Once We Were Brothers (2 page)

“Nothing at all. I’ve never known anyone in my life named Piatek.”

“You’ve been such a prominent Chicagoan for so many years, on the boards of so many civic organizations, yet you came here as a refugee after the war. Have you ever thought about writing a book? I think it would be inspirational.”

“I’m too old for that. I’ll be eighty-three next month.” He chuckled and took a sip of coffee. “I was fortunate. I made acquaintances and invested money wisely. Business is a boring subject to most people, especially the insurance business. Would that fascinate you, Carol, to read a book on mergers of insurance underwriters? I don’t think such a book would sell too many copies.”

“What’s going to happen to Mr. Solomon now? Have they told you?”

He shook his head. “I really don’t know. It’s quite obvious he needs help. He’s very troubled.”

“He’s been charged with attempted murder.”

“Yes, well, that’s up to the prosecutors and the police. I pity the poor fellow. I hope he gets help.”

Carol leaned forward and extended her hand. “Thank you, Elliot Rosenzweig, for joining us this morning. We’re all glad that you weren’t hurt.”

“You’re welcome, Carol,” he said and unclipped the microphone from the panel of his silk shirt.

* * *

When the TV crew had left, Elliot remained in his study, awaiting his secretary of twenty years. Soon a tall man, graying at the temples, conservative in his dark pinstripe suit and polished wingtips, entered the room and closed the door.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Brian, do you know anything about this Otto Piatek? Do you know who he is?” said Elliot quietly.

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Nor do I, but I have been publicly accused of being him.”

Brian took a seat, crossed his legs and set his writing pad on his lap. “Nobody believes him. Everyone thinks he’s a crazy, old man. That’s what the papers say.”

Elliot nodded and hesitated. “Still…it’s an accusation, delivered by a man who passionately believes it’s true, and it’s hanging out there. It’s a cloud on my reputation. Do you suppose there are people, maybe even friends of mine, who are now wondering, even if just a little, whether or not I could be a Nazi?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Hmm. I’m not so sure. Makes for great party-talk. People love scuttlebutt.” Elliot leaned forward and hit his palm with his fist. “I want to squelch it. Quickly. Permanently. I want you to find out who Otto Piatek is — or was.”

Brian jotted a couple of notes.

“Contact that fellow over at Regency, the investigation firm we used last year on the DuPage industrial park. He’s got a lot of local contacts.”

“Carl Wuld?”

“That’s him.”

“Why do you want a local guy, if I may ask?”

“I think it’s very possible that Mr. Solomon has been tracking this Nazi and has determined that he resides in Chicago. Maybe he does.”

“Anything else, sir?”

Elliot pondered for a moment. “Yes. I also want you to find out whatever you can about Solomon. Use Wuld if he can help you. I want to know why this man would focus on me, of all people.”

“Maybe he has ulterior motives.”

“You think he wants money?”

Brian shrugged.

“No,” Elliot said. “He stood inches from me. I saw the look in his eyes. They were filled with fire.” He shook his head. “It’s not for money.”

Brian stood to leave and Elliot added, “Brian, let’s keep this whole thing under wraps. Whatever information is uncovered, I want it to come directly to me. This has to be tightly managed. No leaks. If there’s news, I want to be the one to break it to the media. If we should be lucky enough to find this Piatek and flush him out into the open, I want to personally release it. That will certainly remove any doubts about who I am.”

Brian gave a sharp nod and left to do his work.

Chapter Five

A telephone buzzed on a desk in the Chicago law offices of Jenkins and Fairchild. Catherine Lockhart, her elbow resting on a stack of 7th Circuit appellate decisions, her desktop cluttered with graphs and financial statements, lifted the handset.

“Miss Lockhart, it’s Mr. Taggart on line three.”

She smiled.

“Hi Liam. Did you locate George Crosby?” she said.

“Not yet. He’s not at the bank anymore. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Do we have something else going on?”

