An Image of Death (19 page)

I remembered the dark spot oozing across the woman’s chest on the video.

“Look, I gotta go,” she said brusquely. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Like what?”

“Checking mud sheets. Ownership records. Des Plaines is doing some of it already, but they said they’d work with us.”

“Okay. Just one more question. Davis, was there a camera mounted on the wall of the room?”

“Ellie, I already told you more than I should. I could—”

“Davis.…”

She paused for a long moment. “Yes.”

I breathed out. This was a big break.

“Des Plaines is saying it could be a vendetta,” she said. “A revenge killing.”

“For what?”

“Who knows? The victims—well, it’s not as if their clients are high society. The people who got their teeth fixed at the place are the kind who generally keep a low profile. But there’s no sign of a break-in, and nothing appears to be missing. The victims were shot once through the head. With a small-caliber automatic. That’s the way they do it.”

“Davis, do you think the brother and sister were involved in her murder?”

She hesitated. “I’m trying not to think until I have some evidence. And I’d advise you not to, either. In fact, if I find out you talked about this with anyone, I might have to break both your legs.”

I laughed. Sort of.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

Philadelphia is a city that evokes strong emotions. My friend, Genna, who lived there for two years, thinks you could drop it off the New Jersey turnpike and no one would miss it. Susan, who has relatives in Doylestown, loves the historical section and drags her kids to the Liberty Bell every time she visits. I haven’t made up my mind, but I wonder about a city whose streets are narrower than a Chicago alley, whose accent has spawned dozens of linguistics textbooks, and whose cheesesteaks, hoagies, and soft pretzels have created the junk food capital of the world.

I was able to book a cheap flight, which turned out to be so smooth and pleasant I decided it was an omen for the weekend. I grabbed a cab at the airport and gave the driver David’s address. He lives on Society Hill, a trendy area of rehabbed townhouses, exotic restaurants, and shops near the river. Genna assured me it was the place to live if you were forced to live in town. First though, we skirted the southeast edge of the city, where the emissions from a working oil refinery choked the air with a noxious, gassy odor. I began to see her point.

But then we passed Penn’s Landing, a recently developed park with concerts in the summer, ice skating in the winter, and a series of permanently moored ships to tour. As we turned toward Society Hill, I twisted around in my seat. Late-afternoon sun slanted down on the Ben Franklin Bridge, splashing molten light across its steel cables. David and I could take a walk down here over the weekend. A bit of quiet time, by ourselves, without any pressure, might soothe the raw spots in our relationship.

The cab pulled up in front of a four-story Federal townhouse near Second and Pine. I’d been here before, but each time I visit I like it more. It’s a straightforward, proud house with red brick facade, white trim, and sand-colored shutters. It suits him. My favorite spot is his backyard, a walled garden with two flowering cherry trees. I hadn’t seen them in bloom yet, but I planned to visit when the delicate pink flowers blossomed this spring.

When David answered the door in rolled-up shirt sleeves and jeans, a ping shot through me, and all thoughts about trees and flowers melted away. It was all I could do not to climb all over him. He leaned in and gave me a kiss. I rested my hands on his arms. He looked tired.

“How are you?”

“It’s been a long couple of weeks.”

I stepped into a narrow entrance hall that was decorated with arches and chair-rail moldings. “How was the trip back?”

“Both flights were delayed. Otherwise uneventful.”

“How did your uncle bear up?”

“Willie did fine.”

“Willie.” I smiled. “Where is he?”

“Up in the den.” Despite a spacious living room on the first floor, David spends most of his time upstairs, where the kitchen, den, and dining room are located. He started up, carrying my suitcase. “His English is passable. He speaks Dutch, French, and a little Russian, but, of course, he’s most comfortable in German.”

I followed him up the stairs, letting my hand trail up the banister. I’d decided I wouldn’t say anything about his leaving for Europe so precipitously until we’d had a chance to unwind. He had a lot on his mind. I didn’t want to add any stress. Then I heard myself saying, “I guess you were pretty rushed when you left.”

He stopped. “What do you mean?”

