He called Frau Sheets at the University of Nevada. She had retired years ago, but someone in admissions dug around and found her number once Paul mentioned the large win she’d mistakenly left behind at Harrah’s.
When he got her on the phone, he explained about the inheritance Scott had coming to him from his distant Uncle Dieter.
He had to talk at top volume. The lady was quite elderly, although still compos mentis. She didn’t remember Kurt very well, she told him, but Paul kept her on the line, unwilling to let go of what might be his only direct link to Kurt Scott. A more impatient person would never have put up with Frau Sheets’s rambling, but he’d discovered that a small investment of his time often paid large dividends, and this time was no exception.
After reminiscing at some length about her years at the university and lingering conversationally over some favorite students, she recalled Scott’s mother, who had worked as a teaching assistant in the German program for years until the commuting from Tahoe proved too much. "She always wanted to go back to Germany. You know, they lived there briefly when Kurt was young. "
"Do you remember where they lived?"
"Hmm. Kurt’s father was in the military at the time, so they must have lived on a base."
"Frankfurt?"
"Wiesbaden," she said. "That’s it. Yes, I’m sure it was Wiesbaden."
"You’ve been a great help," said Paul.
"Auf Flügeln des Gesanges," she said. " ’On the wings of song.’ That was his motto, from Heine. All my students had to read the greats and select words to live by. Pretty good memory for an old biddy going on seventy-six," she said briskly, "wouldn’t you say?"
"Pretty good," he agreed, "though I wouldn’t use the word biddy to describe you."
"That’s what that other woman who wanted to know about Kurt called me. Her story was even more specious than yours. She said he’d won the lottery. I didn’t tell her anything."
While Sandy was at lunch on Monday, a middle-aged woman messenger in jeans and a sweatshirt with metal clips around the ankles of her pant legs brought a thick yellow envelope to Nina. FAST WOMEN her red sweatshirt said. The silhouette of a bicycle and rider zoomed across her chest.
The envelope bore Riesner’s firm’s return address. Jeffrey Riesner had disagreed with the wording on her proposed order. A further hearing was set on Sweet v. London on March thirtieth, ten days away.
Damn it! She’d won the case. She had drafted the language for the formal order. Ordinarily, if the opposing counsel didn’t sign the order in ten days, it was submitted and accepted by the court unchanged. In cases where the draft gave somebody trouble, the two lawyers would put their heads together and work out wording they could both accept. Apparently, Riesner did not want to put his head that close to hers at the moment.
The new hearing on Terry’s case put to rest any hopes Nina had of getting off the hook easily. She could seek a delay, further holding up the film, dragging out the relationship, fueling the fire of her client’s anger. Or she could put this with all the other necessary evils of the job, on the calendar, to be skulked through and finished.
Sandy returned, swinging a voluminous purple coat through the door behind her.
"Did we send the letter off to Terry London, the one where we fired her?" asked Nina.
"Went out last night."
"Grrr. Can you send another letter today with a copy of this, saying I’ll appear with her on March thirtieth, but that will be my last work in the case."
Sandy was taking off her coat with such phlegmatic indifference to how long she took at the job that Nina said, "Sandy?"
"Did we fire her or not?" asked Sandy, picking off a bit of lint.
"I can’t fire a client, if by doing so her interests are negatively affected. It’s not ethical. Now she’s got a cleanup hearing in ten days. I’m stuck."
"If you say so. If it was me, I just wouldn’t show up."
"It’s much more complicated than that. If I don’t show up, and have no legitimate reason for my failure to appear, Judge Milne will sanction me seven hundred fifty dollars. If I file a motion to withdraw as attorney now, he won’t grant it, because it’s only one more hearing and Terry’d have to hire another lawyer with another retainer. If I postpone the hearing with some excuse, her film is held up longer, and I’m acting un-ethically because she’s been prejudiced."
Sandy pointed her finger at her ear, drawing little circles. "Wacko," she said. "Problem is, you lawyers think too much. Things get too complicated. And you make all the rules, so your clients have to pay you to tell them how to follow the rules you made. And now—"
"Back to work, okay, Sandy?"
