Cordell stepped in the apartment, closed the door, saw four dead Colombians on the floor. He wasn’t thinking about the money or the weed now, just getting the hell away from there. But High wasn’t leavin’ till they got what they came for. There were two bedrooms. Cordell found two black plastic garbage bags in the closet, the ends knotted. He lifted them and both had heft, felt like twenty pounds at least. Opened one, got a blast of high-grade woo woo.
There was a nylon gym bag on a shelf over the weed. Cordell brought it down, sat on the bed, unzipped it, looking at stacks of cash held together with rubber bands. High came in the room. Cordell showed him the money.
“Hit the jackpot,” High said, flashing a grin.
He could see people looking out the apartment window next door as they passed by on the way to the stairs, and heard a siren as they were going down to the car, passing a police cruiser, lights flashing, on the way out to the freeway, and cut over to the Grove.
They had a couple drinks to calm down and split the money — $68,500, and the woo woo — fifty pounds. Cordell didn’t like it, knew this wasn’t the end. Somebody’d be comin’ after them. But he wasn’t gonna be around when they did.
When Cordell got back to the motel it was 7:15 in the evening. The doors between their rooms were open. Looked like Joyce had cleared out, took her suitcase and left. His first thought, the Nazi had come and grabbed her. But how’d the Nazi know where they were at? Cordell picked up the phone, called Joyce’s apartment — no answer. He’d screwed up, felt bad about it. He had to find her, but where was he going to start?
Twenty-one
Seeing the police cars and ambulance parked in front of the Winthrop House, Harry assumed the worst. Joyce had gone home and Hess had shot her. He parked the rental car in the shadow of the building on Worth Avenue and went in the side entrance. The lobby was chaotic, dozens of elderly residents trying to get the attention of two police officers in tan uniforms, trying to find out what was going on, what happened.
Harry moved around the crowd, approached the front desk manned by a sullen dark-skinned Latino in a sport jacket, losing his hair on top.
“Sir, may I help you?”
Harry walked by him, stepped into a waiting elevator and rode to the fourth floor. The door to Joyce’s apartment was open. Detective Conlin was talking to a black maid in a light blue uniform in the living room. Harry walked in, looked around. Conlin saw him and stood up, said something to the maid and she got up and walked by Harry, black eyes staring straight ahead like she was in a trance.
“Another homicide, look who walks in the door,” Conlin said. “Poor girl found the body. I don’t suppose you saw or heard anything.”
“I just got here,” Harry said. “Came right from the airport. Where’s Joyce?”
“I was going to ask you.”
“She’s not dead then?”
“Not that I know of,” Conlin’s hard stare held on him. “No one’s seen her for a couple days.”
“You try her office?”
“Manager said Joyce went to Baltimore, her aunt died. I called, talked to the dead aunt who it turns out isn’t. She had no idea what was going on or where Joyce was at.”
Down the hall toward the bedrooms he heard voices and flashbulbs popping.
“Who is it?”
“Night manager. Shot twice in the chest. Been dead two days or so, accounting for the odor. Ever smell a body in decomp?”
“One or two.”
“Yeah? Where was that?”
“Dachau,” Harry said.
“The concentration camp?”
Harry nodded.
“I didn’t know,” Conlin said, sounding like he was apologizing. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Jesus. How’d you get out?”
“I escaped.”
A patrolman entered the apartment and said, “There’s a colored guy named Sims downstairs, Detective, says he might know something.”
“Send him up.”
A few minutes later the same patrolman escorted Cordell into the apartment.
Conlin said, “Come out here,” and led Harry and Cordell through a sliding glass door to the balcony. It was bright and hot, sun reflecting off the white walls of the building, and the sounds of traffic coming up from the street. Cordell had his hands on the railing, looking down at the sunbathers on the beach. Conlin tapped a cigarette out of his pack, cupped his hands against the breeze and lit it with a silver Zippo. “Officer said you know something,” he said to Cordell. “Tell me.” Cordell turned, glanced at the ocean.
“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Cordell turned his head back in Conlin’s direction. “Joyce came to stay with me for a couple days.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “We friends.”
“You two going steady?”
Cordell looked at him but didn’t say anything.
“You going to raise the kids Jewish?” Conlin paused. “She left the night I was here. Something scared her, didn’t it?”
“Maybe it was you. Talkin’ about some motherfucker comin’ to kill her.”
“Back to settle things with all of you is my guess. Night manager was shot. I’m sure we’ll recover bullet frags for ballistics comparison to the murder of the security guard and the real estate lady.”
Conlin tossed his cigarette over the balcony, walked back in the living room. Harry and Cordell followed him and Conlin closed the sliding door.
“Why don’t you tell me about the German.” Conlin looked at each of them. “And don’t say what German? Don’t insult my intelligence.”
Harry didn’t think it would take much.
Conlin went back at it. “Why’d you shoot him?”
Harry said, “Haven’t we been through this?”
“That’s the way you want it, huh? Well, you’re on your own then. Tell me who to contact when he kills you. Direct me to your next of kin.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “If there’s nothing else we’ll be on our way.”
“I may want to talk to you again. Where’re you staying?”
“The Breakers.”
Harry and Cordell walked out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator. Harry pushed the button, glanced at Cordell. “Where the hell’s Joyce?”
“Yo, Harry, you not gonna believe this. I left Joyce at this motel, had to take care of business. When I come back, she gone.”
“Why didn’t you take her with you?”
“What I had to do, it wasn’t appropriate.”
“I asked you to help me out,” Harry said. “Come on.”
“I know, I fucked up. I’m sorry.” Cordell paused. “But you know we’ll find her, right? Probably stayin’ with a friend, someone from her office.”
“I guess that’s where we’ll start.”
“You’re not buyin’ this whole Hess is back from the dead bullshit, are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Harry, you the one took him out put him in the water. What’re you sayin’?”
“It’s possible he is alive.”
“This is fuckin’ crazy, Harry.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Hess was on the beach in a rented cabana when he heard the sirens. This was what he had been waiting for. A Palm Beach police cruiser arrived first, lights flashing, stopping in front of the Winthrop House, followed by an ambulance, and a few minutes later by a beige sedan. The three vehicles parked one behind the other. Hess, partially hidden by the cabana, trained the binoculars on Detective Conlin stepping out of the sedan and disappearing into the building.
All the activity across the street, including TV news crews filming the action, attracted attention. Now a crowd from the beach stood behind the seawall blocking his view. Hess aimed the binoculars at Joyce Cantor’s balcony. The Negro, Cordell Sims, was leaning over the railing. Conlin, the cocky detective, was standing behind him, smoking. And to the right — this was his lucky day — he saw Harry Levin.