“I was going to ask you.”
“She’s not dead then?”
“Not that I know of,” Conlin’s hard stare held on him. “No one’s seen her for a couple days.”
“You try her office?”
“Manager said Joyce went to Baltimore, her aunt died. I called, talked to the dead aunt who it turns out isn’t. She had no idea what was going on or where Joyce was at.”
Down the hall toward the bedrooms he heard voices and flashbulbs popping.
“Who is it?”
“Night manager. Shot twice in the chest. Been dead two days or so, accounting for the odor. Ever smell a body in decomp?”
“One or two.”
“Yeah? Where was that?”
“Dachau,” Harry said.
“The concentration camp?”
Harry nodded.
“I didn’t know,” Conlin said, sounding like he was apologizing. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Jesus. How’d you get out?”
“I escaped.”
A patrolman entered the apartment and said, “There’s a colored guy named Sims downstairs, Detective, says he might know something.”
“Send him up.”
A few minutes later the same patrolman escorted Cordell into the apartment.
Conlin said, “Come out here,” and led Harry and Cordell through a sliding glass door to the balcony. It was bright and hot, sun reflecting off the white walls of the building, and the sounds of traffic coming up from the street. Cordell had his hands on the railing, looking down at the sunbathers on the beach. Conlin tapped a cigarette out of his pack, cupped his hands against the breeze and lit it with a silver Zippo. “Officer said you know something,” he said to Cordell. “Tell me.” Cordell turned, glanced at the ocean.
“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Cordell turned his head back in Conlin’s direction. “Joyce came to stay with me for a couple days.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “We friends.”
“You two going steady?”
Cordell looked at him but didn’t say anything.
“You going to raise the kids Jewish?” Conlin paused. “She left the night I was here. Something scared her, didn’t it?”
“Maybe it was you. Talkin’ about some motherfucker comin’ to kill her.”
“Back to settle things with all of you is my guess. Night manager was shot. I’m sure we’ll recover bullet frags for ballistics comparison to the murder of the security guard and the real estate lady.”
Conlin tossed his cigarette over the balcony, walked back in the living room. Harry and Cordell followed him and Conlin closed the sliding door.
“Why don’t you tell me about the German.” Conlin looked at each of them. “And don’t say what German? Don’t insult my intelligence.”
Harry didn’t think it would take much.
Conlin went back at it. “Why’d you shoot him?”
Harry said, “Haven’t we been through this?”
“That’s the way you want it, huh? Well, you’re on your own then. Tell me who to contact when he kills you. Direct me to your next of kin.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “If there’s nothing else we’ll be on our way.”
“I may want to talk to you again. Where’re you staying?”
“The Breakers.”
Harry and Cordell walked out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator. Harry pushed the button, glanced at Cordell. “Where the hell’s Joyce?”
“Yo, Harry, you not gonna believe this. I left Joyce at this motel, had to take care of business. When I come back, she gone.”
“Why didn’t you take her with you?”
“What I had to do, it wasn’t appropriate.”
“I asked you to help me out,” Harry said. “Come on.”
“I know, I fucked up. I’m sorry.” Cordell paused. “But you know we’ll find her, right? Probably stayin’ with a friend, someone from her office.”
“I guess that’s where we’ll start.”
“You’re not buyin’ this whole Hess is back from the dead bullshit, are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Harry, you the one took him out put him in the water. What’re you sayin’?”
“It’s possible he is alive.”
“This is fuckin’ crazy, Harry.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Hess was on the beach in a rented cabana when he heard the sirens. This was what he had been waiting for. A Palm Beach police cruiser arrived first, lights flashing, stopping in front of the Winthrop House, followed by an ambulance, and a few minutes later by a beige sedan. The three vehicles parked one behind the other. Hess, partially hidden by the cabana, trained the binoculars on Detective Conlin stepping out of the sedan and disappearing into the building.
