The next stop was Sportree’s Bar. After that, a nightclub called the Parizian on Linwood. Hess parked across the street, watching the blacks, reminding him of an African tribe with their bright-colored clothing, high Afros, neck chains and jewelry. He watched them strut around like peacocks. Groups of them standing outside, men and women, smoking and talking, shaking hands in some ritual motion. A parade of automobiles stopping, two or three at a time, Negros getting out, moving toward the door, and when it opened he could hear the high-pitched scream of a trumpet or the thumping of drums.
Cordell Sims entered the club at 9:30 and came out at 11:15, escorting a woman with an Afro, short dress accentuating her long legs. Hess opened the door and got out of the Malibu, waited for traffic to clear, crossed the street and followed them, the sidewalk deserted. He saw them get into Cordell’s dark-blue Dodge. Hess drew the weapon, holding it at arm’s length down his leg, approaching the car from behind, crouching along the driver’s side, looking through the window. Cordell and the woman were kissing. He brought the Walther up and fired five times through the windscreen, shattering the glass.
Headlights were approaching. He slid the gun in his pocket and crossed the street.
Thirty-one
Harry got back from a meeting with his US steel client in Pittsburgh at 3:30 in the afternoon, stopped at the yard on his way home. He walked in the office and Phyllis told him there was a message for him on the answering machine.
“Here, want to listen to it?” She pressed the button.
“Harry, Cordell. What’s going on? I hear you came by. Miss me already? I’ll get back to you.”
It was Cordell’s voice but Harry had no idea what he was talking about, had expected him to call back but he didn’t.
“And some guy named Ray Meade,” Phyllis said. “Southern accent.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He sounded like you were friends.”
“That’s what salesmen do.”
That evening, Harry was going through the main section of the Detroit News and saw a one-column article with a headline that said:
The article went on to explain how the victims, Cordell Sims, twenty-one, and Rochelle Campbell, twenty, both from Detroit, had walked out of the Parizian nightclub on Linwood Avenue, entered Mr. Sims’ 1970 Dodge, and, according to witnesses, were shot by a lone gunman. Ms. Campbell was dead on arrival at Henry Ford Hospital. Mr. Sims remained in critical condition. Police were investigating.
Harry figured the shooting might be payback for something in Cordell’s past, his days selling heroin. Still, it made him uneasy. Made him think of Hess. He took the Colt out of his coat. Walked around the house checking the windows and doors, making sure they were locked. Looked out at the front yard from his bedroom. There was a Chevy he’d never seen before parked on the street. It wasn’t one of the neighbors’. Was he being paranoid?
He checked the back of the house, glancing down at the patio, and the back yard that had a five-foot-high wooden fence around the perimeter. It was too dark to see anything. He went downstairs, moved through the dining room to the French doors and saw someone on the patio, looking in the kitchen windows.
He drew the Colt, went out the side door on the driveway, came around the back of the house and saw Galina in a trench coat, warm September night. He lowered the gun, she hadn’t seen it, slipped it in his pants pocket. “Galina, what’re you doing?”
“I want to surprise you, Harry.”
“You did.”
She stepped toward him, wrapped her arms around him. He stood rigid.
“What’s the matter? I think you would be happy to see me.”
“I thought you were a burglar.”
“Harry, you don’t even lock your door.” She frowned. “And you are not glad to see me. I can see it in your face.”
He wasn’t in the mood. “I have something I have to do tonight. Can I call you tomorrow?”
She opened her trench coat and flashed him. “What you are missing.”
He knew what he was missing. He watched her walk across the backyard. She went through the gate in the fence and disappeared. He walked back around the house to the front, scanned the street. The Chevy was gone.
Harry decided it was time to call Joyce, tell her what was going on. He dialed the number Stark had given him.
Heard a soft, quiet voice say, “Hello.”
“Joyce, it’s Harry Levin.”
Silence for a beat. “Harry, my God, what is going on, where are you?” She sounded upset.
“Detroit.”
“I’ve tried calling Lisa Martz like thirty times. It just rings. I’ve been going crazy. I contacted the Munich police, they wouldn’t tell me anything. Harry, I’ve been dying to talk to you.”
He decided to give it to her straight. “The Nazi you saw on Leopoldstrasse, his name is Ernst Hess. He was in charge of the killing squad that day in the woods outside Dachau. And he’s now a politician in Bavaria.” Harry paused. “Hess killed your ex-husband and his fiancée, thinking she was you.”
“My God.” She paused. “It never occurred to me.”
“Why would it?” He took a breath. “Hess killed Lisa, her father and her partners.”
“Do you think he’s coming for us?”
“I don’t know. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“We’ll go to the police.”
“And tell them what? Have you seen Hess? Has he threatened you?”
“This is crazy. No one can help us? What are we going to do?”
“Do you have a friend you can stay with? Somewhere you can go till I can get down there?”
“I’m a realtor. I have listings and appointments.”
“Have someone cover for you. You’ve got to get out of there. Pack a bag and leave as soon as you can. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t go near your office.”
Harry slept with the Colt on the table next to his bed. Thought it was preferable to putting it under his pillow, squeeze the trigger in the middle of the night, blow his head off. He took it in the bathroom the next morning when he showered, needed to get used to having it with him.
He got to the yard early. Talked to Jerry Dubuque. Jerry ran the operation, made sure they had enough scrap to keep up with demand, made sure the trucks were loaded and the deliveries were on time. Harry ran the business, handled the clients, took care of the payables and receivables, made sure they had enough cash to buy what they needed.
Jerry came in the office, sat across the desk from him. He had started dressing like Harry, wearing khakis and blue button-down-collar shirts, black loafers and Wayfarer sunglasses. Phyllis had noticed too and mentioned it.
“Hey, I haven’t had a chance to ask, how was your vacation? Went to Germany, right? What’d you do?”
Harry said, “Visited my old neighborhood.”
“I was toying with the idea of going to the Olympics next year. What do you think?”
“Better get your tickets.” Harry sipped his coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. “Let me ask you something. See anything suspicious the past couple days?”
Jerry frowned. “Like what?”
“Like seeing the same car keep driving by.” It sounded lame. He should’ve thought this through a little better.
“Where’re you going with this?”
“Like somebody stopping out front, looking around.” That didn’t sound much better.
“Harry, what the hell’re you talking about?”
Phyllis opened the door, came in, closed it and whispered, “Harry, there’s a detective out here wants to talk to you.”