An Eye for Murder

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Chapter Forty-four

  Other than whatever was under the bandage that now replaced the dressing, my father had made a remarkable recovery. His eyes were clear, his voice strong, his color good. He put on his reading glasses and looked at the report. I sat on his couch, watching the play of light from a streetlight seep through the blinds. When he looked up, the half-frames of his glasses slipped down his nose.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “David faxed it to me.”

  “You know who Mengele was?” I nodded.

  His lips curled in disgust. “Thousands of Jews died unspeakable deaths at his hands. And not just at Auschwitz. He had associates at Birkenau and Dachau. That’s who Sigmund Rauscher is.”

  “What about Clauberg?” They were the other two names on the document.

  “He was Mengele’s assistant at Auschwitz.” Sounds thumped on the window. Fat drops of rain slapped against the glass. “They were monsters, Ellie. Torturing prisoners for days with agonizing tests and procedures. Dissecting their bodies like frogs. Freezing them in vats of icy water. Pouring chemicals in their eyes to change the color. Suffocating others in high altitude experiments. And the twins…” He swallowed hard. “The things he did to those twins—”

  “Stop.” I covered my ears with my hands. Dad waited.

  “What…what does it say?”

  “My German’s pretty rough, but it seems to be thanking people who helped support their efforts. Something about working toward the same goals. Sharing the results of their research.” He paused. “It’s looks like Iverson was bankrolling Mengele.”

  He looked up, saw my expression. “Don’t be so shocked.

  Plenty of Americans thought Hitler had a good idea. Lindbergh, Coughlin, Henr y Ford—Christ, Ellie, even Joe Kennedy.” He sniffed. “But Iverson apparently went farther than they did.” He refolded the letter, his face grim. “David found this, you say?”

  “In a clock that Kurt brought back from Prague.”

  Dad arched an eyebrow.

  “Why? What’s so significant about Prague?”

  “Prague was a gateway to Eastern Europe for the Allies. It had enormous strategic importance. Much of the intelligence from the Resistance and the underground came through Prague. Even though it was occupied. Kurt may have gotten this from an informant.”

  “Skull?”

  He eyed me. “Why? What’s happened?” I told him about David’s assistant. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I just found out.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he was weary. When he opened them, fatigue lines showed in the corners. Was he thinking that so little had changed in sixty years? That the same hates and fears still drive human behavior? That history can and does, despite our best efforts, repeat itself?

  “Who else knows you have this?” he asked quietly.

  “The wrong people.”

  There was no outburst. Or anger. “You’re not going home. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dad—”

  “No discussion. You’ll bunk here.”

  I sank down on the couch and glanced at the phone. I should call David. As if sensing my thoughts, Dad said, “He should be careful, too.”

  I nodded. “He’s dealing with a lot of issues right now.”

  He ran his finger along the edges of the document. “One of them being the fact that he’s the spitting image of Paul Iverson?”

  I stared at him. “How did you know?”

  “It isn’t hard to figure out if you know what Iverson looked like. And then, after you asked about Feld…”

  “You knew about their apartment?”

  A bittersweet smile played around his mouth. “There was no way Lisle could have afforded that place on a riveter’s salary.”

  “You never said anything.”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t my business.”

  My heart went out to him. “Well, at least that explains why Iverson killed Kurt.”

  Dad frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “He couldn’t let Kurt tell Lisle that the man she’d been living with for over a year was bankrolling Mengele, especially after he’d started helping Jews emigrate to Palestine. Lisle would have been appalled to find out he was playing both ends against the middle. Plus, if Kurt was out of the way, Iverson might have thought he could get her back. So he killed him.”

  Dad stroked his chin with his fingers. “Maybe. But why commit suicide afterward?”

  I was improvising. “Maybe Kurt told Lisle about Iverson’s activities before he was killed, and when she confronted Iverson about it, he couldn’t handle the guilt.”

  I got the feeling Dad wasn’t convinced. “What does David say?”

