Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

NINETEEN

6:34 p.m.

Paul's heart pounded as Rachel looked up from her father's final note, tears falling from her sad green eyes. He could feel the pain. Hard to tell where his stopped and hers started.

"He wrote so elegantly," she said.

He agreed.

"He learned English well, read incessantly. He knew more about participial phrases and dangling modifiers than I ever did. I think his broken speech was just a way to hold on to his heritage. Poor Daddy."

Her auburn hair was tied in a ponytail. She wore no makeup, was dressed only in a white terry-cloth robe over a flannel nightgown. The house was finally clear of all the mourners. The children were in their rooms, still upset from the emotional day. Lucy was scampering through the dining room.

"Have you read all these letters?" Rachel asked.

He nodded. "After I left the bank. I went back to your father's house and got the rest of this stuff."

They were sitting in Rachel's dining room. Their old dining room. The two folders with news articles on the Amber Room, a German map, the USA Today , the will, all the letters, and the note to Rachel were fanned out on the table. He'd told her what he found and where. He also told her about the USA article her father specifically asked for Friday and his questions on Wayland McKoy.

"Daddy was watching something on CNN about that when I left the kids with him. I remember the name." Her body sagged in the chair. "What was that file doing in the freezer? That's not like him. What's going on, Paul?"

"I don't know. But Karol was obviously interested in the Amber Room." He pointed to Borya's last note. "What did he mean about Phaethon and the tears of the Heliades?"

"Another story Mama used to tell me when I was little. Phaethon, the mortal son of Helios, God of the Sun. I was fascinated by it. Daddy loved mythology. He said thinking about fantasy was one of the things that got him through Mauthausen." She shuffled through the clippings and photocopies, glancing closely at a few. "He thought he was responsible for what happened to your parents and the rest of the people on that plane. I don't understand."

Neither did he. And he'd thought of little else during the past two hours. "Weren't your parents in Italy on museum business?" asked Rachel.

"The whole board went. The trip was to secure loans of works from Italian museums."

"Daddy seemed to think there was a connection."

He also recalled something else Borya wrote. I should never have asked him to inquire again while in Italy.

What did he mean, again ?

"Don't you want to know what happened?" Rachel suddenly asked, her voice rising.

He'd not liked that tone years ago and didn't appreciate it now. "I never said that. It's just that nine years have passed, and it would be nearly impossible to find out. My God, Rachel, they never even found bodies."

"Paul, your parents may have been murdered, and you don't want to do anything about it?"

Impetuous and stubborn. What had Karol said? Got both traits from her mother. Right.

"I didn't say that either. There's just nothing practical that can be done."

"We can find Danya Chapaev."

"What do you mean?"

"Chapaev. He may still be alive." She looked down at the envelopes, the return addresses. "Kehlheim couldn't be that hard to find."

"It's in southern Germany. Bavaria. I found it on the map."

"You looked?"

"Not hard to spot. Karol circled it."

She unfolded the map and saw for herself. "Daddy said they knew something on the Amber Room but never went to check. Maybe Chapaev could tell us what that was?"

He couldn't believe what she was saying. "Did you read what your father said? He told you to leave the Amber Room alone. Finding Chapaev is the one thing he didn't want you doing."

"Chapaev might know more about what happened to your parents."

"I'm a lawyer, Rachel, not an international investigator."

"Okay. Let's take this to the police. They could look into it."

"That's far more practical than your first suggestion. But the trail's still years old."

Her face hardened. "I hope to hell Marla and Brent don't inherit your complacency. I'd like to think they'd want to know what happened if a plane blew out of the sky with you and me on it."

She knew exactly how to push his buttons. It was one of the things he most resented about her. "Did you read those articles?" he asked. "People have died searching for the Amber Room. Maybe my parents. Maybe not. One thing's for certain. Your father didn't want you involved. And you're way out of your league. What you know about art could fit inside a thimble."

"Along with your nerve."

He stared hard into her angry eyes, bit his tongue, and tried to be understanding. She'd buried her father this morning. Still, one word kept reverberating through his brain.

Bitch.

He took a deep breath before quietly saying, "Your second suggestion is the most practical. Why don't we let the police handle this." He paused. "I realize how upset you are. But, Rachel, Karol's death was an accident."

"Trouble is, Paul, if it wasn't, then add my father to the list of casualties along with your parents." She cut him one of her looks. The kind he'd seen too many times before. "Still want to be practical?"

TWENTY

Wednesday, May 14, 10:25 a.m.

Rachel forced herself to climb out of bed and get the children dressed. She then dropped the kids off at school and reluctantly headed for the courthouse. She'd not been in her chambers since last Friday, having taken Monday and Tuesday off.

Throughout the morning her secretary made things easy, running interference, rerouting calls, deflecting lawyers and the other judges. Originally the week had been scheduled for civil jury trials, but they were all hastily postponed. An hour ago she'd called the Atlanta police department and requested somebody from Homicide be sent to her chambers. She wasn't the most popular judge with the police. Everyone seemed to assume that since she was once a hard-nosed prosecutor, she'd be a pro-police judge. But her rulings, if they could be labeled, tended to be defense-oriented. Liberal was the term the Fraternal Order of Police and the press liked to use. Traitor, was the description she'd been told a lot of the narcotics detectives whispered. But she didn't care. The Constitution was there to protect people. The police were supposed to work within its bounds, not outside them. Her job was to make sure they didn't take any shortcuts. How many times had her father preached, when government comes before law, tyranny is not far behind .

And if anyone should know, he should.

"Judge Cutler," her secretary said through the speaker phone. Most times they were simply Rachel and Sami; only when someone came around was she labeled judge . "A Lieutenant Barlow is here from the Atlanta police. In response to your call."

She quickly dabbed her eyes with a tissue. The picture of her father on the credenza had triggered more tears. She stood and smoothed her cotton skirt and blouse.

The paneled door opened and a thin man with wavy black hair strutted in. He closed the door behind him and introduced himself as Mike Barlow, assigned to the homicide division.

She regained her judicial composure and offered a seat. "I appreciate your coming over, Lieutenant."

"No problem. The department always tries to accommodate the bench."

But she wondered. The tone was irritatingly cordial, bordering on condescending.

"After you called, I pulled the incident report on your father's death. I'm sorry about your loss. It appears to be one of those accidents that sometimes happen."