“You never called or e-mailed to tell me you were leaving. Not that you had to, of course.…”

He paused briefly, almost imperceptibly. “Right. I’m sorry. I just—well, things did get hectic.”

That wasn’t what I was hoping to hear. But what did I expect? That he’d fall all over himself apologizing? Sweep me into his arms and swear not to neglect me again? I was probably making too much of it. Finding his uncle was one of the most important events in David’s life. It was
my
need for security and reassurance that was exacerbating the situation. I resolved to push away my anxiety.

At the top of the stairs he set down the suitcase, crossed the hall, and opened a partially closed door. “
Willie, die Ellie ist da
.”

I peered into the room. A man rose from David’s couch. He was tall and gaunt, with hollow cheeks and a lined face. Iron gray hair, and lots of it, was combed to the side. But his eyebrows arched so high they seemed tethered in a perpetually surprised expression, and the blue eyes beneath them reminded me of a summer sky. I thought I saw a resemblance between him and David, something around the mouth, perhaps, though when you’re looking for a similarity, you’re apt to find one, whether it’s there or not.

He was wearing a white shirt, tie, and dark pants. He rolled his shirt sleeves down, grabbed a suit jacket from the back of a chair, and shrugged into it. “It is my pleasure, Miss Foreman.”

You could see he was in poor health, but there was something very appealing about him. He struck me as a gentleman, a kind man, a man for all times. We shook hands. “Please. Call me Ellie.”

***

That night we cabbed over to Bookbinders in Center City for dinner. The original restaurant had been around the corner from David’s, but it was closed. The décor of the Fifteenth Street place was disappointing: dark wooden floors, draped nets, and predictable pictures of fish on the walls.

Once we were seated, Willie slipped on a pair of small, round glasses with metal frames. I’ve always found glasses attractive; they gentle a person, especially a man. He inspected the menu, peppering David with questions in a combination of pidgin-English, French, and German.

Our appetizers came right away.

“There’s so many questions I want to ask, Willie,” I said, after a few bites of crab cake. “Do you mind?”

“
Nein
. You ask.” He gave me a courtly smile.

“Tell me how you survived the war.”

His story, accompanied by lots of enthusiastic hand motions to bridge the language barrier, started on a sunny afternoon in the summer of ’39 when the SS came to the Gottliebs’ house in Freiburg. Willie’s father, David’s grandfather, knew right away what was happening and tried to resist. He was killed. Willie, who happened to be down the block at a neighbor’s, heard the shots. A few minutes later, his mother and younger sister were taken away in a truck. He never saw them again. That night, he stole back to his house, packed a bag, and ran. He spent the rest of the war bouncing from one town to the next, hiding out in the woods, never staying in one place more than a day or two. He never admitted he was Jewish. Just a boy who’d been orphaned by the war.

Over time he hiked north, cutting over to Belgium and the Netherlands, where the atmosphere was slightly more tolerable. Some people helped him; others didn’t. When he couldn’t borrow or steal eggs and fruit, he foraged in the woods, learning by experience which berries and plants were edible. He had the stomach problems to prove it.

David asked if he remembered the one letter he’d managed to send his mother.

Willie nodded vigorously. “
C’etait un fermier
—a farmer—
der landwirt
—near Cologne who posted for me the letter. But no one, after, could I find to post one.”

After the war Willie headed back to Freiburg. But the city, which had been leveled by both Allied and German bombers, who mistook it for a French target, was hardly more than a spot on the map. The rubble, the bitterness, the shattered lives, were more than he could handle, and he sank into a despair he hadn’t allowed himself to feel while he was running.

One day he ventured into the dense woodland where he and Lisle and their younger sister had played as children, hoping, perhaps, in some mystical way, to find some remnant of his family’s presence, their spirit. He waited for a sign, a leaf grazing his cheek, perhaps, or a sudden shaft of light that might guide him toward the future, but he saw and felt nothing. He left Germany the next day.

“You went straight to Antwerp?” I asked.

“
Nein.
I have been traveling much.
Belgien
.
Frankreich. Die Niederlande
. No one has money, you see, but they has work. I work. They feed. Is
gut
.”

