Cordell felt pain in his shoulder and leg before he opened his eyes and saw her, cute little white girl sitting in a chair, smiling at him. “Who’re you?”
“Franny, Harry’s niece. He asked me to check on you, see how you’re doing.”
“Been better.”
“I’m a nurse. Let me see your wounds.”
She got up, came over to the couch. Took three aspirin out a bottle on the end table, put them in his hand and gave him a glass of water.
“This should help take the edge off.”
He swallowed the aspirin and drank some water, handed her the glass. “What hospital you work at?”
“Providence, but I’m still in school. Not registered yet.”
“Know what you’re doing?” Cordell said.
She gave him a look like, pardon me? Pulled the blue hospital blanket down, lifted his gown and pulled the bandage off his thigh. Stared at it, poked the skin around it. Pulled the bandage off his forearm, looked at the little hole‚ was black ’n’ blue around it. Lifted his arm, checked the other side where the bullet came out. She slipped his right arm out of the gown and checked his shoulder and nodded.
“Am I gonna make it, Doc?”
She grinned. “Looks good. You’re healing well.”
“Motherfucker itches.”
“That’s normal. I want to take you upstairs, put you in a hot tub.”
She helped him up to the bathroom, filled the tub with warm water and Epsom salt, and helped him in.
“Just soak for a while.”
Girl was cool. Didn’t seem nervous seein’ a naked brother. “Want to go out some time?”
“I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“I’ll teach you how to do the Freaky Deaky.”
“I already know it,” Franny said. “If you don’t keep your freak clean you might get shot.”
“How you know about that?”
“I read it in the paper. Call me when you want to get out,” she said, stepped into the hall and closed the door.
When the police left Harry paged through a stack of transaction reports and shippers Jerry had put on his desk the day before. Without Jerry he’d have to put Phyllis in charge for a few days. She could handle it. He gave her a couple blank checks and told her to get more money when she needed it.
“Harry.” Phyllis on the intercom. “Someone named Joyce is on the phone for you.”
“Put her through.” He picked up the receiver. “How you doing?”
“Going out of my mind.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m staying at a friend’s house on the island. Let me give you the address and phone number.”
Harry wrote it down.
“Have you seen Hess? Is he there?”
“No.” He didn’t want to worry her.
“When are you coming down?”
“Tomorrow. Hang in there.”
It was 10:37 a.m. when he got home. Galina’s car was gone. Harry was now convinced that she’d had one too many and walked home. Cordell was on the couch in the den, watching TV, eating a bowl of cereal.
“You’re looking good.”
“Feelin’ better, thanks to your niece. She’s something, Harry.”
“You see a woman come by and get her car that was parked in the driveway?”
“No, but I’ve been noddin’ off.”
“I don’t want to ruin your day but the police are looking for you. And unless I’m wrong they’re going to be coming here with a warrant.”
“What do got in mind?” Cordell said.
“You up to traveling?”
“Depends on where you talkin’.”
“Palm Beach.”
“I can get next to that.” Cordell said. “Already packed. One question. How we getting there?”
Harry checked his messages, one from Colette.
“I’m still in Bergheim. My mother is in the hospital. Call me when you can. I’ll explain everything.”
He tried her again. No answer.
Hess could feel the hot humid air as he stepped out of the aircraft into the jet way at 3:30 p.m. He had had a window seat, and enjoyed seeing the blue ocean, the green palm trees, and the orange tile roofs of Palm Beach as the plane came in for a landing. He had checked out of the Statler Hotel in Detroit, driven to the airport, returned the Chevrolet Malibu to Avis. Three hours later he was in Florida. No customs agents asking questions this time.
He walked through the terminal to baggage claim and waited for his suitcase. He had disassembled the Walther and wrapped each piece in an article of clothing. He waited outside for a bus to take him to the Hertz lot, surprised how warm and bright it was after being in Detroit.
He rented a Lincoln Town Car that drove like a bus, cruising with the windows down to Palm Beach, checking in at the Breakers, a lavish architectural gem on the Atlantic Ocean. He insisted on a room with an ocean view and stood staring out the window, watching waves roll onto the shore.
Hess unpacked his suitcase and assembled the Walther, locking the weapon in a safe in the closet. His clothes were inappropriate, too heavy for the warm climate. He had seen a men’s shop downstairs off the lobby, and went there, purchasing golf shirts, one red, the other yellow, a pair of aviator sunglasses, khaki trousers, sandals and a black golf cap with the Breakers logotype on the front. He returned to the room, changing into the red golf shirt, the khaki trousers, the cap and sunglasses, studying himself in the mirror, amazed at the transformation, seeing a pale fifty-year-old American tourist.
Worth Avenue was one-way. He parked on the north side twenty meters from Cocoanut Row. It was 5:15. Sunset Realty was on the corner next to an Italian restaurant. He studied color photographs of homes for sale in the windows of the real-estate office. He could see a dozen desks through the glass but only three were occupied — all by women on the phone. He opened the door and went inside, saw a stack of elegant brochures in a metal display rack. Take one, it said. He did, and walked out.
Hess sat in the Town Car, studying a map of Palm Beach. He turned right on Cocoanut Row and right on Peruvian Avenue, and drove all the way to South Ocean Boulevard, gazing out at the ocean, feeling an easterly breeze, whitecaps breaking out to sea. He turned right again, passed the Winthrop House, Frau Cantor’s residence, driving along the water, glancing at the oceanfront estates, trying not to drive off the road.
He turned around and went back to Worth Avenue, parked next to the seawall, smelled the salty breeze. The Winthrop House was across the street. The apartments had balconies. Hess wondered if he would see her, wondered would he recognize her if he did. He had seen her the one time on Leopoldstrasse in Munich. At first he thought she was drunk, coming at him the way she did. People on the street had stopped and taken notice. How could they not? A crazy woman was raising her voice, accusing him of being a Nazi murderer. Instead of confronting her he had walked away, hailed a taxi.
Rausch had followed her and found out her name and where she lived. Hess was certain he had killed her that night in Washington DC, and was surprised weeks later when he discovered she was still alive.
Hess went back to the Breakers, sat in the bar sipping a Martini, cold gin and vermouth, two olives. He was paging through the real-estate brochure, glancing at photographs of premium properties.
Mediterranean-style waterfront compound, stunning white stucco with red tile roof, 387 feet of ocean frontage, 10,287 square feet, 8 bedrooms, 10 bathrooms, pool, tennis court. Listing #1137.
The next one:
Oceanfront Estate, 288 feet of frontage, 8,940 square feet, 2-bedroom pool house, 60-foot Italian marble pool, 7 bedrooms, 11 bathrooms. Listing #1089. Listing Agent: Joyce Cantor
A color photograph of her, head and shoulders, pretty face and radiant smile, late forties. No sign of the ranting lunatic accusing him on Leopoldstrasse.