Voices of the Dead hl-1

by Peter Leonard

  “I’ve been thinking about you‚ too,” Harry said. “I remember you shooting my father, showing your men how to kill Jews.”

  “I should have paid more attention to you.”

  “Then passing out bottles of schnapps to celebrate,” Harry said.

  “It was not to celebrate but to relax the men. I underestimated how they would react. To my surprise many of them broke down. Some were deeply shaken. They needed relief.”

  “You killed six hundred people,” Harry said, “you were worried about relaxing your men?”

  “I was following orders,” Hess said.

  “Whose orders were you following after the war?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I saw your souvenir collection. You’re still at it, huh? Can’t stop yourself.”

  “You think the world is going to miss a few more Jews?” Hess said. “Killing your daughter was a bonus, Harry. What can I say? I was just lucky.”

  “I am‚ too,” Harry said, picking up the Colt.

  Hess went for his gun, and Harry fired. Hit him in the upper chest, just left of center, the velocity blowing the Nazi backward off his feet, gun flying. Harry walked across the kitchen, stood over him, Hess looking up, eyes open. “Help me.”

  “You’re not going to make it,” Harry said.

  Thirty-nine

  “We have to call the police,” Joyce said, staring at Hess on the kitchen floor, blood pooling under him.

  “You want to be involved in the killing of a Nazi war criminal?” Harry said. “Bring all that attention to yourself? Have the nuts come out of the woodwork, looking for you?”

  Joyce said, “We don’t have a choice. We are involved.”

  Cordell at the kitchen table said, “Harry, what you sayin’?”

  “Get rid of the body. Bury him.”

  Joyce frowned. “You’re not serious?”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “Harry, somebody has to have heard the gunshots and called the police,” Joyce said.

  “If the police were coming, they’d be here by now.”

  “What about the door upstairs?” Joyce said. “And the bullet hole in the armoire? How’re we going to explain that?”

  “You picked up one of those terracotta planters on the balcony,” Cordell said, “broke the glass by accident.”

  Harry glanced at him. “That’s not bad.” He paused. “I wouldn’t worry about the bullet hole. Who’s going to notice it?”

  “Got another one, Harry,” Cordell said. “What about the security dude?”

  Harry’d found him dead in the bushes behind the south wall. “Somebody shot him. We didn’t hear it. We don’t know what happened. We don’t have to explain anything.”

  “And Hess’ rental car,” Joyce said.

  Harry’d found it parked on the neighbor’s property to the south. “We don’t know anything about that, either. Name on the rental agreement is Gerd Klaus.” It was also the name on his passport and international driver’s license. “You know someone named Gerd Klaus? I don’t. Nobody knows he’s really Hess except us. All the police have is a rental car. Without a body there’s nothing to connect us.” Harry had searched him and found a ring of keys and a room key to the Breakers Hotel.

  Joyce said, “What if he told somebody what he was going to do, and they come after us?”

  “Why would he?” Harry said. “If you were going to kill someone, would you talk about it? For Hess it was personal. He was taking care of the last connections to his past.” He looked at his watch. It was 4:53. “We don’t have a lot of time. Somebody is going to come looking for the security guard, and then the police are going to be involved.” He glanced at Cordell. “What do you say?”

  “Otherwise you be lookin’ over your shoulder,” Cordell said, eyes on Joyce.

  “I don’t like it, Harry,” Joyce said. “I feel like a criminal. But I agree with you. I wouldn’t bury him, though. The ground’s too soft. He could wash out during a heavy rain. I’d dump him in the ocean, let the tide take him out to the sharks.”

  “What about this?” Cordell said, picking Hess’ gun up off the floor.

  “I’ll get rid of it,” Harry said, taking the gun and sliding it in his pants pocket. He went outside, crossed the yard and went through the gate, walked to the far side of the property, took the gun out and threw it as far as he could into the Intercoastal.

  Harry went to the garage looking for a tarp, and found a roll of Visqueen. He took it back to the house, wrapped Hess in plastic. He and Joyce dragged him outside and lowered him from the steps into a wheelbarrow. Harry’d take care of the Nazi. Joyce and Cordell would clean the kitchen floor.

  Harry wheeled Hess down the narrow lane to the beach road, slight breeze blowing his hair back. Light was breaking on the horizon. He crossed the road and went down a slope of soft heavy sand, put the wheelbarrow down, kicked off his shoes and rolled up his pants. The tide was on its way out.

  He wheeled Hess across twenty yards of hard wet sand that had been underwater a few minutes earlier, and dumped him in the shallows. Harry glanced over his shoulder making sure no one was following them. When he looked back he saw Hess’ leg move, foot jerking under the plastic. What the hell was that? Harry’d checked him in the kitchen. Hess was dead, wasn’t breathing, didn’t have a pulse. But now Harry wondered, had his doubts. He bent down and pulled the Visqueen coffin into deeper water, up to his waist, gave it a push and watched the current take Hess out to sea, watched till the Nazi disappeared and he felt better.

  Harry thought about what Hess did to his parents. It had been hanging there in the back of his mind for almost thirty years. Now finally, they’d been avenged. He thought about Sara, felt some relief knowing she, too could be put to rest.

  He got back to the house a little after six. Joyce and Cordell had cleaned up the blood. The floor was spotless. Harry locked the kitchen door, went up, showered and got in bed.

  At 6:30, Cloutier returned, patrolled the grounds, found his partner, and called the police. Harry was questioned by a cocky Palm Beach detective named Conlin. Harry told him he hadn’t heard a gunshot, hadn’t seen an intruder, and had never heard of a businessman from Stuttgart, Germany named Gerd Klaus. Joyce said pretty much the same thing, and although Harry was convinced Conlin didn’t believe them, they were released.

