Dry Bones

by Peter Quinn

  They shook hands. A last time.

  Dunne crossed Sutton Place to the eastern terminus of 57th Street. He sat on a bench above the river, pulled out Bartlett’s typed letter and read the last paragraph:

  I’m afraid to say that the Reds had the right idea with their zagradotryady, the special details charged with shooting down any soldier whose behavior might create panic in the front line. Typical Red callousness, yes. But there was a kernel of wisdom in it. When your back is against the wall, there can’t be any option for retreat, and there’s where we are now—all of us. Our backs against the wall. The final showdown will occur within the next decade. We all know it. Those in the front line shouldn’t be made to worry about being pestered by irresponsible imbeciles whose one overriding interest is drawing attention to themselves.

  Bartlett was rattled. It remained to be seen how rattled, and what—if anything—he’d do. And when.

  FORUM OF THE TWELVE CAESAR’S, MANHATTAN

  DUNNE TOOK TERESA DOLORES O’KEEFE TO DINNER AT THE FORUM of the Twelve Caesars as a way of thanking her. “Do me a favor,” she said when he phoned to invite her. “Call me Tess. That’s the name I’m going by now.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven, Tess.”

  Accustomed to seeing her in the understated outfits of an ISC executive assistant—fashionable, never flashy—he was surprised by her low-cut black dress and the way she filled it. He helped her into a cab. “You look lovely.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Disappointed.”

  “By what?”

  “By being old enough to be your father and happily married.”

  “I like that about you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve met men who wouldn’t be deterred by either.”

  The maître d’ kept them waiting several minutes before handing them off to an assistant to be seated. Dressed in modified togas, the waiters presented them with elaborately designed, oversized menus. Tess put her hand over her mouth when she saw the prices.

  “Order what you want,” Dunne told her.

  “You don’t have an ISC expense account anymore.”

  “My severance package will cover a lot of meals like this.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me. When you cry yourself to sleep at night, you have a severance package under your pillow.”

  “I don’t cry myself to sleep and neither should you. You’ve got your novel under your pillow. That’ll be your ticket.”

  They had champagne and oysters to start. The tableside preparation and service of the Caesar salad were somewhere between Hollywood and High Mass. There was a sudden stir when Joan Crawford and her CEO husband arrived. The maître d’ cleared the way for them. Chin held high, pretending not to notice the attention that the patrons pretended not to pay, she allowed herself to be led to the Forum’s premier roost, a corner booth at the back.

  “I can’t say I’d like to work for her. But still, I admire her. A woman doesn’t get what’s she got without fighting twice as hard as a man. Not that men have it easy.” Tess shook her head. “Those idiots can’t know what they’re doing if they let someone with your experience and integrity go.”

  “They know what they’re doing. So do I.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying that?” Her black hair was swept back from her face; pearl earrings accented long neck, curvature below.

  “Really, Tess.”

  Along with the clatter of cutlery and plates, the room was filled with the chatter of the Forum’s wealthy, powerful, and famous patrons, all lacquered with the same sleek, manicured gloss that advertised their success, that said they belonged. There was no indication of the secrets and insecurities swirling beneath, addictions, deceptions, adulteries, peculations, betrayals, hidden catalogue of the seven deadly sins and all their infinite permutations, illicit desires, forbidden inclinations, fear of exposure they engendered.

  The moose-size lamb chops they ordered were capped with miniature chef’s hats. As she ate, Tess kept gazing around. “I hope I’m not embarrassing you by gawking like a farm girl. But I’ve never been in such star-studded company.”

  “Go ahead, gawk. They could get the same food at cheaper prices plenty of places. They’re here to be noticed.”

  After they’d shared a flaming desert of cherries jubilee, she excused herself to go to the powder room. Dunne looked for the waiter so he could get the check. In a booth on the opposite side of the room from Joan Crawford’s—another prime roost, though not a corner as prestigious as hers—a thin, well-groomed, square-chinned gent in a gray suit, lobster bib around his neck, gestured vehemently with a silver claw cracker at his companion, who sat at an angle that made it impossible to see his face.

