Back from the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  “You look familiar,” the woman sitting to his left said. “You’re a character actor, aren’t you? Or maybe just a character.” She smiled, gliding her fingers up and down the stem of the martini glass.

  “You must have me confused with someone else,” he said, glancing at her.

  “What do you do?”

  Hess studied her, a plain-looking brunette without a lot to work with, and yet, there was something appealing about her.

  “I produce erotic films,” Hess said.

  “So you’re not in front of the camera, you’re behind it,” she said, picking up her martini glass, taking her time before bringing it to her mouth, sipping the drink. “Dirty movies, huh?”

  “I prefer to think of it as art.”

  “Of course.” She speared an olive with a plastic sword and put it in her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.

  “What are some of your movies?”

  “Have you seen Twat’s Up, Doc?

  “No, but I’ve heard of it.” She shook her head and smiled. “You did that?”

  “Largest-grossing erotic film of all time,” Hess said.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sure don’t look like the type.”

  “Public perception is it’s a sleazy business.”

  “Exactly, and you don’t look sleazy.”

  She had good teeth and skin, and an outgoing personality. Late thirties, maybe forty.

  “What’s another one?”

  “Deep Six. It was my ex, Denise’s, film debut.”

  “Your ex was a porn star?”

  Hess nodded, picked up his drink and took a sip.

  “What’s that like? I mean watching her doing it with all those studs.”

  “Why do you think I’m divorced?”

  A valet in a red vest came in the bar and said something to the bartender. “Somebody call a cab?” the bartender said, heavy New York accent.

  Hess drank his single malt in a couple swallows, put the glass down on the bar top, and a $20 bill next to it. “I have to go,” he said to the brunette.

  “I’ll give you a ride,” she said.

  “Cab?” the bartender tried again. “Anyone?”

  “I have a car right outside. I’m Lynn, by the way,” she said, offering Hess her hand. “Lynn Risdon.”

  “Tony Brank,” he said, taking her hand in his.

  “You don’t look like a Tony.” She finished the martini and placed it on the bar top. Hess raised his hand and the bartender moved toward him.

  “Another round?”

  Hess nodded.

  “You get remarried?” Lynn said. “I don’t really care, but I guess it’s better if you didn’t.”

  “Still single,” Hess said. “Until the right woman comes along.” He thought about Anke, his mistress. She had become demanding like a wife. Wanted a commitment, wanted children. That relationship was over as well, and Hess was relieved. “What about you?”

  “Divorced,” Lynn said. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

  An hour and three martinis later, Hess escorted Lynn Risdon to the parking lot. She was drunk. He could feel her weight, the sloppiness of her stride as she clung to him. He had watched her transform to annoying from interesting, the alcohol making her stupid and clumsy. “Where’s your car?”

  “It’s got to be around here somewhere,” she said, slurring her words, glassy eyes scanning the lot. “There ’tis.” She pointed at a white Ford Mustang.

  Hess said. “Where do you live?”

  “On Seabreeze.”

  He had passed the street a number of times, remembered it was just north of Worth Avenue.

  “Anyone in the house?”

  “Whaaat?”

  Do you live with someone?”

  “Nooo … I told you, I’m divorced.”

  “You better let me drive,” Hess said. “You can’t even stand up.”

  “I drive sitting down,” Lynn said and laughed. She reached a hand into her purse, feeling around. It took a few minutes to find the keys, half a dozen on a silver ring. She handed them to Hess. He unlocked and opened the door, sat her in the front passenger seat, leaned in, brushed her cheek with his, buckling the seat belt around her.

  She touched his face and said, “Is Mr. Scruffy growing a beard?”

  He closed the door and walked around the car and got in. “What is your address?”

  “Whaaat?” She was angled in the seat, leaning back against the door, eyes closed.

  He reached over on the floor in front of her, picked up the purse, opened it, found her wallet and driver’s license. He drove to Seabreeze Avenue, checking addresses. Lynn lived in a single-storey house hidden behind a sculpted wall of hedge four blocks from the ocean. Hess parked on the circular drive. The front porch light was on and there was a light on inside.

