An Eye for Murder (31 page)

“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.”

“No.” Dory’s jaw tightened. “Gibbs plans marches, not bombs. He is just the front man. He may be involved, but he is not the leader.”

I scowled. “If it’s not Gibbs, it has to be Marian.”

Dory shook her head.

“Why not? She could be siphoning off campaign funds for him.”

“Politicians never give money away,” Dory said. “They take it. And I saw the books when I was there. There were no unexplained expenses.”

“So it’s some other neo-Nazi group.”

“Perhaps. But if we are to stop them, we have to find out who.” She looked at me.

Goosebumps prickled my skin. I started to back away, but Raoul blocked me.

“We need you.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” Dory said. “And you must. Come with me.

Tomorrow night.”

“Where?”

“To the office. To go through her correspondence.”

“You want me to break into campaign headquarters? With you?”

“I have a key. And I know her password.”

“Oh. That makes it all right.”

“The pieces are there. We can put them together. Then we can take action.”

Action? What action? I shook my head. “You go.”

“I don’t work there anymore. You do.”

“What do I say if we get caught?”

“You are working late.”

“In Marian’s office?”

Dory shrugged. “There are ways to handle it.”

“And where will you be—if somebody comes?”

“Raoul will be downstairs. He will warn us. I will hide.”

“No,” I said emphatically. “It’s crazy. Marian’s too smart to keep anything incriminating lying around.”

“Arrogance breeds carelessness. I found the message about David, didn’t I?”

Wet concrete glistened in the light. My sandals and feet were soaked, and the rain had seeped through my shirt. I would start to smell soon, that damp, earthy, mildewed smell. I thought about Marian. And David. And the document with Iverson’s name on it. Did Marian know about that, too? A sour taste rose in my throat. Maybe it wasn’t just Kurt’s murder she was trying to cover up.

I told them about the document. As I explained, Dory moved closer to Raoul. “I’ve got to warn David.”

“But you are in danger, too.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” Dory said. “Listen to me. Here’s what will happen. Marian will call you. She will say she wants to see you. Meet with you. But it won’t be downtown. It will be someplace remote. Perhaps out of state.”

Marian was leaving for Door County tomorrow. On Jeremiah Gibbs’s orders. “I won’t return her call. I won’t meet her.”

“Do you think that will stop them? They broke into your house. Shot the boy at the library. Attacked your father. They probably killed Skulnick as well.”

My head jerked up. “But he died of a heart attack.”

“There are chemicals that simulate heart attacks. Easily available, if you know where to look.” She planted her hands on her hips. “And you’re forgetting one other thing.”

“What?”

“You have a daughter at camp.”

I went rigid. My voice cracked. “They wouldn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Chapter Forty-six

I called David from the drugstore, but there was no answer. I didn’t leave a message. I picked up a toothbrush and took it to the check-out counter. The withering look from the sales clerk unnerved me; I hadn’t even thought about shoplifting. I understood when I checked myself in the mirror. Unkempt, wet, and scruffy, I looked like something from one of those teenage slasher movies.

“Where were you?” Dad scolded when he opened the door.

“I was about to call the police.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re soaking wet.”

I toweled off and told him what Dory and Raoul had said.

When I finished, Dad let go of the sofa bed he’d been making up and disappeared into the bedroom. The half-folded mattress stayed open, its foot poised in the air. I heard drawers open and close. He came back in with an automatic pistol in one hand and a box of bullets in the other. I watched as loaded the Colt. After he attached the clip, he laid it on the hassock of the chair and went back to making the bed.

I stepped around the hassock, carefully avoiding the gun. “Dad, do you think Skull knew about the report?”

He bent over a pillowcase.

“Do you suppose he was the one who got it to Kurt in the first place? He was working with the Resistance. Kurt was with the OSS. Could they have known each other in Europe?”

“That would be a hell of a coincidence.” He straightened up. “But even if they did, I don’t know how you’d prove it. They’re both dead.”

“We know Skull was looking for Lisle. And that he was on borrowed time. He told Boo Boo if they caught him, they’d take him out. And it wasn’t just Lisle. He was making inquiries all over the place. Boo Boo said he was even writing the CIA. Maybe he was trying to confirm the report…the one he gave Kurt all those years before.”

Dad started to nod. “It’s possible.”

“And if Marian or Gibbs knew that’s what he was doing, it would explain a lot.”

“Meaning they killed him because Skull knew Paul Iverson was financing Mengele.”

“Yes. But they might not have known whether he actually had the report. Which was why they had to steal his things. And eliminate anyone else who might have known about it.”

“Including me?”

I nodded.

“I don’t know,” my father said. “Even if Skull knew Marian’s father collaborated with the Nazis, why kill him?”

“How could she let that get out? It would destroy her at the polls.”

Dad shook his head. “These things aren’t such deeply held secrets anymore. Ford, General Motors, Bayer. They’ve all admitted similar things, and they’re doing fine. True, it would have been embarrassing, but it might not have been a dealbreaker. Remember, this was her father. Not her. She could distance herself from him. Tell everyone how abhorrent it was. How different she is.”

I pitched the towel on the floor of the linen closet. “If she’s so different, why was she meeting with Jeremiah Gibbs?”

My father’s gaze went to the gun. “I don’t know.”

Colorless fragments of dreams led me to the edge of sleep and then back again. I woke up fatigued and still tense. Dad snored gently in his chair. The gun lay on the floor. Thinking David might have called, I got up quietly and dug my cell out of my bag. Then I remembered it was out of juice.

I tiptoed into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Suddenly a face appeared in the mirror behind me. I jumped before I realized it was Dad. His eyes were bloodshot, and gray stubble covered his face. I touched his cheek with my hand.