"You’re slaves to all these rules," Sandy said, undeterred, and settled her large personage into the creaking chair.
"You’re right," Nina said.
Sandy inclined her head, accepting this homage.
"I still have to do it, though."
"Is she dangerous?"
"Maybe."
"And to think I was actually bored at my last job."
"I hate to have to say this to you on such an exquisitely beautiful day, Sandy. But keep your eyes open wider than usual."
"Expect an Uzi poking through the door any day, check."
9
THAT NIGHT PAUL DREAMED HE WAS THE GREAT PIANIST Van Cliburn, in black tie and tails, sitting at the piano in an enormous recital hall filled with surly private detectives who spoke only Hungarian. He pressed his fingers to the keys to begin, but then a kid came up and tapped him on the shoulder from behind. He woke up smiling.
Early the next morning, he contacted the city orchestra in Wiesbaden, asking for Kurt Scott. They had never heard of him. Well, then, how about Van Cliburn? The efficient lady who spoke to him in perfect English said, "Oh! Could it be Mr. Scott Cliburn you are looking for?"
Incredible, thought Paul. I’m one brilliant effing SOB. This would make a good story to tell Nina ... someday. "Yes, yes, that’s right, Scott Cliburn," Paul answered.
"I believe Herr Cliburn is performing in a series of spring concerts at the Hessische Staatstheater." He would be playing a special Bach program this coming Saturday. An extraordinary interpreter of the fugues, he would also be playing the two Saturday nights after that. She gave him a number, although she couldn’t provide an address. Paul sat up straight in his rumpled bed. He was just an old hound dog. He had hardly slept with the scent of prey tickling his nostrils. He punched the number.
"Ja?" said a deep voice.
"Is this Scott Cliburn?"
"Speaking," said the unmistakably American voice. "Who’s calling, please?"
Paul hung up. He didn’t want to scare the man off.
He had to go one way or the other. Oh, he could stick to the good old status quo and let the qualms and doubts and compunctions take over. He could sit on his hands, acting like a gentleman, respecting Nina’s privacy while she drifted away from him.
But he wanted to shake things up. He wanted to jostle Nina out from under the bones of an old relationship that was stifling her and him both. How much damage had the ghost of Bob’s father already done to her, haunting her every move?
If he blew it, if he made things worse, at least he wouldn’t have to look in the mirror later at a face that said, you idiot, you lost her because you chickened out. Why the hell didn’t you do something?
He gave himself another day or two to brood about Nina, sinking into a state of irresolution he found unbearably frustrating. He needed to get on with his life. This limbo was driving him crazy.
He phoned a former Peace Corps colleague who was now working as a policeman in Munich, who had nagged him about visiting for years. He would stay with Hermann for a couple of days after a weekend stop in Wiesbaden, do a quick tour of the local law enforcement facilities, and write most of the trip off as business. Anyway, what was life for, if not to satisfy curiosity? At the least, it would remind him of what a fugue was.
On Thursday he called Nina
and told her he’d be gone for a week. She didn’t seem to mind. He found her casual attitude about his absence from her life damned galling.
Late Friday morning he flew on a twelve-seater from Monterey to San Francisco, then took a nonstop flight on American Airlines to Frankfurt. He would arrive Saturday morning, in plenty of time to catch a show that night.
Frankfurt airport, endless green tunnels, sickly yellow lighting, rain—he caught a cab out on the Kaiserstrasse. Wiesbaden was only about twenty miles west, but for the cab fare he could have been driven from New York to Florida.
Following a long morning nap at the hotel and a hefty lunch of sausage and beer, Paul explored the little city of Wiesbaden. The sky darkened and drizzle began again about four, so he retreated into a smoky stube for a couple of hours. There he stumbled upon a number of new beers that had somehow escaped previous notice. The time passed all too quickly.