  He got out, went to the front door, tried several keys until he found the right one, and opened it. Went back to the car, picked Lynn up and brought her into the house and bumped the door closed with his hip. He heard voices in another room, sat Lynn on a couch in the salon, and went to investigate. A television was on in the kitchen. He turned it off.

  Adjoining the kitchen was a utility room with a washing machine and dryer. On the opposite wall built-in shelves held tools, cleaning supplies, an assortment of items, including a coil of rope which he grabbed, and a knife. Hess walked though the house. There were two bedrooms off the salon, one obviously lived in, disheveled, and the other spotless. He went back in the salon. Lynn was stretched out, sleeping on the couch. Hess bent and picked her up, carried her to her bedroom, and laid her across the double bed. He cut lengths of rope and tied her ankles and wrists while she slept.

  Hess had been in the same clothes now for twenty hours. He went into the master bathroom, undressed, turned on the shower and stood under the hot water. He dried himself with a pink bath towel, and wrapped it around his waist. Found a razor and shaving cream in the cabinet under the sink, and shaved in front of the fogged-up mirror he had to keep wiping clean with a towel.

  He dressed, feeling better, checked on Lynn, still asleep. Went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, found sliced turkey in the meat drawer and made a turkey sandwich with Dijon mustard. He poured a glass of milk, sat at the table and watched TV, a program called McMillan & Wife, starring Rock Hudson. When he finished the sandwich, Hess turned off the TV and went to the guest room, stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

  Lynn Risdon’s head was pounding and her mouth was dry from the vodka. She’d have to slow down, take it easy for a while. She was drinking too much, getting drunk almost every night. She was on her side, couldn’t move her arms. They were tied behind her back, and her legs were tied together at the ankles. What was going on? Was the erotic film producer into S&M? At first she thought it was a dream. But her eyes were open staring at the red numerals on the clock in her dark bedroom. She remembered being at the restaurant, sitting at the bar drinking a martini. Talking to the guy. What was his name? Brank, that was it. They’d had several drinks, having a good time. Remembered offering him a ride home, the events of the night a little hazy after that. Lynn couldn’t remember how she got home. Did she drive? Or maybe he did. Then, in a flash of memory she saw herself hanging onto him leaving the restaurant. But he was a good sport, didn’t seem to mind. She’d picked up other men in bars, and brought them home, had sex and never heard from them again. Lynn liked being in control, liked initiating things. Guys picked up girls all the time. Why couldn’t girls pick up guys? It was 1971 after all.

  Now as her eyes adjusted she could see rope binding her ankles and wrists. Why would he do that? Why would he leave her like this? She was going to fuck his brains out. It didn’t make sense. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to sit up. Now what? She couldn’t walk, couldn’t crawl. Lynn looked at the phone on the bedside table and slid along the bed on her knees, knocked the receiver off the cradle, and it went over the side of the table and lande
d on the floor. She pressed the 0 button with her chin, heard the operator’s voice say, “How may I direct your call?” and went down on the carpet, trying to get closer to the phone.

  “I’m in my house, tied up. Call the police?”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Palm Beach.”

  “What’s the address?”

  He came in the room, standing over her, picked up the receiver, put it back and ripped the cord out of the wall. He picked her up and dropped her on the bed. It was the porno-movie guy from the bar.

  “What’re you doing?” Lynn was afraid now. “What’s with the rope? You into bondage? I’ll try anything once. What the hell. It might be fun.”

  He pushed her on her back, arms under her.

  “Stop it. You’re hurting me.”

  He reached for the pillow. She thought he was going to put it under her head.