All the activity across the street, including TV news crews filming the action, attracted attention. Now a crowd from the beach stood behind the seawall blocking his view. Hess aimed the binoculars at Joyce Cantor’s balcony. The Negro, Cordell Sims, was leaning over the railing. Conlin, the cocky detective, was standing behind him, smoking. And to the right – this was his lucky day – he saw Harry Levin.
Hess had been here two nights earlier, parked down the street, got out, looking at the ocean, dark water meeting dark sky, a stiff breeze blowing in. He went in the lobby. It was quiet at 10:47, and deserted but for a gray-haired gentleman in a tie and blue blazer, seventy but clear-eyed and alert, behind the front desk. Hess had checked the directory on his previous visit, and knew that Joyce Cantor was in 412. He walked by the front desk, moving toward the elevator.
“Sir, may I help you?”
Hess glanced at the man behind the desk. “I’m here to see Joyce Cantor.”
“I’m sorry sir, I saw Ms. Cantor leave yesterday with a suitcase, and to my knowledge she hasn’t returned.”
“I left my briefcase in Joyce’s condo the last time I was here and I need to get it. Do you have a key?”
“Sir, that would be against the rules. That could get me in a lot of trouble.”
“What’s your name?”
“Denny, sir.”
“Denny, if I don’t get the briefcase I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.”
“I don’t understand why she didn’t leave it for you,” Denny said. “It doesn’t make sense. Ms. Cantor is a very responsible lady.”
“Joyce was supposed to meet me for dinner and bring the case.”
“Why didn’t she phone you?”
Denny, the rule follower, was starting to annoy him. “I have no idea.” Hess brought out his billfold, opened it and slid two $100 bills on the desktop. “For your trouble.”
Denny glanced at the money, flustered now. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“You could use that, I’ll bet. Listen, nobody will know except you and me. I’m not going to tell anyone, are you?”
“Well, I don’t see any harm as long as we’re in and out quickly.” Denny reached out, placed his right palm over the bills, slid the money toward him, folded the bills in half and put them in his trouser pocket. Now earning his fee, he unlocked a cabinet behind him, opened the doors, selected a key and locked it again.
They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor in silence. Denny was nervous, agitated. The doors opened. They walked down the hall to 412. Denny unlocked the door. They went in Joyce Cantor’s apartment, Hess scanning the large open room, windows along one side, looking out at the ocean.
Denny said, “Sir, if you would please find that briefcase, I would really appreciate it.”
“First, I want to show you something,” Hess said. He directed Denny through the master bedroom into the bathroom.
“What is it you want to show me?”
“This,” Hess said, drawing the revolver, and pulling open the shower curtain.
“Sir, what’s this all a
bout?”
“Get in,” Hess said. “I’ll tell you when it is safe to come out.”
Denny was shaking. He reached into a trouser pocket and handed the $200 to Hess. “Sir, I would like you to have this back.”
Hess took it. “Get in.”
Denny stepped in the bathtub. Hess pulled the shower curtain closed, looking at the outline of Denny’s body behind the translucent plastic. Hess wrapped a towel around the barrel of the .38, and shot him through the curtain.
Hess was thinking about the old man while he searched the apartment, regretted shooting him, surprised by the rare feeling of guilt. Hess couldn’t remember the last time he had actually felt bad for someone.
He found an address book in a desk drawer in the living room, a vase of flowers on the desktop, wilting in the darkness. Remembered Joyce carrying flowers the last time he had seen her. He sat paging through the book, a gooseneck lamp casting a bright circle on the open pages. He was looking behind the L tab and saw Harry Levin’s name, address, home and business phone numbers.
Hess picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang several times before he heard Harry Levin say, “This is Harry. Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”
Nothing else happened for almost an hour. The TV news crews had gone. The crowd had dispersed. At 4:20 a black body bag was wheeled out of the building on a gurney. Two men lifted it into the rear of a white van that said MEDICAL EXAMINER on the side in black type. The van drove off.
