“Karl’s death, at the hands of a murderer, did not suit him. If I could imagine an appropriate way for Karl to die, it would have been doing what he dreamed of—flying. Soaring into the sky, past the grief of his lost childhood, past the loss of his wife, Aggie. He would have loved to make his final escape by flying away into the clouds.”
“Karl was good at doing something I’m not so good at: forgiving. I can never forgive the people who did this to him on New Year’s. But Karl? He would have it in him to do that.”
Duke bowed his head, slipped his note card into his pocket as applause swept across the room.
Ruiz leaned into Flores and spoke in a low voice.
“What do you know about Schuler’s childhood in Germany?”
Flores shrugged. “Rose Mulvaney said he became an orphan at the age of twelve.”
“Would you mind if I did some research on my own?”
Flores’s face tightened and Ruiz thought he heard a sigh. “Why?”
Here he was again, butting in. “I’m just curious. It may not make much difference. It may be nothing. But I’d like to find out a few things about his life in Germany.”
Flores gave an abrupt nod and looked back to the front. “Touch base with me and let me know what you find out.”
Ruiz clapped the younger man on the shoulder.
The next person to come up was a busty older woman in a dark green dress. She moved over to the organ and stood behind a music stand. Dear God. Some kind of a song. Ruiz couldn’t imagine what song it would be, but he predicted that he’d zone out during it. He looked over at Reyna, who was focused straight ahead, as if she were really excited to hear this one.
The woman opened her mouth and warbly singing spilled out. His worst fear, that it would be some kind of opera, had come true. She was singing in another language, which would probably be German. Ruiz tuned out and started thinking about how he’d find out more about Karl Schuler.
After the singer, Ruiz was pulled out of his haze by a bright voice of a young woman who had stepped up to the podium. She was stocky and tough and wore a maroon dress that wasn’t very flattering. He was soon drawn into her story.
“When I met Karl Schuler at East Point Youth Center, I wrote him off. He looked like an old white guy who had too much time on his hands and didn’t know or care much about me. I didn’t care much about him. But then I heard him talk about planes. About flying them, designing them. I found that I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I wanted to find out how I could either fly one or build one myself. He told me I needed to take physics, trigonometry and calculus if I wanted to learn about aviation. I was pessimistic that I could handle those classes. When I decided to try, I found out how much I was capable of. Mr. Schuler was my number one cheerleader.”
The young woman wiped tears from her eyes, then smiled. “Three years later, I became the first person in my family to graduate from high school. I went to community college, then transferred to the Georgia Institute of Technology. Last summer I had an internship at Boeing, and in June I’m graduating with a degree in aeronautical engineering.”
Ruiz cast a glance sideways and saw Flores’s eyes were misty.
The rest of the ceremony continued with funny anecdotes and stories of selflessness and encouragement given. Karl Schuler had been a saint. And not a sanctimonious, self-righteous one. The kind of saint with a sense of humor. It was hard to fault the guy on anything. He was, as he’d heard Captain Coelho say about someone, “a once in a lifetime kind of person.”
At the end, as people streamed out, Ruiz and Reyna headed up to the front, with Flores lagging behind them. Rose stood at the front in a receiving line, as people waited to talk to her. A distinguished man near her age stood next to her. A gawky man with a silly moustache paced a few feet away, looking at his phone. Ruiz guessed this was Randall Mulvaney, Rose’s son.
While Flores waited to talk to Rose, Ruiz approached the man next to her. In his expensive navy blue suit, he looked like the CEO of a large company.
“I’m James Ruiz and this is my wife, Reyna. We’re the ones who saw the shooting on New Year’s.”
“I’m Christoph Schuler, Karl’s son” He reached out his hand in turn to both of them. “Thank you for all you’ve done. The family is grateful.”
Ruiz wasn’t used to the “family” working as one unit. It sounded almost like the mob.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Schuler,” Reyna said.
