She invited him in, wondering if it was a mistake, then thinking about the commission she’d make on an oceanfront estate. She escorted him into the kitchen, opened cabinet doors showing where she kept her glasses and liquor. “Help yourself. I’ll be right back.”
“I have to ask you something.”
He reached behind his back and brought out a gun with a long black barrel, pointing it at her. She could feel her heart race, scared to death, knowing now he was the Nazi.
“Where is Joyce?” he said, German accent, not pretending any more.
“I don’t know.”
He came toward her, aiming the gun. Lenore wanted to run but couldn’t move. She was frozen. He put the barrel against her cheek, pressing it into her face.
“Let’s try again. Where is she?”
Thirty-seven
At the commercial, Harry went out to check on Cordell. It was a beautiful night, clear sky, sixty degrees. He looked up at the stars for a couple minutes, spotted the Big and Little Dipper and the North Star. Then he crossed the yard and went to the pool house. Cordell was asleep in a double bed in one of the bedrooms. Harry turned off the lamp on the bedside table. Walked through the living room, turned off all the lights, locked the door and went out.
At 10:00 when McCloud was over he escorted Joyce up the stairs that wound through a turret to the second floor, dark oak planks with a Persian runner. Josefina had gone home. According to Joyce, the security company came by every few hours, checked the doors and windows, and patrolled the grounds.
Harry lifted his shirt, showed her the Colt stuck in his belt. “Hess comes—”
“Harry, you have a gun? What kind of a Jew are you?” She smiled, put her arms around him. “A tough one. What can I say? You’re a mensch. I should be so lucky.”
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Joyce opened the door and went in. Harry followed her, impressed by the room that had to be sixty by forty feet, with a sitting area in front of the fireplace, four-post antique bed with a canopy, two TVs. He looked out the windows at the front yard and circular drive, the view extending all the way to the ocean, flat and dark, blending with the sky.
On the other side of the room, French doors led to a balcony off the back of the house, view of the pool and pool house. “If you’re afraid I’ll stay with you, sleep on the couch.”
She smiled. “I’ll be fine. There’s an alarm system. Anyone tries to get in, the security people will be here.”
“‘If you want me,’” Harry said, “‘just whistle.’”
“Who said that? No, don’t tell me.” She glanced across the room looking for the answer. “Lauren Bacall. She said it to Humphrey Bogart. What was the movie?”
“To Have and Have Not.”
“Know what Lauren’s real name is?”
Harry shook his head.
“Betty Joan Perske.”
“You know your movie stars, don’t you?” Harry held her in his gaze. “Unless he has a ladder there’s only one way in. So keep your door locked.”
“Thanks for everything, Harry.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
Harry went to his room. It was half the size of the master but still twice as big as the bedrooms in his house. The windows looked out on the back yard, and French doors opened onto the balcony. He pulled the spread down, propped pillows up against the headboard. Slipped out of his shoes, turned off the light, and got on the bed, holding the Colt next to his right leg. His eyes adjusted and he could see the dark shapes of furniture in the room and the soft glow of lights from the back yard. He started to doze off.
Next thing he heard was the deafening high-pitched shriek of the alarm — re-er, re-er, re-er.
It was 3:27 a.m. He grabbed the Colt, got up and went to the window, saw a flashlight beam sweep across the front of the pool house. He went in the hall, looked left, the door to the master suite still closed. He ran to the staircase, looked out the front window, saw a white sedan, lights flashing in the circular drive. Ran back, knocked on Joyce’s door. “It’s Harry. You okay?”
“What happened?” she said, voice muffled by the alarm.
“I don’t know.”
The alarm stopped. The door opened, Joyce was standing in the shadow, pulling her robe closed. “The security guys are downstairs. Stay here. I’ll talk to them.”
“I want to go with you.”
Hess sat 1970 realtor of the year Lenore Deutsch at the kitchen table, aiming the Walther at her‚ tears staining her cheeks blue with eye shadow.
