An Eye for Murder

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  A hot hazy day, it was two-thirty by the time I found a parking space. As I hurried past Water Tower to The RitzCarlton, perspiration beaded my forehead. A blast of icy air hit me as I pushed through the door. Downtown Chicago is rife with luxury hotels, but the Ritz was one of the first and has managed to maintain its cachet. I rode the elevator to the twelfth-floor lobby and padded across a Persian carpet. The house phone was in a semiprivate booth near a large oil painting with a gilt frame. I sat down—slowly—on a white satin bench and picked up the receiver. He answered on the second ring.

  “It’s Ellie Foreman. Sorry I’m late.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Getting up, I tugged at my shirt and strolled past a whispering fountain to a large dining room with an intricately designed marble floor. Potted palms peeked around trellises, and a live tree framed a picture-window view of the street. Though lunch was technically over, a bus boy hefted a tray of silver-domed dishes to a station where a waiter stood at attention. The waiter presented the dishes to a blond couple and their three towheaded children, all of them in crisp summer whites. Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan and their kids, if things had worked out differently. I wondered if David Linden had brought his wife and kids along. I pictured a sweet, demure wife. Cute, wellbehaved kids.

  The waiter set one of the domed plates in front of the little girl, but she elbowed him away, preferring to walk her Barbie along the edge of the table. Her mother leaned over and whispered to her, but the little girl sulked and shook her head. The mother repeated her request. The little girl issued a loud, whiny “No.”

  Then one of the boys threw a buttered roll at his sister, which hit her in her chest. The girl’s scream was so shrill that everyone in the dining room momentarily froze, like in those old E. F. Hutton commercials. When it became clear that the little girl wasn’t hurt, movement cranked up again. The father scolded his son, the mother berated the father, and the little girl, fingering the grease spot left by the butter, burst into tears.

  On second thought, I decided, if David Linden could afford to stay at the Ritz, maybe his children weren’t so wellbehaved. Maybe they were as spoiled as these brats. One of them might even be a future ax murderer. It was a comforting thought.

  “Ellie?”

  I spun around. In front of me was a man in a white polo shirt, navy slacks, and cordovan loafers. His broad shoulders and sculpted biceps said he worked out regularly. He had large cornflower eyes framed with tiny lines and a thin, aristocratic nose that gave him a slightly haughty expression. He had to be over fifty, but he looked much younger, partly because of the pair of Revo sunglasses pushed up on his crown, and partly because of a thick shock of prematurely white hair.

  Canned Muzak spilled from speakers, cutlery clinked on china, but I couldn’t speak. Except for his coloring, and something around the mouth, the man in front of me was Paul Iverson’s double.

  His face, open and eager an instant ago, grew suddenly wary. “You are Ellie Foreman, aren’t you?”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. Then I pulled one out and extended it. “I’m sorry. You…you took me by surprise.” A question crept across his face, but he apparently chose not to ask it. His handshake was firm; the feel of it resonated on mine.

  “Shall we go in?” He motioned to the dining room. “If you like.”

  He strode to the dining room. I trotted behind, my brain racing to complete its circuits. Lisle was his mother. Kurt was his father. So why did he look exactly like Paul Iverson?

  When he reached the three marble steps that separated the dining room from the lobby, he turned as if he’d just remembered I was there. As he ushered me down the steps, his hand lightly brushed my back. It felt good.

  The maitre d’ seated us at a small table away from the Gatsbys, who were now bickering like any other dysfunctional family.

  “Have you eaten?” He opened a red leather menu embossed with gold letters. “I…well, no, but I—”

  He looked at me speculatively. “Well, I’m going to order a sandwich.”

  He closed the menu, and a waiter promptly appeared. There must be a secret signal that sophisticated diners use to get a waiter’s attention. I wish I knew it. David ordered chicken salad on toast and iced tea. I asked for a glass of wine. The waiter sniffed.

  David unfolded his napkin and put it in his lap. I played with my knife, noticing the smooth blond hair on his forearms and how it grew in one direction. “You have your mother’s coloring.”

  He looked puzzled. “You know what she looked like?”

  “My father has an old snapshot of her with him and Barney Teitelman.”

  “Oh.”

  The drinks came. I took a sip of wine. “Is he meeting us here?”

  “Who?”

  “Your father.”

  I winced. There was a slight problem with that. It hadn’t gone so well when I told him about David.

  “Are you meshuga?” he’d exclaimed. “You gave your number to a total stranger?”

  “He isn’t a total stranger,” I said. “He’s Lisle Gottlieb’s son.”

  “That’s what he says,” Dad said and launched into an extended diatribe about my naïveté and propensity to accept people at face value. This man could be anyone, posing as Lisle’s son. What did I know about him? How could I have given him my number and then, God forbid, agreed to meet him? Even the fact that David was staying at The Ritz didn’t mollify him. “Let me tell you something, Ellie. If I was looking to sucker you out of something, would I stay at some fleabag hotel? Of course, he’d be at The Ritz. You’ve got a lot to learn about human nature, sweetheart.”

  I let him rant, hoping he just needed time to get used to the idea, but he never called me back.

