An Eye for Murder

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Iverson?” I cut in. “As in Marian Iverson, the candidate?”

  “Her father.”

  “That’s a coincidence.”

  “They needed women. They trained her to be a riveter.” He smiled at some private memory. “She loved it. I remember picking her up at the plant one day. There was some kind of war rally going on. Iverson himself led a procession of workers through the plant. They were all holding flags, blowing horns, singing songs. I’ll never forget it; the man looked like a king with his entourage. Everyone treated him like one, too. When he passed us, Lisle waved her flag and curtsied.

  “I was shipped off to California soon after that.” He shifted. “Her letters stopped after a few months. I figured she was just insecure about writing in English. But when she didn’t return my calls, I knew something was wrong. I finally finagled a pass, borrowed a car, and drove straight through to Chicago. Got to Mrs. T’s at two in the morning. Joe, the head waiter, was closing up.

  “‘Jake, what are you doing here?’ he said. ‘Is she up there?’

  I asked. ‘Don’t go up there,’ I remember he said.”

  “‘What are you, dizzy?’ I didn’t listen. I still had her key, you see. Wore it around my neck with my dogtags.”

  I closed my eyes. I knew what was coming.

  “Lisle was in bed with another man.” He looked over. “You know, the thing is…the thing I’ll always remember… when she finally realized who had unlocked her door, there was no guilt. No shame. She didn’t even flinch. All she said was, ‘Hello, Jake.’ In that light, breathy voice.”

  I watched the dust motes swirl in the air.

  “His name was Kurt Weiss,” Dad went on. “He was a German refugee, like she was. From Frankfurt. The SS shot his family, but he escaped. Somehow he made it over here and got a job as a delivery boy.” Dad paused. “He and Lisle fell for each other like a ton of bricks. I suppose it wasn’t surprising. They shared a language, a history, and a suffering too horrible for words. How could I compete?”

  I pushed my coffee cup away, my heart breaking for my father.

  “I got a letter from her a few months later. It was full of apologies. She knew she had caused me pain, and she prayed I would forgive her. I was the only one she could turn to. Kurt, it seemed, had been drafted.”

  “But he was an immigrant. How could that happen?”

  “The government did what it had to back then. Remember, he spoke perfect German, and he knew the lay of the land. He was recruited into a clandestine operation, she said.”

  I took a sip of coffee. It was cold. “What clandestine operation?”

  “The OSS.”

  The Organization of Secret Services. Forerunner of the CIA. Formed during the war.

  “Apparently, Lisle hadn’t heard from him in months, and she was afraid he’d been sent back to Europe. Behind enemy lines. She was frantic. She wanted me to do something, anything.” He got up and started to pace. “Of course there was nothing I could do.”

  “What happened?”

  He stopped pacing. “Kurt survived. He came back. What he did during the war I don’t know. He never said.”

  “You actually talked to him?”

  He slipped back into his chair. “Naturally, he wouldn’t speak to me until he knew I wasn’t a threat. But I was a gentleman about the whole thing, and eventually, we did share a few beers. He turned out to be a pleasant guy.” He folded his hands together. “Lisle stayed on at the steel mill. At one point, Kurt talked to someone down there too, and I thought he might start working there, but nothing ever came of it.

  “A few weeks after Kurt got back, Barney and I—he was home by then—went to a concert in Douglas Park with them. The Blue Notes, I remember.” He sat back in his chair. “It was still hot, and we were lounging on a blanket when I heard a couple of pops. I thought the drummer was starting his own riff until Lisle screamed. When I twisted around, Kurt was slumped over, blood pouring out of him. He died a minute later.”

  I gasped.

  “The police got there quickly, but in the dark and confusion, the killer got away. Lisle was hysterical; Barney and I took her home as soon as we could.” He fell silent. Then, “It was a small funeral. Aside from Lisle, Barney, and me, the only other mourners were two of Lisle’s friends from the mill and the detective working the case.” He stirred his coffee with a spoon. “The case was never solved.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. But I do remember thinking the cops weren’t working too hard on it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Some things you don’t ask; you might not like the answers.” He gathered up both coffee cups. “A week or so later, Lisle paid me one last visit.”

  “What did she want this time?”

  “She was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?”

  He nodded. “She wanted to know what she should do. I got the feeling she wanted me to fix it for her. Marry her, find a doctor to take care of it, whatever I thought.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged. “Gnugch ist gnugch. I told her I couldn’t help her. I went east to law school. A couple of weeks later, she left Chicago.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The apartment was silent except for the whoosh of cold air streaming through the vents. Dad took the coffee cups into the kitchen.

  I followed with the plates. “So you have no idea why Kurt was killed?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did it have something to do with the OSS?”

  “Who knows? I don’t even know if that’s who he was working for.” He bent over the dishwasher. Kurt had— potentially—worked for the OSS; Skull had a library book about the OSS. Years later, Skull was E-mailing the CIA. “Did Skull and Kurt know each other?”

  Dad shook his head. “Skull was long gone by the time

  Kurt arrived.”

