by Phil Swann
Sam and I looked at each other, but Clegg never took his eyes from Cabaneri.
“We’d love to,” Clegg replied.
The room was massive and open, with floors made from polished marble. Ornate oriental rugs were tastefully placed in all the sitting areas, of which there were many, and the ceiling was as high as a cathedral. The numerous paintings on the walls all looked to be original oils, and the many small sculptures scattered about looked like they could have come directly from the Louvre in Paris. But as museum-like as the room was, at the same time, it wasn’t. There were framed photographs on every table, and the furniture, though plush, appeared to be well lived on. Even amidst all the opulence, the room still felt like it was someone’s home.
Music was playing, and I recognized the piece as being "Va, pensiero,” aka, “The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves,” from the Verdi opera Nabucco. I was looking to find the hidden speakers when I saw her.
She was sitting in a wheelchair by the fireplace, wearing a white woolen shawl. Her back was arched, and she had a pleasant, almost serene expression on her face. She was a woman of advanced years but was still quite beautiful. Even if I had not suspected it beforehand, I would have known instantly she was Gabriella’s mother. The high cheek bones, full lips, and deep green eyes were all dead giveaways. In fact, the family resemblance was so apparent, it was unnerving.
“Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?” Cabaneri asked. “Let’s see, you’re Detective Sam Barnard, so you’re a rye man. Special Agent Clegg, I believe your drink of choice is scotch, single malt, if I’m not mistaken. And you, Trip, you prefer Kentucky bourbon. I hope Maker’s will do.”
“No thanks,” Clegg said.
“How does he know that?” Sam asked Clegg.
I answered, “Because he makes it a habit to know everything about the people working for him, don’t you Mr. Cabaneri?”
Clegg looked at me.
I nodded. “Yeah, I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Sam asked.
“Why Sebastian Colson forced me and Clegg into all of this. He did it because he was working for you, Mr. Cabaneri, and you needed us.”
Cabaneri didn’t respond.
I continued, “It hit me as we were coming out here. We had to drive down The Strip. I’ve spent the last five years of my life on that street, and in that time, I’ve learned a few interesting things when it comes to folks of your ilk.”
“And that would be?” Cabaneri asked.
“Criminals only truly trust other criminals.”
“I’m not sure I follow, Trip,” Cabaneri replied.
“You told Strasser you were being watched by the feds. I’m sure that made him uneasy, but it also helped sell your ruse. You told him they, the feds, had even planted a spy on Gabriella’s television show to watch you. You didn’t tell him who, but you knew Strasser was no dummy and would figure out it was probably me. That was not only enough to make him comfortable with you—criminals trusting criminals and all—but was also enough to distract him from what was going on. That’s why you needed me around, wasn’t it? I was your proverbial red herring. I’m curious about one thing, though. How did you get Colson to play along? What did you have on him?”
Cabaneri shrugged. “I hear Sebastian was not a very nice man. I hear he owed a lot of people…favors. I also hear he had designs on a new address in Sacramento. I mean, I wouldn’t know for sure, but that’s what I hear.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Smuggling Strasser’s beef into the U.S. was the real carrot you dangled to get the old Nazi out of Argentina, wasn’t it? Not the promise you could make his daughter a star. That, I suspect, was just to sweeten the pot. You made him believe that by selling his beef on the black market, you could make him richer than Juan Perón himself. That’s what did it. That’s what got him and his SS buddies out of Argentina.”
Cabaneri smiled. “You know, I hear they’re all the same, Goering, Himmler, Eichmann, even Hitler. Looted gold, pilfered artwork, seized property, it was their greed that got them in the end. Hell, they might have won the damn war had they only paid more attention to it, and less on lining their own pockets. At least, that’s what I hear.”
“You used Gabriella,” I said. “That was pretty ruthless.”
“She was never in danger…I hear.”
“Pardon me for saying so, sir, but what do you care?”
“I care,” he said, looking me in the eye. “More than you know, I care.”