  “Umm, Dad couldn’t make it today,” I said to David. “His—his arthritis is acting up. You know.”

  “Oh.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. It’s all right.” His nostrils flared, accentuating the air of haughtiness.

  “So, you trade currency?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see.” I looked at him. “Have you always lived in Philadelphia?”

  “Except when I travel.”

  “Which is often, I gather.”

  “Yes.”

  I picked up a spoon. “Where do you travel? When you travel, I mean?”

  “Europe, mostly. Sometimes Tokyo.”

  “Have you been to Germany?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where your parents came from.”

  “Yes.”

  This was getting painful. I’ve never been very good at cocktail chatter. And I was desperately trying not to think how much he looked like Paul Iverson. Which was about as successful as trying not to think about a pink elephant.

  The waiter brought his sandwich. David took neat, meticulous bites. Then he set the sandwich down on his plate and folded his hands in front of him. “What about you? What do you do?”

  Finally. A question. He must have been embarrassed by the pathetic quality of our conversation. “I produce videos.”

  “Really?” An unexpectedly sweet smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’ve always wanted to direct a film.”

  Film. Not movie. He looked like he could afford a digital camera and all the gear. Even the editing software now on the market. “Why don’t you? Everyone else does.”

  He shrugged.

  “You can always experiment on your family.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to do home movies,” he said. “And I don’t have a family.”

  No wife. No kids. No ax murderer.

  “I don’t do features,” I said. “I make industrials. For corporate clients.”

  “But you know how.”

  Again a smile. Sunny. Open. Like the smile I’d seen on Dad’s picture of Lisle. A twinge of pleasure shot through me. “Yes. I haven’t always done corporate gigs. And one of these days…well…who knows?”

 
; “The best memories I have of my childhood were at the movies. I worked in a theater during high school.”

  “No way. An usher?”

  He nodded.

  I closed one eye, trying to imagine him as a pimply redjacketed geek. “Okay, what’s your favorite film?”

  He raised his palm. “Oh no. I’m not that dumb.” I grinned. “Top five then.”

  “Still tough.” He looked past me, his sandwich forgotten.

  “Let’s see.” He held up his hand. “There’s High Noon. The Godfather.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Citizen Kane. The Seven Samurai…and…The Battle of Algiers.” He spread his fingers, looking proud of himself.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

  He picked up the last bite of sandwich and put it in his mouth.

  “I’ll give you three for five.”

  He stopped chewing, and his smiled faded. “What did I miss?”

  “Casablanca. Double Indemnity. Some Like It Hot. Maybe

  L.A. Confidential.”

  “Pretty Hollywood, aren’t you?”

  “Long live the studio system.”

  He leaned back and squinted. “You’re not the type.”

  “Perceptive, too.” I grinned. “I used to make documentaries. You know, getting back to our…I mean your family…I have a question. If you don’t mind.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I told you about Skull—Mr. Skulnick—on the phone—”

  “And I told you I didn’t know him.”

  “I realize that. I was just thinking. I saw a snapshot of Skull, which was taken around the time of World War Two. He was standing next to a woman. She had dark hair, and there was a baby in her arms. I assumed the woman and the baby were his family. The picture was taken someplace in Europe.”

  He sipped his tea. “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have it? The picture?”

  “No. Unfortunately, it—no.” I toyed with my spoon. “But they were standing on a bridge. A cobblestone bridge. And there was a castle in the background.”

  “That could be almost anywhere.”

  The Gatsbys passed our table, the children skipping carelessly, their parents arm-in-arm. All was forgiven.

  “Maybe I’ve been looking at this backwards.” He looked over.

  “What if the connection to your mother was the woman in the picture, not Skull?”

  “You mean the woman and my mother knew each other?”

  “Exactly.” I brightened. “Maybe they were close friends. And Skull knew it. Maybe he figured your mother could help him track her down. Did she ever talk about her friends in Europe?”

  He shook his head. “She rarely talked about her life before the States. That’s one of the reasons it’s been so hard to find out anything about her. It’s as if she built a wall between her life before and after the war.”

  I drew little circles on the tablecloth with the spoon. “I guess I’m grasping at straws.” I sighed.

  “My father was sent back to Germany during the war. But you already know that. He died over there, too, but I couldn’t really say—”

  I stopped drawing. “What did you say?”

  “I said, my father was sent—”

  “No. The other part.”

  “That he died over there, but that I—”

  I laid the spoon down. “Kurt Weiss didn’t die in Germany.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “No. Kurt Weiss died here. In Lawndale. At a concert in

  Douglas Park.”

  He tipped his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “My father was there when it happened.”

  “That’s impossible. My mother said he worked for the

  OSS. That he came home at the end of the war, but then, because so many Nazis were trying to escape to North and South America, they sent him back for one last mission.”

  “One last mission?”

  “He was supposed to tail a high-ranking Nazi and keep him from slipping across the border. But it all went wrong. Someone double-crossed him, and my father was killed.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not right.”

