Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

“One or two.”

“Yeah? Where was that?”

“Dachau,” Harry said.

“The concentration camp?”

Harry nodded.

“I didn’t know,” Conlin said, sounding like he was apologizing. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus. How’d you get out?”

“I escaped.”

A patrolman entered the apartment and said, “There’s a colored guy named Sims downstairs, Detective, says he might know something.”

“Send him up.”

A few minutes later the same patrolman escorted Cordell into the apartment.

Conlin said, “Come out here,” and led Harry and Cordell through a sliding glass door to the balcony. It was bright and hot, sun reflecting off the white walls of the building, and the sounds of traffic coming up from the street. Cordell had his hands on the railing, looking down at the sunbathers on the beach. Conlin tapped a cigarette out of his pack, cupped his hands against the breeze and lit it with a silver Zippo. “Officer said you know something,” he said to Cordell. “Tell me.” Cordell turned, glanced at the ocean.

“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Cordell turned his head back in Conlin’s direction. “Joyce came to stay with me for a couple days.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “We friends.”

“You two going steady?”

Cordell looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“You going to raise the kids Jewish?” Conlin paused. “She left the night I was here. Something scared her, didn’t it?”

“Maybe it was you. Talkin’ about some motherfucker comin’ to kill her.”

“Back to settle things with all of you is my guess. Night manager was shot. I’m sure we’ll recover bullet frags for ballistics comparison to the murder of the security guard and the real estate lady.”

Conlin tossed his cigarette over the balcony, walked back in the living room. Harry and Cordell followed him and Conlin closed the sliding door.

“Why don’t you tell me about the German.” Conlin looked at each of them. “And don’t say what German? Don’t insult my intelligence.”

Harry didn’t think it would take much.

Conlin went back at it. “Why’d you shoot him?”

Harry said, “Haven’t we been through this?”

“That’s the way you want it, huh? Well, you’re on your own then. Tell me who to contact when he kills you. Direct me to your next of kin.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “If there’s nothing else we’ll be on our way.”

“I may want to talk to you again. Where’re you staying?”

“The Breakers.”

Harry and Cordell walked out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator. Harry pushed the button, glanced at Cordell. “Where the hell’s Joyce?”

“Yo, Harry, you not gonna believe this. I left Joyce at this motel, had to take care of business. When I come back, she gone.”

“Why didn’t you take her with you?”

“What I had to do, it wasn’t appropriate.”

“I asked you to help me out,” Harry said. “Come on.”

“I know, I fucked up. I’m sorry.” Cordell paused. “But you know we’ll find her, right? Probably stayin’ with a friend, someone from her office.”

“I guess that’s where we’ll start.”

“You’re not buyin’ this whole Hess is back from the dead bullshit, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Harry, you the one took him out put him in the water. What’re you sayin’?”

“It’s possible he is alive.”

“This is fuckin’ crazy, Harry.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

Hess was on the beach in a rented cabana when he heard the sirens. This was what he had been waiting for. A Palm Beach police cruiser arrived first, lights flashing, stopping in front of the Winthrop House, followed by an ambulance, and a few minutes later by a beige sedan. The three vehicles parked one behind the other. Hess, partially hidden by the cabana, trained the binoculars on Detective Conlin stepping out of the sedan and disappearing into the building.

All the activity across the street, including TV news crews filming the action, attracted attention. Now a crowd from the beach stood behind the seawall blocking his view. Hess aimed the binoculars at Joyce Cantor’s balcony. The Negro, Cordell Sims, was leaning over the railing. Conlin, the cocky detective, was standing behind him, smoking. And to the right — this was his lucky day — he saw Harry Levin.

Hess had been here two nights earlier, parked down the street, got out, looking at the ocean, dark water meeting dark sky, a stiff breeze blowing in. He went in the lobby. It was quiet at 10:47, and deserted but for a gray-haired gentleman in a tie and blue blazer, seventy but clear-eyed and alert, behind the front desk. Hess had checked the directory on his previous visit, and knew that Joyce Cantor was in 412. He walked by the front desk, moving toward the elevator.

“Sir, may I help you?”

Hess glanced at the man behind the desk. “I’m here to see Joyce Cantor.”

“I’m sorry sir, I saw Ms. Cantor leave yesterday with a suitcase, and to my knowledge she hasn’t returned.”

“I left my briefcase in Joyce’s condo the last time I was here and I need to get it. Do you have a key?”

“Sir, that would be against the rules. That could get me in a lot of trouble.”

“What’s your name?”

“Denny, sir.”

“Denny, if I don’t get the briefcase I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“I don’t understand why she didn’t leave it for you,” Denny said. “It doesn’t make sense. Ms. Cantor is a very responsible lady.”

“Joyce was supposed to meet me for dinner and bring the case.”

“Why didn’t she phone you?”

Denny, the rule follower, was starting to annoy him. “I have no idea.” Hess brought out his billfold, opened it and slid two $100 bills on the desktop. “For your trouble.”

Denny glanced at the money, flustered now. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“You could use that, I’ll bet. Listen, nobody will know except you and me. I’m not going to tell anyone, are you?”

“Well, I don’t see any harm as long as we’re in and out quickly.” Denny reached out, placed his right palm over the bills, slid the money toward him, folded the bills in half and put them in his trouser pocket. Now earning his fee, he unlocked a cabinet behind him, opened the doors, selected a key and locked it again.

They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor in silence. Denny was nervous, agitated. The doors opened. They walked down the hall to 412. Denny unlocked the door. They went in Joyce Cantor’s apartment, Hess scanning the large open room, windows along one side, looking out at the ocean.

Denny said, “Sir, if you would please find that briefcase, I would really appreciate it.”

“First, I want to show you something,” Hess said. He directed Denny through the master bedroom into the bathroom.

“What is it you want to show me?”

“This,” Hess said, drawing the revolver, and pulling open the shower curtain.

“Sir, what’s this all about?”

“Get in,” Hess said. “I’ll tell you when it is safe to come out.”

Denny was shaking. He reached into a trouser pocket and handed the $200 to Hess. “Sir, I would like you to have this back.”

Hess took it. “Get in.”

Denny stepped in the bathtub. Hess pulled the shower curtain closed, looking at the outline of Denny’s body behind the translucent plastic. Hess wrapped a towel around the barrel of the .38, and shot him through the curtain.

Hess was thinking about the old man while he searched the apartment, regretted shooting him, surprised by the rare feeling of guilt. Hess couldn’t remember the last time he had actually felt bad for someone.