by Andrew Kane
He didn’t respond.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Danny, is that you?” Stephanie Gifford asked.
He knew she would figure it was him; he had done this so many times before, only never sober. “Yeah,” he said, his voice laden with vulnerability.
“Where are you?”
“Outside McNally’s.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Wait!” she said.
He waited.
“Did you drink?”
“Not yet.”
He sensed relief from her end, and wondered if she still cared for him or if her concern was strictly the byproduct of his being the father of their child.
There was some interference on the connection.
“Dan, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“I guess.”
She hesitated, then said, “Do you want to come by?”
He was surprised by the offer. “That’s all right, I’ll be fine.”
“I’d like you to.”
“Steph, you don’t have to…”
“I’m not feeling sorry for you. I just think you should come home tonight.”
Home. It struck in him a sense of longing, yet the thought of actually going there brought wariness. Was he ready? Could he return to her arms without telling her what had happened earlier in the garage? He knew he couldn’t. Yet he also knew that it wasn’t right to burden her with fear. “Maybe another time.”
“Dan, are you in some type of trouble?”
“Nothing more than usual.”
“There’s a policeman sitting in a car down the block. They’ve been watching and following us.”
“I know.”
“They’re trying awfully hard not to let me know they’re there.”
“They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
“I had a good teacher.”
He smiled.
“Is there something I need to be concerned about?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t lie.
She was silent.
“They’re on you twenty-four seven,” he said, referring to the cops.
“Is that good enough?”
“I think so. They’re handpicked by Bobby Marcus.”
She didn’t ask who the bad guys were, because she knew. She was always aware of his cases and how they intruded upon their lives – that was part of the problem. “Should I go to my mother?”
“No. If these guys wanted you, they’d find you. I really think you’re safer the way things are now, and I want you and Danny Jr. close by.” There was one more thing he needed to say to her, but he didn’t know how to word it. “Look, just to be careful, I think you should…”
“Don’t worry, Dan, I already have it. I put it in my bag the moment I made those cops.”
“Where is it now?”
“Under my pillow.”
“Good.”
“Like I said, I had a good teacher.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that in past tense.”
“Maybe I won’t… some day.”
“That would be nice.”
“Yes, it would.”
chapter 30
The three Mossad agents sat around the table, examining fifty-year-old photographs and comparing them with recent ones. The older pictures were weathered and too imprecise for definitive conclusions. But this was all they had.
“We have to be certain it’s him,” Galit said, her tone betraying her frustration.
“Don’t worry,” Kovi responded. “Once we have him, plenty of witnesses will come forward, believe me.”
“A lot of good the witnesses did us with Demjanjuk!” she snapped.
She held up a dated photograph of Benoît that had appeared in an Israeli newspaper a year earlier, when the tycoon was negotiating to build a resort on the Red Sea in Aqaba, Jordan, adjacent to the Israeli border. Since Benoît had been adept in avoiding photographers over the years, the enterprising young journalist who authored the article had managed to dig up an old copy of a passport photo. A week later, an elderly Israeli gentleman came to Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum and research center, claiming that the photograph in the paper was of one Theodore Lemieux, former captain in the Vichy police in Lyon between 1940-1944, who had personally supervised the roundup of thousands of Jews for deportation to Nazi concentration camps. Because such accusations were common, and because Lemieux was believed to have been killed in the summer of 1944 during the Allied liberation, the old man’s claim was noted, filed, and ignored. That was until two other witnesses also came forward with the same assertion.
The case was then referred to a particular Hebrew University professor, a Holocaust historian who had been writing a book on Vichy France’s collaboration with the Nazis during World War II. The professor, compelled by the witnesses’ accounts, traveled to France, where he toiled through piles of official state archives searching for a connection between Theodore Lemieux and Jacques Benoît. While he had managed to find an old photo of the Vichy police captain, it was too tattered to make an absolute match to Benoît.
In searching through employment records, however, the professor discovered that Lemieux’s parents owned a small inn on the outskirts of the city and that, surprisingly enough, there was a young man of Theodore’s age named Jacques Benoît who happened to work for them. He also learned that the first hotel that the billionaire Jacques Benoît had built was on the French Caribbean island, Guadeloupe. There were no records of how Benoît obtained his financing, but there were travel documents showing that he had arrived on the island in the fall of 1944, shortly after the reported death of Theodore Lemieux. Taking the eyewitnesses’ claims seriously, the professor surmised that the real Benoît was killed during the Allied liberation, either by Lemieux or by some other means, and that Lemieux switched identities with the dead man and fled to Guadeloupe where no one would recognize him.