After washing up, he went into the kitchen and took out a bowl. Then flour. Milk. Eggs. When I was little, he used to make pancakes on special occasions. Not the thick Aunt Jemima kind. His were delicate, thin, light golden crepes rolled up and filled with jam, with powdered sugar on top.

I didn’t think I was hungry, but I wolfed down four crepes.

And two cups of coffee. After clearing the table, I gathered my things and put the fax in my bag.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I can’t stay here. I’ve already put you in too much danger.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to put the document in a safe place. And I have to warn David—”

“Ellie—” He stopped. He must have known it was useless to argue. He picked up the Colt off the floor. “Take this with you.”

I gulped. “I don’t know how to use it. I’d screw it up.” He motioned me over. Releasing the clip, he showed me how to load the magazine, move the slide, and chamber a round. Then he showed me how to aim through the sights. I placed it gingerly in my bag. “If I don’t hear from you by tonight, I’m calling the police.”

I kissed him and slipped out the door.

Chapter Forty-seven

It had stopped raining when I turned onto my block. My eyes were on the move for anything that didn’t belong. Outside the garage door I listened for noises. Nothing. I took the stairs two at a time. In the kitchen the answering machine blinked.

David’s voice cut through the silence. “I’ll be there this afternoon. Leave a message where I can find you.”

Damn it. If anyone was listening, and I knew they were, they’d know where he was headed. I erased the message.

I showered, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and went down to the kitchen. Rummaging inside the cabinet, I pulled out a plastic bag and carefully slipped the fax inside, securing the bag with a twist-tie. Then I went outside. Dark clouds still roiled the sky, threatening a new downpour. My eyes roved the grass, the locust tree, the beds of impatiens under the evergreens. Near the back of the flowerbed at the base of the house was a window well, covered with a semicircular disk of plastic. Partially obscured by the yews, I’d almost forgotten it was there.

I stepped carefully between the flowers, mud caking my shoes, and wedged myself against the window well. Trying to avoid the sharp bristles of the yews, I leaned over and struggled to raise the lid. At the bottom of a five-foot drop was a layer of gravel mixed with years of accumulated lawn detritus: leaves, twigs, and grass in various stages of decomposition. I took a quick look around, then jumped into the pit.

The window had been painted shut well before we moved in, and a series of cobwebs, some more recent than others, filmed the glass. I tried not to brush up against them as I scraped a layer of stones and leaves to one side. Then I crouched down, dropped the plastic bag in the empty space, and covered it back up. When I was satisfied it looked natural, I braced my arms on the ground and hoisted myself back up. Again I checked the yard and the street in front. No one. I replaced the cover and went back inside.

I scraped the mud off my shoes, then made a circuit of the house. Empty and quiet, the house had an expectant hush, as if waiting for the command to start the activity of living again. I tiptoed upstairs and booted up the computer. its clicks and beeps piercing the silence. Opening a search engine, I requested images of Prague. Within seconds a digital contact sheet of twelve tiny pictures appeared on the screen. I scrolled down castles, government buildings, even the clock tower David had told me about. I jumped to another page.

A shot on the third page stopped me. Captioned “Prague:

Charles Bridge,” the photo was a long-shot of a cobblestone bridge. I clicked on the thumbnail, and a larger version came into view. In the background was a castle set high on a hill. In between the bridge and the castle were a group of buildings, some of them with red roofs.

The text beside the photo explained it was the Charles Bridge and the castle of Hradcany. Originally built in the Middle Ages, the castle had been expanded over the centuries by various emperors and princes. Now it towered over the city, a monument to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The bridge in front of it, with baroque statues of saints flanking its sides, was built in 1342, but its wood structure dated back to 900 A.D.

A buzz skimmed every nerve in my body. I knew this bridge. Though this was a long shot, and the one I’d seen was a medium shot, it was the same location. It was the bridge Skull was standing on in the snapshot at Ruth’s. Skull, a woman, and a baby. With a castle in the background.

I saved the picture and turned on my printer. Skull had been in Prague during the war. Kurt was, too. This was more than a Jungian coincidence. I hit Print. The printer lurched and sucked in a piece of paper.

As the picture was spitting out, a fresh batch of rain sheeted down. I closed the windows. Forks of lightning singed the sky, and thunder crashed overhead. Hail pelted the roof. The lights flickered once. Twice. Then they snapped out. The monitor went dark, the printer stopped, and the house fell into silence, all its clicks, hums, and vibrations eerily still.

I went downstairs and threw open the junk drawer in the kitchen. I’d never replaced the flashlight that had been smashed during the break-in. I was mentally cursing myself for procrastinating when a thump cracked the silence.

I froze, my arm extended over the drawer. Another thump.

And some rustles. Outside. I peered through the window. A fork of lightning sputtered, flooding the lawn with light. The yard looked empty. Then I heard a clank, as if metal was scraping against concrete under the window. Too close to the house to be seen. I flattened myself against the wall. I shouldn’t have come home. I should have listened to Dory.

The gun. If I could make it to my bag, I could defend myself. Where the hell had I put it? In the family room. I looked into the hall. I needed seven steps to get to it. I told myself to move. Nothing happened.

More thumps. Terror broke my paralysis, and I raced into the family room. Grabbing my bag, I pulled out the Colt. I crept to the door and released the safety, raising the gun to chest level. My breath came shallow and fast. I peered out of the eyehole.

Fouad stood dripping on the doorstep.

I sagged in relief and threw open the door, but when he saw the Colt in my hand, he jumped back, and his hands shot into the air.

As something metallic clanked on the concrete, a new ripple of fear surged through me. How did Fouad know I was here? What had just dropped onto the concrete? Had I just thrown open the door to my enemy? I kept a tight grip on the Colt. “What are you doing here?”