I turned away. Why was he being so reasonable? He knew I’d lied to him, deceived him, and yet he made passionate love to me. What was wrong with him?
“Ellie, I’m not angry. I just want to—”
“Why not?” I spun around. “Why aren’t you angry?” How dare he treat me so well? “Who are you, David Linden? Are you always this forgiving? This blind to people’s faults? Or—” I waved the spatula—“are you so desperate to be accepted that you’ll overlook anything a woman does?”
He flinched.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “That was out of line.”
But he was already out of his seat, pushing the chair under the table. “I thought we’d be able to talk about this reasonably. But I see I made a mistake. You’re someone I wanted to get close to. I’ve never done that before. Maybe now I know why.”
“Damn you.” I hacked the spatula through the eggs, which had turned rubbery and dry. “Damn you, David Linden.”
He turned away from me, his face sad but calm. Somehow, his coolness, his rational control made my temper spike. Fuck him and his patronizing attitude. “Well, maybe it’s not so strange.” I brandished the spatula. “Considering Lisle Gottlieb was your mother.”
“What?”
Shit. I picked up the skillet, intending to scrape the eggs into the disposal. But I forgot it was hot. It dropped from my hands and clattered to the floor. “Damn it to hell.”
He stepped back into the kitchen. “What did you say?”
“Forget it. I didn’t say anything.” I yanked on the cold water and stuck my singed fingers under the faucet.
Suddenly David was in back of me, swinging me around to face him. The cords on his neck were taut, and his grip on my arm was strong. His eyes glanced at the skillet and then my fingers, as if making sure I wasn’t hurt. Then, “What do you mean, considering Lisle Gottlieb was my mother?”
I tried to shrink from his touch. “Nothing. I was angry.”
His jaw worked, all his coolness and composure gone. “There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”
I felt a sick twisting in my stomach. “You don’t want to know.”
“Ellie. If you have information about my family, anything at all, you have to tell me.” He shook me. “You have to.”
I heard the refrigerator motor kick on, smelled the butter from the skillet. He was clutching my arms. I choked back a sob. “I didn’t want it to happen this way. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The look in his eyes said it was too late. I went into the family room. He followed me in. I dug the Movietone newsreel out of my bag.
“This is a newsreel from the Forties. About Rosie the Riveter. Your mother is on this tape,” I said. “So is Paul Iverson.” I tried to look the other way, but his face swam before me. “Your mother had an affair with Paul Iverson. During the war. While Kurt was overseas.”
His eyes narrowed. Disbelief spread across his face.
“They lived together in an apartment in Lawndale.” I paused. “She got pregnant, David. Kurt Weiss isn’t your father. Paul Iverson is.” I handed him the tape. “It’s all here. You look exactly like him.”
His sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room.
He stared at the tape in his hand, then studied my face. I looked away, not trusting myself to go on. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
“Tell me all of it,” he said hoarsely. “Now.”
“Your mother left Iverson at the end of the war and went back to Kurt,” I whispered. “A week or so later, Iverson killed himself.”
He waited.
“But before he did, I think he killed Kurt Weiss.”
Chapter Forty-two
A high, thin cloud layer leached the color out of the sky the next morning. I called David’s hotel room as soon as I woke up, but there was no answer. Feeling heavy and dull, I dragged myself to a meeting with Pam Huddleston.
She said we’d bought ourselves some time. The papers she’d sent over supported our position that the account had been closed during the divorce proceedings and that I had no knowledge of any new activity on Barry’s part. Pam had convinced the Chicago Corp to wait until their PI found Barry before proceeding further. A continuance would be filed.
After the meeting I stopped off at Mac’s, where we recorded a scratch track for the video. I’d hire a professional narrator for the finished version, but I hadn’t decided on a female or male voice. For now, my voice would do.
When we’d finished laying down the track, Hank and I screened the Giant City footage. Mac had shot plenty of Broll. We had cheering crowds, smiling faces, and colorful shots of Americana. Hank and I discussed the pacing. We were aiming for the illusion of momentum, success, maybe even a feeling of inevitability. We listened to library music that would reinforce those themes, and he promised to have a rough cut by the following week. I left him paging through the logs.
I picked up Dad at the hospital and took him home, then got Chinese takeout for dinner. When he fell asleep on his chair, I quietly let myself out. Back home, I called The Ritz again. This time I asked for the front desk. David had checked out. I tried him at his office, but it was after five on the East Coast, and he wasn’t there. I called his home; his machine picked up. My heart skipped a beat just hearing his voice.
“David, it’s me.” I cleared my throat. “I…I wouldn’t blame you if you never speak to me again. There’s no excuse for what I did. I could tell you I’m under a lot of stress. That I’m panicked about half a million dollars that my ex-husband lost in the stock market. That I don’t know how to tell Marian Iverson about her father. Your father. That I’m still spooked about my father. And a breakin at my house. And a kid who was shot in a drive-by a few weeks ago. I should have told you about all of this a long time ago. But I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t know how, and…well…it doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t excuse the fact that I lied. Or the pain that I’ve caused you. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
I hung up and looked at the phone. Noise from the TV in the family room spilled into the kitchen. A commercial for an appliance store was already hawking a big Labor Day blowout sale. I flashed back to Jeremiah Gibbs at Giant Park. He’d been talking about Labor Day. The blue light from the television threw strobelike shadows across the room. I tried to remember what he’d said. Something about the base of operations having been moved. His people infiltrating a construction site in the Loop.
