“Posno,” Lew said. “Are there any hits for Posno?”
Her fingers danced again.
“More than eighty-eight thousand,” she said. “It seems to be a Dutch name. Let us see. Posno Flowers, Posno Sporting Goods. Is it possible to narrow the search?”
“We don’t want to keep you from Dante,” Lew said.
“Dante has waited more than six hundred years,” she said. “He can wait and the students can wait a few minutes longer. Narrow the search.”
Lew knew what that meant.
“Posno, crime, murder, trial,” Lew said.
She tapped in the words, clicked on search, narrowed and said, “One Web site devoted specifically to what appears to be your Posno. Look.”
On the screen in the upper left-hand corner in boldface was Posnitki, Andrej (Posno).
It was followed by three paragraphs. Lew and Franco leaned forward to read, but Rebecca Strum said, “I’ll print it for you.”
She pushed a button, and then another and a rumbling sound came from under her desk. A few seconds later she reached down and came up with a printed sheet. She handed it to Lew and got up, a little more slowly than she had from the green chair.
“Thank you,” said Lew.
“One more thing,” she said, and with her book moved across the room and through a slightly open door.
It took her no more than ten seconds. When she came out, she held a different, thicker book in one hand, a pen in the other.
“Your wife’s name?” she asked Franco.
“Angie.”
“Angela,” Lew said.
Rebecca Strum nodded, opened the book, wrote something in it and handed it to Franco.
“I just had a box of them delivered yesterday,” she said. “I don’t have room and I’d rather it go to someone who will read it than have it lay in a box in the darkness of a storage room.”
“Thank you,” said Franco. “You’re… she thinks you’re great.”
Rebecca Strum shook her head and let out a two-note laugh.
“My two children think I’m a petty tyrant posing as a martyr. My husband, long dead, resented my notoriety and I never noticed. I’ve been frequently duped by emotional and financial criminals and used by frauds I didn’t even recognize who played on my ego. A full list of my indiscretions, omissions and petty vices would compare with anyone who has lived as long as I have. I’m not great. It’s enough that I’ve lived this long and can still speak out and write and have visitors, especially those who don’t expect wisdom and don’t expect me to remember when I do not wish to remember.”
She touched Lew’s arm and Lew and Franco left, the door closing gently behind them.
“Can you fucking believe that?” asked Franco, looking at the book.
He opened it as they moved to the elevator.
“Listen to this,” he said. “‘To Angela, Imagine that we are holding each other’s hand and walking together through the forest of the night.’ And she signed it.”
“Nice.”
No one was inside the elevator when the door opened and they stepped in.
“What do you know about Rebecca Strum?” asked Franco.
“Not much.”
“Come on, Lewis. Work with me here. I’ve got a point.”
The elevator dropped slowly, a slight metallic clatter beneath their feet.
“Husband’s dead,” Lew said.
“And?”
Lew looked away, felt the sheet of paper in his hand.
“She’s hiding her grief with a smile. She’s resigned herself to the unfairness of life and she’s dedicated herself to trying to understand and comfort others,” said Lew as the elevator stopped.
“You’re saying it like you’re reading it off a Wheatie’s box.”
“Jewish woman who lived through the Holocaust,” said Lew as they stepped into the lobby. “What she’s been through is a lot worse than what I’ve been through and she’s taking it better.”
“Pretty good,” said Franco. “But you’re wrong about one thing.”
“What?”
They were on the sidewalk again. Across the street a pretty girl with a blue backpack was hurrying somewhere, talking on a cell phone. Her long dark hair bobbed with each step. Lew had the feeling he had seen her before, a thousand times before.
“Rebecca Strum isn’t Jewish,” said Franco as they moved back to the truck. “Her husband was a Jew. I think she’s a Lutheran or something like that. Her father was a Communist, landed the family in a camp. You should read one of her books, Lewie.”
When they got back into the Franco’s truck, the phone hummed. Franco picked it up, said, “Massaccio Towing.” He handed the phone to Lew.
“Fonesca, my name’s Bernard Aponte-Cruz,” said the man. “I was the one with Claude Santoro last night. We should talk.”
“When?”
“Now,” he said. “Right now. Claude had something to tell you. That’s why we followed you last night. We got your number from the side of the truck. He said he was looking for the right time to get you alone. He never got the time. Now the police think I killed him.”
“What did he want to tell me?”
“I don’t know, but it had something to do with the bank.”
“Bank?”
“Claude was a consultant for First Center Bank. He specialized in banking and insurance law.”
“He wasn’t a criminal attorney?”
“No, never,” said Aponte-Cruz. “And he was a good guy. I’m telling you. He was a good guy.”
“You worked for him?”
“He was my brother-in-law.”
“Why did your brother-in-law need you with him last night? Why didn’t he just talk to me?” Lew asked.
“Someone called him. He didn’t know who. A man, said he should stay away from you or he’d be killed. That’s when Claude called me. I’m not such a good guy. Shit, my aunt and uncle, Claude’s mother and father, they live in Yuma. I’m going to have to call them, tell them. Shit. Claude was their only kid.”
“Why didn’t he just talk to me?”
“He wanted to check you out. He was looking for a safe place to talk and Claude was sure he was being followed. We were about to go into the house you were in last night when the cops showed up. Then you and Tow Truck came out and… come on, you know this.”
“What did he-” Lew began.
The phone went dead. Lew hung up and the phone rang instantly. Franco picked it up and said, “Franco… right, right, I got it. Hold on. He covered the mouthpiece with his palm and turned to me. “Job. Parking lot downtown on Washington. You want me to get someone else to take it?”
“No,” Lew said.
Franco nodded and pulled onto the street.
Lew read the sheet Rebecca Strum had printed out.
Posnitki, Andrej (Posno)
Murderer. Assassin. Thief. Born in Kaunus, Lithuania, 1949. Accused of murdering a Russian Orthodox priest in 1969. Fled to Budapest. Fled Hungary in 1976 to avoid arrest and almost certain imprisonment following the murder of five anti-Communist dissidents at a cafe.
Posno came to the United States illegally, moved from city to city, changed his name frequently. He made his services available to a Russian criminal organization.
Andrej Posnitki has never been arrested.
Andrej Posnitki has murdered more than thirty-five people.
One of those people he murdered in the Budapest slaughter was my father.
If you have any information or recognize the man below, please contact: Relentless, Box 7374, Boise, Idaho.
At the bottom of the page was a head and shoulders drawing in black of a heavyset man, head shaved, a nose that veered to one side from being broken, and a neat, short beard.
Lew held up the drawing for Franco, who looked at it and said, “Looks like the guy who always plays bikers on TV shows or that wrestler, what the hell’s his name, the Blast. No wait, looks a little like that Packer’s linebacker from a few years ago. Even looks a little like my brother Dom if Dom took off a few pounds, shaved his head and face. Dom even has a broken nose, but it goes the other way.”