Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (23 page)

Engulfed by a sense of urgency, Justin grabbed Megan by the wrist and jerked her to her feet. He reached for the envelope on Gordon’s desk. “I need these back.”

“Two minutes to make copies,” Gordon said. “What’s the rush to get to Denver?”

“My question, too,” Megan said. “Rose and Sam are on a tour, perfectly safe.”

“I’m counting on it,” Justin said. He collected all the bits of paper from Gordon’s desk, and handed Megan Oma’s sweater. “If someone broke into the car, they didn’t have to take a thing. The valet parking stub told him exactly where we are.”

Gordon nodded and snatched the envelope. “Two minutes.” He left the office, closing the door behind him.

Megan took Justin’s hands. Hers were frigid in his. “Do you think that’s what happened?” she asked.

He expelled a slow breath, trying to relax. “We’ve agreed it’s not likely the journal is in the house. So, there’s no reason to stay here, and I’ll feel a lot better when I see my grandparents are safe. Since we have to go back anyway, I say the sooner the better.”

“Do you think we should change hotels? Maybe even leave Denver? Find some out-of-the-way motel?”

Thank God she had a head on her shoulders and could think clearly. All he could see was Oma and Opa being dragged off at knifepoint when they got to their hotel room. Not likely, but tell that to his stomach and the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. Megan’s eyes, worried as they were, showed strength as well. And trust. He squeezed her hands, trying to set up some sort of conduit between them. Her strength when he needed it. She seemed to understand, because she smiled.

“We’re a team,” she said.

“And a damn good one.” He pulled her into a quick embrace, which untied some of the knots in his belly. He released her when he heard someone approaching.

The door opened, and Gordon crossed the room, opening the rear door for them. He handed Justin the envelope and a business card. “That’s my direct line. Cell’s on the back. Keep me informed.”

“Same goes,” Justin said. “We’re at the Frontier. And you have our cell numbers, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Speaking of cell phones,” Megan said. “We have to make a quick stop at the house. I forgot my charger.”

Some of the tension returned, pecking away at his insides like a flock of pigeons. He knew he’d carry it until he saw his grandparents, so he shoved it aside. “Let’s hurry.”

At his grandparents’ house, while Megan retrieved the charger, Justin confirmed that everything looked exactly as it had when they’d left.

“Should we take my rental?” Megan asked once they were ready. “Maybe the killer won’t recognize it.”

“Why not? Keys?”

Megan fished through her purse and tossed him the car keys. He got behind the wheel and took a calming breath. “Last chance. Did we forget anything?”

“I don’t think so. I thought about grabbing more clothes for everyone, but we can manage with what we have.”

He didn’t draw an easy breath until they were on the Interstate. Even then, his heart thumped and his mind raced. Should he call his cousin? Should he tell his grandparents? Gordon had brought an outside perspective to things. His grandparents
were
strong. It was one thing to want to spare them pain or humiliation. It was a whole different thing if sparing them put their lives at risk.

Megan seemed as lost in thought as he was. “Should we call them?” she asked. “Rose and Sam?”

“Not now. You know Oma. She’ll pick up that we’re worried, and then she’ll worry.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. He glanced her way and could almost see the gears turning in her head as she angled toward him. “Gordon cares about them. He’s got more than his cop responsibility going. He said Rose is part of the reason he became a cop in the first place. If she hadn’t encouraged him, he might have ended up in a school like yours.”

At this point, Justin didn’t give a damn about the details. That the cop felt beholden to his grandmother was good enough for him.

He pressed the accelerator, trying to keep the car between clusters of traffic. Easier to see if someone was following. And how would he know? He was on the Interstate, along with dozens, if not hundreds of other cars, heading for a major city. He moved to the right lane, as if he might be preparing to exit, and kept an eye on the rearview. Behind him, cars were changing lanes, seemingly at random. Some would be exiting, others would be trying to get around slower traffic. He debated actually exiting, driving around on surface streets to see if anyone followed.

He ditched that idea. All it would do was waste time. His goal was to get to his grandparents fast, and he was going to adhere to the straight line between two points theory.

“What time is their tour supposed to be over?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Rose said, ‘Most of the day,’ and at the time, we were hoping they’d be occupied as long as possible. But I bet they’ll hit their room for a nap before they go anywhere else.”

