Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

He found an address book in a desk drawer in the living room, a vase of flowers on the desktop, wilting in the darkness. Remembered Joyce carrying flowers the last time he had seen her. He sat paging through the book, a gooseneck lamp casting a bright circle on the open pages. He was looking behind the L tab and saw Harry Levin’s name, address, home and business phone numbers.

Hess picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang several times before he heard Harry Levin say, “This is Harry. Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”

Nothing else happened for almost an hour. The TV news crews had gone. The crowd had dispersed. At 4:20 a black body bag was wheeled out of the building on a gurney. Two men lifted it into the rear of a white van that said MEDICAL EXAMINER on the side in black type. The van drove off.

Hess collected the towel, binoculars, tanning lotion, stuffed everything in Max Hoffman’s beach bag, slipped into the Docksiders and moved along the sand-blown sidewalk to the Chrysler. The parking meter had expired. There was a ticket on the windshield under the wiper blades. Hess picked it up. The fine was three dollars. He ripped the ticket in half, slid the pieces in his trouser pocket.

Hess sat behind the wheel. He saw Harry Levin and the Negro come out the side entrance on Worth Avenue. They stood and talked for a few minutes. Then Sims started walking toward town and Harry got in a car that was parked on the street. Hess spun the big Chrysler around the corner, followed Harry to the Breakers, and watched him check in.

After twenty hours at the Motor Lodge near the turnpike, afraid to go out and going out of her mind, Joyce had had enough. She called a taxi and took it to her cousin Larry’s in Boca. He lived on Lake Drive in an 8,500-square-foot Mission-style mansion. Larry Schiff was self-made, president of Appliance World, a business he started with $10,000, most of it bar mitzvah money he’d saved.

A dark-skinned Latin in a white guayabera shirt answered the door. “Welcome, Señora,” he said, bowing with an effeminate flourish. He picked up Joyce’s suitcase, carried it into the foyer whose ceiling went up to the second storey, and closed the door. She could see Larry approaching, coming down a long hallway with a marble floor. “Joycee’s here. Joycee’s here. Everyone stand up and cheer,” his voice high and lispy. He kissed her on both cheeks like a French aunt. “Armand, meet Ms. Joyce Cantor, my one and only cousin.”

Armand nodded, lifted her suitcase and moved to the stairs. “So good to see you. Want to freshen up? Armand will escort you up to the guest suite.”

Joyce said, “What’re you doing home? I thought you’d be working.”

“We shot a commercial this morning and finished early. Guess what number.”

“I don’t know. Twenty.”

“Try fifty,” Larry beamed. “Number one appliance store chain in the country. Knock on wallboard,” he said, tapping his knuckles on a foyer wall. “What brings you to Boca?”

“Oh, you know, get away for a few days, see my cousin I haven’t seen in forever.”

Larry smiled. “Go change, unpack. Come down we’ll have a drink on the terrace.”

“I may take a quick nap, close my eyes for twenty minutes. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Joyce lay down on the bed, tried to sleep but her mind was racing. She got up, turned on the TV, a nineteen-inch console, while she unpacked.

Homicide in Palm Beach, it read over an aerial shot of the island, cutting to a blonde, blue-eyed TV reporter standing outside the Winthrop House. “Shortly after noon today, the body of Dennis Ifflander was discovered in a fourth-floor apartment bathroom by an unsuspecting maid.”

Joyce was stunned, couldn’t breathe. She knew Denny. He was a good guy, nice to everyone.

“This is the second homicide to shock residents of this affluent seaside community in less than a week. Detective Conlin of the Palm Beach Police Department had this to say.”

“Mr. Ifflander was shot twice at close range with a high-caliber revolver. There was no sign of a struggle, which indicates Mr. Ifflander probably knew his assailant.”

“Detective, is this case related to the murder of Mrs. Lynn Risdon less than a week ago?” She held the microphone up to Conlin’s face.

“The manner of death is certainly different, but we won’t know for sure until all of the evidence is examined. And, of course, we want to talk to the woman who is renting the apartment.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

Now Hess’ face filled the screen, the grainy black-and-white photo.

“This man is a suspect in two other Palm Beach homicides. He’s considered armed and dangerous. If you see him, contact police immediately.”

My God. Joyce had this sudden sickening feeling Denny had been murdered in her apartment.

Now the camera went back to the blonde. “Kim Fortin reporting live from the Winthrop House in Palm Beach.”

Joyce picked up the phone and called Harry’s house. Got his answering machine. “Harry, it’s Joyce, call me. It’s an emergency.” She left Larry’s number. Then she called his office and left the same message. She washed her face, tried to compose herself and went downstairs.

Larry was five six in his elevator shoes, but looked smaller under the high kitchen ceiling, leaning back against one of the black marble counters, smiling in approval, watching himself on TV. Without taking his eyes off the screen he said, “You’ve got to see this.”

In the commercial Larry was in an appliance store surrounded by washers, dryers, stoves and sinks. “Appliance World,” Larry said, mugging for the camera. “Deals so good, you’ll feel like dancing.” Larry turned sideways, like he was walking, moving his feet faster and faster until the scene faded, and the words Appliance World appeared chiseled out of stone.

“Black dudes at the station call me the white James Brown.” Joyce had seen his commercials before. The girls in the office were talking about him one time, and Joyce finally admitted Larry was her cousin.

Amy, the office manager, had said, “What’s he like?”

“Full of himself. Larry’s head’s so big he couldn’t fit through the doorway. But he’s very insecure. Say something negative about him, he looks like he’s going to cry.”

Amy grinned. “Why’s he dance in the commercials?”

“I guess he thinks he’s good.”

“It’s really annoying.”

Joyce felt guilty for bad-mouthing him after Larry had taken her in — no questions asked, and said she could stay as long as she wanted. But he was having a party in a few hours and it was probably going to get wild and crazy.

“Ever see a pool full of drunk horny naked men committing unnatural acts?”

“Not in a couple days.”

“You want to?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Larry made them white wine spritzers they took outside and sat in comfortable chairs looking out at Lake Boca that was really a widened stretch of the Intracoastal. The sun was fading and she could see lights on in the highrises across the water. Larry said, “How’s it going?”

“Okay.”

“Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never been here before and you asked if you could stay for a while. So I figured something was wrong. Get it off your chest,” Larry said. “You’ll feel better.”

Joyce told him most of the story, starting with the Nazi death squad in the woods outside Dachau, and when she finished Larry said, “I knew about the concentration camp, but not the rest.” He sipped his spritzer. “This is an amazing story. Let me put your mind at ease. Armand was a former captain in the Cuban military. The Nazi shows up here it’s all over.”