Hess had been here two nights earlier, parked down the street, got out, looking at the ocean, dark water meeting dark sky, a stiff breeze blowing in. He went in the lobby. It was quiet at 10:47, and deserted but for a gray-haired gentleman in a tie and blue blazer, seventy but clear-eyed and alert, behind the front desk. Hess had checked the directory on his previous visit, and knew that Joyce Cantor was in 412. He walked by the front desk, moving toward the elevator.
“Sir, may I help you?”
Hess glanced at the man behind the desk. “I’m here to see Joyce Cantor.”
“I’m sorry sir, I saw Ms. Cantor leave yesterday with a suitcase, and to my knowledge she hasn’t returned.”
“I left my briefcase in Joyce’s condo the last time I was here and I need to get it. Do you have a key?”
“Sir, that would be against the rules. That could get me in a lot of trouble.”
“What’s your name?”
“Denny, sir.”
“Denny, if I don’t get the briefcase I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.”
“I don’t understand why she didn’t leave it for you,” Denny said. “It doesn’t make sense. Ms. Cantor is a very responsible lady.”
“Joyce was supposed to meet me for dinner and bring the case.”
“Why didn’t she phone you?”
Denny, the rule follower, was starting to annoy him. “I have no idea.” Hess brought out his billfold, opened it and slid two $100 bills on the desktop. “For your trouble.”
Denny glanced at the money, flustered now. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“You could use that, I’ll bet. Listen, nobody will know except you and me. I’m not going to tell anyone, are you?”
“Well, I don’t see any harm as long as we’re in and out quickly.” Denny reached out, placed his right palm over the bills, slid the money toward him, folded the bills in half and put them in his trouser pocket. Now earning his fee, he unlocked a cabinet behind him, opened the doors, selected a key and locked it again.
They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor in silence. Denny was nervous, agitated. The doors opened. They walked down the hall to 412. Denny unlocked the door. They went in Joyce Cantor’s apartment, Hess scanning the large open room, windows along one side, looking out at the ocean.
Denny said, “Sir, if you would please find that briefcase, I would really appreciate it.”
“First, I want to show you something,” Hess said. He directed Denny through the master bedroom into the bathroom.
“What is it you want to show me?”
“This,” Hess said, drawing the revolver, and pulling open the shower curtain.
“Sir, what’s this all about?”
“Get in,” Hess said. “I’ll tell you when it is safe to come out.”
Denny was shaking. He reached into a trouser pocket and handed the $200 to Hess. “Sir, I would like you to have this back.”
Hess took it. “Get in.”
Denny stepped in the bathtub. Hess pulled the shower curtain closed, looking at the outline of Denny’s body behind the translucent plastic. Hess wrapped a towel around the barrel of the .38, and shot him through the curtain.
Hess was thinking about the old man while he searched the apartment, regretted shooting him, surprised by the rare feeling of guilt. Hess couldn’t remember the last time he had actually felt bad for someone.
He found an address book in a desk drawer in the living room, a vase of flowers on the desktop, wilting in the darkness. Remembered Joyce carrying flowers the last time he had seen her. He sat paging through the book, a gooseneck lamp casting a bright circle on the open pages. He was looking behind the L tab and saw Harry Levin’s name, address, home and business phone numbers.
Hess picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang several times before he heard Harry Levin say, “This is Harry. Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”
Nothing else happened for almost an hour. The TV news crews had gone. The crowd had dispersed. At 4:20 a black body bag was wheeled out of the building on a gurney. Two men lifted it into the rear of a white van that said MEDICAL EXAMINER on the side in black type. The van drove off.
Hess collected the towel, binoculars, tanning lotion, stuffed everything in Max Hoffman’s beach bag, slipped into the Docksiders and moved along the sand-blown sidewalk to the Chrysler. The parking meter had expired. There was a ticket on the windshield under the wiper blades. Hess picked it up. The fine was three dollars. He ripped the ticket in half, slid the pieces in his trouser pocket.
Hess sat behind the wheel. He saw Harry Levin and the Negro come out the side entrance on Worth Avenue. They stood and talked for a few minutes. Then Sims started walking toward town and Harry got in a car that was parked on the street. Hess spun the big Chrysler around the corner, followed Harry to the Breakers, and watched him check in.
Twenty-two
After twenty hours at the Motor Lodge near the turnpike, afraid to go out and going out of her mind, Joyce had had enough. She called a taxi and took it to her cousin Larry’s in Boca. He lived on Lake Drive in an 8,500-square-foot Mission-style mansion. Larry Schiff was self-made, president of Appliance World, a business he started with $10,000, most of it bar mitzvah money he’d saved.
A dark-skinned Latin in a white guayabera shirt answered the door. “Welcome, Señora,” he said, bowing with an effeminate flourish. He picked up Joyce’s suitcase, carried it into the foyer whose ceiling went up to the second storey, and closed the door. She could see Larry approaching, coming down a long hallway with a marble floor. “Joycee’s here. Joycee’s here. Everyone stand up and cheer,” his voice high and lispy. He kissed her on both cheeks like a French aunt. “Armand, meet Ms. Joyce Cantor, my one and only cousin.”
Armand nodded, lifted her suitcase and moved to the stairs. “So good to see you. Want to freshen up? Armand will escort you up to the guest suite.”
Joyce said, “What’re you doing home? I thought you’d be working.”
“We shot a commercial this morning and finished early. Guess what number.”
“I don’t know. Twenty.”
“Try fifty,” Larry beamed. “Number one appliance store chain in the country. Knock on wallboard,” he said, tapping his knuckles on a foyer wall. “What brings you to Boca?”
“Oh, you know, get away for a few days, see my cousin I haven’t seen in forever.”
Larry smiled. “Go change, unpack. Come down we’ll have a drink on the terrace.”
“I may take a quick nap, close my eyes for twenty minutes. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Joyce lay down on the bed, tried to sleep but her mind was racing. She got up, turned on the TV, a nineteen-inch console, while she unpacked.
Homicide in Palm Beach, it read over an aerial shot of the island, cutting to a blonde, blue-eyed TV reporter standing outside the Winthrop House. “Shortly after noon today, the body of Dennis Ifflander was discovered in a fourth-floor apartment bathroom by an unsuspecting maid.”
Joyce was stunned, couldn’t breathe. She knew Denny. He was a good guy, nice to everyone.
“This is the second homicide to shock residents of this affluent seaside community in less than a week. Detective Conlin of the Palm Beach Police Department had this to say.”
“Mr. Ifflander was shot twice at close range with a high-caliber revolver. There was no sign of a struggle, which indicates Mr. Ifflander probably knew his assailant.”