At seven, back at the hotel, he showered off the tobacco fumes. A taxi got him to the State Theater, barely on time after all his efforts. Ducking his head into his jacket, he ran up the long walkway of the theater. Cloudy light and the sound of laughter drifted out into the entryway with its tall Greek pillars and empty urns.
Inside, he realized he was seriously underdressed. The women flashed jewelry, perfume, decolletage; the men all wore sober black suits. They would have to put up with his American tielessness. He took his seat at the back.
Kurt Scott came out, took a bow, and sat down at a tall, carved wood organ amid thunderous applause, wearing long dark hair and a tux. He took a deep breath, placing long fingers precisely on the keys.
Quiet fell.
A long, rich note seemed to grow out of the organ, soft gold hovering in the air. It was chased by other dark, somehow brutal notes. Slowly, then with a rapid, even pace, the notes uncurled, physical things that pushed you back into your chair gasping, then grasped you and buried you in swirling undercurrents until you felt you were drowning. The fugue was dizzying, harsh, unsparing, yet somehow dispassionate.
Paul had never thought of music as powerful. The rafters of the theater shook with it.
He looked around him. The audience leaned forward, rapt. The man at the organ slowed, moving into a stately air. Expelling a sigh, his devotees rested upon the notes. But soon trouble entered, an emotion like evil began to struggle with the sounds, until the two melodies rolled over on each other and fought, until it seemed neither could win. The result would be chaos. At the height of this monumental struggle Paul, too, clenched the red velvet armrest, caught up in the dark, thrilling battle.
And gradually the two strands moved toward each other, unwillingly at first, then faster and faster until they merged into a crescendo of love and triumph....
The fugue was complete. The man at the organ bowed, accepting the applause of his audience.
The orchestra came out after the intermission, and Scott moved back to the piano. When the concert finally ended, Paul was sorry.
Scott left the stage. Paul went backstage to find him. Holding a large white lily one of the girls had just pressed upon him, Scott relaxed in the middle of a circle of well-wishers, the focus, looking like any man with the world at his fingertips.
Paul hung back, waiting for his chance, not knowing what he would say to him. He had no rehearsed speech. He had enjoyed the hunt, but found himself amazed that it had actually paid off. Now he would have to step up to the plate and do something.
The crowd thinned, and Scott turned away. "Excuse me!" Paul called out in English. He hurried after Scott, who had paused at the top of the stairs leading off the backstage and ending at an exit from the building.
Scott was almost as tall as Paul, but weighed twenty or thirty pounds less. He still brushed his hair straight back. Under the cocked eyebrows were green eyes and an amiable smile. He was extremely good-looking. Years younger than Paul, an athletic-looking type, he even played piano.
Paul felt an unwelcome emotion. Okay. Let it come: he was jealous of the guy Nina had loved so much, once, that she gave him a son. This made him a tad less circumspect and polite than he might ordinarily be in greeting a new person. "Kurt Scott, right? We need to talk."
His words had an unanticipated result. Scott turned and rushed down the stairs, flinging open the door and disappearing into the night. Paul ran after him, pissed off at his own lack of restraint, wondering if he should tackle the musician.
The rain had stopped again. They ran into a small park with iron chairs and pseudoclassical statues, moonlight creating shadows that brought them alive. But a quick jog through muddy grass was nothing compared to the workout sand usually gave him. Paul caught up swiftly and dove for Scott’s legs, bringing him down, gasping, onto the wet grass. Paul sat on him until he stopped struggling, then slowly gave him room to breathe.
"I just want to talk to you."
Scott sat up, rubbing his jaw where it had hit the ground. "Who are you?"
"I’m a private detective, out of California."
"Oh, God. Have you told her yet?"
"Nobody knows I’m here," Paul said. "I’m a private investigator. "
"She sent you to find me?"
"Not exactly."
"At least she didn’t come herself," Scott muttered into his hands. He took a deep breath and looked up. "Let me see your license." Paul pulled it out, and he said, "Okay, you’re legitimate. How did you find me?"
"It was easy."
"Shit!"
"Look. I’m just here to obtain some information."
"She didn’t tell you a thing, did she?"