  “But he had to know Lisle.” We walked back into the living room.

  “I don’t know about that, either. Skull disappeared in

  August of thirtyeight. Lisle didn’t get here until October.”

  “Then why was he looking for her on the web site?”

  “What web site?”

  I realized I hadn’t told Dad about my research. I explained, leaving out the part about the breakin. When I finished, he stroked his chin with his hand. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time? The man was a gangster, Ellie.”

  I looked at the floor. “Not recently.”

  He bristled. “So now you’re an expert on Ben Skulnick?”

  “No. I just meant…he seemed to have some …” My voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure what I meant. I picked up the snapshot from the table. Dad and Barney looked young and confident, convinced they would come home wearing the laurels of victory. Barney almost didn’t; he was seriously wounded on Omaha Beach. “Did he know about you and Lisle?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Skull.”

  “If he did, it was only through hearsay.” Always the lawyer. “Hearsay?”

  “Well, I did see him once or twice after the war. Before they arrested him. I might have mentioned her name. But it would have only been in passing.”

  A flimsy connection at best. But it was all I had. “I think that’s why he had my name.”

  Dad turned a puzzled face to me.

  “I think that when Skull watched Celebrate Chicago and saw my name on the credits, he connected me to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Foreman. The name. He saw the name Foreman and figured we might be related.”

  “But that’s crazy. There’s gotta be hundreds of Foremans.”

  “Think about it. There was a segment about Lawndale on the show. You were there. So was he. So was Lisle. Suppose the show triggered all those memories in him and when he saw my name, he wondered if you and I were related. Maybe he figured he could contact me and, through me, track you down. And find out what happened to Lisle.”

/>   Dad sighed. “I guess anything’s possible. But why? What motive would he have? There’s nothing to indicate that he knew her.”

  I flipped up my palms. “I’m out of ideas. How about you?”

  A stern look came into his eyes. “One. I don’t want you getting too curious about Ben Skulnick, Ellie. He’s nothing but trouble.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “He should rest in peace.”

  The late-day sun washed everything with a rosy warmth, but I shivered as I pulled into the driveway. Inside the house a quick inspection assured me that everything was in its place, including the bagel I’d left in the toaster. Even so, I made sure the doors were doublelocked before heading upstairs.

  In my office I picked up the print-out of DGL’s message.

  Now that I knew who Lisle was, I was even more curious. Why was Skull looking for my father’s girlfriend? According to Dad, they’d never met. The only connection between them, in fact, and that was tenuous at best, seemed to be through my father. Nevertheless, Skull was clearly trying to find this woman. And DGL, whoever he or she was, knew something about her.

  Long dusky shadows crept across the lawn. I’d begun looking into Skull’s background hoping it would help me figure out who had broken into my house. Now that I knew about Dad’s relationship with Lisle Gottlieb, it seemed I had more of a stake. I studied the message again. If DGL had a piece of the puzzle, I wanted to know what it was.

  Dear Sir or Madam: I found your reply to BenS’s post to the family roots site in his E-mail. I’m sorry to tell you that BenS passed away on April 12. Because your message to him was dated April 13, I am sure he never had the chance to read it. However, it turns out that my father knew Lisle Gottlieb as well, independently of Mr. Skulnick…

  I backspaced and deleted “Skulnick.” Skull hadn’t revealed his identity to DGL. I wouldn’t, either.

  …independently of BenS, and we would very much appreciate any information you could provide about her.

  Okay. I was taking editorial license with the “we.” But everything else in my note was true. I leaned back, trying to imagine how DGL would react to my message.

  It sounded weak. DGL might decide I was a nutcase and trash the note without replying. But I couldn’t explain my reasons for pursuing Lisle Gottlieb in an E-mail. Wild stories about a breakin and stolen cartons would scare anybody off. I needed to establish credibility. But that would mean giving up some privacy. I chewed my lip, curious about Lisle Gottlieb, but reluctant to make myself more vulnerable. Curiosity won out.

  I’m sure you have questions. I would be willing to answer them by phone. I look forward to hearing from you. 847-555-9876. Ellie Foreman

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I got home from the Midwest Mutual shoot a few days later, my answering machine was flashing. The first message was from Roger Wolinsky, Marian Iverson’s campaign director. He left both his work and home number. The second message was from Barry, asking me to call him ASAP. I called Barry first.

  “It’s me. What’s up?”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “Ellie, I don’t know how to say this…”

  I mentally reviewed where my family was supposed to be. Rachel was at school; Dad was probably playing cards at his place. If something was wrong, they would have called my cell. If they could. My stomach twisted. “What happened?”

  “I…I just lost a lot of money. The high-tech incubator I was telling you about…it tanked. The stock’s in the toilet.” I sagged against the counter. It was only money. Still. It was money. I picked up a butcher knife. “How much, Barry?”

  “It’s this economy, you know? There’s no way we could have known—”

  “How much Barry?”

  “Half a million. They want a chunk of it now.”

  I concentrated on my breathing and studied my shoes. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I fucked up.”

  I concentrated hard on my breathing and studied my shoes.