“Okay‚ I’ll tell you, but you’ll never get in. There is a state-of-the-art security system.”
A gun pointed at her, and still she smirked, giving him her insolent tone again. He knew how alarms worked. He had a system at his estate in Schleissheim. “Who is in the house with her?”
“Maybe the housekeeper, I don’t know.”
It didn’t matter. “Do you have rope?”
“Why?”
“So I can tie you.”
Lenore Deutsch said, “You don’t bring your own rope?”
The arrogance of this woman. It was beyond belief.
“It’s in the garage.”
They walked through the kitchen. She opened the door, turned on the light. It was space for a single automobile cluttered with pool supplies and gardening equipment. She handed him a spool of heavy string.
“This is all I have.”
He picked up a shovel with a long handle.
“What are you going to do, bury me?”
It was a good idea, but he had something else in mind. Hess escorted her back through the house to her tidy bedroom and through that into the bathroom, pink tile and towels, large tub in the corner and next to it a glass shower.
“I have to wash my face,” Lenore said.
He could see her in the mirror, wiping off the blue smudges under her eyes and off her cheeks with a wet cloth, and patting herself dry with a towel.
“Get on your knees,” Hess said.
She did, putting her hands behind her back. He walked across the room, closed the window and tossed the spool of string on the floor. He wasn’t going to need it after all. Hess moved toward her, aiming the Walther at the back of her head, firing, spraying the walls with spatter.
Hess drove along the southern perimeter of the estate, parked off the road behind a green wall of foliage on the neighbor’s property. He took the shovel and walked back toward the house, feeling a strong breeze coming off the ocean, palm trees swaying, moon waning behind heavy clouds that had moved in. The estate was sealed off, surrounded by walls on three sides and a gate in front. There was a narrow lane behind the western perimeter, and a wall with a gate in the center extending to the four-car garage.
He held the end of the handle, reached up and swung the shovelhead at the phone line until it broke free from the main line, glanced at his watch. 3:17. He waited behind the wall of foliage on the neighbor’s property south of the estate. Two white security sedans arrived at 3:25. One in front, the other drove along the southern perimeter to the rear of the estate. The alarm sounded at 3:27, delayed ten minutes so the security team could be deployed.
“No sign of forced entry,” the security man said to Harry.
He looked about forty, gut bunching the shirt at his beltline, brown hair over his ears, wispy Charles Bronson mustache. He wore a dark-blue uniform shirt with red epaulets, Harry thinking except for the gun on his right hip he could’ve been an exterminator. He’d introduced himself as Tony Cloutier, a French name he pronounced in down-home English.
Now they were in the kitchen.
Cloutier said, “Did you see or hear anything?”
“Not till the alarm went off,” Harry said.
Joyce said, “I was sound asleep. It scared the hell out of me.”
“Scare an intruder too, there was one,” Cloutier said.
A second security man came in the back door now, guiding Cordell, han
ds cuffed behind his back. He was younger, bigger than Cloutier and wore a blue jacket over his uniform.
“Harry, will you tell this—”
“What’re you doing?” Harry said, cutting Cordell off. “He’s a guest.”
“Sir, I didn’t know.”
“Cracker see a black man, middle of the night, got to be a criminal.”
The security man unlocked the handcuffs. Cordell rubbed his wrists.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too motherfucker, I can’t pop your dumb ass.”
“Take it easy,” Harry said.
“This is Ms. Cantor and Mr. Levin,” Cloutier said. “Meet my over-zealous partner, Ted Tambke.”
He nodded at Joyce, shook hands with Harry.
“Windy out there,” Tambke said. “Phone line’s down. I have to believe that’s your problem.”
Joyce said, “What does that have to do with it?”
Tambke said, “Severed line triggered the alarm.”
“Can you fix it?” Joyce said.
“Not till morning, I’m afraid,” Cloutier said.
