“Where is my money?”
Zeller was trying to breathe, sucking air into singed nasal passages and lungs. “I have it,” he said spitting water out of his mouth. “A safe deposit box in Munich.”
Hess said, “Where is Ingrid?”
“I don’t know,” Zeller said, buying himself more time, trying to get his wind back.
“I think you do,” Hess said, standing over him. “Are you thirsty, Herr Zeller? Another drink? You are making it unnecessarily difficult. You are going to tell me what I want to know. There is no reason to be a hero.” Hess paused. “Where is Ingrid?”
“I don’t know.”
Hess put the wet towel over Zeller’s face. He moved his head side to side trying to shake it off, but Hess held it in place.
“I first saw this technique at Dachau, and it was extremely effective. I was surprised to learn that it dates back to the Spanish Inquisition. You can torture your enemy without leaving a mark.” Hess paused. “Water filling the breathing passages triggers the mammalian diving reflex, causing the victim to feel the sensation of drowning. But why am I telling you this, Albin? You already know what it feels like.” Hess picked up the bucket, tilted the spout over Zeller’s face. “Ingrid is dead, isn’t she?” Zeller nodded.
“Who sent you?” Hess’ voice was calm and relaxed. “Who do you work for, the federal police, BKA?” He paused. “It was Steiger, wasn’t it? God knows we’ve had our differences.”
Zeller was familiar enough with the politics of Bavaria to know that Wolfgang Steiger and Ernst Hess had been bitter rivals in the Christian Social Union.
“And if not Steiger, then who?”
Zeller held his breath until he couldn’t, water filling his nose and mouth. Neck muscles bulging, he strained to lift his head up, but Hess held him down. And just as Zeller felt himself starting to fade, Hess stopped pouring and removed the towel. He was coughing up water and trying to draw in air when the doorbell rang.
Hess turned his head, glanced at the open door leading to the house. “How many are working with you?”
The doorbell rang again.
“I am alone.”
“We’ll see,” Hess said. He ripped a strip of duct tape off the roll and pressed it over Zeller’s mouth. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Hess drew a revolver from his pocket and went into the house.
Eighteen
Harry had packed a bag and was getting ready to drive to the airport, catch a flight to Florida, find out what the hell was going on with Joyce, when he got the call. It was a woman with the Detroit police, telling him there had been a homicide at the scrap yard, asking if he could come down right away.
There were two police cars, lights flashing, one in the yard near his night watchman, Columbus Fletcher’s Chevy, which Harry was surprised to see, the other in the parking area by the office. Next to the police car was a black van that said MEDICAL EXAMINER on the side — never a good sign, and next to that was an unmarked Plymouth Harry’d seen before. Phyllis’ VW Bug was in its usual space.
The scene was familiar, almost a duplicate of the morning Harry’d arrived to find police investigating the murder of Jerry Dubuque. There was a cop in uniform standing next to the door.
“I’m Harry Levin,” he said. “I own the place.”
“Go ahead.”
He walked in the lobby. Through the window he saw Detective Frank Mazza sitting at Phyllis’ desk, Phyllis across from him, smears of mascara on her cheeks, Columbus Fletcher on his back, arms bent, legs apart, blood stains under him, dark against the gray low-pile industrial carpeting. A cop from forensics was dusting the lock box for prints. And someone else was photographing Columbus from different angles, flashbulbs popping.
Harry walked in the office, glanced at Phyllis first and then Mazza, noticed the metal cabinet against the wall was damaged. By the look of it someone had used a sledgehammer. Frank Mazza said, “Mr. Levin, you’re keeping us busy.”
“Not my intention,” Harry said, annoyed by the remark. Phyllis got up and came over. Harry hugged her and she started crying, body heaving against him. He guided her back to the chair she was sitting in.
“Perp or perps cut through the fence out there.” Frank Mazza turned the swivel chair toward Harry and pointed north. “Just on the other side of the building. Broke a window, came in through the lavatory. Came in here like they knew what they were looking for. Broke into the cabinet where Ms. Wampler said you keep the lock box. How much was in there?”
“Not much. Maybe five hundred dollars. I keep most of the money in the safe in my office. Leave a little for Phyllis to get started in case I’m late.”
Mazza had traded his Sears wash-and-wear suit in for a tweed sport coat.
“Your night man must’ve heard or seen them and come in to have a look. Shot him with a .45 Colt. Cause of death was multiple gunshot wounds. Manner of death was homicide.”
“How do you know it was a .45?”
Mazza took a small plastic evidence bag out of his sport-coat pocket, three shell casings in it. He pushed his heavy-looking hair up on his forehead and it fell back where it had been. “What can you tell me about Columbus Fletcher?”
“Years ago he was a fighter, middleweight.”
“I wondered what happened to his face.”
“Two hundred seven stitches, he told me, thirty-nine fights.”
“Ever see him in the ring?”
“One time,” Harry said, “exhibition bout at Cobo.”
“Married?”
“Three times. Daughter works at Henry Ford Hospital.”
“What was he like?”
“Quiet, likeable, easy-going. Showed up on time, never missed work.”
“How would you know?”
“Everyone punches a time card.”
“He use drugs?”
“I doubt it.”
“He ever been arrested, convicted of a crime?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you sit down, we’ll try to figure out who had motive.”
There was a swivel chair at another desk across the room. Harry wheeled it over and sat.
“Who knew you kept cash in the office?”
“Everyone we did business with. People bring scrap to us in trucks, cars, vans, trailers, you name it. We weigh it, take their name and address, send them in to see Phyllis and she pays them in cash.”
“I told you,” Phyllis said, giving Mazza a dirty look. She liked his hair but didn’t care much for him.
“Why don’t you go over all the receipts the past few days, see if anyone rings a bell.”
“Say you decide to rob a scrap yard. You come in for a look, sell a load, see the money. You think they’re going to give us a real name and address?”
“People are dumb,” Frank Mazza said. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
Phyllis got up, moved to the other side of the desk, knelt next to Mazza, opened a drawer and took out a manila envelope. She folded back the metal clasps and handed it to Harry. Harry dumped the receipts on the desktop. Frank Mazza got up, tapped a Lucky out of the pack and said he was going outside to smoke. Harry sat where Mazza had been, shuffling through the receipts, looking at names and dollar amounts: Clarence Cherry, an address on West Grand Boulevard in Detroit, $68.75, Donnell Lewis on 2nd Avenue, $159.33. He looked at forty more, all from the inner city, and then he came to Aubrey Ponder, a trailer park in Pontiac, $28. Right away that one struck him as odd. Harry didn’t get many customers from the suburbs. And it was a long way to come for hardly any money. Harry handed the receipt to Phyllis. “Remember who gave you this one?”
She studied it and looked at him. “There were two of them, sleazy-looking, like they hadn’t used soap and water in a while. They were wearing caps. One said Red Man, the other Cat Diesel. Guy that did the talking had a southern accent.”