An Eye for Murder (20 page)

Dad motioned me to stop in front of a three-story building on Sawyer Street. The Teitelmans’. I cut the engine, and Dad got out of the car. He craned his head up to a window on the top floor. When David got out, Dad touched his arm, then pointed. Her room. They both fell silent and peered up.

Back in the car we circled back to Douglas Avenue. As we passed a brick apartment building with white moldings and stately architecture, Dad said, “And this is where your mother moved after your father left for the war.”

I slowed. The windows of the four-story building were separated from each other by lots of space, hinting at large rooms with high ceilings. Columns flanked the entrance, and a wrought iron fence surrounded the property. “This is a far cry from the Orphans Home,” I said. “And Teitelman’s. How did she afford it?”

“Oh, she knew the owner. We all did. Man by the name of—lemme see—his name was Feld.” Dad dipped his head. “He ate in the restaurant from time to time.”

“Still—”

“Things were different back then, sweetheart,” Dad said. “It was the war. People helped each other out. I’m sure he gave her a deal. What with her husband overseas and all. By the way, son…” Dad pulled something out of his wallet, twisted around, and handed it to David. “This is your mother and me and Barney Teitelman in the restaurant. Before we enlisted.” David stared at the picture. “Why don’t you keep it?”

David looked up. “Really?” Dad nodded.

“Thank you, Jake.” He looked at it again, then slipped it into his pocket.

I headed east on Douglas until it more or less dead-ended and pulled into a parking lot. Once out of the car, we strolled around a man-made pond on paths that were surprisingly free of litter. A profusion of trees and greenery muffled the sounds of the ghetto that surrounded the park. Mothers wheeled baby strollers, children frolicked, and even the men, ragged and probably homeless, seemed pacified by the tranquil surroundings.

As we walked past a carefully tended flower bed, I told them about Fouad and how nicely my own yard was shaping up. “It figures he’d be good with nature and growing things,” I said.

“Why is that?” Dad said.

“He’s…well…he’s kind of spiritual.”

“Fouad.” David repeated the name softly. “Is that Arabic?”

“Syrian. Fouad’s Muslim.”

Dad rubbed his hands together. “Just what a Jewish girl needs.”

“He’s teaching me how to take care of the garden.”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“You wouldn’t do that if you knew him, Dad.”

He shrugged and kept going. Looming around the bend was an old band shell with a hollowed-out stage. He slowed near a thicket of trees and bushes opposite the stage. “This is where it happened.” He stopped.

The grass was green, the flowers bloomed, and there was a lazy buzz from the insects. I pushed through the trees. Just behind them was a small clearing. Plenty of room for someone to take cover, stake out their prey, and shoot. I went back through the bushes, shaking leaves and brambles off my arm.

Pushing his sunglasses back on his head, David gazed around, deep in some private world we couldn’t share. Then he looked at my father. “Tell me everything, Jake.” His eyes were tinged with sadness.

“You sure, son?”

He nodded. Even in sorrow, his bearing was dignified, almost royal. My father took him aside, and they walked slowly toward the thicket, David staring as if committing the scene to memory. My father talked, but I couldn’t hear what he said. I didn’t want to. David stopped and covered his eyes with his hand. His jaw worked as he murmured, “
Baruch Dyon Emmes
.”

“Blessed be the true Judgment,” Dad repeated. “Amen.”

He put his arm around David.

Rachel and I braved the heat and drove up to Uncle Dan’s to check out camp gear. This would be her third time at sleepaway camp; fortunately, I’d paid the fees last winter. I was frugal this year, buying only a pair of hiking boots and a red poncho, which Rachel wore out of the store. I’d get the rest of her stuff at Target.

Thick, dark clouds massed in the western sky as we drove home. The leaves on the trees had flipped over, their pale green bottoms facing up. A brisk wind chased us inside. As I made dinner, the first drops of rain sizzled on the street. I closed the windows. A few minutes later, it was pouring. Forks of lightning singed the sky, and thunder crashed overhead.

