A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red

by A W Hartoin

  That was good enough for me. Job well done.

  Chapter Six

  TWO DAYS LATER Spidermonkey was waiting for me in his usual spot. He did like a good blaze and Café Déjeuner had a big fireplace with lots of crackling logs and a set of brass fireplace tools. My cyber spy spotted me over his Wall Street Journal, nodded, and went back to reading as I headed for the barista. She was blond, twenty-something with the unlikely name of Sally on her tag. I ordered a cinnamon roll and a latte and leaned on the counter, careful not to look at Spidermonkey. It wasn’t easy, but he liked to, for whatever reason, pretend we didn’t know each other and decided to sit together on a whim in a tiny café in Laclede’s Landing, because that would happen. Spidermonkey did have his oddities, but he was worth it. He was a high-level snoop and he’d been working for me since The Girls’ nasty nephew sued them in an effort to get control of the Bled Collection and their money. Oz Urbani was the one who had gotten Brooks off The Girls’ back, but the case hadn’t ended there. Brooks’ lawyers had implied that my dad had done something illegal in order for The Girls to give him our house. So far Spidermonkey had discovered that Dad had taken a mysterious flight to Europe that coincided with the disappearance of Josiah Bled, The Girls’ uncle and a multimillionaire. That had led us to The Klinefeld Group, a not-for-profit trying to get control of the Bled Collection through the St. Louis Art Museum.

  Sally gave me my latte and cinnamon roll and I pretended to be unable to find another place to sit in the empty café. Spidermonkey offered me a seat at his table, like the white-haired old gentleman he was.

  “So…” I said.

  “So the name is fake. Jens Waldemar Hoff doesn’t exist. Sloppy. He never thought we’d look as far as Germany. The name was unusual enough for me to trace easily. There have been two real, or shall I say possibly real, Jens Waldemar Hoffs residing in Berlin. One died in 1963 and the other is four.

  “How do you know this Hoff isn’t real? Maybe he moved and they didn’t update the website.”

  “Because he told your Aunt Miriam that he just flew into St. Louis and there’s no one by that name on any flight manifest for the last six months. Plus, I found a woman in Vancouver who made a complaint to the German embassy in Canada about a Jens Waldemar Hoff of the Klinefeld Group because he was harassing her.”

  “So what?”

  “Her description doesn’t match Aunt Miriam’s. Different ages, hair color, build. It’s two different guys using the same name.”

  Why do I feel so nervous?

  “What was that Hoff bothering her about?” I asked.

  Spidermonkey smiled. “Guess.”

  “Artwork, circa WWII?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A pharmacist with absolutely no artwork from the war or any other era. Her name is Amber Patterson. Ring a bell?”

  “Not even a little bit. Why would he bother her if she doesn’t have any artwork? She has to be something more than a pharmacist.”

  “You’d think so, but no. Amber is who she says she is. But according to her statement Hoff was threatening and insistent. He left the country and the embassy dropped it.”

  “I don’t get it. What the heck does this have to do with our house, my parents, and the Bled Collection?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I will.”

  “So we’re nowhere,” I said, wanting to put my head down on the table.

  “Except…” said Spidermonkey.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Except?”

  “The one that died in ’63 had a wife with the maiden name of Klinefeld. What are the chances of that?”

  “What did you find out about him?”

  “Nothing yet. His records are inconveniently missing.”

  “Define missing,” I said.

  “As in, he doesn’t exist before 1950.” Spidermonkey smiled and I could see that all his juices were flowing. This was a tasty bit of mystery.

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “It will take serious digging. Other than the death record, I have nothing. I may have to resort to hand sifting in Berlin. A picture would be helpful. If I can get that, we’ll be on our way.”

  “But you don’t know if this has anything to do with the Klinefeld Group. How much is this going to cost?” I was getting even more nervous now. There were only so many double shifts I could pull and my modeling job for Double Black Diamond hadn’t started yet. I’d already spent my advance by paying off my debts.