“Only in my dreams, Cat.”

“Ah, Liam. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me today. Let’s just stick to business. What are we doing besides Crosby?”

“Nothing. That’s the only assignment I have from you, but I called to ask whether you have any free time for me this afternoon.”

“Not today, not this week. I’m literally buried in work. So why don’t we talk.…”

“It’s personal,” he interrupted. “Can you spare a little time?”

“Seriously?”

“Can I come by about two-thirty? I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

“Of course,” she said and set down the phone, concerned that her old friend might have stumbled into some trouble.

Two hours later, Liam appeared at her office door carrying a paper bag and two Starbucks cups. He paused at the doorway and shook his head at the sight. The credenza, side table and desk were covered with file jackets, groups of papers, yellow pads, open casebooks and empty water bottles. Banker’s boxes, filled with sheaves of documents, separated by color coded tabs, lined the walls.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said.

Catherine looked up from her desktop. A lock of straw-colored hair freed itself from her barrette and flopped over her forehead. Her shirt sleeves were rolled up to her forearms. Her wool jacket lay draped over a side chair. Dark circles were forming under her eyes. She looked tired. He set the coffee on her desk. “I brought us some nourishment.”

“Thanks,” she said and took a sip. “So, what’s up? Are you ok?”

“I had a visitor this morning,” he said. “Do you remember Adele Silver?”

“No.” She shrugged.

“You should, you represented her, although it was several years ago. She’s that sweet old lady that lives around the corner from me on Kimball – in the red brick bungalow. Remember?”

Catherine shook her head.

“Years ago she had this noisy beagle that kept getting out of her yard. I’d help her catch him and she’d bake me a cake or bring me some butter cookies. When her husband died, I brought her to you to help her through probate. Still don’t remember? It was back when you were at Drexel, before ….” Liam caught himself and bit his lip. “Well, it was about six or seven years ago, about the time you left.” He lifted a stack of clipped papers from a chair, sat down, unwrapped a turkey sandwich and held it up. “You mind?”

Catherine shook her head and responded solemnly. “I remember the butter cookies. Her husband’s name was Lawrence?”

Liam nodded.

“I had a lot going on in those days,” she said to no one in particular.

Liam was silent for a moment. He tore the crust off his sandwich and took a bite from the corner. “Well, Adele came by my office this morning. She wanted help.”

“From a private detective?”

“She wanted help for Ben Solomon.”

She tapped her lips with the back of her pen. “Ben Solomon. Isn’t he the lunatic who tried to kill Elliot Rosenzweig at the opera?”

“He didn’t try to kill him.”

“Liam, he’s charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. It was all over the papers. He had a pistol in Rosenzweig’s face, and who knows what he would have done if that football player hadn’t knocked him down.”

“There were no bullets in the gun.”

“You know that doesn’t matter.”

“It was an antique gun. The firing pin had been removed.”

“Then he truly
is
a lunatic.”

Liam shook his head. “Adele doesn’t think so. She wants me to go talk with him.”

Catherine rocked back in her chair. “And I’m involved… how?”

“Adele asked me to talk to you. He doesn’t have a lawyer.”

“Not a prayer. Look around. Where would I put another file? I don’t have any more flat surfaces. Besides, I don’t handle that kind of work. You know the firm’s client base, it’s institutional.”

“Whether you represent him or not, will you go with me to see him at the jail this afternoon? If you come along, they’ll let us use the attorney’s conference room. I promised Adele. She’s such a nice lady and she pleaded with me to help him. Apparently, she’s known him for a long time. Besides, she brought me some chocolate chip cookies.”

She sighed. “Liam, a thousand people saw this old man put a gun in Elliot Rosenzweig’s face. What could I possibly do for him?”

“You could listen to him.” He took another bite of his sandwich and blotted the mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. “And get me into the attorney’s room.”

She shook her head. “Why do I do these things?”

“It’s me Irish charm.”

