you give us a minute?” Harry asked the nurse, a 250-pound black woman who wasn’t happy to see him in Joyce’s room, even though Conlin had cleared it with the hospital.

“You a relative?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. After all they’d been through together he felt related to her.

“Okay, but be quick. This patient needs her bed rest.” The nurse gave Harry a dirty look and walked out of the room.

“Harry, it was Hess,” Joyce said in a tiny voice that was barely audible next to the whooshing, thumping machines behind her bed.

Harry held her hand. “You saw him?”

“And I got his license number.” She whispered it and Harry said it back to her and she tried to nod.

“Did you tell the police?”

“I don’t think so,” Joyce said, lids heavy, eyes glazed. She was drugged, out of it. “Harry, I’m afraid. Hess is going to find out I’m still alive. He’s going to come back and finish me.”

“The Nazis couldn’t kill you in the woods that day outside Dachau, and Hess couldn’t do it last night.”

“I’ve used up two lives at least. How many more do I get?”

“As many as you need. Don’t worry. The police are taking this seriously. There’ll be a cop outside your door twenty four-hours a day.”

“Harry, you always make me feel better. What are you going to do?”

“Get out of here before that nurse comes back and beats me up.”

Conlin had phoned his hotel room, woke him up at 6:15, told Harry what had happened. Joyce was in critical but stable condition, lucky to be alive.

Now, they were down the hall in an empty hospital waiting room. Conlin said, “If it’s the same guy, and we think it is, he’s popped seven. Two inches to the left, Ms. Cantor would’ve been eight. I’ve got to believe you’re on his short list along with the colored guy.” Conlin paused, holding Harry in his gaze. “We know he’s not an auto-parts salesman named Gerd Klaus. Who is he?”

“His name’s Ernst Hess, a Nazi wanted for crimes against humanity.”

“I saw him on the news. Why didn’t you tell me this when he killed the security guard and the realtor?”

“I thought he was dead. That was the end of it.”

“You’re the one who shot him, aren’t you? That seemed obvious when I found out you’re licensed to carry a firearm.”

“It was either him or me.”

“What’s your connection with the Nazi?”

“Hess and his men killed six hundred Jews in the woods outside Dachau in 1943. Joyce and I were there, buried in a mass grave. We crawled out and escaped.”

“You know where he’s at, don’t you? Planning to go over with the Mag, draw on him again. But that isn’t going to happen. We’re going to arrest him.”

“I have no idea where he is, but I’ve got his license number. L50 56E.”

“Probably stole the car. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Conlin walked out of the waiting room and went down the hall to the nurses’ station. Harry could see him talking and gesturing. One of the nurses handed him a phone.

Conlin came back ten minutes later. “Car belongs to Max Hoffman, lives in Pompano Beach. That sound familiar?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Address on NE 5th Street. Know where that’s at?”

Harry waited down the street in Conlin’s car while the SWATs went in and secured the house. No one was home. And Max’s car, a 1970 Chrysler New Yorker, was missing. After the SWATs had gone Harry and Conlin were on the driveway next to the house. Harry saw a woman coming toward them from next door.

“Hello, I’m Lois Grant, I live right there. Is there a problem? Did something happen to Max’s cousin?”

Conlin said, “Who are you talking about?”

“Emile. He’s been staying here while Max is in Germany, visiting relatives.”

Conlin said, “Did Max tell you he was going?”

“No, that’s the strange part. He never said a word.”

Harry said, “How well do you know him?”

“We’re buddies. I make him cookies and cobbler, we have dinner together, go to the track.”

Conlin said, “Would he leave town without telling you?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so but he did.”

And maybe he didn’t, Harry was thinking. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“It’s been almost a week.”

Conlin unfolded an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven piece of paper and handed it to Lois. Her eyes lit up. “That’s him.”

It was the passport photograph of Hess.

“He looks just like Max,” Lois said.

A Pompano Beach police officer approached Conlin and told him they had found Max Hoffman’s Chrysler in long-term parking at the Fort Lauderdale airport.

Conlin glanced at Harry. “You know him. Where do you think he’s going?”

“No clue,” Harry said. “But I’ll bet anything he’s traveling as Max Hoffman.” He paused. “I’d get the manifest for every flight that took off from Lauderdale today.”

Instinct told Cordell to leave the sunshine state even before he saw High-Step’s body in the morgue. High had been shot fourteen times, the Colombians sending a message. He had stopped by High’s crib, with crime-scene tape in the shape of an X over the front door, and more tape that said
Don’t cross this line
strung behind the house, some windows blown out, bullet holes in the ones that were still there.

