The Grey Falcon

by J. C. Williams

  This time around took even longer.

  Chad looked over the ceiling. No recent repairs. His eye caught the heating vents. He was reminded of another quest and the vent in a York hotel room. He found a step stool, a flashlight, and tools. Sixteen vents later, he still had nothing.

  He re-examined the bathrooms. There had been some remodeling in the last ten years. The tubs now had an enclosure with an access panel. He didn’t feel lucky, but he looked inside. Nothing.

  Chad sat wearily at a six-seat dining table. It was piled with boxes. Absentmindedly, he started to sort through the boxes. It appeared they were personal items left by Aunt Berni. In the third box he found several pictures in frames and a small stack of photos lying loose.

  One framed picture was of two couples. He estimated the time period was the nineties. The men looked similar, one older than the other. Christoph’s father and uncle? He thought so because there was a resemblance to a picture he saw at Elsa’s apartment of her, a small girl, and Christoph. A different looking Christoph from the harried looking face Chad saw in the crime scene and autopsy photos. The women in the picture were probably the new brides of the Rauch brothers. One appeared pregnant. Chad pulled the picture from the frame and looked at the back. It read: Juni 1994 Michael, Anna, Thomas, Bernadina.

  The stack of pictures included pictures of trips and life in Dresden. Some included a boy that aged from picture to picture. Soon there was only a father and a boy. Two photos were from a graduation. High school, Chad estimated. A second one showed Christoph and his aunt, then Christoph and his uncle. There was one of Christoph and Elsa, both happy. And, younger. The photos reminded him of his dreams. His mind was on them when he came across one of the father and uncle and a small boy, about one year old, standing in front of the apartment house. They held a string of fish and fishing poles. Two identical tackle boxes were on the sidewalk beside them. The back was labeled: Juli 1995 Nechranice See, zwanzig fisch.

  This picture means something, Chad felt. It was the first time in his search today that he had one of his feelings. One of his instincts. What was it?

  There was nothing on the table that belonged to a man. Where was the uncle’s stuff. Did Aunt Berni get rid of it? Or did she store it somewhere?

  Storage? Chad looked at the picture of the fishermen again. The bottom floor of this house had a row of windows. A basement. Storage, he said to himself a second time.

  Chapter 53

  Chad found the door to the basement. It was locked. The key ring from Elsa held several keys. On his fourth try he found one that worked.

  The basement held four medium size water heaters. Each was labeled with a floor number. There were two furnaces, also well labeled and a set of dampers to control the heat to the various units.

  Half the basement was made up of eight floor-to-ceiling wire mesh cages. Each was labeled with the unit number. Each had a padlock on it. Chad found the two cages for the second floor. It held some boxes, fishing gear, old lamps, and other odds and ends. He was excited to see that Aunt Berni had not found it in her to throw away what was important to her husband and her brother-in-law. Chad tried the keys from Elsa. None fit. He remembered some loose keys in a nightstand drawer. He hurried back to the apartment and then returned with several. The one that worked was labeled Lagerung. Chad didn’t know that was German for storage. He didn’t care. Then he remembered a phone app that Harry told him about that could scan written words and translate them. He may need it.

  He still wore his gloves. If there was a need for a police search he didn’t want his fingerprints everywhere. He went through boxes that contained old books, some clothes, and knick-knacks that had meaning at some point in one of the lives of five people who lived there.

  He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just like at a dig, he let the artifacts lead to information about the occupants. One box contained magazines, a two-year record of celebrities as re-unification began to produce a nationalistic set of heroes and movie actors and actresses.

  After an hour, Chad concluded that all of the keepsakes appeared to be interests and hobbies for the two women. All he could see of the life of Michael and Thomas was the fishing gear and a large toolbox.

  He examined the fishing gear next. The tackle boxes held hooks, bobbers, a knife, and pliers. The large toolbox had a small padlock on it. The grey metal box was eighteen inches wide, nearly three feet long and at least fourteen inches high.