“Thank you, Reyna.” The man smiled warmly, as everyone always did with her.
“You’re from back East?” Ruiz asked Christoph Schuler.
“I flew in for the day from Miami. Rose shouldn’t have to handle this herself.” He nodded and looked at him and Reyna with interest. “I need to get back tomorrow for a speaking engagement. I’m running for office.”
Reyna’s eyes lit up. “What are you running for?”
“State senate,” Christoph replied. “It’s something I’ve considered for a long time. Now that leadership of my company is in good hands, I’m ready to do it.”
“I had a visit with Rose a few days ago.” Ruiz leaned in toward Christoph Schuler, as the post-service noise level in the church began to rise. “She was showing me photos of your father and the family. You have an interesting family history.”
It was quick, just a small motion. Christoph Schuler flinched and glanced at his sister.
“My father was one of those people who rose above his circumstances. He was definitely a role model for us, and he set a high bar. I hope to bring some of those values to government, as a senator.”
Ruiz observed that Schuler was already sounding like one. The older man sighed, adjusted his tie knot, and looked in the direction of his sister, who was still talking to Flores.
“I’ve had a long, tiring trip to get here,” Schuler turned back to Ruiz. “I’ve got a conference with the governor in about an hour. I’m expecting his endorsement. I’d like to talk to you more, especially about the circumstances of my father’s death. Detective Ruiz. Maybe we can meet somewhere tomorrow morning before I fly out. I’m downtown at the Fairmont.”
Ruiz wasn’t expecting this invitation. He wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to hear more about Karl Schuler.
“Why don’t I come by your hotel. How about 7:30?”
Flores was still talking to Rose and had missed hearing about his appointment with Christoph Schuler, which was fine by Ruiz.
As Ruiz turned away from Christoph Schuler and prepared to leave, Flores smiled and nodded at him, bypassing Reyna completely. Something seemed weird about that.
Ruiz felt a flash on anger on Reyna’s behalf. But he got it. Some people, especially cops, went into hyperfocus mode. Flores was on the job here.
Ruiz put his hand on Reyna’s shoulder. “Ready to head out, babe?” She nodded. He gave Flores the “call you later” finger and thumb sign.
As they left, Ruiz saw Reyna in his peripheral vision. She turned and gave Flores a long, slow look and a smile. He’d seen how the women at Someplace looked at Flores. Maybe that’s how all women looked at Flores.
Flores caught her eye, looking wide-eyed as if blinded by a camera flash, then turned away.
32
Karl Schuler’s Journal
After the bombing, we left Peenemunde abruptly, moving south to settle in the city of Nordhausen.
One evening Uncle Hermann sat down with me after dinner and finally told me about his work—all of the operations from Peenemunde were now transferred to the Mittelwerk operation, safe from the RAF bombers inside a mountain called Kohnstein.
I wanted so badly to go to his work, to be his messenger, his assistant, as I continued my studies. I remembered the beauty, the glory of the rocket launch at Peenemunde. The new V2 rocket was supposed to be even more advanced.
Since our departure, I had heard no word of Agnieszka. On our last walk, she’d told me something that had haunted my thoughts ever since.
We sat on my
coat, spread out on the weeds, near the platform where the V1 had soared up into space. Sea birds flew overhead, crying to each other.
She told me, a little afraid to say it, that she had been married before she came to Peenemunde. To a soldier, a Polish boy. They’d been married for about six months before he was sent to the eastern front to fight for Germany.
She found out she was expecting a child. A month later, she was notified of her husband’s death.
When the child was born, her mother and sister took her to the hospital late at night. The labor was difficult because the baby was in the wrong position. When the baby came, the nurses rushed it away in a cart, saying it needed oxygen. The next morning, the German nurse told her that her baby had been born with a serious defect in his brain. He would never walk or talk. He would always be like a baby. In the Reich, they told her, we send these children to a special place to be taken care of. Don’t worry, Frau Kaminski. It is for the best.
