"It sounds as though as soon as Kari told him someone was looking for him, he tried to beat it, but the killer or killers got to him first," I concluded.
"Sounds like," Jacek agreed, "but why would he be getting the boat ready to ship out when he already had a plane ticket stashed in his car?"
"Good question." And it was.
"And what about those Wiesenthal guys," Jacek continued. "I always thought they played it straight up."
"So did I, and so does everyone else," I told him. "But it occurs to me that having an international reputation for being absolutely above suspicion is a reasonable reason for checking them out, don't you think?"
"You do have a point," Jacek allowed grudgingly. "An organization like that is bound to have an occasional bad apple or else someone who tags along behind them. We should look into that. Can you go interview them?"
"Sure. If I can find them."
"And how do you do that?"
"Beats me. Call the FBI, maybe? I'll give it some thought. If I come up with any bright ideas, I'll let you know, and you do the same. In the meantime, now that my day off is totally screwed, I could just as well drop by Else Gebhardt's and ask for the use of one of her husband's soldiers."
"What soldiers?"
Oops. "Didn't I tell you about the toy soldiers down in Gunter Gebhardt's basement?"
"Not that I remember."
"They're handmade replicas of Nazi soldiers," I said, making up for my oversight in not telling him earlier. "As far as I can determine, making those miniatures was Gunter's sole hobby. Last night, when I was talking to Lorenzo, I had this sudden brainstorm that maybe they were made of gold, just like that wrench Bonnie Elgin found after the hit-and-run. And where better to hide them than in plain sight?"
"You think they're made from all those melteddown teeth?" Jacek sounded aghast. Even second- and third-hand, Kari and Michael's revelations about Sobibor had hit Stan Jacek as hard as they'd hit me. "That's nauseating. How could he?"
"That's a question I don't even want to think about," I told him.
"But it adds up," Jacek said eventually. "Are you going to check it out, or shall I?"
"I'm closer," I told him.
So when I got off the phone with Detective Jacek, I simply put my jacket back on and headed for the parking garage. Duty called. At least that's what I told myself all the way downstairs in the elevator.
Even though it was early November and winter cold, at least it wasn't raining. So during that chill afternoon drive to Blue Ridge, I had to make my way around the last few end-of-season die-hard garage sales. And once I reached Culpeper Court, I expected to have to fight my way through another collection of friends and relatives to gain admittance to the Gebhardt residence. To my surprise, no one seemed to be around.
More surprising still was the orange, black, and white FOR SALE BY OWNER sign that had been stapled to a wooden stake and hammered into Gunter Gebhardt's otherwise-pristine front lawn.
Because of my job as a homicide cop, I naturally come in contact with lots of grieving relatives and friends. I have more than a nodding acquaintance with several of this city's best-known grief counselors. They differ on some points, but they all agree in advising traumatized relatives to avoid making any precipitous decisions about moving out of the family home or selling property too soon after the death of a loved one.
In the days and weeks following a death-sudden or otherwise-the decision-making faculties may be badly impaired by the overwhelming weight of confusion and loss. Sad but true, there are plenty of vultures loose in the world who make their fortunes by finding and preying on such people.
Even knowing how unwelcome unsolicited advice can be, I was determined to give Else Gebhardt the benefit of my feelings in that regard. I stepped up onto the front porch and rang the bell.
Else answered the door herself, dust rag in one hand and broom in the other. "Why, BoBo," she said, "what are you doing here?"
She seemed to be in far better emotional shape than I would have imagined, so there was no point in shilly-shallying around. "I came to see if you'd lend me a sampling of Gunter's soldiers," I said, going straight to the heart of the matter. "I want to have it analyzed down at the crime lab to see if there's any way to trace the source of the metal."
Else led me into the freshly cleaned living room where vacuum-cleaner tracks still lingered on the carpet. The furniture had been totally rearranged.
"Cleaning seems to make me feel better. I need to be doing something instead of just sitting around brooding," she explained, putting the dust rag down and motioning for me to take a seat on the sofa.
"Now what's this about tracing the metal the soldiers are made of?" Else asked, once she was seated beside me. "Why would that be so important? They're just made out of lead, aren't they?"
I couldn't bring myself to answer that question straight out. Else wasn't ready to hear about Sobibor, and I certainly wasn't ready to tell her. Before I spoke, I listened for the sounds of other people at home, but the house was quiet. We seemed to be alone.
"I'm not entirely sure, but it might be," I hedged. "We have to check everything."
"Well," Else answered, "you're too late. They're gone."
"Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"I sold them, not two hours ago. I wanted them out of my house. If they had asked for anything else of Gunter's, I would have sold that, too." Else's voice was bitter.
"You sold them?" I must have sounded like a witless echo. "To whom?"
"To some men who came by to look at the house."
"What men? Who were they? Someone you knew?"
"Two men, an older gentleman and a younger one. They said they were driving in the neighborhood and saw my sign. I had just put it up half an hour earlier. The young man is getting married in a couple of months, and his parents are going to help them buy a house."
"You showed the house to them, then. The whole thing? Even the basement?"
"Of course I showed them the basement. And while we were down there, they happened to see Gunter's soldiers. They both got very excited about them. Evidently, someone in their family collects miniature soldiers."
"German soldiers," I added.
"Yes, well, maybe the men are German, too, come to think of it. At least the older one might be. It sounded like it anyway. He spoke with what sounded like a German accent."
"But the younger one didn't?"
"No. He's American. I'm sure of it."
A younger man and an older; one with a German accent and one without. Else's description sounded more than vaguely similar to Michael and Kari's portrayal of the two Simon Wiesenthal operatives who had visited their apartment in Bellingham.
"Did the younger one happen to have brown curly hair?" I asked.
Else frowned. "As a matter of fact, he did," she answered. "Why, do you know something about him?"
I did know some things, and I suspected much more. Why the hell hadn't I acted immediately on my hunch about those damn toy soldiers? They probably were solid gold.
Knowing I'd been totally outmaneuvered, I asked Else the bottom-line question, even though I didn't really want to know the answer. "How much did you sell the soldiers for?"
"Five hundred dollars for the whole shebang," she answered, with a smile that showed she was pleased with the bargain she'd struck. "Cash and carry. The two of them loaded the soldiers into boxes and took them away. Now I'll be able to use those shelves to display stuff in a few weeks when I have my moving sale."
That was probably the opening when I could have administered my prepared lecture about the evils of making too-hasty decisions; when I should have warned her that if she acted too quickly, she might be taken to the cleaners. I didn't waste my breath. There wasn't much sense in going to the bother when, likely as not, the cleaners had already come and gone.