An Eye for Murder (23 page)

“There always is.”

I told her about his resemblance to Paul Iverson and my suspicions about his parentage. Susan slowed her pace. “Are we talking about Marian Iverson’s father? The woman you’re working for?”

I plucked a wildflower from the edge of the path. “Yes.”

“Ellie, how do you do this?”

“Do what?” I twirled the flower stem.

“How do you get yourself into these—these situations?” She circled her hands in the air. “Where everything is connected and turns back on itself?” She looked at me. “There’s some kind of theory about that, isn’t there?”

“Probably the gravitational pull of Jewish geography.” She threw me a puzzled look. “An elemental force known to connect people, places, and things throughout the world.” I laughed. “No. More like the universe.”

Susan arched an eyebrow. She had it down to an art. “Don’t sell it short. David’s trying to find his roots, and his mother lived in Lawndale. It used to be a Jewish neighborhood.”

“But Iverson’s mill wasn’t in Lawndale.”

“Women came from all over to work at the mill during the war.” I shrugged. “But what David is looking into happened in Lawndale.”

“His father’s murder.”

“The man he thinks is his father.”

“So what are you doing to help?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not? You do that kind of thing. You’re good at it.” A cloud of tiny gnats hovered above my head. I waved a hand, and they immediately dispersed. “How can I, knowing what I do?”

She faced me. “How can you not? You’re the one who got him to Chicago in the first place.”

“Not really.” I hesitated. “He came for that conference.”

“Nice try.”

I threw the flower down and picked up my pace. “Susan, don’t make me feel guiltier than I already do. I can’t help him.”

“Why not?”

“David grew up idolizing Kurt Weiss. Not only as his father, but as a war hero, also. I already shocked him once by telling him that Kurt died here, not in some trench in Europe. I can’t tell him the rest. It would rip him apart.”

“But he’s searching for the truth.”

“I don’t have the truth. All I’ve got is a gut feeling, a few seconds of a newsreel, and a series of suspicious events. I need more proof.”

“All the more reason to find it.”

We ducked under a low branch hanging over the footpath. “It’s…it’s not my place.”

“Since when have you ever worried about propriety?” She bristled. “Ellie, you’ve already found out more about his family in a few weeks than he has in fifty years.”

“What if he can’t face the truth?”

“So now you’re sitting in judgment of what he can or can’t accept? From what you told me about his life, he’s already faced plenty.”

“Maybe.” I shot her a look. “Anyway, I’ve got other issues to deal with.”

The thing about Susan is that she always knows when to back off. “So, what’s going on with Barry?”

I told her about Barry’s disappearing act. “No one knows where he is, and I’m worried. I’m beginning to think I should get someone to find him.”

“You mean a private detective?”

I shrugged. “Pam said the brokerage might hire someone. But I don’t know. What if he’s in trouble?”

“Barry can handle himself.”

“Half a million in the hole is a lot to handle.” I jammed my hands in my pockets. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m eternally grateful that I don’t have to live with him anymore, but he is the father of my child. For her sake, I hope he hasn’t done anything crazy—”

“Crazy?”

“Like—” I froze.

Susan stopped, too. “What?” My heart started to jitterbug in my chest. “Ellie, are you okay?”

“No, no. It’s not me.”

“What?”

“I just thought of something. About Kurt Weiss.”

“David’s father.” She corrected herself. “The one he thinks is his father.”

I nodded. “Remember I told you Kurt came home from the war and was killed a few weeks later?”

“Yes.”

“I just remembered something. Paul Iverson died around the same time. A heart attack, the articles said. That’s what Marian said, too. But someone else told me he committed suicide.”

“Paul Iverson committed suicide? Who told you that?”

“A woman who’s kind of the resident historian of the steel industry in Chicago. She said everyone knew he killed himself, but the family wanted to put a respectable face on it. So they let out that he died of a heart attack.”

Susan searched my face. “I don’t get it. Why would a successful tycoon, a man with everything, even a mistress on the side, blow his brains out?”

“Good question.”

“You trust this woman? This historian?”

“I have no reason not to.”

“It sounds fishy.”

“Not necessarily. A suicide wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to broadcast back then.”

Susan shrugged.

“If you’re hinting that she has an ax to grind, I don’t see it,” I said. “She seems pretty credible.”