  “We haven’t talked it through.”

  “You need to.”

  I bit my lip. “I want to. But I can’t call from here. They could be tapping your phone, too. And my cell is out of juice.”

  He tried to cut in, but I overrode him. “There’s a pay phone at the drugstore. I’ll be back.”

  I didn’t notice the headlights at first. The storm had strengthened, but Walgreen’s was only a block from Dad’s, so I didn’t turn on the rear wiper. But as I swung into the parking lot, I realized a car was riding my tail. I slowed as I got to the parking slots at the rear of the building. The car behind me slowed too. I checked the rearview mirror, but the rain caught the glare from the headlights, and I saw nothing but droplets of sparkling water.

  I eased my foot off the brake and circled the lot. The car behind me did, too. I headed back out to Golf Road and turned west. So did the headlights. I turned left at the light.

  Gross Point Road unravels through Skokie like a strand of wool. Though it generally heads southwest, it occasionally banks and curls around commercial storefronts, small apartment buildings, and other squat structures. In some spots it’s almost four lanes; in others it narrows to two. Rain lashed the windshield, blinding me to the road, and the wind threatened to shove me out of my lane. I tried to hug the center line, but it flashed in and out of sight with the swing of the wipers, like a yellow beacon on turbulent seas.

  Checking the rearview mirror again, I saw the headlights still behind me. I stepped on the gas. All at once, the Volvo bounced against something, and I lurched forward. Fear skittered around in me. The car bounced back and skidded into the center lane. I eased into the skid and managed to gain control. I must have driven up on the curb. Shaking, I checked the speedometer. Nearly fifty.

  The windshield was steamy with condensation. I wiped my sleeve against the glass. An intersection was up ahead. But the discs of light behind me grew brighter and larger. They were closing in. I slammed my foot on the gas.

  As the intersection loomed closer, the light changed from green to yellow. A truck at the cross street was waiting for the light to change. I couldn’t brake. I blasted my horn and jerked the wheel to the right. The Volvo swerved and shuddered, veering into another skid. The truck filled the windshield. My tires screeched. I heard myself scream. Then, somehow the Volvo gained purchase and bucked forward. It lunged through the intersection, avoiding the truck by inches. I heard the angry blare of the trucker’s horn.

  I turned down a dark, deserted street. I didn’t recognize any landmarks, and there were no street signs or lights. Finally, a low, wide structure set back from the road emerged on the left. Another one appeared on the right. A dim light on one of the buildings illuminated a halo of raindrops. Warehouses or factories. I was in the industrial backwoods of Skokie, maybe Niles.

  I checked the rearview mirror. The headlights were gone.

  Taking my foot off the gas, I allowed myself to breathe. I’d lost them. Now all I had to do was figure out how to get out of here. I relaxed my grip on the wheel. The road dead-ended ahead. As I reached the end of the street, I turned left and gasped.

  A car was parked broadside, blocking my path, its headlights shining. I slammed into reverse, maneuvering back the way I’d come. The car b
locking my path turned in a smooth arc and followed me. I jerked the Volvo and turned left into a driveway. This time the Volvo, as if saying it had had enough, skidded right, hit the curb, and stopped. I gunned the engine and felt tires spinning, but nothing moved. I gunned the engine again. The car bucked but stayed where it was.

  I flung open the car door and jumped out. I was in an empty parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence. A hundred yards away was a one-story warehouse. I started to run. Rain pelted my skin like stones, splattering in my eyes, blurring my vision. A car door slammed. I looked over my shoulder. Someone was chasing me, their head bent against the rain.

  I careened across the parking lot. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the building ahead. I tried to run parallel to it, but thirty feet down it angled sharply, and a wing cut off my access. I was trapped. I ducked my head and threw my body against the wall, my hands clawing the surface, as if I could magically rappel up its side. Footsteps sloshed on the wet surface behind me. I tried to melt into the wall. A pair of hands gripped my shoulders.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Dory Sanchez spun me around. Though her clothes and hair were sopping wet, her expression was as intense as brushfire. We stood beneath an overhang at the back entrance of the factory, the dark partially offset by a halogen light affixed to the wall. Beside Dory was a man who looked familiar.