Documents revealed that the new Benoît remained in Guadeloupe, married there, had a son, and hadn’t ventured off the island for several years. When he finally did begin to travel, he visited France only sporadically and steered clear of Lyon and its vicinities, fearing he might be recognized. The professor wondered why the French government hadn’t adequately investigated the supposed death of this potential war criminal, and concluded that its embarrassment over its ineffectiveness and complicity during the war had created within its ranks a strong desire to close the history books for that period. The politicians had probably turned their eyes away from several similar scenarios.
“It may be circumstantial, but I’m convinced,” Arik said.
“You being convinced isn’t enough, we need hard evidence, something concrete, identifying Benoît as the Monster of Lyon,” Galit responded. “Has there been any information from his house?”
“Schwartz has it wiretapped, every room and telephone. They’re also running constant surveillance outside. Nothing yet,” Kovi responded.
“Why don’t they bug Martin Rosen’s office?” Arik asked.
“Because no judge would allow that, and Schwartz would never do it without a warrant,” Galit said.
“Maybe we can tap it?” Arik said.
“That would be a very bad idea,” Galit answered. “The Justice Department is watching this investigation very carefully. They’re tired of these Nazi cases, and eager for any reason to pull the plug and send us home. If we go breaking their laws, they’ve got one.”
“I don’t believe that anything we might get from the shrink’s office would even be usable in an Israeli court,” Kovi added.
“Probably not,” Galit said. “We’re just going to do this one the old-fashioned way.”
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Kovi offered an agreeable look. “I still wonder why Benoît is going to a Jewish shrink,” he said.
“Stop wondering,” Galit replied. “He is simply trying to confuse us, to make us question if he is who we think he is.”
“Do you really believe that Rosen will help us in the end?” Arik asked her.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “His father is a rabbi and both his parents are survivors. On the other hand, he has the rules of his profession.” She pondered a moment, then added, “He is quite independent-minded, only I don’t know whether that will work for us or against us.”
chapter 31
Martin Rosen grabbed the phone on its first ring. He let out a drowsy “hello,” then looked at the clock and realized it was 7 a.m. He had been up most of the night, ruminating about where Cheryl Manning might be and why she hadn’t returned his call.
“Marty, hi, it’s Cheryl.”
Even on half throttle, he could sense tension in her voice; perhaps guilt over not getting back to him sooner. He didn’t want to make an issue of it. There were no strings between them. She had a right to do whatever she had been doing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night,” she said. “I got in late and didn’t want to wake you.”
“That’s okay,” he lied. He was bothered by his jealousy. “Hey, are you ever in that office of yours? I must have gotten your voice mail three or four times before I left a message.”
“Actually, I’ve been out coddling my latest client.”
He was silent.
“When am I going to see you?” she asked.
“I was hoping for tonight. Elizabeth has a playdate with her cousins after school today. We’ll probably spend a couple of hours at the park, get some kosher pizza, then I’m all yours.”
“Kosher pizza?”
“Elizabeth’s cousins are Orthodox. It’s a long story.”
“And an interesting one, I’m sure.”
“That too.”
“I look forward to hearing it.”
“Then why don’t we meet for dinner, say around 8?”
“Sounds good to me. Where?”
“Millie’s okay?”
“You’re such a creature of habit.”
“That I am.”
“Then Millie’s it is. Eight sharp.”
“Good. See you there.”
“Marty,” she said, changing her tone. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” he answered defensively. “Why do you ask?”
“Only because you seemed a little strange the other night as you left.”
“It was just a moment. I’m over it,” he said, troubled by his own duplicity.
“Okay,” she said, adding her own pretense, “I’ll see you tonight then.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Me too.”
chapter 32
Bobby Marcus strutted into Dan Gifford’s office and dropped two manila files on the desk, each with a photo clipped to the cover.
“These the guys?” Gifford asked. It was hard for him to connect the pictures to the dead Colombians in the garage the night before.
“That’s them.”
Gifford lifted the first file, opened it and examined the contents. The rap sheet was long, and the guy was a recent parolee for what appeared to have been a plea bargain down to manslaughter. “Nice record. Good thing the taxpayers can sleep at night knowing we keep our hardened criminals behind bars.”
He tossed the file on his desk.
“Take a look at the other one,” Marcus said.
“Why? I’m sure it’s more of the same.”
Marcus eyed his boss. “Something wrong?”
“Of course something’s wrong. I killed two men last night.”
“Whoa, wait just a minute there! First of all, they tried to take you out. Second, what makes you think you killed them?”
“I guess we’ll never know, considering there won’t be any ballistics.”
“You want ballistics? Order it.”
Gifford stared into space. He knew a ballistics test could mean trouble for Marcus. “Let’s forget about it.”
“Look, Dan, you don’t owe me because I saved your ass. That was part of the job.”
