Sara Paretsky - Total Recall

She flung up her hands. “It could be that simple. I suppose it could have nothing to do with my papers at all. I see it’s a complicated problem. I’m sorry to say that I have another appointment-I’m teaching a seminar at the Newbery Library at seven-but if you can give me one of the photocopies I’ll study it later. If something occurs to me, I’ll call you.”

I walked out with her, locking everything carefully. I brought the photocopies I’d made along with the two books themselves. I wanted Max to look at the material to see if he understood the German. The original might be easier for him to decipher than a photocopy.

I stopped at home to collect Ninshubur from the dryer. The little dog was still slightly damp, and he was a paler blue than he used to be, but the stains around his head and left side were almost gone: a week of being dragged around by a child would soon mix enough dirt into his fur to make the faint line of blood unnoticeable. Before I left, I tried Rhonda Fepple again, but she was either still out, or not up to answering the phone. I left my name and cell-phone number a second time.

I was getting into my car when I decided to go upstairs to my safe for my Smith & Wesson. Someone was shooting guns awfully close to me. If they started firing right at me, I wanted to be able to shoot back.

As I drove north, I turned on the local news. Police were anxious to speak to the woman who had admitted paramedics to the home of a Lincoln Park shooting victim.

She told paramedics she was a family friend but didn’t give a name. By the time police arrived to investigate the crime scene, she had fled, shedding the navy service coverall she was wearing. It’s possible she belonged to a cleaning service and surprised a robbery in progress, since no obvious valuables were missing. The police are not releasing the name of the victim, who is in critical condition following surgery to remove a bullet from his heart.

Dang. Why hadn’t I thought to say I was with a cleaning service? My navy coverall had been perfect for it. Hopefully the paramedics thought I was an illegal immigrant who had fled to avoid revealing my papers to the cops. Hopefully I hadn’t left my prints on anything. Hopefully the person who had shot Paul hadn’t been hanging around the house when I walked up to it.

To my surprise, when I got to Max’s, not only was Michael Loewenthal there but also Carl Tisov-and Lotty. The strain was still evident in the lines around Lotty’s mouth and forehead, but she and Carl actually seemed to be laughing together.

Agnes Loewenthal greeted me exuberantly. “I know I shouldn’t be so pleased that someone’s lying in hospital, but I’m ecstatic-Christmas and my birthday tied up in one gorgeous package. And Michael here to enjoy it with us.”

Carl bowed to me with an extravagant flourish and handed me a glass of champagne. They were all drinking, except Lotty, who seldom touches alcohol.

“You came with Michael?” I asked.

He nodded. “Max is after all my oldest friend on the planet. If anything happened-well, a child is more important than one concert more or less. And Lotty even decided the same thing about one operation more or less. Then we got here and found we could relax, that that delusional menace won’t be around again, at least not while the little one is here.”

Before I could respond, Calia hurled herself into the living room, yelling, “Give me my Ninshubur!” Agnes promptly went to her, urging her to display a few manners.

I pulled the dog from my briefcase. “Your little puppy had a big adventure today. He saved a man’s life, and he had to have a bath: he’s still a bit damp.”

She grabbed the dog from me. “I know, I know, he jumpted into the river and carried the princess to safety. He’s wet because ‘Ninshubur, the faithful hound, leapt from rock to rock, heedless of any danger.’ Did that bad man take his collar? Where are his tags like Mitch? Now Mitch won’t know him.”

“I took off his collar to give him his bath. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”

“You’re bad, Aunt Vicory, you stoled Ninshubur’s collar.” She butted my leg.

“Aunt Vicory is good,” Agnes remonstrated. “She went to a lot of trouble to get your little dog back. I want to hear you say thank you.”

Calia ignored her, running around the room like a demented bumblebee, bouncing off furniture, off Michael, off me, and off Tim, who had appeared with a tray of sandwiches. Excitement over the sudden arrival of her father, whom she hadn’t expected to see for some time, and excitement over the day’s events had sent her completely over the top. At any rate, she didn’t need my explanation of why her dog was damp and stained-it fit perfectly with the story of the faithful hound.

Michael and Agnes tolerated her antics for about three minutes before marching upstairs with her to the nursery suite. When they had gone, Max asked for a detailed capitulation of the events around Paul’s shooting. I told him everything, including the frightening display devoted to himself and his family in Paul’s closet.

“So you don’t know who could have shot Paul?” Max said, when I’d finished.

I shook my head. “And I don’t even know if it was someone who was after the books I found in that dreadful closet. Maybe the fact that he was telling everyone he had papers proving his father was with the Einsatzgruppen made some real Nazi conspirators seek him out. They didn’t know he was a lunatic-they thought he was on to them. So they shot him. The evil temptress, of course, Ilse Bullfin, seduced Paul in order to get him to open the front door.”

“Who?” Max demanded sharply.

“Didn’t I tell you? I asked him who shot him, and he said a woman named Ilse. I know I didn’t get the last name quite right. It sounded kind of like Bullfin.”

“Could it have been Wölfin?” Max asked, saying the name in a fast, low voice.

I strained to hear the difference between what he said and what Paul had said. “Vull, you’re saying, not Bull? Yes, I suppose it could be-the two sounds are very close. Is she German? Do you know her?”

“Ilse Wölfin-Ilse Koch, known as the She-Wolf. A most monstrous concentration-camp guard. If that’s who this poor devil thinks shot him-umph. I’d like to lay all this in front of a psychologist-this shrine, his obsession with the Holocaust. I don’t suppose he’d let anyone besides this Rhea Wiell actually talk to him, but I don’t know if you could even count on it being a woman who shot him. I don’t know enough about delusions-he might confuse an assailant with an SS guard, but would he still know the difference between a man and a woman? What do you think, Lotty?”

Lotty shook her head, the lines of strain deeper in her face. “That kind of pathology is beyond me. We only know he’s been deluding himself for a week about his relations with you-but confusing you with his brother hasn’t made him think you were his mother, after all.”

Max shifted uneasily. “What hospital did you say he was going to? Compassionate Heart? I could send someone over there-he’s so eager to be listened to he might talk to another doctor.”

“But that doctor could not tell you any revelations this man Paul might make,” Lotty protested. “You have no standing to get someone to reveal patient confidences to you.”

Max looked absurdly guilty: he had clearly been planning to send a friend from Beth Israel who might, as a favor to Max, violate the standards of confidentiality.

“But what’s in these books that made him keep them secret?” Carl said. “Do they show some reason to believe that’s why he was shot?”

I pulled the accordion file out of my briefcase. I’d forgotten the picture of the woman I’d taken along. I laid it on the coffee table in front of the three.