Hess collected the towel, binoculars, tanning lotion, stuffed everything in Max Hoffman’s beach bag, slipped into the Docksiders and moved along the sand-blown sidewalk to the Chrysler. The parking meter had expired. There was a ticket on the windshield under the wiper blades. Hess picked it up. The fine was three dollars. He ripped the ticket in half, slid the pieces in his trouser pocket.
Hess sat behind the wheel. He saw Harry Levin and the Negro come out the side entrance on Worth Avenue. They stood and talked for a few minutes. Then Sims started walking toward town and Harry got in a car that was parked on the street. Hess spun the big Chrysler around the corner, followed Harry to the Breakers, and watched him check in.
After twenty hours at the Motor Lodge near the turnpike, afraid to go out and going out of her mind, Joyce had had enough. She called a taxi and took it to her cousin Larry’s in Boca. He lived on Lake Drive in an 8,500-square-foot Mission-style mansion. Larry Schiff was self-made, president of Appliance World, a business he started with $10,000, most of it bar mitzvah money he’d saved.
A dark-skinned Latin in a white guayabera shirt answered the door. “Welcome, Señora,” he said, bowing with an effeminate flourish. He picked up Joyce’s suitcase, carried it into the foyer whose ceiling went up to the second storey, and closed the door. She could see Larry approaching, coming down a long hallway with a marble floor. “Joycee’s here. Joycee’s here. Everyone stand up and cheer,” his voice high and lispy. He kissed her on both cheeks like a French aunt. “Armand, meet Ms. Joyce Cantor, my one and only cousin.”
Armand nodded, lifted her suitcase and moved to the stairs. “So good to see you. Want to freshen up? Armand will escort you up to the guest suite.”
Joyce said, “What’re you doing home? I thought you’d be working.”
“We shot a commercial this morning and finished early. Guess what number.”
“I don’t know. Twenty.”
“Try fifty,” Larry beamed. “Number one appliance store chain in the country. Knock on wallboard,” he said, tapping his knuckles on a foyer wall. “What brings you to Boca?”
“Oh, you know, get away for a few days, see my cousin I haven’t seen in forever.”
Larry smiled. “Go change, unpack. Come down we’ll have a drink on the terrace.”
“I may take a quick nap, close my eyes for twenty minutes. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Joyce lay down on the bed, tried to sleep but her mind was racing. She got up, turned on the TV, a nineteen-inch console, while she unpacked.
Homicide in Palm Beach, it read over an aerial shot of the island, cutting to a blonde, blue-eyed TV reporter standing outside the Winthrop House. “Shortly after noon today, the body of Dennis Ifflander was discovered in a fourth-floor apartment bathroom by an unsuspecting maid.”
Joyce was stunned, couldn’t breathe. She knew Denny. He was a good guy, nice to everyone.
“This is the second homicide to shock residents of this affluent seaside community in less than a week. Detective Conlin of the Palm Beach Police Department had this to say.”
“Mr. Ifflander was shot twice at close range with a high-caliber revolver. There was no sign of a struggle, which indicates Mr. Ifflander probably knew his assailant.”
“Detective, is this case related to the murder of Mrs. Lynn Risdon less than a week ago?” She held the microphone up to Conlin’s face.
“The manner of death is certainly different, but we won’t know for sure until all of the evidence is examined. And, of course, we want to talk to the woman who is renting the apartment.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
Now Hess’ face filled the screen, the grainy black-and-white photo.
“This man is a suspect in two other Palm Beach homicides. He’s considered armed and dangerous. If you see him, contact police immediately.”
My God. Joyce had this sudden sickening feeling Denny had been murdered in her apartment.
Now the camera went back to the blonde. “Kim Fortin reporting live from the Winthrop House in Palm Beach.”
