“Detective, is this case related to the murder of Mrs. Lynn Risdon less than a week ago?” She held the microphone up to Conlin’s face.
“The manner of death is certainly different, but we won’t know for sure until all of the evidence is examined. And, of course, we want to talk to the woman who is renting the apartment.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
Now Hess’ face filled the screen, the grainy black-and-white photo.
“This man is a suspect in two other Palm Beach homicides. He’s considered armed and dangerous. If you see him, contact police immediately.”
My God. Joyce had this sudden sickening feeling Denny had been murdered in her apartment.
Now the camera went back to the blonde. “Kim Fortin reporting live from the Winthrop House in Palm Beach.”
Joyce picked up the phone and called Harry’s house. Got his answering machine. “Harry, it’s Joyce, call me. It’s an emergency.” She left Larry’s number. Then she called his office and left the same message. She washed her face, tried to compose herself and went downstairs.
Larry was five six in his elevator shoes, but looked smaller under the high kitchen ceiling, leaning back against one of the black marble counters, smiling in approval, watching himself on TV. Without taking his eyes off the screen he said, “You’ve got to see this.”
In the commercial Larry was in an appliance store surrounded by washers, dryers, stoves and sinks. “Appliance World,” Larry said, mugging for the camera. “Deals so good, you’ll feel like dancing.” Larry turned sideways, like he was walking, moving his feet faster and faster until the scene faded, and the words Appliance World appeared chiseled out of stone.
“Black dudes at the station call me the white James Brown.” Joyce had seen his commercials before. The girls in the office were talking about him one time, and Joyce finally admitted Larry was her cousin.
Amy, the office manager, had said, “What’s he like?”
“Full of himself. Larry’s head’s so big he couldn’t fit through the doorway. But he’s very insecure. Say something negative about him, he looks like he’s going to cry.”
Amy grinned. “Why’s he dance in the commercials?”
“I guess he thinks he’s good.”
“It’s really annoying.”
Joyce felt guilty for bad-mouthing him after Larry had taken her in — no questions asked, and said she could stay as long as she wanted. But he was having a party in a few hours and it was probably going to get wild and crazy.
“Ever see a pool full of drunk horny naked men committing unnatural acts?”
“Not in a couple days.”
“You want to?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Larry made them white wine spritzers they took outside and sat in comfortable chairs looking out at Lake Boca that was really a widened stretch of the Intracoastal. The sun was fading and she could see lights on in the highrises across the water. Larry said, “How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“Did something happen?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never been here before and you asked if you could stay for a while. So I figured something was wrong. Get it off your chest,” Larry said. “You’ll feel better.”
Joyce told him most of the story, starting with the Nazi death squad in the woods outside Dachau, and when she finished Larry said, “I knew about the concentration camp, but not the rest.” He sipped his spritzer. “This is an amazing story. Let me put your mind at ease. Armand was a former captain in the Cuban military. The Nazi shows up here it’s all over.”
Joyce could see Armand in a pillow fight maybe, but not locked in mortal combat with a crazed Nazi.
They had dinner on the terrace, paella with soft-shell crabs, watching boats cruise by on Lake Boca, Joyce looking at the glittering buildings in the distance. She let her guard down, felt relaxed for the first time in several days.
“So you’re selling real estate. How’re you doing?”
“Better when a Nazi murderer isn’t after me.”
“You’re funny,” Larry said. “Keeping your sense of humor even under duress.”
“I better or I’m going to crack up. What time’s your party start?”
“About nine. Stick around, you need to have some fun.”
“I don’t want to cramp your style.”
“That’s impossible. To say we’re uninhibited is an understatement.”
Joyce was in her room watching All in the Family when she heard the music come on, Tina Turner belting out “Proud Mary” at full volume. Joyce turned off the TV and walked out of the room, leaning over the railing, looking down at the living room empty of furniture and filled with dancing men. There were short stocky men, tall good-looking men, there were old men and young men, men dressed up and men dressed down and a few getting undressed, dancing in their undies. Joyce had never seen anything like it. She assumed they would all be tan and fit and good-looking, although Larry sure didn’t fit that stereotype.
Larry was dancing with a stocky dark-haired guy wearing hospital scrubs. He looked up and waved at her to join them. She was on the stairs when “Proud Mary” ended and “Rainy Days and Mondays” started. Now they were slow dancing with their arms wrapped around each other. Joyce was uncomfortable seeing men dancing close, a few couples making out.
She approached Larry, who stopped dancing and introduced her. “My cousin, Joyce. Joyce, Marty Rosenberg, my significant other.”
“Nice to meet you,” Marty said, eyes a-glitter, chest hair sprouting out of the V-neck of his scrub top.
“Get a drink,” Larry said. “Join us. Dance.”
“I will in a minute,” Joyce said. She went in the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine and went out to the terrace. It was warm and clear, Karen Carpenter’s voice blaring from outdoor speakers. To the left, fifty feet away, was the pool. Party guests were frolicking in the water and a naked guy was jumping on the diving board, his thing swinging up and down.
Hess drove to the house that was on the water, twenty minutes from Pompano, north on A1A. This was the address in Joyce’s address book, cousin Larry on Lake Drive. He had phoned earlier asking for her, saying he was from the real estate company, and was told she was napping. “Please do not disturb her,” Hess had said to the man with a Spanish accent who answered the phone.
He went back to Max Hoffman’s house, parked on the driveway, got out of the car and Lois Grant was standing there.
“I finally caught you,” she said smiling. And then the smile faded. “You’re not Max, who are you?”
“A friend from Cleveland. Max invited me to come down and get some sun while he’s away.”
“I wondered. I’ve called and called. I thought maybe something happened to him. Maybe he had a heart attack.”
“No, Max is fine,” Hess said. “Visiting relatives in Berlin.” That seemed to satisfy her.
“I’m Lois Grant, by the way.”
“I know all about you,” Hess said. “Max speaks very highly of you.”
Lois Grant smiled. “Does he? Nice meeting you, Mr.…”
“Emile Landau. And nice meeting you, Lois.”
After dinner, grilled hog snapper, French fries and two bottles of Lowenbrau, sitting at the counter at the Reef Grill, Hess drove back to Lake Drive in Boca. The street was lined with cars. It was difficult to find a place to park.
Hess moved to the house, looked in the front window and saw men stripped down to their underwear, dancing with each other in some kind of bacchanalian ritual. Hess was disgusted yet fascinated.
On the water side of the house he heard voices, laughing and shouts, and saw nude men chasing each other around the pool. He went back the other way across the front of the house and around the side. There was a long deck built off the rear of the house that extended all the way to the pool. Joyce Cantor was leaning on the railing, looking out at the water ten feet above him.