But Agnieszka had heard about other children whose parents brought them to the special hospitals. They never saw them again.
I pictured Agnieszka’s little boy smiling as he lay on the lawn of some big, clean Kinder center, lovingly cared for by kind young women.
But from the look of pain on Agnieszka’s face, she was imagining a very different picture. And she was right.
After the memorial service, Flores headed back downtown.
He flexed his hands to warm them up as he walked towards First Street to interview Jen Corey at Fortuna Gallery.
Two more days till Buckley’s deadline. Until the case was turned over to Ass-Kissing Jesperson.
It was late in the day, but he needed something strong. Espresso.
Downtown San Jose was taking down its annual Christmas display. Christmas in the Park, a glittery assemblage of decorated trees, Santa’s workshop, and animatronic elves, circa 1960. The kiddie rides had been disassembled and loaded onto trucks. The outdoor skating rink was still up, and a few skaters circled the frozen oval, which looked odd juxtaposed against rows of palm trees.
The tall, skinny kid at the counter of the cafe set the espresso shot down on the counter and pushed it toward Flores.
Flores took it and downed it, then set the glass down a little too hard on the counter. He had ten minutes before he’d walk down First Street to the gallery and ask about Randall Mulvaney’s alibi.
He needed to pull out of the stupor he felt after the funeral. The overwhelming emotion of a steady stream of people Schuler had helped just drove the point home: he needed the find the man’s killer. A reporter had accosted him as he left the church, asking for an update on the investigation. He told the reporter that the team was pursuing a couple of leads and a news conference would be called when there was more information. They’d continued with questions and a small crowd began to gather. Flores quickly ducked into the church.
He should have known Reyna would be there. She sat three feet away from him in the church pew. Her smelled the faint scent of peaches on her skin. He felt her presence before he actually looked at her. He stole a glance—she tossed her dark wavy hair and played with her necklace as she sat next to Ruiz, who sat transfixed, his eyes on a young Latina speaking. Reyna’s tight black dress fit her curves like a glove and her legs, in sheer silk stockings, crossed revealing those smooth, perfect little calves, like something Michelangelo had carved out of marble. He made himself look back at the speaker.
He should have pretended not to see the Ruizes. He should have stood on the other side of the church or slipped into a seat when he had a chance. He tried to ignore her. But she was there, and it was nearly impossible to think of anything else.
Maybe the answer was spending more time with Ruiz. If he hung out with the guy, he’d constantly be reminded of how stupid it was to think about his wife.
Ruiz had made it clear that he wanted to do anything he could to help solve the case. The case belonged to Flores and his team. But Ruiz had ten years more experience that he had. His advice and ideas could help. He made a note to call him and get together again at Someplace.
With the espresso jumpstarting the neurons in his brain, Flores headed out of the cafe.
Then, as Flores turned the corner onto First Street, what he saw made him break out in a sweat.
A blonde woman with a tall man walked close together, backpacks over their shoulders and coffee cups in their hands, laughing. His heart pounded. For the first time since he’d seen Oksana at the French restaurant, he felt pain. The depth of it surprised him. Flores forced himself to turn away and look for the address of the gallery.
He finally spotted it. Fortuna Gallery was a tiny wedge of a storefront next to a stationery shop.
A large, colorful tapestry hung in the window, an abstract blur of colors. He wondered if it was the work of the mysterious Shayante, Randall Mulvaney’s girlfriend.
He pulled open the door and walked across the concrete floor till he saw a sign scrawled on a piece of paper and taped to a door: J. Corey, Gallery Manager. He wondered about the rent a gallery like that must pay. It had to be hard for artists to survive financially in the valley.
He tapped on the door. And waited.
The espresso, along with seeing Oksana, made him feel edgy and impatient. He tapped his foot and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his Facebook notifications. He did a quick search for Reyna Ruiz and pulled up her profile. As soon as he saw her face, he quit Facebook and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
“Detective Flores?” The door opened and a short woman in jeans and a white t-shirt came out. Her hair was short and spiky, but other than that, she could have been a suburban soccer mom. “I was on a phone call. Come on in.”
