An Eye for Murder

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  My father cabbed up to the hospital and took me home.

  By afternoon, two FBI agents in a nondescript blue car showed up at the house. I told them what I knew and dug out the report from the window well. By evening, papers were prepared, charging Frances with multiple homicides, including those of Kurt Weiss, Paul Iverson, Ben Skulnick, Ruth Fleishman, and Dory Sanchez. Burl Greenman was arraigned for the murders of Skull and Dory. They picked up Marian in Door County.

  The Feds raided a construction site across from Daley

  Plaza, where they found fertilizer, fuses, and blasting caps. Had the ANFO bomb they were constructing exploded, they claimed, hundreds—maybe thousands of people—would have died. The Feds prepared charges of terrorism against Frances, Greenman, and Marian. Marian withdrew from the race.

  A team of local police and FBI officers searched the Iverson estate, the offices of the Church of the Covenant, and Marian’s campaign office, where they confiscated computers, files, and hard copy documents. After repeated questioning, it was decided that Roger Wolinsky didn’t know anything, and he promptly left the state. They found a cache of assault rifles, machine guns, and hand grenades in the cistern which they traced back to Eugene, an active member of Aryan Nation.

  They also found a beige metal tackle box. It had been opened, possibly with a crowbar, police said. Inside was a snapshot of Skull, a woman, and a baby on a bridge in Prague. There was also a scrap of paper with two names scrawled on it: Magda and Kasia Panchuk, and an address in the Ukraine. Two faded yellow newspaper articles were inside too: a paragraph from the Daily News about the fatal shooting of a veteran in Douglas Park, and a more extensive article about the death of Paul Iverson. Finally there was an address book belonging to someone named Peter Schultz. He turned out to be the head of the German-American Bund in Chicago during the ’30s. Frances Iverson’s name and number were in his book.

  Frances admitted everything under questioning. I wanted to believe that she was overwhelmed with remorse, but I knew her confession was precipitated by ego. Her grand plan might be in tatters, but she wanted the world to know how close she’d come.

  With her confession, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. Just after Kurt was killed, she’d had a visitor, she said. Ben Skulnick came to see her in Lake Forest. He knew Kurt Weiss, he knew about the Mengele document, and he knew she, not Paul, had killed Kurt. When she asked him how he knew, he showed her the address book with her name in it, which he’d lifted off the body of Peter Schultz after he killed him back in Lawndale. It wasn’t conclusive proof, he told her, but he vowed to spend the rest of his life searching for more.

  But Frances trumped him. Prevailing on the judge at Skull’s trial, she made sure that Skull got a life sentence and made it clear his daughter’s life would be at risk if he continued his efforts from prison. With that done, she assumed she was out of danger. Until he was released, and a friend at the CIA warned them a man named Sinclair was making inquiries about declassified Nazi documents. It didn’t take long to connect Sinclair with Skulnick, and when they did, she ordered Gibbs and his associates to eliminate him.

  When the press avalanche began, I gave Stephen Lamont an exclusive and referred all calls to him. His reporting turned into a monthlong series, and he’s been on Larry King twice. The rumor is he’s moving to New York.

  The Republicans put up another candidate, but no one expects him to win, and the Democrats are already crowing about having two senators from Illinois.

  I visited Fouad in the hospital. It was a close call, but the surgeons successfully removed fragments of a nine-millimeter bullet from his chest. A quarter inch more would have killed him. By some miracle, Raoul survived, too, despite two stomach wounds. His brother is planning to hold the protest on Labor Day in his and Dory’s honor. And the librarian from Rogers Park called to say Boo Boo had made remarkable progress and would be going home next week.

  I went to shul the next weekend and said a Misheberach for Fouad, Raoul, and, of course, Boo Boo. Then I said Kaddish for Ruth, Dory, and Janine. That evening, I said it again for Skull and Kurt.

  My bruises and wounds turned purple, then yellow, then slowly started to heal. One evening, Susan made me go for a walk. The air hummed with crickets and cicadas, and the breeze hinted at cooler nights ahead. The sun dipped below the trees, shooting glints of gold across our faces.

