Voices of the dead

“It was an execution,” Harry said. “Reminds me of how the Nazis used to kill Jews. One shot to the back of the head.”

“So you think the killer was a Nazi?”

“Or a neo-Nazi. Lisa works for the ZOB.”

“I am familiar with the organization.” Huber wrote in the notebook. “Why did you not mention this earlier?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“This could shed a different light on the homicides.”

“You think?”

“What is your purpose here in Munich?”

“Do I need a purpose? I was born here. I wanted to come back and look around, see my old house, check out the neighborhood.”

“There is no reason to be defensive. It is a simple question.” He paused. “You are staying at the Bayerischer Hof?”

“I moved. I’m now at the Konigshof.”

“If you think of anything else, call me.” He took a card out of his pocket.

“I’ve already got one,” Harry said, looking at the chalk lines on the floor. “What are you going to do about this?”

“Examine the evidence and see where it leads us.”

22

Harry went back to his hotel. It was 11:40. He was tired, sat on the bed and called the Washington DC Police Department, asked for Detective Taggart.

“Taggart,” he said, coming on the line.

“It’s Harry Levin.”

“Harry, what’s going on?”

“That couple murdered the night Sara died, were they Jewish?”

“Whoa. You trying to solve that one now? I can’t give you information about a homicide investigation.”

“These two cases might be related.”

“Yeah, they were Jewish.”

“How old?”

“He was mid-forties. She was ten years younger.”

“Were they born in Germany?”

“How the hell do I know where they were born?”

“You found shell casings at the scene, didn’t you?”

“How do you know that?”

“What caliber?”

“You’re pressing your luck.”

“What’re you worried about?”

“Nine-millimeter Parabellum,” Taggart said. “Two of them.”

Harry could hear him drawing on a cigarette, blowing out smoke.

“What kind of gun?”

“Luger. That’s all you get till you give me something.”

“Anything taken off the bodies? Personal possessions: a ring, watch, bracelet, earrings, glasses?”

“Who told you that?”

“I’m guessing,” Harry said.

“The dentist had a gold chain. It was broken. Whatever was hanging from it is missing.” Taggart’s voice sounding faint all of a sudden like the connection was fading. “Hey, where you at?”

“Munich,” Harry said.

“Don’t even tell me. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Hess shot the couple in Georgetown.”

“Yeah? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Krauts were right about you, Harry. You should see someone. Seriously. You’re fucked up.”

He heard static. Taggart had hung up.

He got to Colette’s just before midnight. Stood in front of her apartment building, felt a cool breeze blowing up the street, saw a light on in her apartment. He moved to the door and pressed the button. A few seconds later she appeared in the window, looking down at him. She buzzed him in. He took the stairs. She was standing in the doorway when he got there, wearing a robe and tortoiseshell glasses, hair up, looking sexier than ever. Harry kissed her hard and long, backing her into the apartment and closing the door while he was doing it.

When they finally broke for air Colette was smiling and Harry was too.

“Where have you been? Did you get a better offer?”

He told her about Martz and Lisa.

“My God, Harry, I’m so sorry.” She put her arms around him. “What are the police doing? Do they have any suspects?”

“If they do, they aren’t saying.”

“Come in, have a drink, I’ll make you something to eat.”

Colette took him in the kitchen, sat him at the table and poured him a glass of chilled pinot gris. She cracked two eggs in a bowl and made him a ham and cheese omelet, served it with a little salt and pepper sprinkled on top. She sat across the table and watched him eat, devouring the omelet in six bites, guzzling the wine.

“Harry, you were starving. Can I get you anything else?”

“What about your photographs?”

“You have to see them.”

She walked out of the room and came back with two stacks of prints. Handed Harry the first one, stood by his side while he shuffled through them. There were a couple long shots of the MC and the uniformed Nazis on the dais.

“I showed these to a former teacher this afternoon. Dr. Ritmeier, an expert on Nazis past and present. The MC is Franz Stigler, head of a local Blackshirt faction. By day he’s an electrician.” She paused. “Dr. Ritmeier doesn’t think the men on the dais are real Nazis. He tried to match the names and faces with known SS personnel at the camps and couldn’t.”

“These neo-Nazi idiots are being duped, huh?”

“Isn’t it amazing.”

“What about Hess?”

“Dr. Ritmeier has no information or evidence of Hess being sympathetic to their cause. It would be a serious conflict of interest.”

Knowing it and proving it were two different things. The other photos showed the Nazi banners, cheering Blackshirts on their feet, raising their ax handles, showing Nazism was alive and well in Munich. He glanced up at her.

“What do you think?”

“They’re great. You really captured it,” Harry said. “Let me see the others?”