  “How’d we get here? You must’ve driven, right?” she said, trying to reconnect with him, but he didn’t respond. And now he put the pillow over her face, pressing down and she couldn’t breathe. Fought to get out from under him with everything she had, but he was sitting on her. Lynn thought about Larry, her ex, wondering why she’d wasted twenty years of her life with him. She pictured his face when he found out she was dead and he wouldn’t have to pay alimony. She thought about her parents and her brother, Chris. Would anyone miss her when she was gone? And then she was floating, looking down at herself, Brank, the porno-movie guy still holding the pillow over her face. He didn’t know yet.

  Hess felt her body go slack but kept pressing the pillow on her face, watching the minute hand on the clock go around three more times, and let up, lifted the pillow and saw her eyes staring at him, an expression of fear or panic frozen on her face. He pulled the side of the bedspread up and covered her. He would have to figure out what to do with the body, but not now. Hess was tired. He went back in the guest room, laid down on the bed and fell asleep.

  In the morning, Hess had two soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast, watched the news on the small TV in the kitchen. One story in particular piqued his interest. A somber female reporter was broadcasting live from a marina. “Last night the U.S. Coast Guard discovered an abandoned yacht half a mile off the Palm Beach coast. The names of the yacht owner and his wife are being withheld by authorities, pending a police investigation.”

  Now the camera pulled back and Hess could see the white fiberglass hull of Brank’s Hatteras behind her. The reporter gave her name and the name of the TV station and signed off.

  At 8:45, Hess drove Lynn Risdon’s car to the SunTrust Bank on Royal Poinciana Way, waited in the parking lot until the doors opened. Dana Kovarek, the assistant manager who had rented Hess the safe deposit box a week earlier, did a double take when Ernst walked into his office and said, “Dana, remember me? Gerd Klaus. I want to open my box.”

  “I remember, but it can’t be. You died. I saw the death certificate.”

  “Do I look dead?”

  Kovarek was nervous, eyes darting around. “Your daughter came with the key, a death certificate and a court order claiming she was your rightful heiress. Don’t you remember, I explained the terms, conditions and procedures associated with having control over your safe deposit box,” Kovarek said, sounding defensive. “We talked about relatives of the deceased and their right to claim the contents of the box.”

  Hess had no recollection of them discussing what would happen if he died.

  Kovarek said, “Your daughter had to open it to get burial information, the deed to your burial plot.”

  “Describe her,” Hess said.

  “Your daughter?” Kovarek rubbed his jaw.

  “She is not my daughter.”

  “An attractive woman with blonde hair, five feet eight, thirty years old. She had the key and the rental agreement.”

  Kovarek had just described Colette Rizik. “Was she alone?”

  “No, sir, there was a dark-haired gentleman with her, six feet tall, fortyish.”

  Harry Levin’s face flashed in his mind. Levin and the journalist. They had found the key to his hotel room, the keys to his briefcase and safe deposit box. They had obviously gone to his room before the police. “So you are telling me the box is empty?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Klaus, and the contract has been terminated.”

  “Let me see the death certificate.”

  “I don’t have the original. All I have is a copy of a certified copy.”

  Kovarek stood and went to a bank of file cabinets against the wall, opened a drawer and took out a green folder. He came back to the desk and handed Hess a piece of paper. At the top in a heavy font it said: Certified Copy of Record of Death, and in smaller type under that: County of Broward, State of Florida.

  The deceased’s name was Gerd Richter Klaus. Cause of death: heart failure. Birthplace: Stuttgart, Germany. Born: April 1, 1920. Mother’s and father’s names not available. The document was signed by A. Robert Stevenson, Clerk of Palm Beach County Commission, West Palm Beach, Florida, dated October 17, 1971.

  “As you can see, Mr. Klaus, it follows the legal guidelines set forth by the State of Florida. Is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like to lease another safe deposit box, sir?”

  Hess wanted to pull the .38 and shoot the little four-eyed weasel. Instead he smiled and said, “Perhaps another time.”

  Kovarek handed him a business card. “If you have questions about any of our banking services, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Hess could feel the grip of the revolver in his pocket. It took all the willpower he had not to shoot the idiot.