  “This Skull—he was a hero, wasn’t he?” Susan said.

  “Yes, he was. But there are lots of heroes in this story.” I flexed my wrists to relieve the stiffness. “Skull. Kurt. Iverson. Even Lisle.”

  “Paul Iverson? How?”

  “His only mistake was falling in love with Lisle.”

  “You thought that’s why he killed Kurt.”

  “I was wrong. He changed when he fell in love with her. He wanted to do the right thing. But he was up against powerful forces—”

  “His wife.”

  “A monster.” I shivered. “In a way he made the ultimate trade-off. His life for Kurt’s.”

  Susan raised an eyebrow. “And Lisle? How was she a hero?”

  “Lisle saw an opportunity to do something good. Avenge the Nazis, honor her family’s memory.”

  “By having an affair with Iverson?”

  “No. She took up with him because she was alone and scared. She didn’t know if Kurt was coming back. She might have assumed he was already dead. Iverson was rich and powerful. And crazy about her. I figure she made a quid pro quo with herself.” Susan looked puzzled. “If she could persuade Iverson to help Jews escape the Nazis, she’d consent to being his mistress.”

  We were passing the church.

  “Do you know the story of Esther?” Susan shook her head.

  “Esther, a Jew, married King Ahasuerus. He wasn’t Jewish, and he didn’t know Esther was. But one of the king’s advisors, an evil man named Haman, did know. Haman, being the wicked man that he was, convinced the king to kill all the Jews. But when Esther found out about the plan, she went to the king, admitted she was a Jew, and begged her husband to revoke the order. He did, and killed Haman instead. Esther saved her people from genocide.”

  “It’s a nice story.” Susan frowned. “But to what end? What did all that heroism accomplish? Were any of them better off? Most of your ‘heroes’ suffered tragic deaths. Frances Iverson is alive. There’s still hate and violence and evil in the world. What’s changed?”

  I didn’t have an answer. We made our way down Happ

  Road.

  “I know it’s crazy,” I said, “but I almost feel sorry for Marian.” Susan looked over. “She was trapped—caught between forces she couldn’t control.”

  “Come on, Ellie. You can’t tell me she didn’t know who and what her mother was. She made her choice, and then she lost control.”

  “That doesn’t mean she approved.”

  “She went along. It’s the same thing.”

  “Not if she thought her mother would retaliate if she didn’t.”

  Susan shrugged. “Just goes to prove you can’t escape your heritage.”

  “You don’t believe in redemption?”

  “Do you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She changed the subject. “How did Fouad know you were in Lake Forest?”

  That I could answer. “When David flew out from Philadelphia he came to the house. I had just left, but Fouad was still there. Fouad told him I was in trouble, and they both decided to stick around. When I never showed up, they called Dad, and he told them what he knew. Fouad did the rest.”

  “How?”

  “The flowers.”

  “Huh?” Susan cocked her head.

  “I’d told him a while back that the woman I was working for owned an estate by the lake in Lake Forest. With a lawn covered by hosta and impatiens. Fouad found it.”

  “At two in the morning?”

  “The floodlights were on.”

  “Clever. So, have you spoken to David?”

  The drone
of a faraway truck spiked and faded away. “He won’t return my calls.”

  We kept walking.

  “She almost did it, you know. Two perfect murders, made to look like heart attacks. Four more to cover them up. And Marian was building a power base. Her appeal was broad. Deep. She had the mayor eating out of her hand.”

  “And you.”

  “And me.” I hung my head. “Her own Leni Riefenstahl.” Susan slapped at a mosquito. “There’s still one thing I want to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did Frances Iverson kill out of principle? Or rage that she’d been dumped for another woman?”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  I picked Rachel up from camp the next day. It had only been four weeks, but she looked tan, healthy, and tall. On the way home, I told her as much as I thought she could handle. That night we went out to celebrate her homecoming; we slept late the next day. I was pulling weeds when a battered Plymouth stopped at the curb. Rachel, who’d been listening to music inside, tore off her headphones and streaked out the door.