“You have a funny way of showing—”
I froze, and my brain went into overdrive. Something I noticed when I walked into the house suddenly flashed in my mind. I looked down and picked up one of the framed photographs sitting on the table beside me. The image in the picture was of a woman holding a small boy in her arms. Even though the picture had to be over thirty years old, I could still tell the boy was Anthony. The woman, though looking strikingly similar, wasn’t the same woman in the wheelchair across the room from me.
I walked over to the woman and sat in the chair across from her. “Mrs. Jilani, my name is Trip Callaway. I’m a friend of your daughter Gabby’s.”
The woman looked at me and smiled. “I know. Thank you for taking care of her. I understand you’ve been very kind.”
“Ma’am, who are the people in this picture?”
The woman took the picture from my hand and looked at it. Her eyes filled. “That’s my beautiful sister, Theresa.”
“And the boy?” I asked.
She looked up at Cabaneri.
I stood and took a deep breath. I suddenly understood everything. “Gabriella is your first cousin,” I mumbled.
Cabaneri just stared at me.
“That’s why you never touched her. That’s why you—”
“Yes,” Cabaneri snapped back. “No need to be crude.”
“Okay, where are they?” Clegg demanded.
“To whom would you be referring to?” Cabaneri innocently replied.
“You know damn well whom I’m referring to. Strasser and the woman who calls herself Miriam. Where are they?”
Cabaneri shrugged. “I can only assume in Los Angeles, Agent Clegg.”
All heads turned when Agents Carson and Stevens suddenly appeared. They had obviously entered the house from a back door.
“We’ve been through the house, upstairs and down,” Carson said. “It’s empty. There’s nobody else here, sir.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Cabaneri said, with as much indignation as he could fake. “Allowing your thugs to enter this woman’s home and rummage through it like this. Well, I’m simply appalled. I hope you have a search warrant, sir, or I’ll be forced to lodge an official complaint with your superiors.”
“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” Sam said.
“Ma’am,” I said, kneeling in front of the elderly woman. “Where are they? Please, tell me.”
She was still staring at the photograph. “He killed her. That evil man killed my sister. He took little Tony’s mother from him at a time when a little boy needs his mama the most. He beat her, put her on that train, and…he killed her. How could anyone be so cruel?”
“Ma’am,” I pleaded, softly, “where are they?”
When the woman looked up, her sweet expression was replaced by a face filled with pure hatred. “Where are they, you ask?” she spat, venom carried on her every word. “I pray one of them is finally burning in hell.”
I dropped my head.
When I stood back up, I looked at Square Head and Tonto. “Are you sure there’s no hidden rooms, anywhere? No secret basement or attic?”
Tonto answered, “If there is, it’s well-hidden. There’s nobody else in this house, Callaway. We’re sure of it.”
I looked down at the woman again, and then over to Cabaneri. They were both staring at me—a bit too calmly, I thought. Then, I heard it. The voice of Tomer Hadad in my head. It took a few seconds for it to compute, but once it did, I knew I was right.
�
�Clegg, the garage!” I shouted.
I didn’t wait for Clegg to decipher what I meant. I bolted from the room, out the front door, and onto the driveway. Sam’s men ran toward me, but I ignored them. I stopped and looked in both directions. It was pitch black, and I saw no buildings. I believe I heard one of Sam’s men ask if everything was okay, but I don’t think I answered him. What I remember was looking down and seeing tire tracks in the gravel driveway heading away from the house and out into the darkness. I started running, letting the tire tracks lead my way.
It was a red brick building, located roughly two hundred yards away from the main house. It struck me how unusual it was to build a garage so far away from a house until I realized housing automobiles was not the building’s real purpose. The brick was new, and I suspected the building was probably no more than a few weeks old. I was wrong. Strasser didn’t escape the recording studio by luck. It was by design. The plan was always to bring him here.
The garage door was pulled down, but I figured there had to be another way in and out. I ran to the side of the building but saw nothing. I ran back around to the other side and found the door I was looking for.
Sam’s men had caught up to me, but I urged them back. I turned the knob, but it was locked. It took three attempts of me running into the door at full speed until it finally crashed open.
Sam’s men started in.