“I know. I owe you because you’re a friend.”
Marcus smiled. “Gee, does that mean you wanna go out dancing tonight?”
“All right, cut the shit.”
“Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
Gifford got up from his chair and walked toward the window.
“Where’d you go after the shoot?” Marcus asked in a tone that pretty much indicated he knew the answer.
“A bar.” Gifford was looking out at the view.
“Did you drink?”
“No.”
“But it’s not over.”
Gifford thought for a moment. “It’s never over.”
Marcus was way over his head in this discussion. While being on the job for so many years had given him more than enough exposure to alcoholism, he still couldn’t claim to understand it. “You still go to those meetings?” he asked.
Gifford turned away from the window and looked askance at Marcus. It took him a moment to realize that it was Bobby Marcus, and not some nosy, intrusive acquaintance, who was asking. The man cared about him and deserved an honest response. “No, I haven’t,” he said, his expression softening.
“Maybe you should.”
Gifford turned back toward the window. “Maybe.”
“What about the shrink? Does he know about the shoot?”
“No. I cut that off for a while.”
Marcus gave Gifford a concerned look. “Because of the Schwartz thing?”
“Precisely.”
“Look, Dan, since I’m already prying beyond the limit, I’ll come out and say what I gotta say. First, I know that killing someone isn’t completely novel to you. It isn’t for me either. But that doesn’t matter, because regardless of how many times you do it, it never gets easy. And it also doesn’t make that much difference if the dead guy’s a dirtbag who didn’t deserve to live in the first place.”
“What’s your point?”
“My first point is that you don’t look so good. My other point is that I’m headed to the department shrink this afternoon, partly because they’re making me, and partly because I think it’s a good idea.”
“The DA’s office doesn’t require psychological debriefing after a shooting.”
“Bullshit. The reason there’s no policy is because it never happens. How many ADA’s you know that have been involved in shootings?”
“None,” Gifford granted.
“You know what I think?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
Marcus smiled. “I think that maybe you should forget all about that Schwartz stuff, which isn’t any of our business to begin with, and give that shrink of yours a call.”
Gifford knew his friend was right. He sat down on his chair, looked Marcus in the eye and responded, “Maybe I should.”
chapter 33
Elizabeth Rosen’s hair flew back as she soared toward the sky. “Higher, Daddy, higher!” she demanded, her hands wrapped tightly around the swing’s chains. She reached her peak, then floated backward into her father’s hands for another push, this one even stronger than she’d hoped. She laughed as the chains loosened, then became taut again.
“Marty!” Esther roared, worried for her niece’s safety.
Martin reacted with a smile.
“Just do me a favor, slow it down a bit with her.”
“Sure, Sis, whatever you say.” He lightened up on his next few pushes. “My arms were getting tired anyway.”
“Higher, Daddy, h
igher!”
“Sorry, princess, I’ve been overruled.”
“What’s overruled, Daddy?”
“It’s when your aunt Esther tells me what to do.”
Elizabeth’s cousins came running over. The eldest, Michali, was holding a soccer ball. “Can we have a drink, Ima?” Devorah, the younger one, asked.
So far, the outing had been a dismal failure. Neither Esther nor Martin knew quite what to do to get all three children to play together. They couldn’t blame the kids. They were practically strangers. Michali was 7 years old, Devorah 6, and sadly, all they knew of their cousin and uncle was a single visit two years earlier, and stories their mother had shared with them. The same was true for Elizabeth.
The discomfort was apparent.
“Of course,” Esther answered. She reached into her bag and took out a juice box, stuck in the straw and handed it to Michali. “Why don’t you offer this one to your cousin?” she whispered.
“But Ima, I’m thirsty!”
“Don’t worry, honey, I have plenty of juice boxes. It’s a mitzvah to offer other people first. Remember the story of Abraham and the three strangers?”
“Yes, Ima, I remember,” the girl responded, rolling her eyes.
Martin was still swinging Elizabeth, pretending not to overhear. Michali walked around the side of the swing, her younger sister dutifully following. “Would you like something to drink, Elizabeth?” Michali asked.
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered shyly.
Martin slowed the swing so Michali could hand the juice box to Elizabeth.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, looking at both girls.
“You’re welcome,” the sisters responded in unison, then ran back to their mother.
“Elizabeth,” Esther called out, “I have cookies too.”
Elizabeth turned to her father, who nodded his approval. She slowly came off the swing and inched over to her cousins and aunt. This time, Esther had Devorah hand her cousin a cookie.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said.
“Tell me, Elizabeth,” Esther said, “do you play soccer?”
“Yes, my daddy showed me how.”
“I play in a league,” Michali jumped in.
