Anke studied the image. “Nothing.” And handed it back to Colette. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Hess must have stolen it during the war.”
“How do you know it belongs to Ernst? The Nazis confiscated thousands of paintings and works of art from occupied countries.”
“Where are the other paintings?”
“I only know about one. It was a Durer Ernst sold to an art broker in New York City. I was with him.”
“Who’s the broker?”
“I can’t remember his name. He had a gallery on Park Avenue.”
“Did Hess say where he got it?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. There was no reason to. Ernst is wealthy.”
“Did you travel with him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where did he take you?”
“A lot of places. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Gstaad, and one time, a villa in Nice.”
Neither Colette nor her colleagues at Der Spiegel had been able to find any record that Hess owned property other than the apartment in Munich and the estate in Schleissheim. “Where is the villa?”
“In the hills northwest of the city. It was owned by someone else.”
“Do you remember the address?”
“No. Ernst brought me there one time years ago.”
“Did Hess mention the name of the owner?”
“I think it was Victor.” Anke paused, thinking. “No, not Victor. Vincent. Vincent Chartier.”
“Did you meet him?”
“No. I saw the name on a bill for electricity or water, I don’t remember. I said, ‘Ernst, who is Vincent Chartier?’ And he said, ‘The man who owns the villa.’ And I said, ‘How do you know him?’ He said, ‘Monsieur Chartier is a friend.’”
“And that was it? You never discussed it again?”
“There was no reason to.”
“Does Ernst Hess speak French?”
“Yes, fluently.”
Twenty-four
“Can you give us a minute?” Harry asked the nurse, a 250-pound black woman who wasn’t happy to see him in Joyce’s room, even though Conlin had cleared it with the hospital.
“You a relative?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. After all they’d been through together he felt related to her.
“Okay, but be quick. This patient needs her bed rest.” The nurse gave Harry a dirty look and walked out of the room.
“Harry, it was Hess,” Joyce said in a tiny voice that was barely audible next to the whooshing, thumping machines behind her bed.
Harry held her hand. “You saw him?”
“And I got his license number.” She whispered it and Harry said it back to her and she tried to nod.
“Did you tell the police?”
“I don’t think so,” Joyce said, lids heavy, eyes glazed. She was drugged, out of it. “Harry, I’m afraid. Hess is going to find out I’m still alive. He’s going to come back and finish me.”
“The Nazis couldn’t kill you in the woods that day outside Dachau, and Hess couldn’t do it last night.”
“I’ve used up two lives at least. How many more do I get?”
“As many as you need. Don’t worry. The police are taking this seriously. There’ll be a cop outside your door twenty four-hours a day.”
“Harry, you always make me feel better. What are you going to do?”
“Get out of here before that nurse comes back and beats me up.”
Conlin had phoned his hotel room, woke him up at 6:15, told Harry what had happened. Joyce was in critical but stable condition, lucky to be alive.
Now, they were down the hall in an empty hospital waiting room. Conlin said, “If it’s the same guy, and we think it is, he’s popped seven. Two inches to the left, Ms. Cantor would’ve been eight. I’ve got to believe you’re on his short list along with the colored guy.” Conlin paused, holding Harry in his gaze. “We know he’s not an auto-parts salesman named Gerd Klaus. Who is he?”
“His name’s Ernst Hess, a Nazi wanted for crimes against humanity.”
“I saw him on the news. Why didn’t you tell me this when he killed the security guard and the realtor?”
“I thought he was dead. That was the end of it.”
“You’re the one who shot him, aren’t you? That seemed obvious when I found out you’re licensed to carry a firearm.”
“It was either him or me.”
“What’s your connection with the Nazi?”
“Hess and his men killed six hundred Jews in the woods outside Dachau in 1943. Joyce and I were there, buried in a mass grave. We crawled out and escaped.”
“You know where he’s at, don’t you? Planning to go over with the Mag, draw on him again. But that isn’t going to happen. We’re going to arrest him.”
“I have no idea where he is, but I’ve got his license number. L50 56E.”
“Probably stole the car. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Conlin walked out of the waiting room and went down the hall to the nurses’ station. Harry could see him talking and gesturing. One of the nurses handed him a phone.
Conlin came back ten minutes later. “Car belongs to Max Hoffman, lives in Pompano Beach. That sound familiar?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Address on NE 5th Street. Know where that’s at?”
Harry waited down the street in Conlin’s car while the SWATs went in and secured the house. No one was home. And Max’s car, a 1970 Chrysler New Yorker, was missing. After the SWATs had gone Harry and Conlin were on the driveway next to the house. Harry saw a woman coming toward them from next door.
“Hello, I’m Lois Grant, I live right there. Is there a problem? Did something happen to Max’s cousin?”
Conlin said, “Who are you talking about?”
“Emile. He’s been staying here while Max is in Germany, visiting relatives.”
Conlin said, “Did Max tell you he was going?”
“No, that’s the strange part. He never said a word.”
Harry said, “How well do you know him?”
“We’re buddies. I make him cookies and cobbler, we have dinner together, go to the track.”
Conlin said, “Would he leave town without telling you?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so but he did.”
And maybe he didn’t, Harry was thinking. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“It’s been almost a week.”
Conlin unfolded an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven piece of paper and handed it to Lois. Her eyes lit up. “That’s him.”
It was the passport photograph of Hess.
“He looks just like Max,” Lois said.
A Pompano Beach police officer approached Conlin and told him they had found Max Hoffman’s Chrysler in long-term parking at the Fort Lauderdale airport.
Conlin glanced at Harry. “You know him. Where do you think he’s going?”
“No clue,” Harry said. “But I’ll bet anything he’s traveling as Max Hoffman.” He paused. “I’d get the manifest for every flight that took off from Lauderdale today.”
Instinct told Cordell to leave the sunshine state even before he saw High-Step’s body in the morgue. High had been shot fourteen times, the Colombians sending a message. He had stopped by High’s crib, with crime-scene tape in the shape of an X over the front door, and more tape that said Don’t cross this line strung behind the house, some windows blown out, bullet holes in the ones that were still there.
Cordell drove to the Coconut Grove police station, asked the desk sergeant what happened to Carlos Bass, lives over on Bonita Avenue. He made a call and a Detective McBride came out, nice-looking white girl about thirty-five, took him to a room like the rooms he’d been taken to at the police station in Detroit. Asked him did he want something to drink, coffee, glass of water. He said, no thanks.