She shifted her eyes from her stack of work to her glib investigator, a man who had always been there for her, even in her dark days. He sat angled in his chair smiling, his right leg hitched over the arm rest, his green Ulster rugby shirt flopping over the belt of his worn jeans. His face had miles on it, more than his forty-one years would suggest.

“All right. I’ll go with you, but I’m not taking his case.”

Chapter Six

Catherine sat opposite Liam drumming her fingers on a square metal table in the middle of a windowless room on the second floor of the Cook County Jail. They waited in silence, staring idly at the chipped linoleum floors and dented metal door. Catherine fidgeted and smoothed the lap of her wool skirt.

The rattle of dangling keys announced the arrival of a female deputy who escorted Solomon, a thin old man in an orange jumpsuit, into the interview room. She unlocked his handcuffs and motioned for him to take a seat at the table.

“I’ll be right outside,” said the deputy, pointing to a phone on the wall. “Just call me when you’re finished.” She left and locked the door.

Liam stood and offered his hand to the prisoner. “My name is Liam Taggart. I’m a private investigator, and this is attorney Catherine Lockhart.” He gestured. “Adele Silver asked us to come and meet with you.”

Solomon inventoried his visitors. His expression displayed no emotion. “I don’t have any money.”

“I didn’t ask you for money.”

“Lawyers and private investigators don’t work for free.”

“Well, not on purpose anyway. Ms. Lockhart happens to be an excellent attorney, but she’s just come along as a favor to me. The clock’s not ticking. No one’s obligating themselves to do any work. We’re just here to talk.”

Solomon nodded and after a while said, “His name is Otto Piatek. He’s a Nazi and an SS executioner.”

“Mr. Solomon, no one can accuse you of aiming low,” Catherine said. “You picked one of the most honored men in Chicago society. What makes you think that Elliot Rosenzweig is a Nazi? Most people would find that very hard to believe. He might be the most charitable man in Chicago.”

Solomon defiantly stuck out his chin. “‘The bigger the lie, the more the people will believe it.’”

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. “Meaning?”

“Do you know who said that?”

“No.”

“Adolf Hitler, that’s who. Your Grand Benefactor, this Mister Charitable – he’s a fraud. He’s a Nazi and I should’ve killed him.”

“Is that why you took an unloaded gun?”

Solomon averted his eyes. He looked around the room, at the filmy lime-green wall and the soiled table top. Silent moments passed. He gazed upward and nodded his head, concurring with voices no one else could hear.

“Who are these young people, Hannah?” he said quietly to his voices. “It’s never been their struggle. To them it’s all ancient history. Like the Egyptian Pharaohs. Why should I expect them to care? Besides, Otto’s covered his tracks too well.”

Liam and Catherine exchanged glances. “Excuse me?” she said.

The old man focused his eyes across the table. “They tell me I’m being arraigned Wednesday,” he said to Catherine. “Attempted murder. I guess I don’t have a defense. I might as well plead guilty. The cards are stacked. I’ll read a prepared statement at my sentencing. That way at least it’ll get to the papers and the television reports.”

“There are defenses you could assert, Mr. Solomon. Perhaps you’re not well enough to appreciate the consequences of your conduct.”

Solomon laughed sardonically. “Insane? Should I plead insanity? You have no idea what insanity is, young lady. This whole world’s an asylum, waiting for the next rip in the fabric of humanity. And through that tear will crawl the minions of evil – incomprehensible evil – the next Auschwitz or Cambodia or Bosnia or Darfur. This generation’s Himmler, or Pol Pot or Milosovic. The next Aktion Reinhard.”

The old man straightened his body and shuffled to the door. “Aah, what’s the difference? You can’t put the pieces back together.” He rapped his bony knuckles on the metal frame. The deputy returned and replaced his handcuffs. He turned his head and said, “Thank you for coming. Tell Adele Silver I’m grateful for her concern.”