  “Daddy!” Rachel shrieked and threw her arms around her father.

  “Sweetikins.” He showered her with hugs and kisses. As usual, he looked great in pressed khakis and a blue shirt. I smoothed out my rumpled shorts, waiting for a Pavlovian pang. It didn’t ping.

  “Hello, Ellie.” He pried himself away from Rachel.

  “Hello, Barry. Long time no see.”

  He didn’t say anything. I scratched my cheek. It wasn’t like him to let one of my zingers get by.

  “I came by to see Rachel. And—” he hesitated. “To thank you.”

  “Thank me? What for?”

  “For what you did.”

  I frowned.

  “The loan.”

  “What loan?”

  “Your banker, David Linden. He helped arrange a loan with terms I can live with.”

  Shivers rippled my stomach. “He did what?”

  “Ellie, come on. I know you set it up. He told me.”

  “David Linden arranged a loan to cover your stock losses?”

  “He brought the papers out from Philadelphia.”

  “He’s here? In Chicago?”

  “I just signed the papers at the Ritz.”

  Rachel and I exchanged a glance. “Barry, you’re taking

  Rachel, aren’t you?”

  “Uh—I hadn’t planned—”

  I ran upstairs, shedding my gardening clothes. “Make sure she cleans her room.”

  I flew down the highway. The hum of the engine skimmed every nerve in my body. I parked half a block from the hotel and charged into the elevator. As it ascended, I tapped my foot impatiently. Why was it so damn slow? When I got to the lobby, I dashed for the house phone.

  He picked up on the second ring.

  “Where are you?” My breath was coming in short little puffs.

  “Sixteen twelve.”

  The elevator took too much time. I stepped off at sixteen. A door opened at the end of the hall. David stood framed in the light. I broke into a jog.

  I stopped a foot away and spread my hands. “Why did you do it?”

  “To thank you.”

  “To thank me? I should be thanking you. You saved my life.” He shrugged. “Then I guess we’re even. You helped me find what I’ve been searching for my whole life.”

  My hands fell to my sides. “Does that mean you’re okay with it? Paul Iverson, that is?”

  “Paul Iverson was a decent, moral man. He tried to do what was right.” He smiled. “So did Kurt Weiss, who will always be as much my father as Paul Iverson.” He reached for my hand, wincing when he saw the scab on my wrist. “And the woman they loved, my mother, was as principled as they were. All three of them believed in something bigger than themselves. And acted on it.” He traced tiny lines on the back of my hand. “I’m honored and humbled to have that as my legacy.”

  His face swam in front of me. I couldn’t stop blinking. He tipped my chin up with his hand. “You gave me my past, Ellie. And now, if you’ll let me, I want to give you my future.”

  He drew me inside and closed the door.

  Epilogue

  The café in downtown Odessa was a few blocks from the Potemkin stairway. Like other spots in this Black Sea port, its tile floors and stucco walls had a Mediterranean feel.

  Two men sat at a table playing chess, their glasses half filled with thick dark coffee. A woman, smartly dressed in a tailored blue suit, sat at another. Her short hair was flecked with gray, but the dazzling blue of her eyes hinted at the beauty she’d been in her youth.

  Our interpreter, a young blonde who had asked several times if we could send her some American CDs, approached her. Smiling hesitantly, the woman craned her neck in our direction. I extended my hand. David followed suit. Our interpreter translated.

  “I am Kasia Wojnilow. I have been eager to meet you.”

  “We have, too,” David said.

  We sat down and ordered drinks. When they came Kasia told us her story. She had lived in the Ukraine all her life but moved to Odessa when she became a grandmother. Moving her bottle of pale yellow soda to one side, she rummaged in a straw bag and drew out pictures of three robust children, two girls and a boy.

  “And you?” She opened her palm toward us.

  I took out my picture of Rachel and handed it over. She pointed to Rachel’s eyes and then to mine. We smiled.