  “What do you say we split the cost?” he asked.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I have a special interest.”

  “In a guy that died in 1963?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Spidermonkey took a drink and became thoughtful. “I have a connection in the Mossad. He’s retired, you understand, but still in the know.”

  “The Mossad? What can an Israeli do for us?”

  “Think about it, Mercy. What does the Mossad do so well?”

  “They’re spies, aren’t they?”

  “And…”

  Then I remembered Myrtle and Millicent discussing Simon Wiesenthal, a friend of Stella Bled Lawrence and a recently revealed Mossad agent. “Nazi hunters. Do you think Hoff was a Nazi?”

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  I drank my latte and stayed silent.

  “Aren’t you intrigued?” he asked, frowning.

  “I am,” I said.

  “But?”

  “I don’t want to get sidetracked. This is ultimately about The Girls and my parents for me.”

  “I understand and I can do both, if it comes down to it. Are we agreed?”

  We shook hands over the table and, all of the sudden, I was involved in tracking down a possible Nazi.

  Spidermonkey leaned in. “I need you to see what you can find out about Stella Bled Lawrence and her activities in Europe throughout the war. Do The Girls have letters, diaries, anything like that?”

  I thought about the scrapbook Florence Bled made of Stella’s covert activities, but didn’t mention it. Nobody was supposed to know about that. “I’ll see what I can do. You want to know if Stella knew this Hoff during the war, I assume?”

  “I do. Anything about Berlin could be helpful, too. Make a list of any German names you come across.”

  I agreed to do that, but I hadn’t a clue how I was going to accomplish it. Myrtle and Millicent weren’t keen to let any info about Stella’s activities go. We got up to leave. I put on the warm camelhair coat Mom gave me for Christmas and I felt safe in its folds. It even smelled like Mom, although she’d never worn it. For some reason, the thought of Mom led me to think of Dad. Long term investigations were his favorite thing. Now the Klinefeld Group was leading me into the distant past, his past, and I had to go. There were questions to be asked and answered.

  “Wait,” I said as Spidermonkey opened the café door and a blast of January air came in. “How did Jens Waldemar Hoff die in ’63?”

  “I was wondering when you’d ask that. The death certificate says, roughly translated, death by misadventure.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “We’ll find out.” And he left me wearing a warm coat and holding a cold latte.

  Chapter Seven

  IT WAS MY last shift in the St. John’s ER, so it had to suck. That was the rule. Last shift must be miserable. I’m sure it’s written out somewhere with my name in bold. To make my shift worse, I’d pulled the short straw and got assigned the nursing student. Brittany was smart, earnest, and sweet, which sounds great, but she also had the steely nerves of a stressed Chihuahua. Her hands shook every time she attempted to put in an IV line. I say ‘attempted,’ because she never actually succeeded. Word got around and patients started their consultations with, “Not Brittany.” That included a guy who came in with head trauma from a golfing accident. You know it’s bad when a guy is more concerned about who’s going to do his IV than who’s going to stitch his face.


  It’d been very long night. I was thrilled that it was almost over. We had a half hour left when Brittany and I left the room of a fourteen-year-old boy who was experiencing severe leg swelling. And I do mean severe, as in I was surprised his skin hadn’t split open.

  Allison, the phlebotomist, started to go in when Brittany stopped her. “He’s so scared and it’s my fault.”

  Allison shot me a glare and then settled a patient look on her experienced face. “Brittany, did you do the IV?”

  Brittany teared up. “I tried. I hope I didn’t wreck his veins.”

  I patted her quaking back. “You only did one stick. He’s fine.”

  “I’m a disaster. Why did I think I could be a nurse?”

  Allison rolled her eyes and headed in with her blood draw tray. At least the boy got her. With Allison, he’d barely feel the needle.

  I steered Brittany away from the door. The last thing the patient and his distraught parents needed to hear was her snuffling. “He’ll be fine.”