He told us how, after several months, he hitched a ride on a milk truck in Belgium, a
milch wagen
, that made stops along its route. One of the stops was Antwerp.

“How was it that you settled there?”

“Before the war, Antwerp was considered second only to Paris as a center for art and culture,” David explained.

“Is good businesses there, a large Jewish quarter,
und
is Antwerp capital of the diamond world,” Willie said. “
Und
is second largest port in Europe. Ships go from Antwerp
uber die ganze Welt
.” He raised his palm. “It is easy place to leave in a hurry. Even with bag of diamonds in pocket, you can go.
Verstehen?
”

“I understand.” But did I? I was raised in a safe haven. My right to exist had never been challenged. Willie’s life had been defined by fear and a profound need for legitimacy. And David, who’d been shunted from home to home as a foster child, shared a similar itinerant background. I played with my food, wondering, not for the first time, whether my stability, or at least the perception of it, was part of what attracted David to me.

I looked at Willie. “You never married.”

His expression turned wistful. “I meet woman in Antwerp. She is survivor
auch, aber
lost husband and baby in Dachau. We fall in love. She want me to move with her to Israel.”

“Next to Antwerp, Tel Aviv is probably the largest center for diamonds in the world,” David spoke up.

Willie sighed. “
Ja
, but I cannot go.”

“Why not?”

He clasped his hands in front of him. “
War auch ein
fighter. She wanted to make
sicher
it does not happen again. She thought Israel was place to do that.”

“You didn’t agree?”

“I can not
chance nehmen
. Take the chance.” He flashed me a sad smile. “If God would not let the Jews survive in
Europa
, what are the chances in Israel, with
fiend
—enemies on all sides?”

***

I was brushing my hair in David’s bathroom, thinking about the similarities in Willie’s and David’s lives, when David’s reflection appeared in the mirror. I smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

“Is something wrong?” I turned around.

“No. Nothing.”

“And my name is Grace Slick.” I eyed him. “David, something’s been bothering you ever since I got here.”

He looked at me, then gave a little shrug. “It’s just—it’s just that you found out more about Willie in two hours than I did all week.”

I put down the brush. “He was probably in the mood to talk. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, he and Brigitte and I were together, and he.…” He cut himself off.

“Who?”

An odd look came over him.

“Who is Brigitte?”

He padded into the bedroom. “Brigitte is the daughter of his late partner. The one who came into the business after her father died. They’ve been working together for years. But I don’t think she knows as much about his life as you do.”

I followed him in and stood on my tiptoes to kiss him. “I have a vested interest.”

Finally, a smile.

We got into bed. “You know who would love to meet him?”

“Your father.”

“Yes.” I snuggled in close. “Willie is Lisle’s brother. Your uncle. I’m sure Dad would give anything to be here.”

My father had been in love with David’s mother years ago when they were young. It hadn’t worked out, and I sometimes felt Dad hoped David and I would make good on the promise he and Lisle hadn’t. I reached for David’s hand and ran it down my cheek.

He pulled away.

Five minutes later, his even, regular breathing said he was asleep. I lay without moving, trying to ignore the ache in my chest. He’d been through a lot. He was exhausted. That’s all it was.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

A low-slung sun flickered through the trees as I headed to a coffee shop the next morning. I’d thrown on my coat, hat, and gloves over a pair of David’s sweats, but opening the door, I realized I didn’t need the insulation. Philadelphia winters have much less bite than Chicago’s. I stuffed my hat and gloves into my pocket.

The Second Street Coffee Shop was, mercifully, not a Starbucks. Bigger and brasher, the décor consisted of brightly polished copper tubes, pipes, and curlicues that snaked up, down, and around, and even seemed to produce a cup of coffee. It had normal-sized tables, too, occupied by groups of two or more sipping their drinks, reading newspapers, and chatting. I selected half a dozen pastries that looked relatively healthy and ordered three lattés. As I waited for the order, I happily sniffed the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and eavesdropped on two women sitting nearby.