He checked the dash clock. Near as he could figure, the earliest they’d get to the hotel would be three-thirty. Would they arrive first? He nudged the accelerator again. Another check of the mirror, but this time for cops.

By now, Gordon had grown accustomed to Colfax’s knockless entries. When the detective swept into the room this time, Gordon noted his place in the copies of Justin’s printouts. “You have something?”

“Surveillance videos don’t show anyone approaching the Impala,” Colfax said. He flopped into a chair. “What are you working on? The cell-phone caller? Albert Einstein?”

“It’s going to take a lot more probable cause to get his cell phone company to release the information we want. You mind running him through the databases? I’m trying to get up to speed with what might be a missing link.”

“Which is?”

Gordon caught the hint of, “You’re keeping me out of the loop,” in Colfax’s expression. He set the papers aside. “Probably nothing. If it pans out, I’ll let you know.”

Colfax shot him a glare. “I’ll see what I can find out about Mr. Stein.”

Gordon went back to the printouts, wondering what Justin hadn’t told him. Carpenter was an old man, riddled with cancer, in a nursing home.

What was in the mysterious journal? Proof positive that Kaestner was Carpenter? And Sam’s brother? And what did Justin intend to do with the journal if he found it? Destroy it?

He debated that for a moment. If Kaestner truly was a Nazi war criminal, should he, a man in his nineties and dying of cancer, be deported?

Gordon tried not to let his personal feelings play into it. He was a cop, and he’d sworn to uphold the law. All of them, not only the ones he approved of. Hell, for all he knew, the man might be dead already. The articles Justin had given him were over a year old.

It’s all in the details.
Gordon plugged both names into search engines while he mused.

Whether Sam had a Nazi brother who was dead rather than alive didn’t seem to matter to Justin. He was more concerned with protecting his grandparents.

But didn’t everyone have black sheep in their families? Gordon knew his great grandfather’s brother had been a bootlegger during Prohibition, when half the population either made or indulged in bathtub gin. But then again, in Germany during the war, your typical run-of-the-mill, everyday Nazis weren’t considered evil criminals. If you could ignore the six million people they exterminated, he supposed. But did the average Joe, or whatever the German equivalent was, even know what horrors were being perpetrated?

The phone interrupted his ponderings. “Yes, Laurie?”

“Chief, I hate to bother you, but this caller insists on talking to you. Do you think you might take the call, so she doesn’t keep calling me every fifteen minutes? Please?”

Gordon opened his drawer and found the message slips he’d stashed there. “Is she one of the calls you gave me earlier?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t want to give her name.”

Might as well get rid of her, especially if she was bugging Laurie. “Put her through.” He wondered what kind of a deal she was going to offer him. Insurance? Land? Or was she pushing a pet charity?

“Police Chief Hepler,” he said in his most officious tone.

“Sir, this is Esther Pomeroy. From Vintage Duds. I need to speak to you. Privately. That other policeman was here, but he’s not one of us, you know. I trust you.”

“One of us?” he said. Colfax was a cop, just like he was. He couldn’t think of what he might have in common with Esther Pomeroy. He couldn’t even draw up a mental image of the woman.

“You know, from Mapleton,” she said. “When he talked to us before, he didn’t seem to care. Not the way I know you do. Betty, bless her soul, always said what a kind man you were.”

“Thank you.” He picked up a pen. “So, what is it you want to tell me? I assure you, this conversation will remain private.” Until it interfered with his job.

“No, not over the phone. Please come to the store. Come around back, and I’ll let you in.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up, found a folder for the Kaestner printouts, and put them in his pending file.

He hoofed it to Vintage Duds, enjoying the spring breeze and warm afternoon sunshine. He cut between two buildings to the alley, then knocked on the door to Vintage Duds. When it opened, the smell of death hit him first. Next, he took in the stately, broad-shouldered woman who opened it. This was not the “blue-haired church lady” he’d pictured from Colfax’s report. He showed his badge and ID wallet. “I’m Gordon Hepler. I’m looking for Esther Pomeroy.”

“Yes, yes. Please come in.”

