Hess stood in the dining room and listened. He heard a dog barking somewhere outside. He moved through the house, studying the furnishings in the salon, sleek leather chairs and sofa, chrome and glass end tables, antique rugs, Ushak and Tabriz, Mondrian reproductions framed in black metal, Bang & Olufsen sound system, antique deco clock on the fireplace mantel. White lacquered bookshelves built along the wall that met the fireplace, filled with encyclopedias, hardcover books. He moved to the Steinway grand piano that was positioned in front of the windows with a view of the street. A woman on the sidewalk passed by the house, walking a dog, a breed of poodle. A heavy truck rumbled by shaking the foundation.
He went back through the dining room into the kitchen. There was a table in front of the windows that looked out on the back yard, an island counter with three high-back chairs behind it on one side. Across the room was a small television on another counter built into the wall. Next to the TV was a phone and answering machine.
Hess pushed the message button and listened, skipping past sales solicitations until he heard a woman’s voice. “Harry, I did as you suggested. I’m still on the island but in a safe place. When are you coming to Florida?” Very soon, Hess said to himself.
He walked into the foyer, stairs to the left, front-door alcove to the right. Behind him was a small wood-paneled room with a fireplace. He walked up the stairs to the second floor, photographs in frames on the wall, Hess stopping, studying them, the daughter, he guessed, in a series of pictures from a baby to a young woman. He entered the room at the top of the stairs. Still enough light to see this was where the daughter had slept. Thinking about her, the irony of it, the automobile accident bringing Hess and Harry Levin back together.
He heard something and moved to the window. He looked down and saw a car, lights on, in the driveway, stopping next to the house. A woman got out carrying something, approached the side door and rang the bell.
Hess ran down the stairs to the foyer. He heard the bell ring a second time and then the sound of a key in the lock. He was in the hallway moving toward the kitchen when the door opened and closed.
“Harry, it’s me, are you here?” The accent sounded Russian. “I bring dinner.”
He was in the foyer, looking through a doorway down a short hall into the kitchen. He saw her walk past him, carrying a tray covered with aluminum foil. She placed the tray on the island counter in the center of the room, removed her coat and draped it on the back of a chair. She moved to the left and disappeared from view. He heard a cupboard door open and close, and heard the clinking of glass bottles. She reappeared with a bottle in one hand and a cocktail glass in the other. She placed them on the island counter next to the tray.
He heard the refrigerator door open and the rattle of ice. She came back to the counter and dropped a handful of ice cubes into the cocktail glass. She unscrewed the cap on the bottle and poured what appeared to be vodka over the ice.
Hess had admired Harry Levin’s taste in automobiles, his furnishings and now his taste in women. In another situation he would have liked to join her for an evening cocktail, but whisky, not vodka. What was he going to do? She appeared to be settling in, expecting Harry Levin’s imminent arrival.
The foyer was dark, he moved, bumped the open door with his hip and it hit the wall with a dull thud. The woman turned and glanced through the doorway in his direction.
“Harry, is that you?”
She placed her drink on the counter and walked toward the foyer as Hess retreated into the salon.
“Is someone there?”
She came into the room. It was dark but not completely. Sitting in a leather chair, he reached over and turned on a lamp that was on the table next to him.
“I must have fallen asleep,” Hess said, using his Southern accent. “I thought I heard someone.”
“You scare the hell out of me,” the woman said. “Who are you?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. I’m Ray, friend of Harry’s, staying here for a few days. I’m in the scrap business. Yard down in Ohio.”
“Harry did not mention you were here.”
“He didn’t mention you either.”
“Come have a drink with me.”
“I don’t mind if I do,” Hess said, hands on the armrests, pushing himself out of the chair.
“You hungry? I have a nice brisket and roast potatoes.”
“Well this is my lucky night, isn’t it?” Hess said.
Harry borrowed a bolt cutter from Jerry Dubuque, Jerry saying, “What the hell’re you going to do with that?”
“Cut some bolts,” Harry said. “What do you think?”
“Aren’t you the same guy that said the only Jew you know who uses tools is your dentist?”
“This is an exception.”
“You need help, call me.”
When Phyllis left for the day Harry wrapped the bolt cutter in brown paper and put it in Jerry’s car. He had talked to Bob Stark earlier about Cordell’s legal problems.
“Harry, it’s complicated. He was arrested for selling heroin, looking at five years. Would’ve ended up doing two and a half. But Cordell’s attorney was smart. He told the judge his client’s father had taken off and his mother was a drug addict. Cordell was a victim of circumstances. Wants to make something of himself. Offered to enlist in the army in lieu of incarceration. The judge agreed. But the felony remains on his record. When the police found him outside the nightclub he was carrying a concealed weapon, so they’ve got him on the weapon charge. And since he was arrested for selling heroin, which is a felony, they’ve also got him on felon in possession of a firearm. If convicted he’s looking at five to seven and a half.”
“Can you get him out on bond in the meantime?”
“That’s what I’m looking into. It’s going to take a little time. The court thinks he’s a flight risk. You would be too, you had that hanging over your head.”
He drove to Lelli’s on Woodward for a late dinner. Had a bowl of their wonderful minestrone, spaghetti and meatballs, a green salad and two glasses of house red, lingered over coffee, paid his check and walked out at 10:45. He drove to Detroit Receiving, parked on St Antoine, the street quiet, deserted. Got out with the bolt cutter wrapped in brown paper, about three feet long, hoped it looked like a gift. And now wished he’d thought to put a bow on it. Would’ve been a nice touch.
A black security guard was smoking a cigarette outside the main entrance. Harry walked in the lobby, nobody at the reception counter. A sign said, Admittance, with an arrow pointing down a hallway. He walked thirty yards and came to a reception area with chairs and couches. To the left was a bank of four elevators. He got in one and rode up to the third floor.
The hall was dark. The only sound he heard was his shoes on the tile floor. The nurses’ station was straight ahead, three RNs standing there, one in front of the counter, two behind it. He ducked into the waiting room on his left. It was dark. The TV was on, a Western starring John Wayne, low volume. Black man stretched out on one of the couches, sleeping. Harry could hear him snoring. He sat in a chair with the bolt cutter in his lap, watching the nurses’ station. One by one the nurses disappeared, checking patients, going on rounds.
Harry got up and made his move, crossed the hallway. There were half a dozen wheelchairs lined up. He grabbed one, put the bolt cutter on the seat and wheeled it down the dark hall lined with patients sleeping on gurneys. He opened the door to 308, pushed the chair in and closed it. The man in the first bed was on his back asleep.