  She wiped her eyes, removing the last bit of electric blue eyeliner she had on. “What do you think he has? It looks serious and he’s so young.”

  “It’s probably post-infectious glomerulonephritis. He’ll be fine,” I said in the voice I usually saved for patients. Brittany couldn’t take the voice she deserved.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “He had strep two weeks ago and his heart’s solid. Come on,” I said. “I need some coffee.”

  And a shot of Dad’s good whiskey. Maybe two.

  Brittany brightened up. “You’ve been so great. I wish I could be with you on all my clinicals.”

  God wouldn’t do that to me.

  Before we made it to the break room, Christine, the charge nurse, cut us off and held up two charts. “Take your pick. We’ve got two infections, ear and toe. Which one do you want?”

  There was no way Brittany could handle prying off a toenail. There was a little spatula involved. Messy business. She’d already dry-heaved over a pus-shooting boil that I lanced. Okay. The pus did hit the ceiling, but that was nothing compared with the toe spatula.

  “We’ll take the ear,” I said.

  Christine grinned and handed Brittany the chart. “Wise choice. You’re out after the ear.”

  “Thank god.” I grimaced with guilt. “I mean, it’s been wonderful working with you, Christine.”

  “Yeah. It’s been a barrel of laughs around here tonight. Let me know when you leave.” Christine booked it down to the toe and Brittany and I went into Room 3, where there was an elderly woman tugging on her ear lobe.

  “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” she said, apologetically.

  I had Brittany scrub and glove up. She could handle an ear infection. Lancing ear drums had been out for decades. “It must be pretty bad to get you here so early.”

  “I haven’t slept in days.”

  “We’ll get this taken care of and you can go back to bed. How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Sometimes a ten, but other times, it just bugs me.”

  I introduced Brittany and explained my student would be taking a look in her ear to assess the infection before the doctor came in. Brittany got the otoscope ready and her hands were even steady. We were going to rock this infection. Mrs. Silverstein laid back and folded her hands over her stomach and waited peacefully.

  Brittany smiled, said something professional, put the scope in Mrs. Silverstein’s ear, and let out an eardrum piercing scream, “Oh my god!”

  “Brittany!” I yelled.

  She dropped the scope and ran out of the room at her top speed. Mrs. Silverstein had her hands clamped over her poor ears and my own ears were ringing.

  Christine ran in with a suture kit, poised to stitch. “Where is it?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Whatever happened.”

  “Nothing happened. Go get Brittany before she runs out into traffic.”

  “Right. I’ll get her and then I’ll kill her.” Christine spun around and marched out.

  “Mrs. Silverstein, are you okay?” I asked my wide-eyed patient.

  “What?” she yelled.

  I peeled her hands off her ears. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. What’s wrong with that girl? She seems to have a nervous condition.”

  “That’s one way to put it. Brittany’s just a little high strung.”

  “Then, honey, you better tell her that nursing’s not for her. This is just a little ear infection. What’ll happen when somebody chops their foot off?”

  “Heaven knows.” I got out a fresh scope and took a peek in Mrs. Silverstein’s ear, expecting to see the equivalent of a pus shooting boil. What I did see took me aback. There was a little scream. Maybe a grimace and repulsed body language, but I kept it all on the inside like nurses do. No matter what crazy crap people have or do, we keep it on the inside. I looked in that ear and saw eight eyes looking back.

  “So how bad is the infection?” asked Mrs. Silverstein.

  I straightened up, gave an involuntary shiver, and said, “Great news. It’s not an infection.”

  “Really? How come it hurts so much?”

  “You have…something lodged in there. I’ll take care of it and you’ll be out of here in a jiff.”

  I did a warm lavage on Mrs. Silverstein’s ear and washed out a tiny little spider into a pink emesis basin. Then, and only then, did I tell Mrs. Silverstein what was in her ear. She took it very well and insisted that we release the spider into the wild, which I did after we were done.