  He tried the keys he brought with him. No luck. Was the key in the apartment somewhere? He remembered a key in a tackle box. He looked in the one marked T. For Thomas? Nope. It must have been in the one marked with an M. it was.

  Chad knew from years of digging not to become excited because the letdowns are tough. Nevertheless he hurried to unlock the box. Lifting the lid he saw a shallow tray that held chisels, files, and screwdrivers.

  He did not realize he was holding his breath. He let it rush out. Disappointment.

  He sat on the cold concrete floor and wondered what someone would make of his life from his storage in Boston. A bicycle. Old textbooks. Stuff from high school and college. Was that typical? More than the average person kept? Did he hold onto them to give a context to his life? What little then that Michael and Thomas had left of their lives.

  He looked around him at the many boxes. Then he noticed. There was a layer of dust on all of the boxes and items except two. Michael’s tackle box had clear smudges and the metal toolbox was relatively clean. The dust on it could be from just a few weeks. Items that Christoph looked through?

  Chad lifted out the tray of tools. His excitement returned. Folders of photographs. And, an old Nikon camera.

  The folders were dated by year and months. Most years had two six-month periods. One folder, 1984, had an Olympic symbol on the second six-month period. Intrigued, Chad began there. There were several photos of one of the Rauch brothers playing soccer. One of the photos was in a large stadium. The writing on the back of the photo was in Cyrillic. Another photo showed a jubilant hugging scene in a house with a dozen people and a television. He looked at the back.

  5/08/1984 поражен Француска 5-2

  Chad’s curiosity got the better of him. He downloaded the app to his phone. It was easy to use. He translated the Cyrillic Serbian: defeated France. He Googled it. It checked. Yugoslavia defeated France. He translated the other photo: Olympic trials. Amazing, he thought. One of them played soccer at a level that qualified for an Olympic team tryout; a team that came in third place that year behind France and Brazil.

  Chad’s discipline kicked in and he started again, this time at the beginning, 1975. If Christoph’s father, Michael, was forty when he arrived in Dresden, he would have been twenty to twenty-two in 1975. Was he the photographer or the player? If he was the player, he might have been thirty-one at the Olympics. Probably pushing it on age. If Thomas was the younger brother, and Chad thought so, he would be closer to twenty-nine or even twenty-seven. Thomas was the footballer. Michael was the photographer.

  Chad carefully went through the folders. Lives unfolded. One young man married, had a child, lived in a small rural village, farmed, and watched his brother grow into an Olympian athlete. Chad did not see any city names in the photos and the backs didn’t identify the where, just the when and the who.

  The folders from 1990 contained photos of rallies and political meetings. 1991 showed angry citizens. Many photos were of groups of men practicing with weapons. A photo in the 1992 folder, dated May was not taken by Michael. He was in it. He and Thomas were in uniform. Their faces wore expressions of determination and worry. Michael was the worried one. Thomas was the determined one.

  Michael captured the war of 1992 in black and white. Men marching. Armored vehicles. Battle fields from a distance. That was how it started. It gradually changed to show the ugly side of war. Dead soldiers. Dead civilians. Mangled bodies. Burned homes. Dead children. Chad felt he marched with Michael through whatever country the fight
was in.

  November 1992 was a sad month for Michael. The photos were of graves. Chad did not need to translate the names. The dates were close enough to know it was Michael’s family. The beginning of 1993 was more war, more devastation, and more death. The photos stopped in March.

  There was one more folder: 1994. February. Michael was in Dresden. Pictures of the city and the people were mostly of families. Chad knew where Michael’s mind was at that time. March contained photos of Thomas and Bernadina. That was the last of the photos.

  What happened, Chad wondered? What happened to the rest of 1993? What happened after March? What happened at the end of 1992? Why did he stop taking photos? Why did Thomas stop using his athletic skills? Or did he?

  Chad mused on these questions as he picked up the camera. There were two other lenses in the box. A telephoto lens and a wide-angle lens. He turned the camera over. There was a blue label maker strip with the words: мика Пајовић.