  “Family is the most important thing.” The vertical line between her brows deepened. “I never knew my parents. They died during the war.”

  “Your mother’s name was Magda Panchuk?” I asked. She nodded.

  David pulled out the snapshot of Skull, the woman, and the baby. “Is this your mother?”

  She inspected the picture. When she looked up, her eyes were wet.

  “The man in the picture is your father. His name was Ben Skulnick. He was a hero. A war hero,” I said.

  Her eyes flickered with pride.

  “How did your mother die?” I asked.

  Kasia’s back straightened. “She worked for the Resistance. Behind enemy lines. She was trying to pass information to the Allies when she was caught. They killed her. I was still a baby. I went to live with my aunt. In Kiev.”

  “Kasia,” David said, “let’s order a round of schnapps.

  We have a story to tell you.

  MORE ABOUT LIBBY

  http://libbyhellmann.com

  Facebook Author Page

  http://twitter.com/libbyfh

  THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES

  “Libby Fischer Hellmann has already joined an elite club: Chicago mystery writers who not only inhabit the environment but also give it a unique flavor… her series continues in fine style… (Ellie)… lights up the page with courage and energy.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Not only has Hellmann created a compelling group of believable characters, but the mystery she places them in is likewise plausible and engrossing. Highly recommended, even if you don’t live in Illinois.”

  —David Montgomery, Chicago Sun-Times

  “Hellmann owes a debt to fellow Chicagoans Sara Paretsky (complex plotting) and Barbara D’Amato (excellent research)—but she’s the brash young thing making this formula new again. I can’t wait for the next book!”

  —Robin Agnew, Aunt Agatha’s

  “Hellmann has surpassed herself. Well-crafted, intense and exciting, right up to the last page… a must read!”

  —Laurel Johnson, Midwest Book Review

  “A masterful blend of politics, history, and suspense… sharp humor and vivid language… Ellie is an engaging amateur sleuth.”

  —Publishers Weekly, November 4, 2002

  “Ellie is a particularly believable protagonist… she’s a pleasure to spend time with.”

  —Reviewing the Evidence

  “Libby Fischer Hellmann has indisputably crossed the line into the realm of great crime fiction writers.”

  —Crimespree Magazine


  THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES

  “Hellmann brings to life the reality of hazing and bullying among teenage girls in a story with enough twists and turns to keep you reading to the end. Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Just what’s needed in a mystery… Depth of characterization sets this new entry apart from a crowded field.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Libby Hellmann can get into the mind of a character, whether the character is a mentally ill man or a teenage girl. PI Georgia Davis, the no-nonsense heart of this tale… finds a darkness I didn’t see coming. This is good stuff, very good stuff.”

  —Stuart M. Kaminsky, Grand Master, Mystery Writers of America

  “There’s a new no-nonsense female private Detective in town: Georgia Davis, a former cop who is tough and smart enough to give even the legendary V.I. Warshawski a run for her money… Hellmann knows how to distill the essence of a character in a few unadorned but dead-right sentences.”

  —Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune

  “Hellmann’s done her homework here and it shows: the writing is assured, the voices authentic, and the understanding both of criminal investigations and relationships among cops, lawyers and prosecutors come to life with great urgency. Davis’ arrival on the mean streets is long overdue.”

  —Sara Paretsky, author of the V.I. Warshawski series

  SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE

  “A tremendous thriller, sweeping but intimate, elegiac but urgent, subtle but intense… this story really does set the night on fire.”

  —Lee Child

  “Superior… Passion, pain, and protests emerge in vivid detail.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Set the Night on Fire is a compelling story of love, truth and redemption. This will be a break-out novel for this talented writer. Highly recommended.”

  —Sheldon Siegel, New York Times best-selling author of Perfect Alibi

  “A top-rate standalone thriller… A jazzy fusion of past and present, Hellman’s insightful, politically charged whodunit explores a fascinating period in American history.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Top Pick! Electric! A marvelous novel.”