Hess walked out of the restaurant and followed Joyce from the opposite side of the street, strolling along Worth Avenue in his new Palm Beach disguise, golf cap low over his eyes almost touching the frames of the aviator sunglasses. As far as Joyce was concerned he was dead. No one could have survived being shot and thrown in the ocean. That’s why he believed God had intervened.
He was thinking of the last time he’d seen her — she’d been right there on the bed a few feet away — regretting he hadn’t pulled the trigger when he had the chance. But there had been extenuating circumstances — like a crazy Jew with a gun, shooting at him.
He passed a police car double-parked next to Lynn Risdon’s Mustang. The policeman was on the passenger side, looking in the window. Hess continued on, a Palm Beach retiree, glancing at his reflection in store windows. Just past South County Road he crossed over on Joyce’s side of the street, thirty paces behind her, slowing down to maintain the distance between them.
A Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud was approaching, two-tone, silver and black, Hess admiring the classic motorcar with its long hood. When he looked down the sidewalk Joyce was gone. He quickened his pace, glanced left into a boutique, a big open shop, but didn’t see her. Passed two more stores and finally spotted her in a flower shop.
There was no place to stop and wait without being seen, so Hess walked to the end of Worth Avenue, crossed South Ocean Boulevard and leaned his hip against the seawall, gazing out at the Atlantic. He watched a seagull dive in the water and rise up with a fish twisting in its beak. He looked over his shoulder and saw Joyce on the sidewalk, coming toward him, carrying a bouquet of flowers wrapped in paper. He watched her stop, cross Worth Avenue and go into the Winthrop House through a side entrance. Hess crossed too and followed her into the building. The lobby was crowded with people talking, watching television, playing cards and backgammon. Joyce, he noticed, was at the reception desk in conversation with Conlin, the detective who had visited him at the hospital in Freeport.
Conlin flashed a grin. “For me?” he said, glancing at the flowers she was holding. “You shouldn’t have.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?” Joyce said, surprised to see him in the lobby. Assuming he was back to question her.
“Remember the perp you didn’t see, shot the security guard? Missing person whose car we found outside the Frankel estate.” Conlin unfolded a piece of paper showing her a police artist’s sketch of a square face with a wide nose and salt-and-pepper hair. “Look familiar?”
Joyce shook her head, looking past Conlin now, across the crowded lobby and saw a well-dressed man in a blue blazer, face partially hidden under a blue-and-white cap, something familiar about him, his sturdy build and the way he moved, and thought it was Hess. But how could it be possible? Hess was dead. She’d seen him with a bullet hole in his chest, lying in a pool of blood. And yet she’d swear it was him.
“You all right?” Conlin said, staring at her.
Joyce was light-headed all of a sudden, face cold, clammy. “Maybe it’s low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten all day.” She rubbed her hands together and took a breath. Glanced back and he was gone. Scanned the lobby but didn’t see him.
“You better sit down,” Conlin said.
“Maybe I better.”
“You might be more comfortable in your apartment.”
“This is fine.” Joyce didn’t want to be alone with Conlin right now. She might break down and tell him everything. It was a difficult position to be in. Hess was alive and back in Palm Beach but she couldn’t tell the police. They sat in two chairs against the wall, Conlin’s body angled, facing her.
“You going to tell me what really happened that night?”
“I did.”
“You saw him, didn’t you?”
“Who you talking about?”
“This guy Klaus, or whatever his name is, killed your friend Lenore. But he was looking for you, wasn’t he?”
“Why would he be looking for me?”
“That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” Conlin paused, staring at Joyce. “I talked to Mrs. Frankel, she said you were staying at her estate while your apartment was being painted. You told me you were staying at Frankel’s so you could put up Harry Levin from Detroit and his buddy, Cordell Sims. Which one is it?”
“Both.”
“Both, huh? How do you know Harry?”
“We’re old friends, went to school together. We’ve kept in touch.”
“Yeah, where was that at?”
“The Jewish day school.”
“And out of the blue he decided to come and visit?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Which one of you shot the German? Or was it the colored guy, Sims?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. My guess would be Harry Levin?”
“Then why’re you asking me?”
“According to Detroit police he’s got a permit to carry a firearm. Big one, too, .357 Mag.” Conlin took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, tapped one out and lit it with a silver Zippo. “I was in Freeport a few days ago visiting a guy looks a lot like this.” He held up the artist sketch again. “Shot with a high-caliber round — through and through, and dumped in the ocean. Sound familiar? That’s usually enough to get the job done. But this German is either tough or lucky or both. But you don’t know him, uh?”
Joyce met his gaze but didn’t say anything. Conlin’s hunch was right on the money but there was no way he could prove it. “You might be interested to know Klaus escaped from the hospital in Freeport, hijacked a boat and took it to Palm Beach. Went to a lot of effort to get back here. Like he had some unfinished business to take care of. But you don’t know anything, is that right?” Conlin paused for effect. “You probably have nothing to worry about then.”
He got on his feet. “There is one more thing I should tell you. You read about that woman was strangled last night a few blocks from here? Klaus is our main suspect. Murdered her, took a shower, fixed himself a snack. We’ve got a real wacko on our hands. Fingerprints match the prints on the security guard’s handgun and flashlight. They also match the prints in Lenore Deutsch’s house. But from what you tell me he’s not after you, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. Listen, you have a nice evening, Ms. Cantor.”
The phone was ringing when Harry walked in the kitchen. He threw his keys on the counter and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Harry, I think I just saw him.”
It was Joyce.
“Who’re you talking about?”
“Hess. He’s alive.”
“Not unless he’s back from the dead,” Harry said. “No way he could’ve survived. It’s impossible.” Although there had been a shred of doubt in the back of his mind when he dumped Hess’ body in the ocean and watched the current take him out to sea.
Joyce told him about seeing Hess in the lobby and everything Detective Conlin had said.
“Harry, I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”
“Call Cordell. He’ll take care of you till I can get down there.”
Eleven
It was almost dark when Hess checked into the Vista del Mar, a motel on the ocean in a little town called Pompano Beach, thirty minutes south of Palm Beach by taxi. There were two couples sitting in lounge chairs by the pool, drinking beer, talking loud and laughing as Hess walked past them, went to the office and checked in.