  “I’m going to write you a good review,” said Mrs. Silverstein.

  “I don’t know if they have reviews for nurses,” I said.

  “They should. That girl was unprofessional and she wears too much perfume.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it.” I finished the chart and handed off Mrs. Silverstein to my replacement. When I found Christine to tell her I was out, she was at the desk, trying to talk sense to a sobbing Brittany. No sense was getting in that dripping mess.

  “I told her to leave, but she won’t go,” said Christine.

  “I’m going to fail. They’ll fail me. My parents will be so upset,” wailed Brittany.

  I looked at the ceiling and said, “I’ll take her with me.”

  “Would you? Thank goodness.” Christine ran away before I could change my mind. I gathered up the still sobbing Brittany, got our stuff, and half-carried her to the parking lot. The sun was coming up and the interior lights had shut off so it was dim in the garage. We walked five steps toward Brittany’s Prius when I jerked her back.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I don’t know. Quiet.”

  For once, Brittany was quiet. I clutched her to my side and looked around. I had to scan twice before I saw him. A slim figure, dressed in jeans and a dark grey hoodie with a baseball cap, stood in the shadows directly under a surveillance camera, but he wasn’t worried. Nothing conceals a face like a cap and a hood. He stood completely still, but something in his stance said he was both confident and dangerous. He didn’t react to my look.

  “I see him, too,” whispered Brittany.

  “We’re going back inside.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  We took a step back and he ducked behind a pillar the second he realized I’d made him. We ran inside, bursting through the door just as Raymond, the night security supervisor, was coming out of the stairwell.

  “Hold on, girls. What’s up?” he asked.

  “There was a man in the garage,” cried Brittany.

  Raymond went from friendly to pissed in an instant. He yanked his walkie-talkie off his belt and told Jack to get the hell up there. “You girls don’t move. I’m going to check this. I told them we need to patrol this garage. Pretty nurses coming and going. It’s like chum for sharks. I’m gonna—”

  The closing of the door cut him off and a second later Jack arrived, breathless and holding a donut. “What happened? You o
kay?”

  “We’re fine.” I told him what happened and mentioned that the security footage might help, but I doubted it. That guy knew what he was doing.

  “He was waiting for us, wasn’t he?” Brittany was chewing her blunt fingernails.

  “I suspect he was waiting for me.”

  Jack gave me the once over. “Yeah, probably. I got to call your dad.”

  “You know him?”

  “I retired two years after he made detective. Hell of a cop. He is going to be pissed.”

  “You could call Chuck Watts. He’s less likely to lose it.”

  “That’s not what I hear, but I’ll call him.”

  Raymond came in, huffing and puffing. “He’s long gone, but that bastard was definitely waiting for a victim. There are six cigarette butts next to the pillar. One’s still burning. He didn’t want to miss you.”

  Not a comforting thought for me or for Brittany, who’d begun to shake. I needed to get her out of there.

  “What do you need from us?” I asked. “It’s been a long night. We’re worn out.”

  “We need statements. The cops will want to talk to you,” said Raymond.

  Jack turned around and held out his phone. “Chuck, for you.”

  Ah crap.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Do not leave. I’m on my way,” said Chuck, breathless.

  “Are you running?”

  “Damn straight I’m running.”

  “We’re fine. Nothing happened.”

  A car door slammed. “It could’ve.”

  “But it didn’t. I need to sleep.”

  “Do not leave.”

  My phone yelled Dad’s ring tone and everybody stared at my purse for a second and then started to laugh.

  “Did you call my dad?” I asked Chuck.

  “No. Stay there.” He hung up on me and I groaned.

  Raymond and Jack were still laughing.

  “Tommy Watts is your Vader,” said Jack.

  “He is an omnipresent force.” I reluctantly pulled out the yelling phone.

  “I can see that,” said Raymond.

  I leaned on the cold concrete wall and said, “Hi, Dad.”