Desert Run (16 page)

An article a month later stated that the police were no further along on their investigation. It added that Ernst was continuing to improve while undergoing rehab. Information at the bottom of the article, however, made me sit up straight.

At the bottom of the article, Fay had scribbled GUNTER HOENIG? JOSEF BRAUN? I remembered that they were the two Camp Papago POWs who had never been captured. Did Fay suspect them of attempting to kill their former kapitan? As I mulled over this possibility, two items in the story stood out. In June, Ernst had made the
New York Times
, and shortly afterwards he had began receiving threatening letters. Then he was almost killed. Did the same person who tried to kill Ernst on Long Island Sound in 1978 succeed years later in Scottsdale? Or was the murder a mere coincidence?

Like all decent detectives, I hated coincidences.

With mounting excitement, I leafed through the other material. Many of Fay's notes looked like they'd been made on the run, but with some squinting, I was able to decipher the handwriting, if not necessarily her reporter's vowel-dropping, pseudo-shorthand.

JBol: C li to cops, thre
.

Judith Bollinger said Chess lied when he wasn't at the murder scene?

And later on,
MEBol: Hats hm.

MaryEllen Bollinger hates him—her father? Or MaryEllen Bolinger said Judith Bollinger hates Chess? My bet was on the latter interpretation. Judith's strange smile, that nursing home she'd chosen for her husband…She didn't fit my idea of a loving wife.

One of the more intriguing—and indecipherable—notes had to do with
DepCal
, which I took to be Deputy Harry Caulfield. After DepCal followed the letters
CasNos/ccTrail/C/budSysNK/Van.

That was no clearer to me than Egyptian hieroglyphics. Neither was
Ols/kdSAuG?CFG.

CFG
. A person's name?

Another series of letters stumped me.
Gemuetlichkeit.
Next to it was a phone number with a west valley exchange.

But all wasn't lost. I also found a few names thankfully spelled out, phone numbers, many local, some in Connecticut, and a few long numerical sequences I recognized as an international exchange. Germany? Two of the local numbers, both west Phoenix exchanges, drew my attention: GEMUETLICHKEIT, (623) 555-7241, and
Ian MANTZ. S,
(623) 555-3820. The note after the Mantz number said,
INTV RE HOENIG.
Interview Ian Mantz regarding Gunter Hoenig, one of the escaped POWs? More German names followed, scribbled hastily, with phone numbers for each. But the only name circled in red was that of Ian Mantz.

I flipped a few more pages, mostly photocopies of the same newspaper stories I had read about the Bollinger murders and the Camp Papago escapes. Nothing new there. I was about to put everything away when an envelope fell out from between the pages. It was addressed in block printing to Fay Harris at the
Journal
, and bore no return address.

After reading the letter inside, I looked at the envelope more carefully. A Phoenix post mark, dated a year earlier, right after
Escape Across the Desert
had been released.

Then I read the letter again.

MISS HARRIS
—
ERIK ERNST MURDERED THE BOLLINGER FAMILY. DO NOT LET HIM GET AWAY WITH IT
.

There was no signature.

***

I was drifting off to sleep to the sound of rain when the phone rang. The clock face told me it was 2:56 a.m.

As woozy as I was, I recognized the voice immediately and realized that the call had been forwarded from Desert Investigations.

“He's after me and I can't reach anyone. You've got to help!”

“Who's after you, MaryEllen?”

“Clay! He's going to kill me!”

Clay, he of the fast fists. “Call 911. That's what they're there for.”

“They'll never find me. I'm in my car.”

Through the phone, I could hear traffic noises. “Where?”

“On Scottsdale Road, headed south from Camelback. I was going home from work and when I realized he was following me, I turned back toward the club. But they're all locked up! Then I remembered that you're close by.”

Lucky me. Phone still pressed to my ear, I hauled myself out of bed. “Drive to my office immediately. I'll meet you out front.” Fortunately, I still had my T-shirt on, so all I had to do was struggle into my jeans and Reeboks. Now hold on.” I swtiched to the other line, dialed 911, told them what was happening, said to send a car. When I switched back to MaryEllen, I was already halfway down the stairs, my snub-nosed .38 held barrel-up. This whole thing was probably a false alarm, but it always paid to be safe.

Her car rounded the corner through a sheet of rain as I, huddled under a waterproof jacket, reached the street. Sure enough, a late model Corvette painted Darth Vader black turned with her. If the Vette had been any closer, it would have been in her trunk. MaryEllen swerved to a halt in front of Desert Investigations and I ran around to the driver's side, rain half-blinding me. “Keep your window rolled up,” I yelled through the glass, then turned to face the Corvette, which was now silhouetted by a lightning strike so close I could smell the ozone.