Rachel and I were quiet during dinner, as if we had tacitly agreed to let the storm’s fury speak for us. She offered to help clean up, which surprised me until I realized she didn’t want to be alone. While she stacked the plates in the dishwasher, I made a pot of decaf. Then we camped out in the family room, the rain pounding on the roof. I made sure the door was locked, then crossed the room and lifted the phone off the base.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just making sure it works. You know how these storms are.”

“You think the power’s going out?” Rachel was still afraid of the dark.

“No way.” I gave her my most reassuring smile. “Hey. I’m going to take another look at some stock footage I got for work. You want to watch it with me?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll read.”

“Deal.”

She grabbed Harry Potter, and I loaded the cassette into the VCR. As I waited for it to rewind, I worked a finger into my scalp, hoping that maybe I wouldn’t see what I’d seen before. Maybe it had just been my imagination, my propensity to make up stories and connections where none existed. Maybe my suspicions would dissipate like the steam rising from my coffee.

But as I watched the scenes of Lisle Gottlieb and Paul Iverson, I saw their body language all over again. How they looked at each other. Reacted to each other. They
were
involved. Intimate. It was all there.

And so was the resemblance between David and Paul Iverson. Both were handsome men with prematurely white hair. Thin, aristocratic noses. Both carried themselves with that almost regal bearing. I grew edgier, and when Iverson, with Lisle at his side, smiled into the camera, I jabbed my thumb on the remote so hard that Rachel jerked her head up.

I snatched the coffee mug and went into the kitchen. A peal of thunder crashed outside. David Linden was well into his fifties. Which meant that Lisle Gottlieb had to have been pregnant with him when she went to see my father. Yet she raised him to believe Kurt Weiss was his father.

I rinsed the mug in the sink. Lisle had been a busy woman. First my father. Then Kurt Weiss. Then Paul Iverson. Opportunistic, too, moving from the Orphans Home, to a boardinghouse, to a luxury apartment. I reached for the towel. Who was Lisle Gottlieb? Why did she take three lovers in quick succession? Was she that desperate—or lonely?

And what about Skull? Was he in love with her, too? Maybe I was wrong about the picture of the woman on the bridge. Maybe Skull had been one of Lisle’s lovers, too; she got around enough. Maybe he was trying to track her down to rekindle their romance.

I dried the mug and put it away. I still had no idea how— or even if—Skull’s pursuit of Lisle was related to the theft of his things. If this was a love triangle, quadrangle, or some geometric variant thereof, given all the men who were apparently smitten with Lisle Gottlieb, it still didn’t explain who wanted Skull’s things badly enough to break into my house.

“Mom?” Rachel asked as I sat on her bed that night.

“Yeah, honey?” The stormed had passed, and moonlight streamed in through the blinds.

“Where’s Daddy? Why hasn’t he called?”

I chewed my lip. “I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t he know we’re worried about him?”

“I think he probably does.”

“Do you think he’s okay?”

I brushed my hand across her forehead. “I’m sure he is.”

“Then why doesn’t he call? Doesn’t he love us anymore?” I bent down and nuzzled her neck. “If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that your father loves you very much. More than anything else in his life. He must be working on a very important case. I’m sure he’ll be in touch as soon as he can.”

Her face smoothed out and she reached her arms around my neck for a hug. Rolling on her side, she cradled her hands under her face. I sat by her side and watched the moonbeams dance on the wall until she was asleep.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Light from the monitors blinked as Hank and I prepared to screen the Midwest Mutual show. The heavy work was over; we were just tweaking. I’d called Barry to give him a piece of my mind, but there was no answer, and I was too angry to leave a message. I settled into a seat in the control room.

Hank clicked the mouse. The blinking lights disappeared; the screen turned black. The plink of a musical note sounded, and a tiny teardrop not much bigger than a pinpoint of light dissolved from black. Behind it a second teardrop appeared, and the sound track plinked again. More drops and plinks appeared, until the drops became a trickle, the trickle became a waterfall, and the waterfall a flood. The sound track swelled too, from plinks to a hum to the sound of crashing waves. When the screen was filled with rushing water, we cut to a teddy bear swirling down a stream. In voice-over we heard a couple bemoaning the loss of their home.

Fifteen minutes later, the closing credits faded to black, and the music ended on cue. Some editors just let the music fade out, but Hank back-times the track so it ends on the last beat.

“It’s good,” I said.

