“So did I, and so does everyone else,” I told him. “But it occurs to me that having an international reputation for being absolutely above suspicion is a reasonable reason for checking them out, don’t you think?”
“You do have a point,” Jacek allowed grudgingly. “An organization like that is bound to have an occasional bad apple or else someone who tags along behind them. We should look into that. Can you go interview them?”
“Sure. If I can find them.”
“And how do you do that?”
“Beats me. Call the FBI, maybe? I’ll give it some thought. If I come up with any bright ideas, I’ll let you know, and you do the same. In the meantime, now that my day off is totally screwed, I could just as well drop by Else Gebhardt’s and ask for the use of one of her husband’s soldiers.”
“What soldiers?”
Oops. “Didn’t I tell you about the toy soldiers down in Gunter Gebhardt’s basement?”
“Not that I remember.”
“They’re handmade replicas of Nazi soldiers,” I said, making up for my oversight in not telling him earlier. “As far as I can determine, making those miniatures was Gunter’s sole hobby. Last night, when I was talking to Lorenzo, I had this sudden brainstorm that maybe they were made of gold, just like that wrench Bonnie Elgin found after the hit-and-run. And where better to hide them than in plain sight?”
“You think they’re made from all those melteddown teeth?” Jacek sounded aghast. Even second- and third-hand, Kari and Michael’s revelations about Sobibor had hit Stan Jacek as hard as they’d hit me. “That’s nauseating. How could he?”
“That’s a question I don’t even want to think about,” I told him.
“But it adds up,” Jacek said eventually. “Are you going to check it out, or shall I?”
“I’m closer,” I told him.
So when I got off the phone with Detective Jacek, I simply put my jacket back on and headed for the parking garage. Duty called. At least that’s what I told myself all the way downstairs in the elevator.
Even though it was early November and winter cold, at least it wasn’t raining. So during that chill afternoon drive to Blue Ridge, I had to make my way around the last few end-of-season die-hard garage sales. And once I reached Culpeper Court, I expected to have to fight my way through another collection of friends and relatives to gain admittance to the Gebhardt residence. To my surprise, no one seemed to be around.
More surprising still was the orange, black, and white FOR SALE BY OWNER sign that had been stapled to a wooden stake and hammered into Gunter Gebhardt’s otherwise-pristine front lawn.
Because of my job as a homicide cop, I naturally come in contact with lots of grieving relatives and friends. I have more than a nodding acquaintance with several of this city’s best-known grief counselors. They differ on some points, but they all agree in advising traumatized relatives to avoid making any precipitous decisions about moving out of the family home or selling property too soon after the death of a loved one.
In the days and weeks following a death—sudden or otherwise—the decision-making faculties may be badly impaired by the overwhelming weight of confusion and loss. Sad but true, there are plenty of vultures loose in the world who make their fortunes by finding and preying on such people.
Even knowing how unwelcome unsolicited advice can be, I was determined to give Else Gebhardt the benefit of my feelings in that regard. I stepped up onto the front porch and rang the bell.
Else answered the door herself, dust rag in one hand and broom in the other. “Why, BoBo,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
She seemed to be in far better emotional shape than I would have imagined, so there was no point in shilly-shallying around. “I came to see if you’d lend me a sampling of Gunter’s soldiers,” I said, going straight to the heart of the matter. “I want to have it analyzed down at the crime lab to see if there’s any way to trace the source of the metal.”
Else led me into the freshly cleaned living room where vacuum-cleaner tracks still lingered on the carpet. The furniture had been totally rearranged.
“Cleaning seems to make me feel better. I need to be doing something instead of just sitting around brooding,” she explained, putting the dust rag down and motioning for me to take a seat on the sofa.
“Now what’s this about tracing the metal the soldiers are made of?” Else asked, once she was seated beside me. “Why would that be so important? They’re just made out of lead, aren’t they?”
I couldn’t bring myself to answer that question straight out. Else wasn’t ready to hear about Sobibor, and I certainly wasn’t ready to tell her. Before I spoke, I listened for the sounds of other people at home, but the house was quiet. We seemed to be alone.
“I’m not entirely sure, but it might be,” I hedged. “We have to check everything.”
“Well,” Else answered, “you’re too late. They’re gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“I sold them, not two hours ago. I wanted them out of my house. If they had asked for anything else of Gunter’s, I would have sold that, too.” Else’s voice was bitter.
“You sold them?” I must have sounded like a witless echo. “To whom?”
“To some men who came by to look at the house.”
“What men? Who were they? Someone you knew?”
“Two men, an older gentleman and a younger one. They said they were driving in the neighborhood and saw my sign. I had just put it up half an hour earlier. The young man is getting married in a couple of months, and his parents are going to help them buy a house.”
“You showed the house to them, then. The whole thing? Even the basement?”
“Of course I showed them the basement. And while we were down there, they happened to see Gunter’s soldiers. They both got very excited about them. Evidently, someone in their family collects miniature soldiers.”
“German soldiers,” I added.
“Yes, well, maybe the men are German, too, come to think of it. At least the older one might be. It sounded like it anyway. He spoke with what sounded like a German accent.”