  That square chin. He’d seen it before. Where? Maybe on television. Maybe on a campaign poster. It wasn’t until Tess returned and he stood to leave that he glimpsed the real Joan Crawford and made the connection to Red’s Bar & Grill—the Joan Crawford three-quarters look-alike hurrying to get a cab—that he was positive it was him: Michael Arlington Beresford, fat-cat chairman of the mayor’s Committee on Municipal Finances.

  “Now you’re the one doing the gawking.” Tess pivoted slowly on the balls of her feet. “I might as well take it all in since I’ll never be back.”

  “You’ll be back, but on your own terms. Next time they’ll all be pretending not to stare at you.”

  On the way out, the profile of Beresford’s tablemate was visible. Carlton Bartlett swiped his fingers on his lobster bib and lifted a glass flute of champagne.

  The doorman hailed a cab. Tess O’Keefe got in. Dunne went to the driver’s window. He peeled off several bills from the roll in his pocket. “This is an off-the-meter job. Jersey City, okay.”

  The driver counted the bills. “Sure thing. Jersey City, it is.”

  Tess rolled down her window. “This is unnecessary, Fin. I can take the tubes. Be home in no time.”

  He leaned in, touched the pearl dangling from her ear, kissed her cheek, scent of perfume and champagne. A man can dream. And if age brings wisdom, that’s all he does. “Better hurry. Come midnight, this cab turns into a pumpkin.”

  “We love pumpkin in Jersey City. I’ll drop you off on the way.”

  “I left something inside.” He stood back. The cab pulled into the traffic; brake lights blinked good-bye.

  Breezing past the maître d’, who was poring over his reservation book, he beelined to the booth where he’d spotted Michael Arlington Beresford.

  “Mr. Beresford?”

  Beresford didn’t look up. He seemed to presume a waiter was addressing him.

  “I believe we’ve met before.” Dunne put out his hand.

  Beresford raised his eyes. Indifference molted into confusion. “We have?”

  “Yes, I’m Fintan Dunne.”

  “Fintan Dunne?” He took Dunne’s hand with soft, uncertain grip.

  “At Red’s.”

  He released Dunne’s hand. “Red’s?”

  “Third Avenue. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  Face as red as the lobster carcass on his plate, Beresford opened his mouth. No words came out.

  “I’m a friend of TR Hull. We served together in the war. Those days, he went by Dick Van Hull.”

  “Sorry, you’re mistaken.” Beresford’s fleeting attempt at a smile turned into a grimace. “I don’t know you or Hall.”

  “Hull. Carlton here knew him, too.”

  Bartlett ripped off his lobster bib and threw it on the table. He drained the champagne from his glass. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”

  Dunne picked up Beresford’s full glass of champagne.

  “Really, I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.” Beresford looked pleadingly at Bartlett. “Do you?”

  “He’s trying to make a nuisance of himself. He’s becoming expert at it.”

  “I propose a toast.” Dunne raised the glass. “To the memory of the late R
ichard Thornton Van Hull: Suscipiat Dominus sacrificium.” He poured the contents on Bartlett’s head, turned, and ambled confidently past the waiters in their faux togas, and the tony dinners, and the maître d’ who was doing his practiced best to ignore the guests waiting to be seated.

  Outside a line had formed of people waiting for taxis. The doorman stood in the street. The traffic was backed up. A frustrated driver sounded a triple honk. Others joined in. The horns blared a discordant chorus of bugle-like blasts.

  In the morning, when Dunne left his apartment to get breakfast at the corner coffee shop, there were two men in the lobby surveying the mailboxes. They homed in on him immediately. No need to flash their shields. The combination of polished shoes, worn-down heels, off-the-rack suits, and the bored resignation on their faces was as good as any badge.

  The shorter, thinner of the two stepped into the middle of the hall. “Fintan Dunne?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Detective Daniel Hanlon.” He pulled a weathered black leather fold from his breast pocket, flipped it open, and nodded at his sidekick. “This is Detective Steve Spiro.”

