Based on that description they sounded like the two who kidnapped Colette. “How do you remember so much?”
“I handed the guy twenty-eight dollars and said, ‘Don’t spend it all in one place.’”
“Were they driving a green Ford pickup by chance?”
“I don’t know.”
Harry went outside and talked to his scale man, Archie Damman, saw Mazza smoking, talking to the cop he’d met on the way in. “Remember two guys came in yesterday, wearing caps, one had a southern accent?”
“Both did. Drove up in a white El Camino with a primer gray hood. They brought in an old icebox from the twenties, weighed a ton. Couple of confederates.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was a rebel flag on the tailgate,” Archie said. “They have something to do with what’s going on here?”
“Looks that way.”
“Here you go,” Harry said, handing Mazza a piece of notepaper. “The two that killed Columbus. Gary Boone lives on Clark Street in Pontiac, drives a green Ford F-100, and Aubrey Ponder lives in a trailer park at that address.”
“You know them?”
“I can’t say that,” Harry said.
“What’s going on, they have something against you?”
“You’ll have to ask them.” Harry paused. “If there’s nothing else…” He would’ve preferred to go after the rednecks himself, but Columbus Fletcher was dead, and Joyce was still alive.
Nineteen
Someone was knocking on the door. Hess crossed into the salon, glanced out the window and saw Lois Grant standing at the front door, holding a silver tray covered with tin foil. That’s right, Max had said she would bring him food, baked goods.
Lois rested the tray on brick steps, moved toward the living-room window, placed an outstretched palm over her eyes, trying to cut the daylight glare and see inside. Hess stepped away from the window, out of sight, his back against the living-room wall. He could see Lois’ face close to the glass.
Then he saw her through a side window, carrying the tray, walking back to her house. Hess didn’t like it. He couldn’t be sure what this woman was going to do next. Hess went back in the salon, stood at the window, scanned the street. Zeller’s Ford sedan was parked in front of the vacant lot, Hess wondering when the reinforcements were coming. He believed Zeller was federal police, BKA, and knew they would have sent more than one agent. They would need at least four to set up surveillance, to find and apprehend him, or take him out.
Hess filled the bucket at the kitchen sink, listening to a message on Max Hoffman’s answering machine. It was Lois Grant saying, “Max, where are you? I’ve left three messages. That car parked next to the vacant lot, nobody in the neighborhood knows who it belongs to, so I called the police.”
He carried the bucket to the garage, surprised by how much water had pooled under the worktable on the seal-coated concrete floor, streams running all the way to the garage door. Zeller’s white shirt was so wet Hess could see right through it — his skin and the hair on his chest. Hess could hear Zeller forcing air through his damaged nasal passages, the exhale sounding like a snort, face wet, watery bloodshot eyes watching him.
Hess ripped the duct tape off Zeller’s mouth leaving red marks where the adhesive had stuck to his skin. Zeller’s arms flexed, pulling at the restraints.
“You are with Bundeskriminalamt.”
“No.”
“Where are the other agents?”
“I’m alone.”
“Sure you are.” Hess wrapped the wet towel around his face, picked up the bucket and started to pour.
Zeller knew that as soon as he gave up Gerhard Braun’s name it would be all over. Hess would finish him. He tried to hold his breath but the water came and kept coming and now he was gagging, pulling on the ropes, muscles flexing, chest heaving, lungs burning. Then he was drowning, under water, and his air was gone and he started to lose consciousness, started to fade and the water stopped. Hess removed the towel, Zeller spat water out of his mouth and blew it out his nose, tried to focus on Hess through bleary eyes.
“Who sent you?”
“Give me a minute.”
Hess draped the towel over his face again before he could take a breath, and then water filled his nose and mouth and he was gagging, out of air, experiencing fresh trauma, the pain severe and then, like before, he was starting to go under.
Zeller opened his eyes looking up at the rafters. There was a strip of tape over his mouth and his nose was plugged. He snorted out water and felt the passages clear, inhaling as much air as he could. He heard the faucet on in the kitchen, Hess filling the bucket again. Zeller didn’t know how much more he could take.
He heard a car drive in and park next to the house, and a car door open and close. Heard the doorbell ring. The faucet in the kitchen was turned off. He heard someone banging on the front door. Heard voices and then footsteps on the concrete outside the garage. And then someone banging on the garage door, the echo reverberating around him.
A voice said, “Pompano Beach Police. Is anyone home?”
Zeller grunted under the tape, tried to lift his head, neck muscles bulging but he didn’t have the strength to do it. He heard footsteps going back to the car. He heard the door close, the engine start, and the car drive off.
Standing at the kitchen sink, Hess heard the phone ring, and the answering machine click on. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Hoffman, this is the Pompano Beach Police. An officer will be arriving at your home any minute. Please answer your door.”
A Palm Beach cruiser rolled up the driveway and parked next to the house. A policeman in a tan uniform got out, looking around. He seemed to be focusing on water that had streamed out from under the garage door and pooled on the concrete driveway.
Hess heard the doorbell ring. He moved through the house to the living room, saw the policeman at the front door. On the street a tow truck was backing up next to Zeller’s Ford sedan. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lois Grant approaching. She and the policeman talked for several minutes, Lois pointing at the tow truck.
Lois walked around the house, looking in windows. He heard the French doors rattle, Lois shaking the handles, face distorted, pressed against a glass pane. After a while she gave up and went back to her house, and Hess went back to the living room. He watched the police car back down the driveway. On the street the tow truck was lifting the front end of Zeller’s sedan.
Hess finished filling the bucket and carried it into the garage. Zeller had had a nice long rest, and now he would have to start all over. Zeller’s eyes were closed. Hess stood over him, ripped the tape off his mouth and Zeller’s eyes popped open. “You can stop the pain. You can save yourself from any further discomfort. Tell me who sent you.”
“Gerhard Braun,” Zeller said.
Good old Gerhard, Hess was thinking. You can’t trust anyone.
“Mr. Hoffman, don’t you get nervous carrying around that much cash?” the homely, big-breasted teller said. “I know I would be.”
“That’s just it,” Hess said. “Nobody would suspect someone of carrying that much. It is totally unexpected.”
“You have a wonderful day,” the fat teller said.
Hess walked out of the National Bank of Florida with $6,500 of Max Hoffman’s savings. Earlier he had stopped and withdrawn like amounts from two other NBF branches, and now had a total of $19,500. That was enough for today. Hess was concerned about attracting too much attention.