  He shifted. “Maybe you’d better tell me what you know.” I summarized what Dad had told me. When I finished, he sat very still. I was beginning to think he didn’t believe me. “I don’t get it,” he said, blinking rapidly. His voice was barely above a whisper. “If that’s true, why did my mother lie to me?”

  I didn’t have an answer.

  Chapter Twentyfive

  I Construction Site Exterior Day Fade up from black to a sunbeam dancing on a steel girder. (May need special FX to make sunbeam dance) Pull back to reveal a crane hoisting the steel girder into the air. Widen out as we see the girder float through the air to the skeletal scaffolding of a modern construction site. As the girder settles on the landing and men in hard hats rush to unhook it, bring up NARRATION.

  NARRATOR

  Dependable. Durable. Tough. Steel built this country, creating a tradition of strength. And though its form and structure have evolved, the tradition still endures.

  Cut to stock footage of steel mill; smoke stacks, iron forge, etc. circa 1930s.

  Tradition.

  NARRATOR (cont.)

  Dissolve or morph to modern scene of steel girder.

  NARRATOR (cont.)

  And progress. The makings of a legacy. The makings of a leader.

  Bring MUSIC UNDER (quiet but authoritative). Dissolve to scene of Marian Iverson shaking hands with crowd at campaign event. FADE OUT MUSIC, BRING UP Marian SOT.

  It needed polishing, but I liked it. The legacy part would appeal to older, male Republicans. But we would also make it clear Marian had exceeded the past and was poised to lead in the future. That would appeal to younger voters and, we could hope, the new constituencies she wanted to reach.

  The squeak of a truck in need of a brake job broke my concentration, and I watched as the familiar brown truck stopped in front of the house. UPS doesn’t come to my door much except around the holidays, and usually later in the day. The energetic driver—they’re all impossibly young, virile, and fit—jumped out of his seat, rummaged in the back of the truck, and deposited a package at the front door. Then he rang the bell, skipped back to his vehicle, and pulled away, all in less than a minute. I was exhausted.

  The return label said Fox Movietone News Library. I tore open the cardboard packaging. Inside was a video cassette labeled March, 1942. Slug: Rosie the Riveter. I headed toward the VCR, anticipating the thrill of witnessing history as it actually happened, with none of the shadings or interpretations of time. But as I flipped on the power, the green luminescent numbers of the clock flashed one-thirty. Damn. I was late for Marian’s interview. I threw the cassette into my bag.

  The set was a two-walled office, minus the desk. On one wall a fake window covered by curtains cleverly concealed fill lights. Tall, leafy plants were carefully arranged in front, their shadows subtle and flattering. Against the other wall was an oxblood leather sofa, the kind you’d find in a corporate executive’s office. But the focal point of the set was an abstract painting done in pastels hanging above the couch. It formed the perfect background, particularly in a close-up. Marian would stand out: the polished, elegant challenger, with just a touch of femininity. I’d asked her to wear a navy jacket. The pastel palette, combined with the oxblood sofa and her suit, would balance the shot. Tradition but progress.

  When I arrived, Marian was in the dressing room, a plastic sheet draped over her, having makeup applied. Roger was pacing the studio, his cell glued to his ear. The three-man crew was tweaking lights and equipment, all of them on headphones that linked them to Mac in the control room.

  I sat down on a chair opposite the couch. Although I wouldn’t be on camera, one of the crew pinned a mike on me. “Mike check,” he said.

  I cleared my throat. “Hi Mommy, Hi Daddy. I’d like a pony, an ice cream machine, a clown, and—an amusement park i
n my basement.”

  “That’ll do,” he said.

  “Funny, that’s what they said, too.”

  He started to smirk, but then looked behind me.

  I twisted around. Marian was headed toward the set, elegant and sophisticated in a navy Chanel suit. Her makeup sparkled and her hair, in a chin-length bob, was perfectly coiffed. A flurry of activity ensued as the crew seated her, pinned a lapel mike onto her jacket, checked her voice level, and tinkered with the lights one more time.

  Finally we rolled tape. I’d E-mailed the list of questions to Roger over the weekend, and Marian was clearly prepared. Her responses were articulate, but she managed to pause for just a fraction of a beat before she answered, so she didn’t sound rehearsed. Occasionally, after delivering a key message she transitioned to a brief anecdote. She was witty, too, beginning a discussion of the gender issue with, “When God created human beings, she—” then pausing with the timing of George Burns.

  When the interview was over, a crew member removed her microphone. “How did I do?” she asked.

  “You were perfect,” I said. “Witty, articulate, the right balance of professionalism and warmth. It’s going to be a tough editing job.”

  She rose from the couch with a satisfied smile.

  Roger appeared at her elbow, and they started across the set. “So what happens from here?” he asked.

  “I’ll have a finished script to you in a day or two,” I said. “With a paper edit of what’s already in the can. We can work from that. Oh, by the way, that stock footage I mentioned last week came in. You remember, the Rosie the Riveter footage?” Marian stopped, Roger nearly bumping her. “Is that the film that you thought might have been taken at the mill?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I haven’t screened it yet.”

  “Be sure to let me know.”

  “As a matter of fact, I brought it along.”

  “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to see it?”