Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

“Remember the perp you didn’t see, shot the security guard? Missing person whose car we found outside the Frankel estate.” Conlin unfolded a piece of paper showing her a police artist’s sketch of a square face with a wide nose and salt-and-pepper hair. “Look familiar?”

Joyce shook her head, looking past Conlin now, across the crowded lobby and saw a well-dressed man in a blue blazer, face partially hidden under a blue-and-white cap, something familiar about him, his sturdy build and the way he moved, and thought it was Hess. But how could it be possible? Hess was dead. She’d seen him with a bullet hole in his chest, lying in a pool of blood. And yet she’d swear it was him.

“You all right?” Conlin said, staring at her.

Joyce was light-headed all of a sudden, face cold, clammy. “Maybe it’s low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten all day.” She rubbed her hands together and took a breath. Glanced back and he was gone. Scanned the lobby but didn’t see him.

“You better sit down,” Conlin said.

“Maybe I better.”

“You might be more comfortable in your apartment.”

“This is fine.” Joyce didn’t want to be alone with Conlin right now. She might break down and tell him everything. It was a difficult position to be in. Hess was alive and back in Palm Beach but she couldn’t tell the police. They sat in two chairs against the wall, Conlin’s body angled, facing her.

“You going to tell me what really happened that night?”

“I did.”

“You saw him, didn’t you?”

“Who you talking about?”

“This guy Klaus, or whatever his name is, killed your friend Lenore. But he was looking for you, wasn’t he?”

“Why would he be looking for me?”

“That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” Conlin paused, staring at Joyce. “I talked to Mrs. Frankel, she said you were staying at her estate while your apartment was being painted. You told me you were staying at Frankel’s so you could put up Harry Levin from Detroit and his buddy, Cordell Sims. Which one is it?”

“Both.”

“Both, huh? How do you know Harry?”

“We’re old friends, went to school together. We’ve kept in touch.”

“Yeah, where was that at?”

“The Jewish day school.”

“And out of the blue he decided to come and visit?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Which one of you shot the German? Or was it the colored guy, Sims?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. My guess would be Harry Levin?”

“Then why’re you asking me?”

“According to Detroit police he’s got a permit to carry a firearm. Big one, too, .357 Mag.” Conlin took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, tapped one out and lit it with a silver Zippo. “I was in Freeport a few days ago visiting a guy looks a lot like this.” He held up the artist sketch again. “Shot with a high-caliber round — through and through, and dumped in the ocean. Sound familiar? That’s usually enough to get the job done. But this German is either tough or lucky or both. But you don’t know him, uh?”

Joyce met his gaze but didn’t say anything. Conlin’s hunch was right on the money but there was no way he could prove it. “You might be interested to know Klaus escaped from the hospital in Freeport, hijacked a boat and took it to Palm Beach. Went to a lot of effort to get back here. Like he had some unfinished business to take care of. But you don’t know anything, is that right?” Conlin paused for effect. “You probably have nothing to worry about then.”

He got on his feet. “There is one more thing I should tell you. You read about that woman was strangled last night a few blocks from here? Klaus is our main suspect. Murdered her, took a shower, fixed himself a snack. We’ve got a real wacko on our hands. Fingerprints match the prints on the security guard’s handgun and flashlight. They also match the prints in Lenore Deutsch’s house. But from what you tell me he’s not after you, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. Listen, you have a nice evening, Ms. Cantor.”

The phone was ringing when Harry walked in the kitchen. He threw his keys on the counter and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Harry, I think I just saw him.”

It was Joyce.

“Who’re you talking about?”

“Hess. He’s alive.”

“Not unless he’s back from the dead,” Harry said. “No way he could’ve survived. It’s impossible.” Although there had been a shred of doubt in the back of his mind when he dumped Hess’ body in the ocean and watched the current take him out to sea.

Joyce told him about seeing Hess in the lobby and everything Detective Conlin had said.

“Harry, I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

“Call Cordell. He’ll take care of you till I can get down there.”

It was almost dark when Hess checked into the Vista del Mar, a motel on the ocean in a little town called Pompano Beach, thirty minutes south of Palm Beach by taxi. There were two couples sitting in lounge chairs by the pool, drinking beer, talking loud and laughing as Hess walked past them, went to the office and checked in.

His room was on the first floor facing the pool. He looked around. It was small and clean — nothing special. He walked out, closed the door and put the key in his trouser pocket, passed by the couples sitting there and one of the women said, “Ever stay here before?”

It was dark, he couldn’t see her face. “No,” he said.

“Well, you’re going to love it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Hess said. He walked down the street to the Oceanside Shopping Center, bustling with activity, cars driving in and out, people everywhere. He went to Pompano Drugs and bought a toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, shaving cream, razor and a shampoo called Head & Shoulders. He walked down the sidewalk to a men’s store and bought khaki trousers, a dark blue golf shirt, underwear, socks and a pair of brown Docksiders.

Back outside he noticed a post office, closed now. He would see about renting a post-office box in the morning. Hess carried his purchases to a phone booth, set the bags on the floor, picked up the receiver and fed a nickel into the coin slot, pressed 0 for the operator and made an overseas phone call to Munich.

After half a dozen rings, Ingrid said, “Hello,” in a tired voice. It was almost 1 a.m. Munich time. She had probably been asleep.

“It’s Ernst.”

“My God, are you all right? I have been so worried. The police came to the office. They’re going to arrest you for war crimes and crimes against humanity. Your bank accounts have been frozen. If you return to Germany you will be arrested.”

“I need your help with something.”

“Yes, of course, Ernst, anything.” Ingrid took a breath. “Can you at least tell me where you are?”

He could hear voices and the clatter of shopping carts outside the phone booth. “There is fifty thousand dollars in the safe in my apartment.” She had a key. He gave her the combination. “I’ll phone you tomorrow and let you know where to send the money.”

Hess walked back to the motel thinking about Ingrid. He knew he could count on her. They’d had a brief affair years earlier. She had been twenty-five at the time, slightly overweight and insecure, and Hess had taken advantage of her.

The way Ingrid still looked at him, he didn’t think she had ever gotten over him.

He entered the courtyard and noticed the two beer-drinking couples were gone. The pool lights were on, making the water look green and murky. Hess went to his room, took off the elegant Palm Beach outfit and dressed in the clothes he had just purchased. The light blue trousers replaced by khakis that were too long, the orange short-sleeved shirt replaced by a blue golf shirt with a penguin on the upper right side, the white leather loafers with gold bars replaced by stiff brown Docksiders with rawhide laces. The finishing touch was a dark blue cap that said Pompano Beach, the words stacked on the front. Hess glanced at himself, posing in the mirror, and saw a tradesman on holiday.