Undeterred, a tall man with the over-muscled physique of a body-builder climbed out of the Corvette and splashed toward us. He had something in his hand, but in the rain I couldn't see what it was. Where were the cops? “Stop there!” I yelled, my voice almost drowned out by a thunderclap.

Clay's baritone carried well. “Fuck off, bitch. This doesn't concern you.”

If I couldn't see what was in his hand, he couldn't see what was in mine. “Step back, Clay. I've got a gun and it's aimed right at you.”

He laughed. “As if, you stupid broad. Now clear out of my way. I need to teach that woman of mine a lesson.”

With a great show, I cocked the .38's hammer.

“The fuck?” Wiping the rain out of his face, he took another step forward, although slower this time.

“Want a bullet in the balls, stud?”

That stopped him. Now I was close enough to see what he had in his hand: a knife so wickedly thin it could have been a scalpel. Was the lesson he had in mind for MaryEllen a disfigured face? I didn't get a chance to ask him because a patrol car came around the corner and pulled up beside the Corvette. Two uniforms exited, both friends of mine.

“Got some action going, Lena?” Vic Gonzales, Yaqui Indian/Hispanic, single, easy-going.

“A man with a knife making threats.”

“Ooooh. Big bad man with big bad knife.” Stan Jessup, two ex-wives, six kids, short temper.

Clay gestured toward me with the knife. A new lightning strike nearby illuminated the blade, making it look twice as big. “Listen, officers, that cunt…”

Then he was on the ground, but damned if I could see how it happened. Maybe the rain had made the street too slippery. Behind me, I could hear the muffled sounds of MaryEllen's sobs. She still hadn't rolled down the window. Smart girl.

A crack—not lightning this time. A scream. I closed my eyes. What you can't see you can't testify to in court. Another scream. When I opened them again, Clay was on his knees holding his right wrist. It looked crooked. The knife was on the ground. It looked okay.

“You gonna press charges, right, Lena?” Stan Jessup, giving Vic Gonzales an amazed glance. Rain dribbled down his chin.

I smiled. “Sounds like a plan. Think of something nice, six-months-off-the-street nice.”

MaryEllen exited the car. Before anyone could stop her, she ran through the storm to Clay, knelt down and put her arms around him, shielding him from the downpour. “You hurt him! But it was all my fault!” Then, to Clay, in a crooning voice, “Oh, baby, I'll be good from now on, I promise.”

Disgusted sounds from both cops.

I wasn't disgusted, just sad. MaryEllen had been trained from birth to love abusers, so the only sound I made was when I clicked the hammer home on my .38.

Chapter Sixteen

I spent the next morning working through Fay's notes again, placing calls to the phone numbers she'd jotted down. Ian Mantz, the name circled in red and somehow connected with POW Gunter Hoenig, turned out to be a dentist in Glendale, a growing city on the west side of Phoenix. His receptionist told me he was busy with a patient, but that she'd have him return my call. Several other men on Fay's list were now deceased, and the persons who answered their phones had no idea what she had talked to them about, if she'd talked to them at all. One had died ten years earlier.

I struck paydirt when I tried the number next to Gemuetlichkeit. A chipper female voice with a slight German accent answered “Gemuetlichkeit.”

“Ah, my name is Lena Jones and I'd like to speak to Mr. Gem…Gemal…lickit?”

A giggle. “I should have answered in English, but you know how it is. I have been speaking German to everyone all morning. I am Helga, and there is no Mr. Gemuetlichkeit here, but you have reached Gemuetlichkeit
,
the Phoenix German-American Club. How may I help you?”

Of course. A German-American club. Before she wrote her book, Fay would certainly have contacted them. Trying not to get too optimistic, I explained who I was and why I was calling.

“Hmmm. Fay Harris, Fay Harris. Why does this name sound so familiar?”

“She's the journalist for the
Scottsdale Journal
who was killed the other day.”

“Mein Gott!”
Oh, but that is terrible! Yes, yes, I remember Miss Harris now. She called here hoping to speak to some of our older members, men who might be able to help with a book she was writing about that POW camp in Papago Park. I said to her that I was not comfortable giving out that kind of information but that she could visit us in person. Besides hosting dances for our younger members, Gemuetlichkeit also functions as a senior center for German-Americans, and for them we have little weekly luncheons, free for those who need it. But anyone may come, German or not, old or young. All we request is that non-seniors or non-members donate to our Meals On Wheels program.”