Joyce picked up the phone and called Harry’s house. Got his answering machine. “Harry, it’s Joyce, call me. It’s an emergency.” She left Larry’s number. Then she called his office and left the same message. She washed her face, tried to compose herself and went downstairs.
Larry was five six in his elevator shoes, but looked smaller under the high kitchen ceiling, leaning back against one of the black marble counters, smiling in approval, watching himself on TV. Without taking his eyes off the screen he said, “You’ve got to see this.”
In the commercial Larry was in an appliance store surrounded by washers, dryers, stoves and sinks. “Appliance World,” Larry said, mugging for the camera. “Deals so good, you’ll feel like dancing.” Larry turned sideways, like he was walking, moving his feet faster and faster until the scene faded, and the words Appliance World appeared chiseled out of stone.
“Black dudes at the station call me the white James Brown.” Joyce had seen his commercials before. The girls in the office were talking about him one time, and Joyce finally admitted Larry was her cousin.
Amy, the office manager, had said, “What’s he like?”
“Full of himself. Larry’s head’s so big he couldn’t fit through the doorway. But he’s very insecure. Say something negative about him, he looks like he’s going to cry.”
Amy grinned. “Why’s he dance in the commercials?”
“I guess he thinks he’s good.”
“It’s really annoying.”
Joyce felt guilty for bad-mouthing him after Larry had taken her in – no questions asked, and said she could stay as long as she wanted. But he was having a party in a few hours and it was probably going to get wild and crazy.
“Ever see a pool full of drunk horny naked men committing unnatural acts?”
“Not in a couple days.”
“You want to?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Larry made them white wine spritzers they took outside and sat in comfortable chairs looking out at Lake Boca that was really a widened stretch of the Intracoastal. The sun was fading and she could see lights on in the highrises across the water. Larry said, “How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“Did something happen?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never been here before and you asked if you could stay for a while. So I figured something was wrong. Get it off your chest,” Larry said. “You’ll feel bette
r.”
Joyce told him most of the story, starting with the Nazi death squad in the woods outside Dachau, and when she finished Larry said, “I knew about the concentration camp, but not the rest.” He sipped his spritzer. “This is an amazing story. Let me put your mind at ease. Armand was a former captain in the Cuban military. The Nazi shows up here it’s all over.”
Joyce could see Armand in a pillow fight maybe, but not locked in mortal combat with a crazed Nazi.
They had dinner on the terrace, paella with soft-shell crabs, watching boats cruise by on Lake Boca, Joyce looking at the glittering buildings in the distance. She let her guard down, felt relaxed for the first time in several days.
“So you’re selling real estate. How’re you doing?”
“Better when a Nazi murderer isn’t after me.”
“You’re funny,” Larry said. “Keeping your sense of humor even under duress.”
“I better or I’m going to crack up. What time’s your party start?”
“About nine. Stick around, you need to have some fun.”
“I don’t want to cramp your style.”
“That’s impossible. To say we’re uninhibited is an understatement.”
Joyce was in her room watching All in the Family when she heard the music come on, Tina Turner belting out “Proud Mary” at full volume. Joyce turned off the TV and walked out of the room, leaning over the railing, looking down at the living room empty of furniture and filled with dancing men. There were short stocky men, tall good-looking men, there were old men and young men, men dressed up and men dressed down and a few getting undressed, dancing in their undies. Joyce had never seen anything like it. She assumed they would all be tan and fit and good-looking, although Larry sure didn’t fit that stereotype.
Larry was dancing with a stocky dark-haired guy wearing hospital scrubs. He looked up and waved at her to join them. She was on the stairs when “Proud Mary” ended and “Rainy Days and Mondays” started. Now they were slow dancing with their arms wrapped around each other. Joyce was uncomfortable seeing men dancing close, a few couples making out.
She approached Larry, who stopped dancing and introduced her. “My cousin, Joyce. Joyce, Marty Rosenberg, my significant other.”
Back from the Dead Page 14