The phone rang. I jumped.
“Hello.”
“David,” I breathed. Silence.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, sure, Ellie. Drop a bomb on me any time, and a few hours later, I’m just peachy.”
“I didn’t want it to happen like that.”
A harsh sound came out of his throat. “You were right about one thing. We look alike.”
“You watched the tape.”
He laughed bitterly. “Like father, like son.” More silence. “I wasn’t going to call you. I never wanted to hear from you again.” His voice was tight. “But goddammit, Ellie, you’re the only person who understands.” An anguished sob escaped. “These are my parents, Ellie. My family.”
I squeezed my lips together, longing to see him, to touch him, to smooth the hair off his forehead. “I wish I was there. I’d do anything to help.”
He cleared his throat. More silence. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “There may be something.”
“Anything.”
“When I got home, I started going through everything that had a connection to my father. I wanted to prove you were wrong. That it wasn’t true.” He took a breath. “I started to fiddle around with his clock. You remember. The one I told you about?”
“The one from Prague?”
“Right.” He cleared his throat again. He sounded stronger. “I was staring at this thing for an hour, and suddenly I saw a hairline crack circling the face of the clock. You know, around t
he hands. I’d never noticed it before. So I got a putty knife and started working it back and forth. A few minutes later, I got it off. There was something inside.”
“Inside the clock?”
“It’s a report. Some kind of document. Ten or so pages, all folded up. I’m not sure what it says. It’s written in German. But there’s a cover letter with it addressed to Heinrich Himmler and two other Germans.”
“Himmler?” I whispered. “The Nazi? That’s crazy. How can that be?”
“You think I know? But that’s not what stopped me.” He hesitated. “There was a fourth name on the letter.”
“Who?”
“Iverson.”
“Paul Iverson? You have a document that’s addressed to him and Himmler too?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a date on it?”
“Nineteen forty-four.”
Iverson didn’t enlist, and he wasn’t drafted. He was home, making sure the mill produced tanks and planes for the Allies. So, what was his name doing on a German document from 1944 along with one of Hitler’s most trusted aides?
“I called my assistant at the bank. Her mother’s German. She’s going to read it and give me a translation.”
“Did you make a copy of it?”
“Ellie, give me some credit.” A beat of silence followed. “That’s why I’m calling.” Another beat. “I want to fax it to you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “you work for Marian Iverson. I want you to show it to her. Maybe she knows what it means.” I swiveled around in the chair. My feet hit the floor with a thud. “That’s not a good idea.”
I heard defiance in his voice. “Why not?”
I groped for words. I couldn’t go to Marian Iverson with this. Not now. Not ever. And I’d promised my father to stay away from her. On the other hand, my relationship with David was so precarious that if I refused to help him, he’d walk out of my life—forever.
“David, what am I going to say? Uh—Marian, could you please take a look at this? I don’t know what it means, but maybe you do? By the way, I got it from your half-brother. You didn’t know you had one? Well, guess what?”
His voice grew icy. “Is your opinion of me really that low?” Me and my mouth.
“I expect complete discretion on your part. Until we—I know more about my birth father—Marian shouldn’t know anything about me.” I imagined him scowling into the phone.
“Perhaps you’re the wrong person to do this.” His voice was cold, professional. Like the first time we’d talked.
I remembered our lovemaking. The way our bodies fit together. The thrill of his mouth, his skin, his taste. The way he filled me up. This was a test. My last chance. He was waiting for my answer. A knot of anxiety thickened my throat.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Fax it to me tomorrow.”
Chapter Forty-three
“Glad you’re here.” Roger popped his head into my office at campaign headquarters the next day.
Against my better judgment, I’d come downtown. I rationalized that I’d only be there a few minutes. Just enough time to feel out Marian. See where she stood. What could happen in broad daylight, anyway, the place buzzing with people?
“Let’s go over some due dates. You’re planning to finish up when?”
“We should be done a couple of days after we lay down the track.”
“Right. I ran the voice tapes by Marian. She’s thinking about them.” I nodded. “No problem having it ready by Labor Day weekend?” I shook my head. “Good. At least you’re under control.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” His forehead puckered and his fingers made Captain Queeg circles. “You happen to hear from Lamont recently?”
An uneasy feeling slid around inside me. “Why?”
“I can’t seem to reach him. He said he was going to run a big story about Marian over Labor Day weekend.” Roger made a noise. “Oh well. I wonder why Marian said to check with you?”
I hiked my shoulders. “You tried the Trib?”
“He’s not around. Not at home, either.”