In other words, bring your checkbook. “Did Fay attend any of those luncheons?”

“Several. She made many friends. Our older gentlemen grew quite fond of her.”

I smiled, picturing Fay flirting with a roomful of elderly men. Then my eyes began to sting and I forced the picture away. “Anyone in particular?”

“I am so sorry, but I must say again that I do not give out personal information about our members. But if you come visit us, there are several gentlemen I will introduce you to. Older, gallant gentlemen whose lives might be brightened by a new face.”

Dreading the drive, I agreed to attend the next luncheon. “Tell me when and where.”

“Noon today.”

My plans to have lunch somewhere with Warren—although the rain had stopped, it was still too wet out to film—died. I said I'd be right over. Before I hung up, I asked her, “Helga, what does Gem…Gemlicket or whatever mean?”

That infectious giggle again. “I forget that everyone who calls here does not understand. They think I am excusing them for sneezing. Gemuetlichkeit means, hmm, how would it translate? Ah. Cozy. Or coziness. That is what we offer here at Gemuetlichkeit. A cozy place for old friends to meet.”

As I was leaving my office, my phone rang. It was Warren. “Lena, something's come up. I'm sure you realize we're not shooting today…”

“I know. Too wet.”

“Right. I'm going to take advantage of the down day by flying back to L.A. to attend a meeting with some investors. I'm at the airport now, but if all goes well, I should be back Sunday.”

“You'll miss Fay's funeral.” Kryzinski had called. It was on for Saturday morning and a big crowd was expected.

“That can't be helped, but at least I can send flowers.”

I gave him the funeral home information, then added, “Say hi to Angel and the twins.”

“Will do. Anything you need before I leave?”

I couldn't think of anything which didn't entail heated massage oil and a Muddy Waters album played low in the background, so I simply told him to have a nice trip.

As I sped along Loop 101 north of Phoenix, I passed mile after mile of strip malls and housing developments where not long ago golden desert stretched as far as the eye could see. Phoenix and all its surrounding suburbs was becoming Los Angeles, but without the ocean breeze to cool increasing tempers. As the Jeep raced through Deer Valley—which hadn't seen deer in decades—I spied the dark Hedgpeth Hills to the north, surrounded by an old lava field. Madeline, one of my foster mothers, used to drive us out there for hikes. An artist, she would take her sketchpad along and sit drawing under the shade of a mesquite while I collected rocks near the wash. Those had been some of the happiest days of my life. But then she got sick.

I averted my eyes from the Hedgpeths and focused on the rushing traffic. One thing I'd learned from my days in foster care was to keep my vision narrow. If you look at the broad picture, it'll damn near kill you.

Gemuetlichkeit, the German-American Club, was located near Glendale's arts district, an old area of town where brick-fronted antique shops and art galleries stood side-by-side with taco stands and check-cashing businesses. In a cultural blend that was almost schizophrenic in its extremes, Hispanic laborers looking for work brushed shoulders on the narrow streets with yuppies looking for fumed-oak Victorian armoires.

I found Gemuetlichkeit sharing quarters in a refurbished warehouse with an antique store specializing in Fifties memorabilia. On one side of the center corridor, Roy Rogers and Trigger stared at me from a lunch pail, while on the other side, I heard the raucous din of a polka band going flat out behind the club's closed door. My heart sank. I was prepared to be charming, but not to dance.

As it turned out, I didn't have to worry. The music was merely a recording and most of the people sitting at the long wooden tables were long past the polka. Or any other dance, for that matter, since many were in wheelchairs. The average age of the lunchtime crowd appeared to be seventy, with a sprinkling of young whippersnappers in their sixties. I looked around for Helga, who'd had a young voice, and found a likely prospect in a matronly brunette chatting with an elderly woman who had to be ninety, at least.

I walked over. “Helga?”

When she turned to me with a broad smile, I caught a whiff of White Shoulders cologne that sweetened the tobacco-scented air. Her bright pink lipstick was the exact color of her dress. “Ah, you must be Lena! We are pleased to have you visit Gemuetlichkeit
.
Come, there are several gentlemen I would like you to meet.” Without further ado, she led me to a card table in the corner where four elderly men, finished with their lunch, were conversing in German. She introduced me, then left to attend to a woman who was having trouble maneuvering her walker between two tables.