  The safe deposit box had contained his real passport, $10,000 in cash and a locker key. Harry Levin and the journalist would have no idea where the locker was, or how to find it. Hess was thinking about this as he drove back to Seabreeze, approaching Lynn Risdon’s house, when he saw police cars parked in front on the street, and a crowd standing behind yellow crime-scene tape strung across the outside perimeter of the property. Someone had discovered the body.

  Hess drove past the house and turned right on South Ocean Boulevard. It occurred to him the police would be looking for Lynn Risdon’s car. He cut over to Worth Avenue and parked the Mustang, got out, walked to a men’s store and bought new clothes, Palm Beach attire: light blue trousers, white belt and matching shoes, orange golf shirt, blue blazer, aviator sunglasses and golf cap. He paid cash and wore the new clothes out of the store. The old clothes were in a bag he dropped into a decorative Palm Beach trash bin on the street.

  He had to get off the island, but first he had to take care of some unfinished business. Hess went to a cafe across the street from Sunset Realty, sat at a table next to the window, sipped iced tea and glanced at the Palm Beach Post. He saw Joyce Cantor walk out of the office at 5:30 p.m., left a $5 bill on the table and followed her.

  They had checked out of the motel and gone back to Harry’s place. First he made Colette wait in the car while he walked around the house with the .357, checking every room. Zeller’s clothes were gone, but nothing else was missing except his antique rug the rednecks wrapped Colette in and he knew where that was.

  Now they were in the kitchen having breakfast, scrambled eggs, English muffins and coffee. “Who do you think hired Zeller?” Harry said to Colette.

  “Any number of people. Hess’ wife. His mistress.”

  “I didn’t know he had one.”

  “Her name is Anke Kruger, a former model.” Colette poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred in some cream. “Would you like more?”

  Harry shook his head.

  “Or maybe the Christian Social Union hired him. Hess was well connected, politically important.”

  “Why would they want to find him? He’s an embarrassment to the Christian Social Union, to the whole country. This is the last thing the German government needs, a lunatic former Nazi going around murdering people, with the Olympics coming to Munich next year.” Harry took Hess’ locke
r key out of his pocket and handed it to Colette. “Remember this? Whatever is in the locker, I think Hess was going to bring it with him but changed his mind.”

  She held the key between her thumb and index finger, looking for a mark, something that would indicate where it came from.

  “Where is the locker, Harry?”

  “Who knows? How did Hess get to Detroit? There isn’t a direct flight from anywhere in Germany, I know that. So he had to make a connection. Find out what airline he flew and where he flew out of, and go to the airport. Find the locker and see if the key fits. I know someone who might be able to help us.” He’d call Bob Stark, his pit-bull attorney, put him on the case.

  “Soon as we’re finished I’m going back out to the farmhouse, get my rug and look around.”

  “What if they’re still there?”

  Harry pulled up in front thirty minutes later, sat for a while, watching the place. No cars or trucks in the driveway. No one around. He’d taken Colette to his niece Franny’s apartment. He pulled in the driveway and parked next to the house. Drew the .357 Mag from a coat pocket, turned the cylinder and put the hammer on a live round.

  He got out of the Mercedes, walked to the barn, opened the door and looked in at a tractor and a huge combine harvester. No sign of a green Ford pickup or Zeller’s Chevy Camaro or a white GMC van that said Acme Carpet Cleaning on the side.

  He walked to the house. The side door was unlocked. Went in the kitchen. There were beer cans on the counter, dirty dishes in the sink, the stale lingering smell of cigarette smoke in the air. He walked through the dining room into the semi-dark living room, shades pulled down over the windows, and saw his antique rug spread out on the hardwood floor. He bent to roll it up and noticed a plastic six-pack tightener and a pack of matches on the floor half under the ratty-looking couch.

  Harry went over, picked up the match book, looking at the white cover with black type that said Rodeo Bar, illustrated to look like a cattle brand. The address was in Pontiac. Harry went upstairs and checked the bedrooms, went downstairs and checked the basement, but didn’t find any more clues or anything that would help him find Zeller.