“Just good?” He looked injured.

“The transitions are smooth, the bites work, and the effects are pure eye candy. You did a great job.”

“But—”

“No buts. It’s better than Karen has any right to expect. But then, she knows that, when you’re involved.” Hank’s face smoothed out. “But next time, we need more glitz.” I dangled an imaginary stogie and flicked the ashes on Hank’s head. “Star Wars, Armageddon, you know what I mean, baby? The audience’ll eat it up.”

Hank laced his hands behind his head. “You can take the girl out of Hollywood…”

I cuffed him on the shoulder. “On to the Marian Iverson show.”

“When do we start?”

I shook my head. “We can screen, maybe tag some footage, but we can’t really start cutting until after the Fourth.” I told him about the fly-around.

“Groovy. What kind of plane?”

“Oh you know. The kind with two wings and a tail.” I looked away. “I hate to fly,” I said in a low voice. “Really?”

“I’m the worst white-knuckler you’ll ever meet. I usually have to get drunk before I get on a big plane, and this one is gonna be tiny. I’ll be useless by the time we land. If we do.” He laughed. “I guess it won’t help to tell you flying is safer than driving. Especially with all the new security stuff.”

“Bullshit.” I rolled back in my chair. “Everyone knows airplanes are held together with spit and rubber bands.”

Hank spread his hands. “I don’t believe it. You’re not afraid of anything.”

Was that his impression of me? “By the way, if you ever tell anyone about this, you will swim with the fishes.”

“That’s more like it.”

The intercom on the phone buzzed. A disembodied voice broke over the intercom. “Hank. Line three for you.”

Hank fast-forwarded through the Milk Days footage while he talked on the phone. Armed with a smile, Marian floated from group to group, dispensing a pleasantry or interested look. Again, I was str uck by her composure and how controlled, almost regally, she carried herself. Just like her father. And David Linden.

A message from my lawyer was waiting for me at home.

“I made some calls about Barry’s problem,” Pam said when I called her back.

“And?” I twisted the mouse cord around my fingers. “The situation is a shitload worse than we thought.”

I first met Pam Huddleston twenty years ago at a West Side women’s shelter where we both volunteered. I remember how her anger would explode when she saw a battered woman. It still does. “What does that mean, Pam?”

“Let me say, first of all, I don’t think you’ll be in any trouble.” She didn’t think? A few weeks ago, she was certain. “But there’s some bad news. Barry seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared? How disappeared?”

“What the fuck do you think I mean? He’s gone. Packed his bags and took the last train out of Dodge.”

Damn. I should have called after he didn’t show on Memorial Day, but my pride didn’t let me. If he didn’t want us— “When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Before Memorial Day. ”

“Well, he’s taken a leave of absence from the firm, he sublet his condo, and no one knows where he is. Sounds like a vanishing act to me.”

I twisted the mouse cable more tightly. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Umm, Ellie, let’s back up for a minute.” I didn’t like the sound of that. “You know Barry owes the Chicago Corp half a million dollars, right?”

“There was a margin call on his stock.”

“Right.”

“Pam, I thought the whole point of a margin call was to protect everyone so that if the stock tanks, the brokerage sells it, and you only lose what you invested.”

“That’s the theory. But if the stock falls too far too fast, your account can go negative, and the house loses money, too. They don’t like that, so they try to get it back.”

“Is that what happened?”

“I’m still trying to get all the details. The problem is that the account was held in both your names—”

“That was a major screw-up by Chicago Corp. They never closed the account.”

“Well, actually, they say they did. During the divorce settlement. They say Barry reopened it later on.”

“How could he do that? He never asked me to sign—” I shut my mouth. “Pam, Barry may be a lot of things, but he’s not that sleazy. I know. I was married to him.”

“I remember,” she said dryly. “And I’m not so sure I believe the Chicago Corp either. I think it’s possible that they fucked up, and they’re just trying to cover their ass. Your former broker retired to Florida a few months after the divorce. Who knows what he was or wasn’t doing before he left?”

“What does Barry’s new broker say?”

“Well, that’s another problem. The guy quit last week. He was hawking the stock and took a huge hit himself. Not to mention all his pissed-off clients.”