After he left, I wondered why Marian thought I would know Lamont’s whereabouts. Then I remembered the flight back from Giant City. She’d been watching us, and she didn’t look particularly happy. I headed to the bathroom. My uneasiness grew. I was naïve to think I could broach David’s document with her. There was no way.
With just two stalls, the ladies’ room was small, but the soft, recessed light was a nice change from the fluorescent bulbs that usually make my face look washed out. I finished my business and was running a comb through my hair when a key twisted in the lock. It was Marian.
“Ellie, dear.” She smiled brightly as she came through the door. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh.” My smile was cautious.
“Yes. I’m so anxious to see the video. Roger tells me it’s just wonderful.”
Roger hadn’t been near the editing room. “Thanks.” She bent over the sink and started washing her hands. “Marian,” I said, “could I talk to you about something?”
What was I doing?
She caught my reflection in the mirror. “Certainly.” Her expression was curious.
“It’s…it’s about your father.”
“Yes?”
Suddenly a key jingled in the lock, and the receptionist walked in, her headphones capping her ears. When she saw us, she pulled them off and smiled cheerfully. Marian smiled back. The girl edged around me and entered one of the stalls. Marian reached for a paper towel.
“Could we talk in your office?” I asked.
She dried her hands and balled up the towel. “Oh dear, I was just off to a meeting at the Drake.”
“What about tomorrow?” I asked.
She threw the towel in the waste bin. “Frankly, I was hoping to sneak off for a few days.”
“You’re going away?”
“Roger tells me it’s probably the last opportunity I’ll have before November. Full steam ahead, you know. I thought I’d go up to Door County.”
I nodded.
“Of course, if it’s very important…” She smiled regretfully. “Perhaps in an hour or so…”
“No, it can wait.”
She patted my hand. “Thank you.” She sailed through the door.
Back at my desk I gathered up my papers. It was time to leave. As fast as I could. I was just starting out the door when the phone trilled.
“Ellie, it’s David.” The pleasant shiver that ran through me was short-lived. “Ellie, something bad happened.”
My stomach tightened.
“The woman I gave the letter to…” He hesitated. “The one who was going to give it to her mother?”
“Janine. My assistant. She was mugged on her way home from work tonight. She’s dead. The police just left.” I gasped.
“Someone ambushed her when she was walking down Market Street. They pulled her into an alley. They…they shot her.”
“Oh, God.”
“Ellie, listen to me. Whoever killed her took the document.”
“What?”
“When she left the bank, she was carrying it in a manila folder. It wasn’t on her when the police found her.”
Feeling my knees go weak, I stared through my door. Western light poured in through the mottled glass of the windows, scattering sunbeams like jewels. I whispered, “But David, the only people who knew about it were you and me.”
“I know.” A swell of air brushed through the phone line, like the surf of a faraway ocean. “Ellie? I want you to be very careful.”
“But I’m seven hundred miles away.”
There was a pause. “I faxed it to you this morning.”
A shadow blocked the light outside my office. Marian walked by.
I threaded my way through streets clogged with traffic. Though the AC was blasting, my hands felt clammy. Nobody was supposed to know about that document. David had just found it, and I ha
dn’t told anyone. The sun hit my face as I turned up LaSalle, but storm clouds billowed underneath. I turned on the radio, but the noise was flat and tinny. I snapped it off. The traffic lights were out along LaSalle, and cops blew whistles at streams of pedestrians and then motorists, to the annoyance of both but easing of neither.
Maybe Janine’s death was a tragic mistake. A horrible but random death in the Grand Guignol tradition. Right. As I swung onto Lake Shore Drive, the sun disappeared. Sheets of gray water dusted with whitecaps bobbed on my right. Angry clouds loomed above.
At home I ran up to my office and grabbed the sheets of paper poking out of the fax. I studied the signature on the letter. Between a fold in the paper, the scrawled penmanship, and the degradation caused by the transmission, the name was barely legible, but it looked like Josef Mengele. I stiffened.
Mengele was infamous. A Nazi’s Nazi. An ambitious doctor who rose through Hitler’s ranks, and who, as commandant of Auschwitz, conducted medical experiments so obscene and barbarous that even today people are reluctant to discuss them.
This had to be a sick joke. I called David. He picked up on the first ring.
“I got it.” I fumbled with the papers. “This is—there must be some mistake.”
“You saw the signature.”
“It’s wrong. It’s got to be.”
He cut me off. “Ellie, did you tell anyone else about this?”
“No one,” I whispered. “You?”
“Just you. And Janine.” Then, “Maybe I should fly out. I don’t like what I’m thinking.”
“No.” I was surprised by my vehemence. “Stay where you are. See what the police say. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
We hung up. I was about to replace the receiver when I heard a click on the line.
“Hello?” No response. “Is someone there?” Nothing.
Suddenly I knew what the clicks on my phone were. Quills of fear tickled my skin. I carefully replaced the phone in its cradle. Someone else knew about the report. Someone who wanted it badly enough to kill for it. Now David had one copy, I had another, and whoever was tapping my phone knew it.
An Eye for Murder Page 23