Voices of the dead

“Maybe she was pregnant. Or maybe he’s a glutton for punishment. I don’t know. Both the dentist and the fiancee were born and raised in Baltimore. Both sets of parents also born and raised there. I dug a little deeper. Mitch Goldman’s ex moved to Florida after the divorce and took her maiden name.”

“What’s so unusual about that?”

“Nothing unless her name happens to be Joyce Cantor. That the connection you’re looking for?” He paused. “She works for Sunset Realty, lives in the Winthrop House. Condo, corner of Worth Avenue and South Ocean Boulevard. Trendy neighborhood. Phone number’s 407-642-3655.”

“She saw Hess coming out of a restaurant in Munich, recognized him, and went after him,” Harry said.

“How come she recognized him, you didn’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hess flew to DC to kill her. Shot the fiancee by mistake. Did the dentist, I’m guessing, ’cause he happened to be there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got the same thing in mind for you, Harry.”

“We know Hess is good at shooting unarmed people,” Harry said. “Let’s see how he does against someone with a gun.”

30

Hess flew first class Munich-London, London-Detroit with a passport identifying him as Gerd Klaus from Stuttgart. Going through United States customs, a dark-skinned agent-Hess would have guessed was Hispanic-studied his passport, taking his time, in no hurry even though there were many people in line behind him.

“What is your purpose for coming to the United States, Mr. Klaus?”

“Business,” Hess said, friendly and polite even though it was demeaning to be interrogated by this Mexican.

“What type of business are you in?”

“Automotive parts.”

“Do you have a business card?”

“Sure do,” he said in his best American English. Hess had come prepared, handed the man one of his freshly printed cards that said he was Midwest sales manager. He had been speaking English for thirty years. He loved American cinema and had even perfected a Southern accent.

“Welcome to America,” the Mexican said, stamping his passport and handing it back to him.

He had reserved an automobile at Avis, waiting for a bus outside the terminal with the other salesmen in suits and ties. He rented a silver Chevrolet Malibu, two doors and a long hood, that drove like a truck, the steering sloppy and loose. If this car was any indication of American innovation, they had a long way to go before they would catch up to the Germans.

He drove to Detroit. He had booked a room at the Statler Hotel on Washington Boulevard, handed his car keys to the valet, checked in and was escorted to a room on the seventh floor. He made an overseas phone call to his secretary, Ingrid, asking if Rausch had phoned. Rausch had gone to Bergheim the day before to dispose of Colette Rizik and her mother.

“No, I am sorry, Herr Hess, he has not.”

That was unusual. But lately, Arno had seemed to lose his concentration. Hess gave her his phone number at the hotel.

At 4:00 p.m. Hess drove to a bar in a town called Allen Park, a gray single-storey cinderblock building, paint peeling, pickup trucks outnumbering cars in the parking lot. The inside was dark and crowded, men lining the bar, loud rock music playing. He was approached by a man in his mid-thirties, long hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail, muscular arms exposed in a sleeveless denim jacket.

“You Mr. Klaws?” he said, pronouncing the name wrong.

Hess nodded. He could see Sieg Heil tattooed on his right forearm.

“How was your flight over? I’m Buddy.” He extended his hand and Hess shook it. “So you’re the genuine article, huh? Never met a real Nazi before. Sir, this a real honor, I mean it.”

He reminded Ernst of the Blackshirts, his own neo-Nazis, a generation that was missing something, a generation that would never measure up to the high standards or the high achievers of the Third Reich.

“Ever meet Adolf Hitler?”

“I was fortunate enough to make the Fuhrer’s acquaintance, yes.”

“What was he like?”

“Charismatic, mesmerizing, a born leader.”

“I’ll bet. He’s one of the greatest men that ever lived. I read Mein Kampf. Talk about a page-turner, I couldn’t put it down.” He glanced at the bar. “Want a beer or something?”

“Do you have the weapon?”

“Well, you bet. No time like the present, huh?”

Hess followed him outside to a red pickup truck parked in the lot.

“Step into my office,” Buddy said, grinning.

Hess opened the passenger door and sat on the bench seat. Buddy got in and reached for the glove box, opened it and took out a blue steel semiautomatic with a suppressor on the end of the barrel.