Voices of the dead

Worth Avenue was one-way. He parked on the north side twenty meters from Cocoanut Row. It was 5:15. Sunset Realty was on the corner next to an Italian restaurant. He studied color photographs of homes for sale in the windows of the real-estate office. He could see a dozen desks through the glass but only three were occupied-all by women on the phone. He opened the door and went inside, saw a stack of elegant brochures in a metal display rack. Take one, it said. He did, and walked out.

Hess sat in the Town Car, studying a map of Palm Beach. He turned right on Cocoanut Row and right on Peruvian Avenue, and drove all the way to South Ocean Boulevard, gazing out at the ocean, feeling an easterly breeze, whitecaps breaking out to sea. He turned right again, passed the Winthrop House, Frau Cantor’s residence, driving along the water, glancing at the oceanfront estates, trying not to drive off the road.

He turned around and went back to Worth Avenue, parked next to the seawall, smelled the salty breeze. The Winthrop House was across the street. The apartments had balconies. Hess wondered if he would see her, wondered would he recognize her if he did. He had seen her the one time on Leopoldstrasse in Munich. At first he thought she was drunk, coming at him the way she did. People on the street had stopped and taken notice. How could they not? A crazy woman was raising her voice, accusing him of being a Nazi murderer. Instead of confronting her he had walked away, hailed a taxi.

Rausch had followed her and found out her name and where she lived. Hess was certain he had killed her that night in Washington DC, and was surprised weeks later when he discovered she was still alive.

Hess went back to the Breakers, sat in the bar sipping a Martini, cold gin and vermouth, two olives. He was paging through the real-estate brochure, glancing at photographs of premium properties.

Mediterranean-style waterfront compound, stunning white stucco with red tile roof, 387 feet of ocean frontage, 10,287 square feet, 8 bedrooms, 10 bathrooms, pool, tennis court. Listing #1137.

The next one:

Oceanfront Estate, 288 feet of frontage, 8,940 square feet, 2-bedroom pool house, 60-foot Italian marble pool, 7 bedrooms, 11 bathrooms. Listing #1089. Listing Agent: Joyce Cantor

A color photograph of her, head and shoulders, pretty face and radiant smile, late forties. No sign of the ranting lunatic accusing him on Leopoldstrasse.

After the listings was a profile of Frau Cantor under the heading: Integrity, Experience, Professionalism.

The text read:

Whether Joyce is representing an oceanfront buyer or listing a 2-bedroom condo she treats her clients with equal commitment.

Nobody maintains a higher level of ethics and professionalism.

Hess grinned, amused by the lie, feeling the warmth of the gin settling over him. He dipped his thumb and index finger into the liquid, pinched an olive and popped it in his mouth. Hess finished his martini, paid the check and took the elevator to his room.

Harry pulled into a motor court outside Valdosta, Georgia just before midnight, eleven and a half hours straight, stopping for the first time in Knoxville when Cordell said he couldn’t hold it any longer, was going to go on the floor of the car if Harry didn’t find a rest stop. Now he was stretched across the backseat asleep. The only interesting part of the trip was driving through the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.

The room had twin beds and smelled of disinfectant. Harry carried the bags in, helped Cordell and fell asleep with his clothes on as soon as his head hit the pillow. It was still dark when he opened his eyes at 5:20 a.m. He took a shower, woke Cordell and got back in the car.

“Sure you never been in the military?” Cordell said to Harry. “What the hell kind of schedule you on?”

“I’m doing all the heavy lifting,” Harry said. “All you have to do is get in back and sleep.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Cordell said, saluting.

“I’m trying to get to this survivor before Hess does.”

“How you know he’s going after her?”

“I don’t. But Hess thinks he got me and she’s the only one left. Am I getting through to you?”

“Harry, lose your sense of humor somewhere back in Tennessee?”

“Ohio,” Harry said. “Most boring state I’ve ever driven through.”

“You think so, huh? Try Nebraska sometime, you go out of your mind.”

“What were you doing in Nebraska?”

“Taking a load to LA for Chilly.”

Cordell was in back, snoring when they crossed the Florida state line.

Hess phoned Sunrise Realty at 10:00 a.m., asking for Joyce Cantor.

“I am sorry, sir, Ms. Cantor has taken a temporary leave of absence to address some family issues.”

Hess grinned at the woman’s choice of words, but decided that getting shot could be considered a family issue.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Mr. Emile Landau,” Hess said, using his Southern accent. “Joyce has come highly recommended by a mutual friend. I am from Atlanta, here for a few days. I was planning to look at oceanfront estates today.” He sipped his coffee waiting for a response.