Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

“His name’s Ernst Hess, a Nazi wanted for crimes against humanity.”

“I saw him on the news. Why didn’t you tell me this when he killed the security guard and the realtor?”

“I thought he was dead. That was the end of it.”

“You’re the one who shot him, aren’t you? That seemed obvious when I found out you’re licensed to carry a firearm.”

“It was either him or me.”

“What’s your connection with the Nazi?”

“Hess and his men killed six hundred Jews in the woods outside Dachau in 1943. Joyce and I were there, buried in a mass grave. We crawled out and escaped.”

“You know where he’s at, don’t you? Planning to go over with the Mag, draw on him again. But that isn’t going to happen. We’re going to arrest him.”

“I have no idea where he is, but I’ve got his license number. L50 56E.”

“Probably stole the car. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Conlin walked out of the waiting room and went down the hall to the nurses’ station. Harry could see him talking and gesturing. One of the nurses handed him a phone.

Conlin came back ten minutes later. “Car belongs to Max Hoffman, lives in Pompano Beach. That sound familiar?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Address on NE 5th Street. Know where that’s at?”

Harry waited down the street in Conlin’s car while the SWATs went in and secured the house. No one was home. And Max’s car, a 1970 Chrysler New Yorker, was missing. After the SWATs had gone Harry and Conlin were on the driveway next to the house. Harry saw a woman coming toward them from next door.

“Hello, I’m Lois Grant, I live right there. Is there a problem? Did something happen to Max’s cousin?”

Conlin said, “Who are you talking about?”

“Emile. He’s been staying here while Max is in Germany, visiting relatives.”

Conlin said, “Did Max tell you he was going?”

“No, that’s the strange part. He never said a word.”

Harry said, “How well do you know him?”

“We’re buddies. I make him cookies and cobbler, we have dinner together, go to the track.”

Conlin said, “Would he leave town without telling you?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so but he did.”

And maybe he didn’t, Harry was thinking. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“It’s been almost a week.”

Conlin unfolded an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven piece of paper and handed it to Lois. Her eyes lit up. “That’s him.”

It was the passport photograph of Hess.

“He looks just like Max,” Lois said.

A Pompano Beach police officer approached Conlin and told him they had found Max Hoffman’s Chrysler in long-term parking at the Fort Lauderdale airport.

Conlin glanced at Harry. “You know him. Where do you think he’s going?”

“No clue,” Harry said. “But I’ll bet anything he’s traveling as Max Hoffman.” He paused. “I’d get the manifest for every flight that took off from Lauderdale today.”

Instinct told Cordell to leave the sunshine state even before he saw High-Step’s body in the morgue. High had been shot fourteen times, the Colombians sending a message. He had stopped by High’s crib, with crime-scene tape in the shape of an X over the front door, and more tape that said Don’t cross this line strung behind the house, some windows blown out, bullet holes in the ones that were still there.

Cordell drove to the Coconut Grove police station, asked the desk sergeant what happened to Carlos Bass, lives over on Bonita Avenue. He made a call and a Detective McBride came out, nice-looking white girl about thirty-five, took him to a room like the rooms he’d been taken to at the police station in Detroit. Asked him did he want something to drink, coffee, glass of water. He said, no thanks.

They sat across from each other at a conference table, couple ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, lingering smell of smoke, clock on the wall.

“How do you know Mr. Bass?”

“He lived on my same block in Detroit. High said, ‘You ever come down to Miami, stop by.’ So that’s what I done.”

“Why do you call him High, he use drugs?”

“Name’s High-Step. On account of one leg’s shorter than the other, wore a special shoe. Go to the morgue, see that for yourself. Got nothin’ to do with drugs.”

“What was Mr. Bass’ line of work?”

“I don’t know,” Cordell said, looking right at her.

“That’s the way it’s going to be, huh?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Carlos Bass, or whatever you call him, had twenty-five handguns in his house, .45s and .38s, not to mention four brand-new M16s. You don’t think he sold guns, do you?”

“No idea. Haven’t seen High in years.”

“So you said. I’m going to take a wild guess and say Carlos pissed off the wrong people, or someone new to the neighborhood wanted to eliminate the competition. You think that’s possible, Mr. Sims?”

“I suppose.”

Cordell got out of there and went to his car. Now he had to get out of Florida. He raced back to his apartment, sat in the parking lot, looking around, nervous, expecting Colombians with guns to appear. He got out of the car, reached back, felt the nickel-plate in the waistband of his claret-colored pants under his shirt. At the apartment door he drew the .45 and went in. They’d cleaned him out: the money he hid in the floorboard in the kitchen, the weed, even his clothes. Took everything.

Cordell got in the car, backed out of the space and saw them in the rearview, two dark-haired guys in blousy island shirts, getting out of a white Chevy sedan, guns in their hands, moving toward him.

Cordell put it in gear, revved the high-performance engine, popped the clutch and laid ten feet of rubber, went left on the main road, nailed it and lost them. Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of the Breakers, white clean-cut valet in a golf shirt giving him a look like — what you doing here? Hired help parks in back.

“Keep it close. Won’t be too long,” Cordell said, handing him the keys.

He called Harry from the lobby and they met outside, the beach bar, sat at a table under an umbrella, Cordell checking out two girls in bikinis coming up from the beach. They ordered drinks, a beer for Harry and Courvoisier and Coke for Cordell. He told Harry about High-Step and the Colombians, Harry listening without expression.

“I asked you to do me a favor — keep an eye on Joyce. And you go kill four Colombians. Unbelievable.”

“High was the trigger. I didn’t know what he was gonna do. I thought he was gonna talk to them that’s all. I had nothin’ to do with it.”

“You know how dumb that sounds? You can’t keep making excuses,” Harry said, sounding like his honky father.

A waiter brought their drinks. Harry stopped talking, waiting for the guy to leave.

“You’re in the big leagues now, accessory to murder,” Harry said. “Congratulations, you’re moving up in the world.”

“Harry, what do you say to a black man in a suit and tie?” Cordell paused. “ ‘Will the defendant please rise?’”

Harry didn’t react. “I see you’re taking the situation seriously.”

Cordell was takin’ the Colombians seriously. “Let me run it by you again. I didn’t go to Miami with the intention of killin’ anyone, okay? You with me so far?” Cordell took a big drink and got a boozy blast of Courvoisier, like an oil slick floatin’ on the top. “I was getting the money back they stole from me.”

“You went in there with a machine gun.”

Cordell decided not to say anything else. Harry was right. Every time he opened his mouth, sounded like he was makin’ excuses. But there weren’t any. Happened the way it happened, and if Harry didn’t believe him, what could he say?