Cordell drove to the Coconut Grove police station, asked the desk sergeant what happened to Carlos Bass, lives over on Bonita Avenue. He made a call and a Detective McBride came out, nice-looking white girl about thirty-five, took him to a room like the rooms he’d been taken to at the police station in Detroit. Asked him did he want something to drink, coffee, glass of water. He said, no thanks.

They sat across from each other at a conference table, couple ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, lingering smell of smoke, clock on the wall.

“How do you know Mr. Bass?”

“He lived on my same block in Detroit. High said, ‘You ever come down to Miami, stop by.’ So that’s what I done.”

“Why do you call him High, he use drugs?”

“Name’s High-Step. On account of one leg’s shorter than the other, wore a special shoe. Go to the morgue, see that for yourself. Got nothin’ to do with drugs.”

“What was Mr. Bass’ line of work?”

“I don’t know,” Cordell said, looking right at her.

“That’s the way it’s going to be, huh?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Carlos Bass, or whatever you call him, had twenty-five handguns in his house, .45s and .38s, not to mention four brand-new M16s. You don’t think he sold guns, do you?”

“No idea. Haven’t seen High in years.”

“So you said. I’m going to take a wild guess and say Carlos pissed off the wrong people, or someone new to the neighborhood wanted to eliminate the competition. You think that’s possible, Mr. Sims?”

“I suppose.”

Cordell got out of there and went to his car. Now he had to get out of Florida. He raced back to his apartment, sat in the parking lot, looking around, nervous, expecting Colombians with guns to appear. He got out of the car, reached back, felt the nickel-plate in the waistband of his claret-colored pants under his shirt. At the apartment door he drew the .45 and went in. They’d cleaned him out: the money he hid in the floorboard in the kitchen, the weed, even his clothes. Took everything.

Cordell got in the car, backed out of the space and saw them in the rearview, two dark-haired guys in blousy island shirts, getting out of a white Chevy sedan, guns in their hands, moving toward him.

Cordell put it in gear, revved the high-performance engine, popped the clutch and laid ten feet of rubber, went left on the main road, nailed it and lost them. Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of the Breakers, white clean-cut valet in a golf shirt giving him a look like – what you doing here? Hired help parks in back.

“Keep it close. Won’t be too long,” Cordell said, handing him the keys.

He called Harry from the lobby and they met outside, the beach bar, sat at a table under an umbrella, Cordell checking out two girls in bikinis coming up from the beach. They ordered drinks, a beer for Harry and Courvoisier and Coke for Cordell. He told Harry about High-Step and the Colombians, Harry listening without expression.

“I asked you to do me a favor – keep an eye on Joyce. And you go kill four Colombians. Unbelievable.”

“High was the trigger. I didn’t know what he was gonna do. I thought he was gonna talk to them that’s all. I had nothin’ to do with it.”

“You know how dumb that sounds? You can’t keep making excuses,” Harry said, sounding like his honky father.

A waiter brought their drinks. Harry stopped talking, waiting for the guy to leave.

“You’re in the big leagues now, accessory to murder,” Harry said. “Congratulations, you’re moving up in the world.”

“Harry, what do you say to a black man in a suit and tie?” Cordell paused. “ ‘Will the defendant please rise?’ ”

Harry didn’t react. “I see you’re taking the situation seriously.”

Cordell was takin’ the Colombians seriously. “Let me run it by you again. I didn’t go to Miami with the intention of killin’ anyone, okay? You with me so far?” Cordell took a big drink and got a boozy blast of Courvoisier, like an oil slick floatin’ on the top. “I was getting the money back they stole from me.”

“You went in there with a machine gun.”

Cordell decided not to say anything else. Harry was right. Every time he opened his mouth, sounded like he was makin’ excuses. But there weren’t any. Happened the way it happened, and if Harry didn’t believe him, what could he say?

Harry took a drink of beer, put the bottle back on the table. “What’re you going to do about it?”

“Do about it? Not sure what you’re sayin’.”

“You should go to the police. Tell them what happened.”

“You mean like you did Harry, shot the three Blackshirts.”

“That was different. It was self-defense.”

“What do you think happened with us? They pulled first.”

Harry went back to his room at 6:30. There was a message from Stark:
Call me. It’s important. I don’t care what time it is.

He sat at the desk, looking out at the dark ocean, picked up the phone, dialed Stark’s home number, heard Stark say hello. “What’s so important?”

“Harry, we’ve got trouble. The Germans want to extradite you for that triple homicide in Munich.”

“Somebody found the bodies, huh? Well, we knew this might happen. How’d you find out?”

“U.S. Attorney. Evidently they’ve got ballistics confirmation, and as you know they’ve got the murder weapon.”

“Let’s say they’re successful, how long before I’m sent over?”

“I have to believe the extradition request will be denied. So you’re okay unless you go back to Germany.”