Joyce said, “Are you saying the system won’t be on?”
“I’ll hang around till daylight,” Tambke said. “Keep an eye on things.”
“Just stay out the pool house,” Cordell said, giving him a look.
The security men left.
“I see you’re feeling better,” Harry said. “Got some energy back.”
“Have some cracker rent-a-cop cuff you down, try to break your wrists see how you do.” Cordell still charged up, angry.
“Why do you think he’s a racist?”
Cordell grinned. “Don’t think, Harry, I know. Been dealin’ with motherfuckers like him my whole life.”
“Stay here?” Joyce said. “God knows we’ve got room.”
“I’m cool where I’m at. See you in the morning.”
Cordell went out the door. Harry locked it and walked Joyce back up to her room. It was 4:18.
The lights from the security vehicle were still flashing red and blue off the estate wall when Ted Tambke moved through the gate to his car, pissed off and embarrassed by the way the scene had played out in front of his boss. Fact was, you saw a black guy in the middle of the night he usually was involved in a crime.
Tambke saw something out of the corner of his eye, someone coming around the side of the house, aimed the flashlight, unsnapped his holster and put a hand on his .38. It was an older man wearing a cap and a yellow golf shirt, moving toward him.
“Excuse me,” the man said. “Is there a problem? I live right there.” He pointed to the property directly south.
Tambke glanced over the hood at him. “Sir, you scared the bejesus out of me. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
“I heard the alarm,” the guy said.
“It’s all over. You can go home now.” He didn’t say it mean but just about. “Everything’s under control.”
“What happened?”
“Wind severed the phone line and that triggered the alarm.”
“I am interested in a security system for my own home,” the neighbor said. “Do you have a card?”
“Yes sir,” Tambke said, trying to shift gears, be friendly now. Employees got ten per cent of the net for any new business they brought in. One of these Palm Beach mansions, it could be ten grand. Cloutier made fifteen thousand dollars one time.
Tambke opened the door, sat behind the wheel, reaching in the console between the seats, grabbed a couple business cards. When he turned back the neighbor was standing next to the car. “Here you go.” He reached out, handed the cards to him.
“So nobody broke in?”
“No sir.”
“The neighborhood is safe?” the man said, smiling.
“Yes sir. I’ll be here till morning just to make sure.”
“Let me ask you something,” the neighbor said. “What size is your jacket?”
Tambke‚ puzzled‚ said‚ “Extra large. What do you want to know that for?”
Earlier, Cordell had been standing at the window looking out, listening to the alarm, thinking there was a fire but dint see no flames. The door opened, dude looked like a cop shined a light in his eyes, aiming a gun at him.
“Freeze,” the cop said. “Put your hands up.”
“Be cool. It’s okay. I’m stayin’ here.”
“Sure you are. Get on your knees, put your hands behind your back.”
He did. Cordell, fugitive from justice, wondering how they found him. Thinking it had to do with his trouble in Detroit. Dude cuffed him but soon as they were outside Cordell could see he was a rent-a-cop, and relaxed.
Now he was back in the pool house wide awake, 4:30 — nothing on TV, wonderin’ what to do when he saw something move by the window. Got up for a better look, saw the cracker rent-a-cop heading toward the house. There was something different about him‚ but Cordell couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Thirty-eight
Hess shot him once in the chest at close range with the silenced Walther PPK, the round bouncing around inside him, tearing up vital organs. He removed his cap and jacket, took the house keys, flashlight and sidearm, turned off the flashing lights, pulled the security man out of the automobile, and dragged him by his feet across a narrow strip of grass, hiding the body in the dense foliage on the south side of the house.
Hess unlocked the gate and entered the property, walked by the pool and pool house, across the lawn to the door that led to the kitchen. He tried several keys until he found one that fit the lock, opened the door and stepped in, listening — not a sound. He gripped the Walther, starting through the house, enough light to see where he was walking. Made his way through large rooms with high ceilings to the foyer, looking at the winding stairs, and started up.