  Dunne didn’t bother eyeballing the shields. “What can I do for you?”

  Hanlon repocketed the fold. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Last night.”

  “What about it?”

  Hanlon smiled a detective’s smile, sly, mechanical, mildly threatening. “Suppose we go someplace more private for a quiet chat?”

  “I’d ask you up to my place, but my wife’s been away. It’s a mess. Let’s go outside.” He stepped around Hanlon and pushed open the door.

  “Wait for me here, Steve.” Hanlon turned his back on his partner and followed Dunne out the door. They stood under the canopy that led to the curb. A mild autumn breeze cooled the morning air.

  Dunne took out a cigarette and offered one to Hanlon.

  “Thanks.” Hanlon parked it between his lips. He patted his pockets in search of matches. “This isn’t exactly private.”

  “Private enough.” Dunne struck a match. “I don’t see any eavesdroppers.” He raised it in the cup of his two hands so Hanlon didn’t have to lean down. “How’d you know who I am?”

  “Instinct. Cop’s gut. And your picture’s on file. You’ve managed to compile a fair-size sheet, which brings me to last night …”

  “Save your breath. I’ll give you a full confession: I had dinner with a woman who’s not my wife, and I had too much champagne. Which am I being charged with?”

  “You’re not being charged with anything. Not yet.” Hands in his pockets, Hanlon worked the cigarette to the corner of his mouth and puffed. “You remember a cop named Bill Hanlon?”

  “Chief of Homicide?

  “Yeah.”

  “Decent guy,” Dunne said. “Good cop. We helped each other out a few times.”

  “He died three years ago. Lung cancer. Only been retired six months.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  Hanlon nodded. “He was my old man. I remember hearing a few stories about you from him. He didn’t respect many people. He respected you.”

  “It was mutual. But what’s this got to do with last night?”

  “This morning I got summoned to Headquarters by Deputy Inspector Moriarty. He’s young and full of himself the way all the ones with college degrees are. He says there was an ‘incident’ last night at a swank midtown eatery. Didn’t go into a lot of details. Some high-ranking official from D.C. got a drink thrown in his face.”

  “Poured on his head.”

  “Whichever.” Hanlon kept puffing on the cigarette. The arc of dead ash at its tip curved toward the sidewalk. “Point is, this guy has a top-level position that’s all hush-hush, and he calls the commissioner complaining he’s being harassed by some crank—an ex-cop with a grudge—and while he appreciates the commish keeping the incident out of the papers, what he needs now is, quote, ‘for it to be taken care of at the local level.’”

  The ash broke away and spilled on Hanlon’s lapel. He brushed it off. “Moriarty is one of these out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new, everything-by-the-book types until the new runs dry and the book don’t serve his purposes. He tells me the situation and says the commish wants it handled ‘discreetly.’

  “‘You know what to do when a fly keeps bothering you?’ he says to me. ‘You give it a good swat, enough of a warning to send it on its way.’” Hanlon flicked the reminder of the cigarette into the gutter.

  “So you’re here to swat me?”

  “If I was, you’d already be swatted. I got better things to do than serve as messenger boy for Joe College and the federales. I’m here to discover you’re nowhere to be found. The super says you left this morning with a suitcase. You told him you were headed out of town and didn’t plan on returning. You didn’t mention any destination.”

  “What if I decide to stick around?”

  Hanlon held up one finger and signaled to his partner inside the lobby he needed a minute more. “I think you’re smarter than that, but if you’re not, then Moriarty will find out soon enough, I’ll look like a liar, and some other dick, whose father didn’t know you, will come up and see you get swatted.”

  “What about your partner?”

  “Spiro? He feels the same way about Moriarty as me.” Hanlon waved, and Spiro exited the lobby. As they started toward the corner, Hanlon turned. “Lots of people head to Florida this time of year.”

  “Sounds like good advice.”

  “It is. Take it.”