  Cordell, on the other hand, had an outstanding warrant in Detroit. He was arrested and taken to county lock-up in West Palm for twenty-four hours, till Stark was able to appeal to a black judge sympathetic with Cordell’s situation. Young man in the army, serving his country, being discriminated against, and all charges were dropped.

  “Appreciate the legal assistance,” Cordell said when he walked out of jail and got in Harry’s car. “Thank Counselor Stark for me. You were right, man knows his shit.”

  Harry said, “What’re you going to do now, go back to Detroit?”

  “Reinvent myself,” Cordell said. “Going to stay down here. Going to see what looks interesting, what I can get into, figure out how to make money at it.”

  “Ever want to get in the scrap business, give me a call.”

  Cordell shook his head and grinned. “That’s a tempting offer, Harry, but I think I’ll pass.”

  Forty

  While Cordell was being held, Harry’d driven to the Breakers, knowing it would take the police a little time to figure out where Hess had been staying. He had to make sure Hess didn’t have anything the police might find that would connect them.

  The room had an ocean view, bed made, everything neat and clean like the maid had just been there. First he checked the closet. Two sport jackets on hangers, half a dozen long-sleeved dress shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of dress shoes, one black, the other brown, red Breakers golf shirt. Hess’ suitcase was on the floor in the corner. He went through the pockets of all the clothes and the compartments in the suitcase, didn’t find anything. He moved back in the bedroom, checked the dresser, opened the drawe
rs, saw socks in one, underwear and undershirts in another. Three drawers were empty.

  Harry sat at the desk in front of the window that looked out at the ocean. Saw a freighter creeping along the horizon. He glanced around, noticed a briefcase tucked under the desk on his right. Reached for the handle and pulled it up and put it flat on the desktop. Tried to open it, but it was locked. Harry took out the key ring he’d taken off Hess. There was a small key with a black plastic cap on the end and a hole through it. He slid it in the lock and the briefcase opened.

  There was a stack of business cards tucked in a leather sleeve, identifying Gerd Klaus as Midwest sales manager of an international auto parts company. Harry took out a pile of receipts: Statler Hotel in Detroit, an Eastern Airlines flight, Detroit–West Palm, Hertz car rental, all in the name Gerd Klaus, all paid in cash. Under the receipts were surveillance photographs, close-ups of Harry at several Munich locations, and a couple shots of Harry and Cordell. Under the photos were half a dozen auto parts brochures. Hess had gone to a lot of trouble to look authentic.

  On the bottom of the briefcase was another business card, Dana Kovarik, assistant manager, SunTrust Bank, with an address on Royal Poinciana Way, Palm Beach. He put the card, keys and photographs in his pockets, walked out of the room and closed the door.

  Forty-one

  Harry watched Colette come through the gate. He’d been thinking about her, but seeing her had an effect on him. She was looking around, saw him and ran over, kissed him and they put their arms around each other, standing there, the exiting passengers moving around them.

  They drove down the coast, checked in a motel on the ocean called the Ebb Tide. It had twelve efficiency apartments, a pool, private beach, and it was right near the inlet where the fishing boats came in.

  When they got to the room, Colette showed him her article, six pages in Der Spiegel, featuring current photos of Hess and his bodyguard, Hess at the Blackshirt rally, and sepia-tone photos of Hess in his Nazi uniform, posing in front of the mass grave. The article read like a suspense thriller. He finished it and looked at her. “This is amazing,” Harry said. “Shooting Hess’ bodyguard with your father’s military sidearm. You couldn’t make that up.”

  “It was self-defense and I still feel bad about it.”

  “Of course you do,” Harry said. “You’re a good person. How’s your mother?”

  “She was in shock.”

  “I can imagine. Must’ve scared the hell out of her.”

  “But she’s fine now, hiking in the mountains again.”

  “I was surprised you didn’t mention Hess’ souvenirs.”

  “We know he was a serial killer, but we can’t prove it. My editor wouldn’t allow it.”

  “My favorite part, of course, is the daring escape by an eye-witness survivor who is prepared to come forward to help prosecute Hess.”

  “I thought you’d like that.” Colette sat on the bed. “Here’s the strange thing, Harry. The article appeared a few days ago and Hess has disappeared. Reporters converged on his estate in Schleissheim and his Munich apartment. His wife and daughter claim they have no idea where he is.”

  “You believe them?”

  “I do. I think he’s left the country. Gone into hiding.”

  “You’re probably right.” Harry didn’t tell her what really happened. That Hess was dead. At least Harry hoped he was.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank my publishers, Lou Aronica and Peter Miller, my agent, Jeff Posternak at Wylie, New York, and my editors, Angus Cargill and Katherine Armstrong at Faber, UK.

  I couldn’t have written the book without the help of the librarians at the Holocaust Memorial Center in Farmington Hills, Michigan.

  Thanks also to Tony Fiermonte, former Detroit Police Precinct Commander, prosecutor Steven Kaplan, Marvin Yagoda, Jean Acker, Gregg Sutter, Jim Bodary and Debi Siegel.

  About the Author

  Peter Leonard’s debut novel, Quiver, was published to international acclaim in 2008, and was followed by Trust Me in 2009. The Story Plant will publish Leonard’s newest novel, All He Saw Was the Girl, in the spring of 2012.

  Also by Peter Leonard

  Quiver

  Trust Me

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Story Plant

  The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2011 by Peter Leonard

  Cover design by James Tocco

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-032-8

  E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-033-5

  Visit our website at www.thestoryplant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except as provided by US Copyright Law.

  For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant Printing: January 2012

  Printed in The United States of America

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