We rounded a bend on the bicycle path. I heard the hushed sound of traffic from the expressway. Susan threw her shoulders back and, with a determined tilt of her chin, picked up the pace for the home stretch.

“You know,” I said, a few paces behind her, “yesterday David asked me what his father did that made someone want to kill him. What if it wasn’t what Kurt Weiss did? What if it was what he had?” Susan slowed. “Kurt had Lisle Gottlieb,” I went on. “Paul Iverson didn’t. He lost Lisle—and possibly his unborn child—to Kurt. And then Kurt was murdered.”

“And then Iverson killed himself,” Susan finished.

We walked in step with each other. Neither of us said anything.

“You’re right about one thing,” she said finally. “What’s that?”

“You’re going to need proof.”

Chapter Thirty-two

It’s because of Rick Feld that I no longer cringe at the thought of a root canal. Not because of the classic rock music that flows out of hidden speakers on his walls. Or the picture of a young Robert Redford hanging at chair level. Or the special goggles that let you watch a video while he drills into your mouth. Rick’s skillful. And he gives great drugs.

But I wasn’t camped out at his office the next morning for a procedure.

After Rachel went to sleep, I tried to figure out how to prove that Lisle and Paul had an affair. Where had they gone for their trysts? I didn’t think there were many hotels on the East Side near the steel mill; at least none that Paul Iverson would have felt comfortable in. I couldn’t see Lisle bringing Paul Iverson to her room at the Teitelmans’ either. Too many prying eyes. Where would they have gone to consummate their relationship? I walked from room to room, trying to focus my thoughts. It was nearly midnight when it came to me. I called Dad.

“Ellie, do you know what time it is?”

“You weren’t asleep, were you?”

“No, but—”

“I’m sorry, Dad, but I need to know something. Whatever happened to Feld, the man who owned the apartment building Lisle moved into?”

“Lisle again?” He sighed. “What now?”

“What happened to the man who rented her the apartment on Douglas Avenue? You said his name was Feld.”

“I got no idea.” The strains of a clarinet played softly in the background. “But let me ask Marv. His family used to own real estate down there. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

I was brewing coffee the next morning when Dad called back. “Feld died a long time ago, but Marv thinks there’s a son up in Northbrook. A dentist or something.”

“Not Rick Feld, the root canal guy.” See what I mean about Jewish geography? Which was why I was at Rick’s office before it opened, without an appointment.

From his toys you might expect Rick Feld to be hip and New Age with Levis, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt under his white coat. Or maybe the gold chain type with designer shoes and buffed nails. He was neither. In his mid sixties, Rick was small enough for a jockey, though he claimed to have been a crew coxswain in college. What little hair was left was short, gray, and curly. But he was a cheerful man, and the twinkle in his eye said he still enjoyed a good joke.

His nurse ushered me into a small back room where Rick was hunched over his computer, his white medical jacket bathed in the glow of the monitor. Colorful graphics and lots of text splashed across the screen.

“Good morning, Rick,” I said.

He jerked his head up. “Ellie,” he said in a startled voice. “Do we have an appointment?”

Shaking my head, I peered at the monitor. He quickly closed the file. A flush crept up his neck.

A porn site, I figured. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s none of my business.”

He glanced at the monitor, then back to me. “Actually”—he cleared his throat—“I was reading.” His face was cherry red. “Reading?”

“There’s this science fiction site with free stories on it. It’s not bad.” He shrugged. “I log on when I get a minute.”

So much for prurient inclinations. I grinned. “Sorry to intrude, but I wanted to ask you a question about your father.”

He logged off. “What about him?”

“He owned property in Lawndale at one time, didn’t he?”

“Yes. We lived there until my sister was born.”

“Do you by any chance remember an apartment building on Douglas Avenue? A red-brick four-story place with columns in the front?”

“That’s where we lived.”

My heart machine-gunned in my chest. “You’re kidding.”

“Until we moved to Skokie.”

“Rick, can we set up the goggles? I want to show you something.”

“No problem.” We moved to a small cabinet in one of the treatment rooms. “What’s this all about?” He flipped the power switch on a VCR, then picked up a pair of goggles that looked like sunglasses without the frames. A pair of earphones lay beside them.