  Part VIII

  Only Then Can the Dead Rest in Peace

  File 6704-A: Document Declassified and Released by Central Intelligence Agency, Sources/Methods Exemption 3B2B, Nazi War Crimes Disclosure Act, Date: 12/06/2000

  ***CLASSIFIED: SECRET. Folder 6704-A: DR. KARSTEN HEINZ IS HEREBY SEVERED FROM U.S. v. DR. KARL BRANDT et al. Custody is transferred to Central Intelligence Group, Division Headquarters, Berlin. Information herein not to be shared with unauthorized persons. 2/4/46.

  Military Tribunal, Case No. 1, United States v. Dr. Karl Brandt et al., Folder 6704-A: Document No. 2, Précis of Witness Statement (12/14/45): Dr. László Niskolczi, Supplementary Documents, pp. 105–210.

  [p. 105] Witness’s oath: I, the undersigned, Dr. László Niskolczi (LN), swear to God almighty and omniscient that this is a true accounting of events to which I was witness and that nothing has been added or withheld. (29 December 1945)

  EXCERPT:

  [pp. 311–315] “It is several days before the partisans find us.” Those alive suffer from the “gamut of afflictions visited on inmates: typhus, dysentery, malnutrition, pneumonia, dementia, etc.” They are transported to a Soviet field hospital and receive full medical attention. LN: “Bereft of my family and lost to my former homeland, I am barely able to walk when the Russians greet us. But driven by the desire to put on the record what I saw and endured, I have survived. All those who have participated in these crimes, perpetrators and collaborators alike, from the highest echelons to the lowest functionaries, must be judged. Only then can the dead rest in peace.”

  December 1958

  PLAYA DE ORO, FLORIDA

  DUNNE KNEW BARTLETT WOULD FIND HIS FLYSWATTER ONE WAY OR another. To stick around any longer wouldn’t serve much purpose. The chances of getting anywhere near him another time were close to zero. But the point had been made. There were pests out there—tiny in number, crackpots for sure, but they were there—who didn’t accept the official version of Louis Pohl’s death.

  Maybe when Bartlett woke up in the middle of the night with indigestion and went into the bathroom for a bicarbonate of soda, maybe he’d wonder if he’d tied up the Hemmer/Heinz business as tightly as he could, maybe it was time to move him again …

  Maybe.

  Immediately after the visit from Detective Hanlon, Dunne sent a telegram to Schwimmer in Europe providing the address in Florida to which all future correspondence should be addressed. He
telegrammed Roberta. Her cruise ship was due back in San Diego the following day. He told her to go directly to their home in Florida. He’d left his job at ISC. Their belongings in New York were being packed and shipped.

  Two days later, he spoke with her on the phone, did his best to keep it short.

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll explain when I get home.”

  “Did you leave on good terms?”

  “Good enough.”

  “We can rent a place in New York for ourselves, and if you want to keep busy, you can always go out on your own. For now, you can sit back and take it easy.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  He stayed a couple of nights at the Hotel Pennsylvania under a phony name. He wrote to Bassante. He let him know he was going back to Florida and the PO Box to which all correspondence should be sent. He included Schwimmer’s address and the fact he was looking for help in continuing the search for Heinz—help for which he’d be willing to pay.

  A letter postmarked Bonn arrived in Florida soon after Dunne had settled in. It was from Schwimmer. Bassante had contacted him. Perhaps he could be useful. More important, Schwimmer was in touch with a German prosecutor who’d recently been appointed to office. A Social Democrat who spent the war in exile in Sweden, he made known his dissatisfaction with the studied inaction of his colleagues in identifying and indicting war criminals: “He believes it’s time the Federal Republic make clear that, far from being a closed book, the investigation of Nazi war crimes is a story still to be written.”

  Schwimmer gave the prosecutor a copy of the Heinz dossier that he’d received from Dunne. He delivered another to an official with the Israeli Reparations Mission in West Germany. As well as passing it to Tel Aviv, the official asked the same question as the prosecutor: Where was Hemmer/Heinz now?