“I do not want her involved in any of this. The reporters have been hounding us. Even friends have turned against her.”
“Does your husband correspond with anyone in South America? Can you recall receiving mail from any South American countries?”
“What do you mean?”
“Many Nazis escaped to South America after the war.” Eichmann had fled to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and Josef Mengele, the Angel of Death, had gone to Argentina before settling in Hohenhau, Paraguay.
“Why would Ernst associate with murderers? He is a respected member of the Christian Social Union.” Frau Hess paused. “Is there anything else?”
Zeller noticed a hook on the bare wall behind Frau Hess, and dusty lines where a picture had hung. “I’m just curious, what did you have hanging on the wall?”
“A painting. It was Ernst’s. He must have taken it with him.”
“Do you know the name of the painting or who the artist is?”
“It was a Van Gogh.”
“Can you describe it?”
“I never liked it and it’s just as well that it’s gone.”
Three
“Harry, there’s a guy named Zeller here to see you,” Phyllis said. “Where’s he from?”
“Didn’t say. The way he talks I thought you knew him.”
“He’s a salesman,” Harry said. “That’s what they do. They make it sound like they’re your friend. Probably wants to sell us a new baling press or guillotine shear. Tell him I’m busy, I’ve been out of town, I have to catch up.” That was all true. It was his second day back after two weeks in Florida, laying on the beach and laying on top of Colette. He was tan and relaxed, trying to ease back into the work world. The scrap business and everything about it seemed absurd in his current state of mind, thinking it was time to sell the company, move on, do something else. He had a pile of transaction reports to review, trying to find the motivation to do it. Wasn’t in the mood to talk to a salesman, listen to his pitch.
“I told him, Harry. He said he’d wait in the lobby.”
Harry heard a dog bark.
“I had to bring Lily with me today,” Phyllis said. “Her has a tuminache. She’ll be good though, won’t you?” The dog growled. “Yes, her will.”
Whoever the guy was he’d get tired of sitting there. Phyllis had referred to it as the lobby, but in fact it was a claustrophobic six-by-eight-foot space with off-white cinderblock walls, one featuring a framed watercolor of a ship docked at sunset an old girlfriend had bought for him at an art fair in Traverse City. There were also two uncomfortable, chrome-framed teal Naugahyde chairs, circa ’63, that had been in Harry’s basement.
He was trying to concentrate on the reports when the phone rang twenty minutes later. “Harry, he’s still here.”
“Close your window, ignore him.” There was a sill with a double glass window on the wall next to Phyllis’ desk. One side slid open so Phyllis could talk to whoever came in. Harry was going to say, you want to get rid of the guy, take Lily out there, have her piss on his leg, but Phyllis the dog-lover would’ve taken offense.
An hour later Phyllis buzzed him on the intercom. “All clear, Harry. He left.” It was 4:15. “I’m going to leave a few minutes early, you don’t mind. I want to take Lily to the vet on the way home.”
At 4:30 Harry decided to call it a day, too. He was going to the bank in the morning right from his house, withdraw twenty-five grand to buy scrap, keep the business going. He took the .357 Colt out of the Mosler safe that was bolted to the floor behind his desk. Held the gun, pushed the latch forward and the cylinder popped open. There were three spent shell casings. Two had gone through the French door of the Frankels’ master bedroom in Palm Beach, through the Italian armoire, the stucco inner wall and brick outer wall, and were probably somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. The third round had blown Hess off his feet and ended his life.
He tapped the shells out, grasped the cylinder with his right hand and fed three Remington 125-grain .357 cartridges into the empty chambers. Swung the cylinder closed with his left hand and heard it click.
When he got outside Harry threw the spent shell casings onto the mountain of scrap metal behind the building, and watched the last semi rumble out of the yard. His crew, through for the day, were putting equipment back in the warehouse.
Phyllis had hired a Vietnam vet named Archie Damman to work the scale after Jerry was killed. It wasn’t a done deal, but Harry liked what he saw. This guy Damman put in the hours and seemed to know what he was doing.
He thought about Colette as he cruised through Hamtramck on his way to the freeway, couldn’t wait to see her. She had driven back from Florida with him, and made the trip fun. He enjoyed spending time with her, had gotten used to having her around, and missed her when he went back to work. This was new for Harry. He’d thought about it, analyzed it and decided he’d had trouble with previous relationships because everyone he’d been close to had been killed. He’d dated a lot of girls in the eighteen years since Anna had died, but most of the relationships had lasted less than a month.
Harry didn’t know what was going to happen with Colette. Her career was in Germany and he’d been kicked out of the country, and they had only been together for a couple weeks, but he sure liked her. She was going back to Munich in a few days and that would be their first real test.
On the way home Harry stopped at the cemetery and stood in front of Sara’s gravestone. He hadn’t been here since she’d been buried almost seven weeks ago. He still couldn’t believe it, but there was her name etched in black marble.
Sara A. Levin 1953-1971
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Sara should’ve been standing here looking at Harry’s grave. He picked up some twigs and leaves on the ground and put them in his coat pocket. “How’re you doing, honey? You doing all right?” He paused, feeling self-conscious. Was this crazy, talking to Sara like this? No, Harry said to himself. It’s okay. “I met somebody, a girl named Colette. I think you’d like her.” He paused. “I miss you.”
Colette was on the couch in Harry’s den, having her lunch, chicken salad on lettuce and tomato, watching a soap opera called General Hospital, when she heard the doorbell, stood up still watching the television, looked out the front window and saw a white van parked in the driveway. It said Acme Carpet Cleaning on the side in brown letters. The doorbell rang again. Harry didn’t mention anything about having his carpets cleaned. Maybe they had the wrong address.
From the back hall Colette could see a man in a red cap through the glass panes in the door. He saw her and waved but she sensed that something was wrong. Colette moved into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed Harry’s office number. She heard the side door open, and the sound of footsteps. Heard Harry’s secretary say, “S&H Scrap Metal Recyclers, how may I direct your call?” The phone was taken from her and replaced in the cradle. There were two of them. They picked her up, carried her into the living room and rolled her up in one of Harry’s antique rugs, legs pressed together, arms pinned to her sides. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe, started to panic.
They never said a word, picked her up and carried her outside. She could feel a cool breeze blow through the open ends of the rug and it calmed her a little. They slid her in the back of the van and closed the doors. Colette heard them get in the front, heard the engine start and felt the van move, backing down the driveway. All she could think — it had to be retaliation for the article she had written about Hess. But how would anyone know she was staying with Harry? She didn’t tell her editor, didn’t even tell her mother.