“No!” I yelled. “I’m going in alone. Keep everyone else out too.”
To them, I was a Fed, which meant I was the boss. They nodded, and I entered the building alone.
Strasser stood on the hood of the black Lincoln. He had a rope around his neck, and his face was an unrecognizable mash of blood and cartilage. His arms hung limp at his side, and his left shoulder was unnaturally twisted backward.
Miriam stood beside him, holding a tire iron in her hand. Her face was spattered with blood, and she was dressed all in black, including black gloves. I also noticed she had a pistol pushed into the waistband of her black slacks, as well as a knife. She didn’t even glance in my direction when I entered.
“Go away, Trip,” she yelled, glaring at Strasser.
“Miriam, you don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t,” I pleaded.
“Yes, I do!” she screamed. “You don’t know what this man has done. He must be punished.”
“Yes, I do know what he’s done, and he will be punished. He will, I promise, Miriam. But not like this. Not by you.”
“They took my family from me, Trip. All of them. I have no family, not a single person, all because of men like him. They’re evil, and they all must be punished. It’s my job!”
“No, Miriam, it’s not.” I reached in my pocket and took out the mezuzah. “Look, I have what you gave me. You were right, it keeps evil away. One of them could have killed me, and I believe he didn’t because I had this. Miriam, this man’s life, as despicable as it is, is not yours to take.”
Tears began running down her face. “Yes, it is!” she shouted. “It’s why I lived, and everyone else died. It’s my responsibility.”
“No, Miriam, it’s not. Vengeance is Mine, and recompense, for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it, Miriam? Vengeance is Mine. His life is not yours to take. It’s just not. It’s not your responsibility, Miriam. It’d be wrong. Please, Miriam.”
She dropped her head, and for a moment, I thought she was going to come down from the car. Unfortunately, at that moment, the door swung open.
Miriam grabbed her pistol. “Stop!” she yelled, pointing the gun at Clegg.
Clegg raised his gun.
“Clegg, no!” I shouted. “Don’t shoot her.”
Clegg quickly lowered his weapon.
“Please, just leave. I have this under control.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, looking at Miriam.
“I am. Please, just leave and shut the door.”
Clegg stood still for what felt like an hour. Finally, he nodded, “Okay, it’s your play, Trip.” He backed out and closed the door behind him.
“Miriam, look,” I said inching closer to her. “All of his men, they’re dead. And we have him now, and he’s done for. He’ll be sent back to Israel, and you know what that means. You’ll get justice, Miriam, and it’ll be justice delivered the right way. Please, come down. For me, please, come down.”
As Miriam lowered the gun, I jumped onto the car’s hood. I took the weapon from her hand and put it in my pocket. I wrapped my arms around her, and she began to weep.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s all going to be okay. You’ll see.”
I felt her jerk but thought nothing of it. It wasn’t until she pulled her head off my shoulder, and I saw her face, I realized something was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
I felt a warm ooze on my hand. When I lifted it, I saw it was soaked in blood.
As Miriam slid out of my arms and onto the hood of the car, I saw the knife Miriam had stashed in her waistband was now in Strasser’s limp hand. The blade was covered in blood, and he was smiling.
“No, no, no,” I muttered, easing Miriam down.
Blood began trickling from her mouth.
“Miriam, come on, baby, you’re going to be okay.”
She was gasping for air. “Trip…my…”
“I’m right here, Miriam. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”
“Trip…I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I know, honey, it’s okay. I understand.”
“Trip…Trip…
“What, Miriam? I’m right here, honey.”
“My…my name is Leah.”
I smiled. “Leah, that’s a beautiful—”
And then, as if someone had turned out the stars, all life disappeared from her eyes, and she stared blankly at nothing.
“Miriam? Miriam? Leah, no, don’t…come back, oh God, no.”
My pleas went on but made no difference. She was gone.
I don’t know how long I sat there holding her, a minute, an hour, a day. I only know that when I stood up and saw that Strasser was still smiling. I became a different man.