The tiny room looked like a storeroom with a desk. Canvases, bottles of wine, and bags of red solo cups and six packs of soda formed a wall behind the desk.
“Have a seat.” She gestured toward a wood and black leather chair that looked like an Eames knockoff. “You wanted to talk about Randall Mulvaney.”
Flores took a seat. “He attended your New Year’s Eve party. I want to pin down the time he arrived and when he left.”
“All I can tell you is what I saw that night. Randall and Shayante came early to help set up. Shayante has a couple of pieces in our show.”
“What time was that?”
“They showed up 7-ish.” She pushed the spiky bangs off her forehead. “Then the party didn’t go past 1:30. So I have to say, well—They both left earlier than that. They did a lot of work and I think they were beat.”
“Were they talking to anyone when they left? Could anyone vouch for the time they left?”
Jen Corey blew out a sigh. “I’m not sure. I can give you a few names. There’s a couple—Ted and Mark Strom.” She leaned back in her chair, which let out a squeak. “Shayante’s friend, Mira. Mira Davies.” She opened her desk drawer and rifled through the contents. She handed him a couple of business cards.
“Thanks, Ms. Corey.” He put the cards in his wallet. “Now can you tell me, what is Mr. Mulvaney’s relationship to the gallery?”
Jen Corey laughed. “None. Other than he’s Shayante’s plus one.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“He comes around with her, because he can’t seem to do anything without her. He’s been here at lot, helping with her shows, running errands.” She smirked. “Personally, I think Shayante’s too good for him. But he’s free labor, and I’m not going to turn that down.”
“Thanks for your help, Ms. Corey.” Flores nodded. “Mind if I look around the gallery? I’m curious. Is the work in the window by Shayante?”
Corey stood up, looking amused at his interest. “Yes, it is. Go ahead and take a look. We’re not big, so it won’t take you long.”
He walked back into the entry area and then moved into the main room. There were a couple of sculptures on square pedestals that looked like they were made out of blown glass, with metal strips wrapped around them. On the wall
hung fabric art, woven from rough fibers and embedded with something that looked like stones. At first the colors looked mismatched and garish. The more he looked at them, the more the colors seem to complement each other and look like they had been very deliberately and carefully paired together. The placards next to the works read Shayante Miland.
He wasn’t sure Randall Mulvaney played a part in his grandfather’s murder. But the man hated his grandfather and had a history of impulsive acts. If he’d left before 1:30 a.m., he would have had time to get to south San Jose.
It was time for a conversation with Shayante. He went back into Jen Corey’s office and asked for her number. He didn’t want to call Randall Mulvaney.
33
Karl Schuler’s Journal
At home in the evenings, Hermann would explain the physics behind the rockets. How they worked, why they worked.
I was getting to the point where I could do the calculations. I hadn’t gotten over the thrill of seeing the rocket take off in the woods outside Peenemunde. I wanted to see it again. I wanted to see something man had made pierce the sky and enter space.
The work at the old gypsum mine seemed hard to believe. A complete factory had been constructed within the mountain—impenetrable to bombs. Uncle Hermann explained the parts and the different stages of rocket production to me. It was hard to keep workers, he said. But things were progressing well. If I did well in my studies, I would be able to visit the factory at the end of the term.
Uncle needn’t have threatened me. My studies, especially science and math, were the highlight of my life. My time with my books in the evening kept my mind busy. Kept me from thinking about Agnieszka. Wondering about her and where she’d gone. She’d either been transferred, returned to Poland or had been killed. I had to be realistic.
As the term neared an end, my teachers informed me that I was likely to receive an award for excellence in my science and math classes. The fact that I was winning awards didn’t excite me. Going to Kohnstein and seeing the work there would be my reward.
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