  Chad used his translator: Mika Pajovic. Why did Michael leave Croatia when he did, and why did they change their name from Pajovic to Rauch? More importantly, what was missing from 1993? Is that what Christoph sold? Chad saw in his mind photos from the museum. A mass killing. A war crime. Something worth selling to someone. Something worth killing for.

  Chapter 54

  Cars crawled by the Stadtplatz, the city plaza, on the edge of old town. Two men kept one eye on the cars and the pedestrians. They kept the other eye on each other.

  The tables outside the Alte Bär, the Old Bear, were nearly full. Beer, pretzels, and more beer filled the small tabletops. Tall glasses, short glasses, and an occasional glass stein provided a variety for the pale, the amber, and the dark brews.

  “We can post watchers at the station. He’ll show up.” Zevic said.

  Max shook his head back and forth. “No. I’m done here. You don’t need me to find him. Or, to finish him. You can find other people to do either. Both.”

  Zevic was keenly aware of changes in people. Max never backed out. In fact, he thought Max actually relished the violence. “What happened, Max?”

  “Zevic, this guy ain’t police. He’s just an archeologist.”

  Zevic thought about it. “You went inside her flat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I told you not to.”

  “I had to know,” Max said. “Waste of time sitting there.”

  “Not a waste of time if it was my money.” Zevic was beginning to question his need for Max. “What else?”

  “He lives there. With her.”

  “He have a name?” Zevic asked.

  “Archer. Dr. Chad Archer. He wrote a book. I looked him up. He teaches and does consulting with Interpol.” Max was smart enough to figure out that Archer must have had something or knew something that Zevic wanted or needed. The fact that he was willing to kill Archer today meant Archer’s silence was as good as getting what he had.

  Zevic was thinking, too. Now that he knew where Archer lived, he could look there for the photographs. As more time went by, Zevic thought either Archer didn’t realize what he had, or Archer gave them to the woman cop and she couldn’t get anywhere with them. Maybe he should let it go? It had never been his way to leave loose ends. It had kept him and Nebojsa out of trouble and alive.

  Zevic asked, “What’s bothering you, Max? Did they make you?”

  “Archer looked at me today like he recognized me.”

  “How or from where?”

  “I don’t know. But they have no evidence on me. Nothing in Liverpool. Nothing in Welton. Somebody may place me there, but that’s not evidence.”

  “Archer will place you here as well.” Zevic said.

  “My passport will do that. I’m here on business. Meet a client. Privileged communication.”

  “Yes. You are probably right,” Zevic agreed.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go home. I’ll need you next week. I’ll be in London then. I’ll pay your account tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Let’s get another beer. I’ll stay here tonight and fly back tomorrow. I’m sure the Yard will pick me up when I arrive. I’ll be well rested.”

  “No thank you,” Zevic said. “I’m flying south. Laku noć.”

  “Good travels to you,” Max said and motioned the waiter over to the table. He repeated to himself Zevic’s slip, laku noć. What language was that? Serbian? Croatian? Somewhere in that region. It was time Max found out more about his employer.

  Zevic left Dresden but not for Serbia. He needed to go to London and visit Miss Moffat’s apartment. The evening flight would arrive just after midnight. He was confident he could take care of business in the morning and make a three-hour flight to meet with Nebojsa tomorrow evening. He’d like to have the missing photos with him.

  -----

  “Dickie,” Sandy said into the phone, “It’s time for end of the day comparison. How did you do?”

  “Great, Sandy. Caught up with Cattrel. Max Alton was definitely the man he saw. Also, I have several other people who remember Alton asking about where to get a ride to Ireland and where he could fine Cattrel.”

  “Anything beyond circumstantial evidence?” Sandy asked.

  “No, but they’re running crime scene forensics again. I’d like to get something that shows he actually was at the location where our victim, Baywater, was found. How did you do?”