I heard him grunt in pain when I slapped the knife from his hand. I moved close to his face. So close, I could smell his putrid breath. I looked into his swollen, dark eyes, but said nothing. I felt weak and empty, but at the same time consumed with a rage like I’d never felt before. I was not in my right mind but had never been more self-aware.
I took a deep breath, exhaled in his face, and stepped away. As I did, I heard him mumble something. I turned and looked at him. He said it again.
“Bitch.”
I pulled the gun from my pocket and fired three shots into his chest.
Chapter 18
“‘Round Midnight,” by Thelonious Monk, has always been one of my favorite songs. Next to Thelonious’ original version, I’d have to say Miles’ rendition was my next favorite. But running a very close third would be Eighty-Eight Eddie’s take on the classic. Eddie somehow never failed to capture the loneliness, and longing, and soul-crushing regret that makes “‘Round Midnight” such a great tune. It was like he understood the notes on a deeper, more personal level. It was the third time he’d played it for me that night.
I sat at the bar, and Joey, The Jam Jar’s bartender, poured me another whiskey—my fifth, maybe my sixth. I wasn’t counting.
After the events in the garage, I had flown back to L.A. with Clegg, leaving Detective Sam Barnard of LVPD behind to handle things at the Jilani estate. The official police report stated Miriam Kaplan, aka Leah Roth, shot Ricardo Goetz, aka Werner Strasser, after he stabbed her. There was no mention of the Nokmim, nor Werner Strasser’s past life as an SS officer. There was also no mention of Anthony Cabaneri.
The reason I returned to L.A. with Clegg was so I could inform Gabriella about her fa
ther’s death and tell her that her mother was still alive. It was going to be difficult news to deliver, on all accounts, and Clegg thought it best if it came from me. Under the circumstances, I agreed.
Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, Gabriella took the news of her father’s death in stride. It was almost as if she had spent her entire life preparing to hear it. I didn’t tell her it was me who killed him. I just said he was killed and left it at that.
When I told her about her mother, however, it was a different story. At first it was shock, then joy, then anger, the joy again, then tears. What there wasn’t was a slew of questions. That might have surprised me more than anything.
Gabriella flew back to Vegas with us, and Clegg set up the meeting between her and her mother. I opted out of the reunion. I figured if anything was meant to be private, it was that. Clegg told me it went as well as one could expect, whatever that meant.
“How you doing, son?” Luther said, coming up behind me and putting his big hand on my shoulder.
I forced a smile. “I got good booze and the best music in all of Las Vegas. Could be worse.”
Luther grunted his way down onto the barstool next to me.
“You need anything, boss?” Joey asked Luther.
Luther shook his head. Joey nodded and walked away.
“I killed somebody, Luther.”
Luther didn’t respond. I figured Clegg had already told him everything.
“Two people, actually. The first one was in self-defense, but the second one was—” I had to take a breath. “You know, I was just sitting here thinking.”
“Thinking about what, son?”
“Thinking about what makes me any better than them? I killed out of hate, Luther. Pure hate just like them. What makes me any different?”
Luther nodded, and we were both silent for a while.
“I was there, you know?” Luther finally said, in a tone I don’t believe I’d ever heard from the man.
“Where?”
“Austria, in ’45. I was part of the 761st Tank Battalion that participated in the liberation of Gunskirchen, a subcamp of the Mauthausen concentration camp. I swear, Trip, if I live to be a thousand, I’ll never get those images out of this head of mine. I had heard the stories, of course. Auschwitz had been liberated a few months earlier, and we all had heard about the horrific things our boys had found there, but honestly, I kind of think we all believed they were exaggerated. Just tall tales made up to make for a better story to pass around, but Lordy, they weren’t. They was as real as my mama’s love. Those poor people were little more than skin and bones when we arrived—literally, skin and bones. Shallow trenches with carcasses tossed on top of other rotting carcasses, and the smell, I’ll never forget the smell. Makes me sick to even think about it—which is why I try hard not to think about it. In all, they say over fifty thousand people were executed in that disgusting place, and that’s on the low side. The Germans destroyed most of the records of how many were really there, so there’s probably some we’ll never know about. It was sickening. And, bewildering. How could people do such evil things to other people?”