  As Dory moved in and out of the light, her face alternately pale and shadowed, I thought I saw the hint of a smile. “You move fast when you want to.”

  Panting, I leaned against the factory wall to steady myself. Every muscle in my body twitched. “You almost killed me, Dory.”

  “We had no other way to contact you.” No apology. No excuse.

  “Jesus.” I peered toward the Volvo. “I’ve got to go back to the car. The motor’s still running. It’s stuck on something.”

  “No.” She turned to the man. “Raoul, you go.” He nodded and sprinted toward the car. I recognized him then. Raoul Iglesias, head of Latinos for a Better Order. LABOR. Dory turned back and drew out a pack of Marlboros. She offered it to me.

  “I haven’t smoked in fifteen years,” I said. She held the pack out. I took one.

  She took out a match, struck it several times, threw it down in disgust. She tried another. I cupped my hands around hers. The match caught. We touched our cigarettes to the flame.

  “You never called back.” I took a drag of the Marlboro. “I couldn’t.” She inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke. “Your phone is tapped.”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes registered surprise, as if she hadn’t expected me to know. “You’ve been watched.”

  “I know.”

  Again, a flicker of surprise. “How much do you know?”

  “I’m just starting to piece things together.”

  Raoul rejoined us and handed me the keys. “Your car is fine. It was mud. It is free now.”

  I nodded my thanks and shoved the keys in my pocket.

  Dory flicked her cigarette away as if she were suddenly impatient with it. “Do you remember when your friend David came to the office?” I nodded. “And I showed you the picture of Marian’s father?”

  “Yes.” I took another drag off my cigarette.

  “David’s name was in an E-mail I came across at the office.”

  “David’s? At the office?”

  She gave me a speculative look. “It was a message written to Marian.”

  “From who?”

  “The Church of the Covenant.”

  Jeremiah Gibbs. A chill ran through me. “What did it say?”

  “The message said they were aware of developments and that they would take the necessary actions.”

  “What developments?”

  “It’s not hard to figure out.” At my puzzled glance, she went on. “Marian may be many things, but she is not stupid. It’s pretty obvious how much David resembles her father.”

  I stared at the embers of my cigarette, orange and round and speckled. The Movietone newsreel. Marian’s reaction.

  She did know about her father’s affair. Which meant she knew who Kurt was. And that her father had murdered him. I ground the cigarette out with my foot. She couldn’t allow that to get out. A scandal would threaten her campaign. So she’d turned to Gibbs.

  I had to warn David. I spun around, about to sprint to the car, but Raoul grabbed me in a hammerlock and pinned my arms.

  “Let me go,” I hissed, thrashing. “I’ve got—”

  Dory placed her hands on my shoulders. “Ellie, wait.” The weight of her hands and the need in her voice stopped me. I sagged against Raoul. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Dory studied me, then nodded to Raoul. He dropped his hold.

  “About eight months ago,” he said, “a man came to work for us at LABOR. He was one of those people who seem to appear out of nowhere, and are satisfied doing menial jobs. An errand boy. He said he was from the part of Mexico that borders Belize. Near the Mayan rainforest.” Raoul looked past me. “We soon learned that he was a mole.”

  “A mole? How?”

  “Certain activities we had been planning were suddenly… interfered with.” He waved an arm. “We were trying to rent space in Wicker Park for an office. We were close to an agreement; the next day, we found out the space had been unexpectedly rented.” He looked at me. “We were planning a surprise demonstration against a company that was harassing a Latina. Suddenly, the case was quietly disposed of. After a few more incidents we started paying more attention to our people. We discovered that our rainforest friend was a plant.”