  “But I don’t think you’ll be involved.”

  I angled the knife above the cutting board. “What do you mean, you don’t think I’ll be involved?”

  Barry didn’t say anything.

  “Except for child support, which I gather I’ll never see again, I’m not involved.” Silence.

  “Right?” More silence.

  “Barry, what are trying to tell me?”

  I heard a long exhalation. “The account I was trading on was a joint account. It has your name on it.”

  “What are you, a comedian?”

  “It’s true.”

  “That’s impossible. We closed the account when we settled.

  I got money. You got money. The end.”

  “They never closed it. Some kind of administrative snafu. When Arnie retired, instead of being closed, the account somehow went dormant. I tried to open a new one when I started to invest again, but they said I already had an account open. I meant to do the paperwork and get it straightened out, but I just never got around to it, and then—”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that technically, I’m liable for half a million dollars of your stock loss?”

  “It’s not going to happen, Ellie. I’ll fix it.”

  A car crawled down the street, its movement distorted like a slow-motion film. The sun glinted off the chrome bumper, shooting out sparks of light. The engine chuffed noisily. Insects droned.

  “Look, I know you’re upset, but I’ll call Gene. He’ll get it all worked out.” Gene Sherwood was his lawyer. The lawyer’s lawyer. “Just hold on for a day or two, okay Ellie? Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I stabbed the knife into the cutting board. He’d just lost half a million dollars, made me a party to his debt, and was telling me not to do anything stupid. The stupidest thing I could do was stay on the phone.

  My lawyer, Pam Huddleston, said not to worry. It had to be a clerical mistake. I wouldn’t be held responsible; we had the paperwork to prove it. It was an aggravation, nothing more. Maybe for her. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with money. I’ve yet to feel the love.

  “Will this go on my credit rating?” I stared through the window. The car was gone. “I don’t know.”

  “What if I have to get a loan to tide me over?”

  “Calm down, Ellie,” she said. “It’s not going to go that far. Let me see what’s happening and call you back. In the meantime, here’s what to do.” I jotted down notes as she told me to round up the title to the house and make sure it was in my name, and to locate the rest of the divorce records. She also suggested this might be a good time to start organizing my money. She could refer me to a great financial planner. Great. All I needed was enough net worth to manage.

  My next call was to Roger Wolinksy. We set up a meeting for Thursday.

  Chapter Nineteen

  River North, just north and west of the Loop, is artsy without being bohemian, commercial without being crass. Marian Iverson’s headquarters were squeezed into the third floor of a loft building at Franklin and Superior, above a graphic designer on the first floor and a furniture outlet on the second. An Italian restaurant was next door.

  Inside, an enormous redwood desk with a mottled marble counter obscured the person behind it. I stretched up on my toes before spotting a young, blond woman with a pair of headphones and a tiny mike clamped to her head.

  “May I help you?” she chirped, looking up from the latest edition of Cosmopolitan.

  “Ellie Foreman to see Roger Wolinksy.”

  “Have a seat.”

  I sat down on a small, hard couch, the receptionist invisible again but her voice surprisingly clear as she repeated my name. The walls above her were bare except for a clock, and the odor of fresh paint was strong. Craning my neck, I peeked around the corner.

  The office was essentially one huge room dominated by high ceilings. Two floor-to-ceiling windows with a fleur-delis pattern on the glass overlooked Superior. The glass looked new. In the midd
le of the room, eight desks, each with banks of telephones, were pushed together.

  Three women and two men, all of them young, and all with the same headphones as the receptionist, huddled at the desks. Several murmured into their mikes. One of the women looked Hispanic. At the far end of room was a large conference table with a Starbucks machine on one end and an empty doughnut box beside it. Rimming the central area were a few private offices. Someone had made an effort to cheer up the place. Plants on laminated pedestals were scattered here and there.

  Roger Wolinsky rounded the corner. I stood up. “Ellie.”

  He was wearing a dark green polo shirt and jeans, and the dark hair on his arms gave him a swarthy but not unattractive appearance. He smiled when he realized I was studying him and did the same to me. I was in a long flowery skirt with a white T-shirt and sandals. My hair was gathered at the back of my neck with a butterfly clip.

  As we shook hands, my eyes drifted to the people at the desks. Their voices were barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning. The restraint and sense of order was disquieting.

  “I thought campaigns were supposed to be crazy. Chaotic,” I said. “People screaming, running around, gnashing their teeth over the latest polls.”

  He laughed. “It’ll pick up. We’ll be adding staff over the summer. But it’s amazing what we’ve already accomplished with E-mail and the net. And don’t forget, this is only one office. We have people all over the state.”

  “What are they doing?” I pointed to the people at the desks.

  “The pit bulls?” He gestured. “That’s our pit.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re doing advance work. Coordinating with the field. Planning where we’re gonna be on the Fourth of July.”

  “But it’s not even Memorial Day.”

  “That’s been set in stone for months. We’re working on the Fourth now.” He caught me by the elbow and walked me back to the conference table. “We can do three, maybe four events downstate if we charter a fly-around.”