“But the younger one didn’t?”
“No. He’s American. I’m sure of it.”
A younger man and an older; one with a German accent and one without. Else’s description sounded more than vaguely similar to Michael and Kari’s portrayal of the two Simon Wiesenthal operatives who had visited their apartment in Bellingham.
“Did the younger one happen to have brown curly hair?” I asked.
Else frowned. “As a matter of fact, he did,” she answered. “Why, do you know something about him?”
I did know some things, and I suspected much more. Why the hell hadn’t I acted immediately on my hunch about those damn toy soldiers? They probably were solid gold.
Knowing I’d been totally outmaneuvered, I asked Else the bottom-line question, even though I didn’t really want to know the answer. “How much did you sell the soldiers for?”
“Five hundred dollars for the whole shebang,” she answered, with a smile that showed she was pleased with the bargain she’d struck. “Cash and carry. The two of them loaded the soldiers into boxes and took them away. Now I’ll be able to use those shelves to display stuff in a few weeks when I have my moving sale.”
That was probably the opening when I could have administered my prepared lecture about the evils of making too-hasty decisions; when I should have warned her that if she acted too quickly, she might be taken to the cleaners. I didn’t waste my breath. There wasn’t much sense in going to the bother when, likely as not, the cleaners had already come and gone.
Else was watching my face. “You do know something about those two men, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Did they have something to do with Gunter’s death?”
“It’s possible.”
She paled. “And I let them into the house when I was here by myself? I shouldn’t have done that, should
I?”
“No,” I agreed. “You shouldn’t have. Now, where’s Kari?” I asked.
“She took my mother to have her hair done. I wanted to be here alone. I wanted to do some work—some real physical work….”
“I understand all that, Else,” I said. “You don’t have to explain, but you really shouldn’t be here by yourself right now, and under no circumstances should you allow any more strangers into the house whether you’re alone here or not, understand?”
“Yes.”
“And for the moment, I want you to take down the For Sale sign.”
“No,” Else Gebhardt said determinedly. “I’m not taking it down for you or for my mother or for anybody else. Maybe people think I’m being disrespectful by trying to sell it when Gunter isn’t even buried yet, but they don’t understand. My husband betrayed me, BoBo. Gunter played me for a fool. No wonder he wanted my mother with us. As long as I was locked up here in this house looking after her, he could go about doing whatever he damn well pleased.”
She paused and then added, “Well, that’s over. Gunter’s dead, and so is his girlfriend.”
The part about the girlfriend certainly wasn’t entirely true since I now had proof that Denise Whitney hadn’t perished in the Camano Island fire, but I didn’t even attempt to interrupt Else Gebhardt’s angry tirade.
“I’ll do the right thing by Gunter, even if he didn’t deserve it,” she continued. “I’ll play the part and see to it that he’s properly buried, but I’m through being a doormat, BoBo. I want out of this house, and I want out of it now. This was my mother’s house and Gunter’s house. It’s never been mine, and I won’t stay here a minute longer than I have to.”
Else finally ran out of steam.
“In other words,” I interjected, “you won’t take down the sign?”
“No! I certainly won’t! Why should I? If the soldiers are all those two men were after, why would they come back?”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “They might not. But somebody else might.”
“I don’t think so,” Else returned.
I’m not very good at changing women’s minds, and Else Gebhardt’s mind was definitely made up—too much so for me to tackle the problem directly. I simply went around it.
On my way back downtown, I took a swing by Fishermen’s Terminal. There was a single light on in Champagne Al’s One Day at a Time. When I knocked on the galley door, he answered with a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
In the course of a five-minute visit, I didn’t tell Alan Torvoldsen much, only that I was worried about Else Gebhardt being alone in her house up on Culpeper Court and that I wished someone, preferably a friend of the family, would keep an eye on her. Just to be on the safe side.
From the expression on his face when I finished, you’d have thought I’d just handed a lifepreserver to a drowning man. I left the boat a few minutes later. As I headed out the door, Champagne Al was already standing in front of the smoke-filmed mirror, carefully combing into place what little remained of his flaming-red hair.
21
I understand that there are lots of people in the work force today who are into telecommuting. They work at home. I’m not one of them. I’m used to working at work. There’s something about the workaday, slightly grubby ambience of the fifth floor that helps me think and focus. Since focusing was what I needed to do, I headed straight for my cubicle in the Public Safety Building.
It only took a moment to retrieve Stan Jacek’s fax containing the Jane Doe autopsy findings. It took a hell of a lot longer than that to digest same.
Because the Camano Island victim’s body had burned so completely, there was virtually no soft tissue remaining on the bones. Even so, many of the circumstances were similar to the ones we’d found in the Fishermen’s Terminal incident. The victim’s fingers and toes had all been removed and left to time-bake in a charred pie tin on top of the body. However, because of the condition of the tissue, it was impossible to discover whether the mutilations had occurred before or after the victim’s death.