The voice matched the one on the phone, even if the woman standing in front of him didn’t fit his expectation. She was a few inches shorter than he was, her gray hair braided and piled on top of her head. Blue plastic-framed cat’s eye glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck. She wore faded gray flannel trousers, baggy at the knees, and a red floral-print smock. Scuffed sneakers adorned her feet.

She led him to the office and closed the door. “I found this. It had fallen in between some file folders in Betty’s desk. I shouldn’t have opened it. I know the laws about tampering with the mail, but I wasn’t paying attention. I promised Betty’s sister I’d go through her papers, in case there was an insurance policy or other important documents her sister may need. I didn’t notice it wasn’t addressed to Betty, so I opened it.” She handed him a standard number ten envelope, addressed to Sam in a handwritten scrawl.

Reflexively, he took it by the corner. “An honest mistake. We don’t arrest people for accidentally opening someone else’s mail.” Nobody was that anal about turning herself in after opening a letter not addressed to her. “So, why did you call?”

“The questions that other policeman asked. All about how someone might have been searching for something, and then I heard what happened at the Kretzers’, and I thought you should know.”

“You touched it?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. As I said, at first, I didn’t realize it wasn’t meant for Betty.” She was obviously chagrined at having possibly destroyed evidence. “It could be nothing, but I thought someone official should see it. I don’t read German, but I recognized a few words. She twisted the chain holding her glasses. “‘Police’, and ‘NSDAP,’ which I know is German for what we call Nazis.”

Gordon cleared his throat. Judging from the thickness of the envelope, this was no journal. A few pieces of paper, perhaps, but there might be a clue or directions to the journal. “Thank you, Ms. Pomeroy. Was there anything else you found that belonged to Mr. Kretzer?”

“Not in here,” she said. “And there was nothing in the front. I’ve been working here since six months after Betty opened the store, and I’m quite familiar with the stock.” She heaved a sigh. “So much of the merchandise was ruined. I don’t know what to do. Most of what we sell is taken on consignment. It’s going to be a nightmare matching everything, tracking down the owners, and coming to some kind of settlement.”

“What will happen to the store?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Betty never spoke of it. Who would have thought something like this would happen?” Her eyes glistened. “She had her quirks, but she was a warm-hearted woman, and far too young to die. Especially like that.”

This was taking on the atmosphere of a death notification, one of Gordon’s least favorite duties. “She certainly was,” he said. “And maybe there’s a chance that this letter will give us a clue to the killer’s identity. Thank you for calling me.”

“I… I guess I should finish going through the files for Betty’s sister.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your work. I can let myself out. Call if you find anything else. I’ll arrange to have your calls put straight through.”

“Thank you. I feel better now.”

She might feel better, but Gordon wasn’t sure he did. First, he didn’t read German, so if he wanted to know what the letter said, he’d have to bring someone else into the loop. He assumed Sam could read it, but he’d promised Megan and Justin he wouldn’t tell the Kretzers anything without checking with them first. And he didn’t want anything left untranslated.

Maybe Megan or Justin read German. Megan would have heard it growing up, and Justin’s parents would have as well. Or did Rose and Sam speak Yiddish? Mapleton’s Jewish population had its roots in immigrants not only from Germany, but also from Poland and Russia.

The envelope was probably a lost cause as far as prints went, but the pages might give them something. Or touch DNA, although Satan would be in a snowball fight long before they got results for a low-priority case like this one.

Stop overthinking. Call Megan and Justin.

He went to his office, grateful to find it empty. He gloved up and scrutinized the envelope. The postmark was faded and blurred, as if it hadn’t gone through the machine properly. He got out his magnifying glass and could decipher a few numbers from the ZIP Code. The first was either an eight or a three, the last were a two and a five. Or was it a six? The ones in between were totally illegible. Maybe the lab folks could enhance it.

Carefully, he removed the letter. Four pages. Not the same handwriting as the envelope. The date on the first was five years ago. So, this wasn’t World War II vintage. In case there was any doubt, the paper confirmed it. Off-white stationery, neither brittle nor discolored with age. He scanned the pages. The spidery writing style would have been hard to read even if it had been in English. The writing was irregular, as if the person who penned the letter did so with a trembling hand. At the end of the last page, he recognized the word
Bruder
above the signature, which was large and clear. “Heinrich.”