"Not much."
"You’re just supposed to report back?"
"You got it."
"She’ll never let go," Scott said, mostly to himself. "It’s been years.’’ His face drooped into some old familiar suffering.
"Yeah, a long time," Paul said. "What do you say— you don’t treat me like your worst enemy, we get up like gentlemen and go and have a drink? I’ll buy." He took the unresisting man by the arm and marched him the few blocks to his hotel, taking him down the stairs to the weinkeller. They sat down at a small table in the corner.
The place had the ambience of a dungeon, its damp air soaked with the vinegary tang of wine. There were only a half dozen tables, with white cloths and candles. Behind the chair where Scott sat, another room with rough stone walls held rack after rack of horizontal bottles. A waiter in a tux something like Scott’s wandered out of the gloom and handed them a long wine list.
"How about you order for me," Paul said. "Something white."
Scott ordered a bottle of 1987 Schloss Biebrich Gewürztraminer. The waiter brought the bottle, displaying the label to silent fanfare, making further ceremony out of pouring an ounce for Scott to taste. The pleasant atmosphere and good wine had a salutary effect on them both. Scott had calmed down and now appeared to be studying Paul. He’d lost the desperate air and moved into survival mode.
He was looking for an angle or a way out.
"To Bach," Paul said. They drank. The wine was spicy, light-bodied, and flowery. "You sure can play that organ.’’
"I try to do a few concerts each year. During the day I have a different job."
"Where?"
He didn’t answer. "I’ll pay you double to tell her you can’t find me."
"Convince me with information," Paul said. "That’s what I’m after, not money. See, I took the job on because I was curious about you."
"What do you want to know?"
"Why you left. Here, have some more."
"You don’t want to know. You might get her looking at you. And that would be dangerous for you, just like you finding me is dangerous for me. She’s completely crazy, you know."
"Wait a minute," Paul said, shaking his head. "That’s a little hard. She’s—"
"Of course you don’t believe me. She’s spent her whole life perfecting an act. She knows how to hide who she really is."
"Nina’s got her flaws, no doubt about it, but I�
�ve never heard anyone describe her as crazy. Unless you know something I don’t?"
"What did you say?" Scott’s face grayed. "Who?"
"Calm down, Mr. Scott," Paul said. These sensitive musician types, you had to go easy on them.
Scott stood up and stuck his face in Paul’s face.
"Nina Reilly sent you?" he whispered.
"I’m here in connection with her, yes." From ten inches away, Paul watched relief flood up into Scott’s eyes, until he covered them with his lids and sat down.
"I’ll be damned," he said, as if to himself. He picked up his glass and drained it. His face rapidly returned to a healthier color.
"Isn’t she the lady in question here?" Paul said.
"Nina? No. Forget everything I just said. I made a mistake." His guard slightly relaxed now, looking more cocky, he sprawled gracefully in his chair. The sprawl disguised a taut readiness of position. A toughness settled itself around him. He was more man than his cowardly flight had suggested, his body told Paul. His eyes were narrower than his pictures had shown, cagier. The face held the promise of a fight, if it proved absolutely necessary. "Tell me, how is Nina?"
"It surprises me you’d want to know. After all, you ran out on her."
"Why did she want to find me? Is she all right?"
"Hunky-dory. Of course, lawyering ages a woman, toughens her up. She smokes cigars, wears a buzz cut. You wouldn’t be interested, believe me."
"Is she still living on the Monterey Peninsula?"
"No, she’s moved," Paul said shortly.
"So she became an attorney after all."
"I can see you haven’t kept in close touch." Paul found the knowledge soothing. "Yeah, she’s a lawyer, has been for a while." He had suspected Nina may not have told Scott he had a son. Now he was sure of it. Better tread lightly.
"I’m glad. I can’t believe what you said, that she’s gotten hard—"
Paul said, "Don’t mind if I do," and poured out the last of the bottle. "Don’t help me. Hey, Herr Kellner! Noch eine Flasche, bitte!"
Invasion of Privacy Page 9