Joyce was almost asleep when she heard the door open and saw the security guard come in. Now what? She sat up. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He closed the door and came toward her, took off the cap and now she recognized him.
“You were expecting me,” Hess said. “Were you not?”
Joyce was so afraid she couldn’t talk, couldn’t get a word out.
Hess smiled at her. “You were on the last truck that day in the woods, a teenager with fair skin and red hair. How old were you?”
“Eighteen.”
“That is a good age. I remember when I was eighteen,” Hess said, smiling, sounding sentimental. “Were you in school?”
“I had just graduated from the gymnasium.”
“Were you planning to attend the university?”
“Jews weren’t allowed.” Who was this lunatic? Came to kill her and he was making small talk. But she tried to keep the conversation going.
“That’s right,” the Nazi said. “I enrolled in the Technische Hochschule.”
“You must be very smart.”
He brought his hands up in slight embarrassment, the right holding the gun. “You know, I didn’t do too bad.” He paused. “Do you miss Munich, Bavaria?”
Harry heard voices, picked up the Colt, went out to the hall, moving toward Joyce’s room. Stood next to her door and listened, tried the handle, it was locked. He went back to his room, moved out to the balcony, crouched low, going toward the master suite. Looking in the windows but couldn’t see anything, the shades were pulled. Harry squatted in front of the French doors. The drapes were closed but not all the way. He could see a narrow slice of the room: the rug, part of the bed and armoire. Now he saw a khaki leg, yellow shirt, the edge of a face in profile.
Hess moved out of view and came back, arm extended. Harry couldn’t see what he was holding, but knew what it was, imagined Joyce in bed, scared to death. Hess was about thirty feet away, the same distance as the paper targets he practiced on at the shooting range. But the paper targets were lit up and straight on and nobody’s life was at stake if he missed.
Cordell followed the rent-a-cop, saw him open the doo
r, go in the house. What was up? They got more trouble with the alarm? Then it occurred to him, something wasn’t right about him ’cause it wasn’t him. This dude was wearin’ khakis. Other one had on blue uniform pants.
He stepped in the kitchen, pulled a serrated knife with a long blade out of the holder on the counter, slid it in his belt and went up to where the bedrooms were at, movin’ slow with his bad leg. Walked down the hall. Didn’t see the Nazi but had to believe he was up here. Pulled the blade, went into a room, door to the balcony open. Saw Harry squattin’, lookin’ in the next room like a peepin’ Tom. “Yo, Harry—” he whispered.
Harry squeezed the trigger twice, glass exploding, pushed the French doors open, and went in the room, aiming the Colt. Hess was gone, Joyce was sitting with her back against the headboard, afraid, but alive. “You all right?”
She was staring at the gun in his hand. “I think so, Harry. But don’t do anything, please! Let him go. We’ll call the police.”
No way. He was going to end it right now. He ran down the hall to the stairs, saw Hess at the bottom and went after him. Raced through the living room and dining room, caught him in the kitchen, Hess moving past the island counter halfway to the door. “Take another step you’re dead.” Harry aimed down the gun sight, arms extended, two hands on the Colt. “Put it down, and do it slow.”
Hess stopped, glanced over his shoulder. “You think I am a fool? I put the gun down you will kill me.”
Harry had been thinking about this moment, but didn’t see it happening this way. He wanted Hess looking at him when he pulled the trigger. “All right,” Harry said. “We’ll both do it. Put them down at the same time. But I’m telling you, make a move it’s all over.” He lowered the Colt, resting it on the countertop. Hess reached back and laid his semiautomatic on the black granite, turned, facing him.
“I have been wondering, who is this Harry Levin? And finally it occurred to me. You must have been the boy hiding in the woods. How did you get off the truck? The prisoners were counted as they got on, and then again when they arrived. But somehow they missed you.”
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