“It’s a long story.” I dug out the video of the newsreel and slipped it into the cradle. I’d cued it to the scenes of Iverson and Lisle before I left home.

He offered me the goggles.

“No. You watch it,” I said. “Tell me if you recognize any of the people you’re looking at.”

“Is there sound?”

“No. Well there is, but you don’t need to listen to it.”

He plugged the goggles into a slim silver box attached to the VCR and put them over his head. He pushed the Play button on the VCR, looking like something out of a Jules Verne novel. He raised his head, and his mouth started to twitch. Then his mouth opened. A few seconds later, he took the goggles off.

“This is amazing. Where did you get it?” He handed me back the goggles.

I looked through them. On the right, just at eye level, was a tiny screen, no more than an inch square. I could just make out scenes from the newsreel running in miniature but perfect proportion. “Do you recognize them?”

“I sure do. They rented an apartment in the building.”

“They?” I laid the goggles back on the VCR and pushed Stop.

“The guy with the white hair. And the blonde. They lived upstairs.”

“Both of them?”

Rick nodded. “I used to play Allies and Axis with Tommy Steinberg in front of the building. I remember that man’s hair. We decided he must be a magician or a wizard or something. He came in and out with her all the time.”

“All the time?”

“They left in the morning. They came back at night. They left the next morning.”

I tightened my jaw. “So he lived there?”

“That’s what I said, Ellie.” Rick angled his head. “So, what’s the deal? Who is that guy?”

“Paul Iverson.”

“The steel magnate?” I nodded.

“I always knew he was someone important.”

“How long did they live there together?”

His eyes wandered around the room. He shook his head.

“I don’t know. I was only about six or seven, you know. Hey, wait. I do remember.” His face brightened. “He was there during D-day. I remember that. I was outside with Tommy, and they came up the walk, both of them laughing and smiling, and he said something like, ‘This is a day to remember, sonny. A very important day.’ I remember I ran inside and asked my father what he meant.”

I nodded, trying to suppress the mix of emotions roiling my stomach.

Chapter Thirty-three

Fouad’s Dodge Ram was parked in the driveway when I got back that afternoon.

“Ellie, hello. I’m glad to see you,” he said, coming around from the front. “There is a slight problem.”

I followed him to the yews at the front of the house. He shook a few branches. Sprinkles of tan bristles fell to the ground. “Spider mites,” he said. “They’ve infested the yews. If we don’t do something, you will lose them.”

“Great,” I said, unable to summon up much enthusiasm for gardening. “What do we do?”

“We can spray them with Dursban or diazanon. I have both. Come.”

“Isn’t diazanon what you use on grubs?” I said as we walked to his pickup.

“That’s correct.” He dropped the back panel. “That’s powerful poison.”

He hoisted himself into the bed of the truck, where a wheelbarrow, bags of peat moss, hoses, and a complement of garden tools crowded together, all partially covered by a tarp. Throwing off the tarp, he rummaged around, eventually locating his backpack sprayer. As he pulled it out, I noticed two long brown objects wedged against the side of the bed. He saw me looking at them and quickly covered them with the tarp.

“Fouad, what are you doing with guns in your truck?”

He checked to see if anyone had seen us. “I hunt.”

“I didn’t know this was hunting season.”

He looked down. “It is not. I am moving them.” I waited.

He sighed. “I am not supposed to own them without a FOID card, so I keep them hidden.”

I pointed. “If that’s what you call hidden, I’d consider finding a new spot.”

He jumped out of the pickup and slipped his arms into the straps of the sprayer.

I eyed him curiously. The idea that Fouad would consciously break the law seemed ludicrous. “Why don’t you apply for the card?”

He heaved the sprayer onto his back.

“Fouad?”

His mouth was thin and tight. “I had the card. It was not renewed.”

We started to walk back to the yews. “Why not?”

He hesitated. “When I first came to this country, I lived in Skokie. I did not know the customs. Or the legal system. I was here only two months when my roommate was arrested for stealing a television set. The police caught him in my car. He had borrowed it. Even though I was not involved, the police did not believe me. The man in the store said he saw two boys.” He stopped walking. “I did not have money enough to hire a lawyer, but my roommate said his lawyer would represent me, too. I thought it would be good. He was Syrian, you see? Like me.” He smiled helplessly. “The lawyer got my roommate off, but not me.”