  “How?”

  “We found a check in his apartment. The signature on the check was Iverson’s.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  Raoul went on. “We decided not to confront him. We wanted to see how far he would go.” He shifted. “But the stakes changed when Marian Iverson announced for the Senate. Especially after she voiced her friendship for Latinos. We knew there was a disconnect somewhere. We were afraid that if Marian Iverson was elected, LABOR’s problems would become far more serious than lost office space.” I looked over at Dory. “That is why Dory volunteered to go to work for her. To find out what was going on.”

  “My brother and Raoul are close friends,” she said, but the way they exchanged glances made it clear the friendship didn’t stop with the brother.

  “You’ve been spying on Marian?”

  “We must know what her role is. She is a powerful politician.”

  “What have you found?”

  “As you may know, we have called for a counterdemonstration to the Labor Day rally,” Raoul said. “The one she will be appearing at with the mayor.” I remembered the news reports. “A large crowd of Latinos will come to Daley Plaza to protest for higher wages, more promotions, more contracts for city business.” He paused. “We suspect that someone—perhaps Gibbs or his agents—will try to sabotage us at that rally. Something is planned, something that will embarrass or discredit us.”

  “A disruption that will be blamed on LABOR?”

  “Dory has found correspondence to that effect.”

  “Correspondence?”

  “More E-mails.”

  “From Gibbs?”

  “No. These have no return path.”

  I knew it was possible to cloak your identity in cyberspace. But who would do that? And for what reason? “Hold on,” I said. “Have you been hacking into Marian’s E-mail?”

  Dory shrugged.

  I burst out laughing. She smiled sheepishly.

  Raoul looked bewildered. “What is so funny?” Remembering how she’d needled me about Skull’s E-mail, I shook my head.

  A fresh wall of rain slammed across the parking lot. The light on the wall of the factory sputtered. We retreated further under the overhang.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Dory said. “The references are veiled. Maybe a spontaneous riot. Or some other type of violence.”


  “But Marian needs your votes. Why would she deliberately alienate you? That’s political suicide.”

  “LABOR is a small group of Latinos,” Raoul said. “Some say we do not represent the majority.” His eyes narrowed. “Listen. The only way she will suffer politically is if it is proven she arranged it. Orchestrated it. We don’t think that’s the case.”

  “I don’t get it. You discover the possibility of sabotage through her E-mail, but you don’t think she’s involved?”

  Dory lit another cigarette. The match threw long shadows across her face. “Someone else is orchestrating it.”

  “Gibbs.”

  “No,” Raoul said. “Gibbs is too small. It’s someone with unlimited money and resources and expertise. Someone who can plan a civil disturbance and make it appear spontaneous.” I stared at Raoul, then Dory. Suddenly, an image of Giant Park flew into my mind. “You may be right.” Raoul looked over.

  “Marian met secretly with Gibbs.” His eyes widened.

  “At Giant Park. Over the fourth of July.” I explained how I’d overheard their conversation. “He talked about some operation. She seemed to know what it was.”

  “What kind of operation?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s been moved from Minneapolis to here.”

  “Minneapolis?” Raoul said. “What else did you hear?”

  I thought back to their conversation while I was hiding behind the bar. “A construction site. He said his people had infiltrated a construction site in the Loop.”

  Moving to the edge of the overhang, Raoul slapped his fist against his palm. Then he turned around. His tone was cold. “It’s a bomb. They are planning to explode a bomb at the rally. And they will say we did it.”

  Horror swept across Dory’s face.

  “Don’t you remember? The FBI arrested terrorists in Minneapolis earlier this summer. They found a bomb. Built by a white separatist organization. With ties to Gibbs’s group.” Raoul clenched his fist. “They’re going to do the same thing here.”

  “I just remembered something else,” I cut in. “Gibbs told her that Minneapolis was sloppy. They made mistakes. He said he wouldn’t.”

  He raised his fist in the air. “That’s it.”