  “About the same. Several people saw him hanging about the clubs. One saw him at the apartment building. Nothing like evidence, though.”

  “Bollocks,” Dickie responded.

  “I think my missing piece is the hat. And, maybe a car,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Dickie asked.

  “He was wearing a hat on the bridge. Witnesses say so. By that time Colbert would have been dead. If it was Max Alton on the bridge, the hat should have some of his hair in it.”

  “Will it have Colbert’s blood as well? If Alton set it up to look like a fall, his hatted head would hit the rock, right?”

  “It would have unless the hat fell off on the way down. That is unlikely, and if it did fall off onto the rocks it would have still been there.”

  “I see what you mean. It confirms a murder theory. No hat means someone did it. And you mentioned a car. You don’t think the murder happened at the river?

  “Too risky to leave a body laying about, while you impersonate the victim.”

  “Hide it in the weeds, woods, bushes, or whatever is nearby?”

  “We think we covered it but we’re looking again. I think the body was in the car.”

  “We can get a search warrant for Alton’s car.”

  “Yeah, we should. But, I think he was smarter than that.”

  “H-m-m-m. Probably not a rental. Stolen car? Borrowed one?”

  “Could be. I’m going after the wine,” Sandy told him.

  “Is this the same wine that broke the case open for you?”

  “Yes. I think it had to be purchased around here. We’ll check the stores and CCTV. Maybe we can get a hit on the car.”

  “Great idea, Inspector Moffat.”

  “Thanks. However, I figured out you only call me that when you want something. What is it?”

  “I want to ask if you put in alarms at your flat. Not asking as a protective male egotist, but as your professional partner.”

  “That’s nice of you to be concerned.”

  “Yeah. Well. I’ve invested so much time into your development and I don’t need a cock up now. Don’t want to start over with a new partner.”

  “You almost were nice there, Dickie. I did. A silent alarm. Goes to my phone.”

  “Good. Could you have it sent to mine as well?”

  Sandy smiled, “Is this my partner asking?”

  “No. It’s my big brother complex asking.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll do that. Hey, hang on, there is another call coming in.”

  Sandy answered the second call. “Moffat.”

  “Sandy, th
is is Adrien. Good afternoon. Do you have a moment?”

  “Hi. Sure. I have my partner on the other line. Can I conference you.”

  “Absolument,” the French detective said.

  “Dickie, I have Interpol Agent Adrien Tellier on the line. Adrien , this is Inspector Dickie Williams, my new partner.”

  “How do you do, Inspector?” Adrien said.

  “I’m fine. Please call me Dickie. Do you know Claude Toupet?”

  “Yes, I do know Claude. You have worked with him?”

  “I have. Ask him about the pizza in Turin sometime,” Dickie answered.

  Adrien laughed, “It sounds as if there is a story there, no? Claude has many stories. Please, Dickie, call me Adrien.”

  “Your call is good timing, Adrien. We can fill you in on what we know.”

  Dickie and Sandy took turns talking about Baywater in Liverpool and Colbert in Welton.

  Adrien chimed in. “Their connection is understandable. Colbert has a background in electrical work, and from his job in your country, he’s a hacker. He could have frozen the museum’s security and also shut down the power grid. However, he needed a simple B&E man to get him into the electrical station. You think Baywater?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Dickie said.

  Sandy continued the theory. “Then Baywater makes the mistake and tells our pawnbroker, Cyrus Best. Now it looks like our thief is taking care of loose ends.”

  “I don’t think so, mon ami,” Adrien said. “I do not think it is the thief who is cleaning things up. That is why I called.”

  “Oh?” Dickie and Sandy said together.

  “I think you know that our electrical friend did prison time for a stolen car. The story behind that is that he was part of a robbery team and something went wrong. He took the car and led the gendarme on a chase allowing the rest of the team to escape. By the way, that robbery was similar to your London museum robbery. Electrical blackout. However, the security hacking failed. Personally, I think Fraser Colbert studied computers after that so that he did not have to rely on others.”