Hess had no recollection of them discussing what would happen if he died.
Kovarek said, “Your daughter had to open it to get burial information, the deed to your burial plot.”
“Describe her,” Hess said.
“Your daughter?” Kovarek rubbed his jaw.
“She is not my daughter.”
“An attractive woman with blonde hair, five feet eight, thirty years old. She had the key and the rental agreement.”
Kovarek had just described Colette Rizik. “Was she alone?”
“No, sir, there was a dark-haired gentleman with her, six feet tall, fortyish.”
Harry Levin’s face flashed in his mind. Levin and the journalist. They had found the key to his hotel room, the keys to his briefcase and safe deposit box. They had obviously gone to his room before the police. “So you are telling me the box is empty?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Klaus, and the contract has been terminated.”
“Let me see the death certificate.”
“I don’t have the original. All I have is a copy of a certified copy.”
Kovarek stood and went to a bank of file cabinets against the wall, opened a drawer and took out a green folder. He came back to the desk and handed Hess a piece of paper. At the top in a heavy font it said: Certified Copy of Record of Death, and in smaller type under that: County of Broward, State of Florida.
The deceased’s name was Gerd Richter Klaus. Cause of death: heart failure. Birthplace: Stuttgart, Germany. Born: April 1, 1920. Mother’s and father’s names not available. The document was signed by A. Robert Stevenson, Clerk of Palm Beach County Commission, West Palm Beach, Florida, dated October 17, 1971.
“As you can see, Mr. Klaus, it follows the legal guidelines set forth by the State of Florida. Is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like to lease another safe deposit box, sir?”
Hess wanted to pull the .38 and shoot the little four-eyed weasel. Instead he smiled and said, “Perhaps another time.”
Kovarek handed him a business card. “If you have questions about any of our banking services, don’t hesitate to call.”
Hess could feel the grip of the revolver in his pocket. It took all the willpower he had not to shoot the idiot.
The safe deposit box had contained his real passport, $10,000 in cash and a locker key. Harry Levin and the journalist would have no idea where the locker was, or how to find it. Hess was thinking about this as he drove back to Seabreeze, approaching Lynn Risdon’s house, when he saw police cars parked in front on the street, and a crowd standing behind yellow crime-scene tape strung across the outside perimeter of the property. Someone had discovered the body.
Hess drove past the house and turned right on South Ocean Boulevard. It occurred to him the police would be looking for Lynn Risdon’s car. He cut over to Worth Avenue and parked the Mustang, got out, walked to a men’s store and bought new clothes, Palm Beach attire: light blue trousers, white belt and matching shoes, orange golf shirt, blue blazer, aviator sunglasses and golf cap. He paid cash and wore the new clothes out of the store. The old clothes were in a bag he dropped into a decorative Palm Beach trash bin on the street.
He had to get off the island, but first he had to take care of some unfinished business. Hess went to a cafe across the street from Sunset Realty, sat at a table next to the window, sipped iced tea and glanced at the Palm Beach Post. He saw Joyce Cantor walk out of the office at 5:30 p.m., left a $5 bill on the table and followed her.
Nine
They had checked out of the motel and gone back to Harry’s place. First he made Colette wait in the car while he walked around the house with the .357, checking every room. Zeller’s clothes were gone, but nothing else was missing except his antique rug the rednecks wrapped Colette in and he knew where that was.
Now they were in the kitchen having breakfast, scrambled eggs, English muffins and coffee. “Who do you think hired Zeller?” Harry said to Colette.
“Any number of people. Hess’ wife. His mistress.”
“I didn’t know he had one.”
“Her name is Anke Kruger, a former model.” Colette poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred in some cream. “Would you like more?”
Harry shook his head.
“Or maybe the Christian Social Union hired him. Hess was well connected, politically important.”
“Why would they want to find him? He’s an embarrassment to the Christian Social Union, to the whole country. This is the last thing the German government needs, a lunatic former Nazi going around murdering people, with the Olympics coming to Munich next year.” Harry took Hess’ locker key out of his pocket and handed it to Colette. “Remember this? Whatever is in the locker, I think Hess was going to bring it with him but changed his mind.”
She held the key between her thumb and index finger, looking for a mark, something that would indicate where it came from.
“Where is the locker, Harry?”
“Who knows? How did Hess get to Detroit? There isn’t a direct flight from anywhere in Germany, I know that. So he had to make a connection. Find out what airline he flew and where he flew out of, and go to the airport. Find the locker and see if the key fits. I know someone who might be able to help us.” He’d call Bob Stark, his pit-bull attorney, put him on the case.
“Soon as we’re finished I’m going back out to the farmhouse, get my rug and look around.”
“What if they’re still there?”
Harry pulled up in front thirty minutes later, sat for a while, watching the place. No cars or trucks in the driveway. No one around. He’d taken Colette to his niece Franny’s apartment. He pulled in the driveway and parked next to the house. Drew the .357 Mag from a coat pocket, turned the cylinder and put the hammer on a live round.
He got out of the Mercedes, walked to the barn, opened the door and looked in at a tractor and a huge combine harvester. No sign of a green Ford pickup or Zeller’s Chevy Camaro or a white GMC van that said Acme Carpet Cleaning on the side.
He walked to the house. The side door was unlocked. Went in the kitchen. There were beer cans on the counter, dirty dishes in the sink, the stale lingering smell of cigarette smoke in the air. He walked through the dining room into the semi-dark living room, shades pulled down over the windows, and saw his antique rug spread out on the hardwood floor. He bent to roll it up and noticed a plastic six-pack tightener and a pack of matches on the floor half under the ratty-looking couch.
Harry went over, picked up the match book, looking at the white cover with black type that said Rodeo Bar, illustrated to look like a cattle brand. The address was in Pontiac. Harry went upstairs and checked the bedrooms, went downstairs and checked the basement, but didn’t find any more clues or anything that would help him find Zeller.
Harry drove past the Rodeo Bar, big gravel parking lot about a quarter full at 11:50 on Saturday morning. The building looked like it had once been a Knights of Columbus hall, low-slung cinderblock painted gray, peaked roof in front with a sign that said Rodeo and a neon cowboy riding a bull. Harry waited across the street in a strip mall, watching the lot fill up, pickups outnumbering cars four to one. Harry scanned the stores behind him. The strip mall had a Kresge’s and a hardware store, cleaners, a Pancake House and a drug store. Earlier Harry had phoned Bob Stark to see if Stark could find which city Hess, alias Gerd Klaus, had flown out of, which airline he’d flown, and where he’d made his connecting flight or flights to Detroit. Harry was thinking what he’d said to Colette. “Find the city and maybe you’ll find the locker.”