From my point of view, however, the biggest problem with the autopsy was that it dealt with the wrong person. If the dead woman wasn’t Denise Whitney, who was she? And, for that matter, if Denise wasn’t dead, where the hell was she? One more time, she had put her family through an emotional ordeal not unlike being tossed in a Waring blender. Had she done this to them herself, willingly? Or was she also among the killer’s victims—a missing corpse, rotting and waiting to be discovered?
And then, of course, there was my other problem—the guys who might or might not be Simon Wiesenthal operatives. I hadn’t a doubt in my mind that the two men who had paid their timely visit to Else Gebhardt, the two wheeler-dealers who had aced me out of Gunter’s soldiers, were the same ones who had called on Kari and Michael up in Bellingham. So—were these characters really on the trail of Hans Gebhardt, or were they actually on the trail of the gold? Both, or neither?
The mire was so deep now that I didn’t know what to think. Maybe Hans Gebhardt was still alive, and the Wiesenthal agents were doing exactly what they claimed—tracking him to ground. But there were other possibilities. What were the chances that Gunter Gebhardt’s long-missing father was, in fact, long dead, and the story about searching for him was nothing more than an elaborate cover?
The Simon Wiesenthal organization. How do you go about contacting them? I wondered. After a few moments of reflection, I tried my old standby—I dialed Information—and came up winners, twice over. Within minutes I had numbers for the Simon Wiesenthal Foundation in both New York and Los Angeles. But neither office was open at five-something o’clock Pacific Standard Time on a November Saturday afternoon. And what I had to say wasn’t something that could be trusted to the impersonal discretion of a taped voice-messaging system.
I could hear myself saying, “I’m a detective up here in Seattle, and I’ve got these two guys who may or may not be yours and who may or may not be wandering around the state of Washington killing people. Would you mind having somebody get back to me on this?”
Like hell they would!
So the question was, how to find out more about Moise and Avram without tipping my hand? If they were true-blue, then it might not hurt anything to check them out in a straightforward, official-channel fashion. But if they had gone bad—if they were renegades using their official credentials as free tickets to get away with murder—then any kind of official inquiry might be enough to send them dodging for cover.
Someone once told me that true creativity is 50 percent saturation, 49 percent perspiration, and I percent inspiration. After sitting there in the silence of my cubicle in a near-catatonic state for more than an hour and a half, after doing the hard work of turning the same questions over and over in my mind, inspiration finally struck at five minutes to six.
That’s it, I thought. Picking up the phone, I dialed my old partner, Ron Peters.
As soon as he answered the phone and I heard voices and laughter and dishes clattering in the background, I remembered it was Amy’s birthday. It sounded as though I had called right in the middle of a party.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“It’s just family,” Ron answered. “We’re just setting the table.”
“This won’t take long, then. Do you happen to have Tony Freeman’s home telephone number?”
Captain Anthony Freeman is the head of the Internal Investigations Section of Seattle P.D. He’s a well-respected straight-shooter. He was also the one supervisor in the whole department who had been able to see beyond Ron Peters’ wheelchair to the fact that a trained detective’s abilities were being vastly underutilized in a permanent assignment to the Media Affairs section. Ron was now working full-time as an I.I.S. investigator.
I also happened to know that, despite the fact that he bore a Gentile-sounding name, Tony Freeman was Jewish. As a matter of fact, he once gave me a memorable ass-chewing that had to do with my using a Y
iddish word that he personally found offensive. What he said wasn’t at all mean-spirited, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you forgot, either. Ever since that rebuke, the word schmuck has been excised from my spoken vocabulary.
“I have his number,” Ron answered, “but it’s unlisted, and I’m not supposed to give it out. Why do you need it? What’s up?”
I was off on such a wild-goose chase that I wasn’t eager to discuss it with anyone right then—not even Ron Peters. “It’s about the boat fire at Fishermen’s Terminal,” I said.
“You don’t think a police officer is involved, do you?” Ron asked.
“No, nothing like that. But I do need to talk to Tony. Could you maybe call him and see if you can get him to call me here?”
“Where’s here?” Ron asked.
“I’m in the office,” I answered. “At my desk.”
“On Saturday?”
“Don’t hassle me about it. Someday maybe I’ll get a life.”
Ron laughed. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. And if for some reason I’m not able to raise him by phone, I’ll give you a call back right away.”
But the person who returned my call barely two minutes later was Captain Tony Freeman himself. “Hey, Beau,” he said. “I understand you wanted to talk to me. What’s going on?”
“What do you know about the Simon Wiesenthal Foundation?” I asked.
It was an unexpected question, one that caught Tony Freeman slightly off guard, but there was only a brief pause. “Some,” he answered. “That’s the organization devoted to tracking down Nazi war criminals and bringing them to justice. What about them?”
“I think we may have a couple of them wandering around loose in Seattle at the moment,” I told him. “And from what I’ve found out so far, they may be up to no good.”
“Maybe you’d better bring me up to speed,” Captain Freeman said.
And so I did, in as orderly a fashion as I could. When I finished, Captain Freeman was silent for a long moment. I could almost hear the wheels grinding through the telephone wires.
Lying in Wait (9780061747168) Page 22