The men weren't too old to appreciate a young blonde, but unlike their younger counterparts, their appreciation was relatively discreet. When they had finished checking out the fit of my black turtleneck, they each gave me a polite handshake. One bird-thin man, dressed formally in a dark blue suit, held my hand longer than the others. Even at his advanced age, he was heartbreakingly handsome, his hazel eyes flickering back and forth from green to brown. His accent was thick, but I had no trouble understanding him. “Our lovely Helga tells us you are a detective and that you are looking into the death of our dearly departed Kapitan Ernst.”

His companions laughed. One, who introduced himself as Klaus Brautigan, said, “Ha!
Dearly departed.
That is rich, Stefan.”

I acknowledged my role in the case, adding that I believed the wrong man had been arrested for his murder.

Stefan nodded. “The Ethiopian. Yes, it is an easy thing to blame immigrants.”

Murmurs of assent from the rest of the table. I was certain they all had their own stories to tell about this issue, but I didn't want to go down that path now. “I don't believe Rada Tesema killed Ernst.”

“Are you certain of that? To know our Ernst was to wish to kill him. I, myself, toyed with the idea many times.”

More dark chuckles, but it took me a moment to overcome my shock. “You knew him?”

A smile. “Yes I did. We were in Camp Papago together.”

I looked at him more closely, mentally erasing the map of wrinkles across his face, and realized that I had seen his face peering out at me from one of the old
Scottsdale Journal
articles. U-boat Captain Stefan Schauer had been in his twenties when the picture was taken. Schauer hadn't escaped with the others, but had stayed behind leading the Christmas Eve sing-along that covered the noise the escapees made. For his pains, he'd been transferred to another camp.

“You immigrated to Arizona after the war!”

Another nod. “During my time at Camp Papago I developed an affinity for cactus.”

Several snorts from around the table. “And American women!”

“Those, too, Klaus. They have given me great joy through the years.”

His friend Klaus nudged me with a bony elbow. “He's been married four times, the dog. And he is looking for number five. So be careful, pretty girl!”

One thing puzzled me. Before coming to Arizona to film, Warren had instituted a world-wide search for former inmates of Camp Papago, yet I had never heard him mention Stefan Schauer. When I said this to the former U-boat captain, he gave me a sly smile.

“The famous director found me, all right, but why would I wish to appear in a film that would record my wrinkles for all posterity? It is much better to leave my old loves with the memory of my young and handsome face.”

Klaus cackled. “That is not the way it was at all. Stefan is writing a book about his adventures, and he did not want movie viewers to know how little he really has to say.”

Schauer gave him a cutting look. “I have much to say, my friend. But the money was not right. Warren Quinn made me an offer I could very easily refuse.”

Vanity, thy name is Man. I was reminded yet again that however often we want to lump the elderly into one big, homogenous mass, they remain individuals. Just like the rest of us.

As if to prove my thesis, Schauer continued, “My exploits during the war, especially while on leave, are the stuff of legend. There was sweet…”

I listened for a few minutes to Schauer's recitation of his conquests—some of them surprisingly recent—until finally, not having hours to spend at Gemuetlichkeit, I steered the conversation back to Ernst. “Did you see Ernst after he moved to Arizona?”

Now a frown. “Unfortunately, yes. He came here once, several years ago, but in spite of our club's name, he found little coziness and he did not return.”

“Why did he not find, ah, coziness? Did he offend someone?”

Schauer's nose twitched. “Kapitan Ernst's presence offended everyone.”

“Who, in particular?”

The twitch again. “You desire that I give you names of others who might have killed him? Ah, that I will never do. Other than to offer up myself, of course. I would cheerfully have shot him, and taken pleasure in his dying gasps. However, I have an alibi, an excellent one.”

Shot. Did Schauer not know how Ernst had died? Or was he merely being clever? As for his so-called alibi, he'd probably been with a woman, for what such an alibi was worth. But I asked anyway. “What's her name?”

“Dr. Alicia Feldman. The morning before Das Kapitan's murder, she repaired my hernia at Humana General Hospital. As Ernst lay dying—slowly, I hope—I was lying in my hospital bed, savoring the delights of morphine. Today, you see, is my first day back at Gemuetlichkeit since my operation. I am still, as you say, woozy, which is why my friend Klaus drove me here.”

His story would be easy enough to check, but it held the ring of truth. I decided to ask him something else that had been bothering me. “Did you know Gunter Hoenig or Josef Braun? They were both among the escapees from Camp Papago.”

A chuckle. “Ah, yes. The only two who were never found. Good for them, I say. In my dreams, I see them in Mexico, drinking tequila with dark-eyed senoritas. Sometimes I see them in Munich, drinking schnapps with voluptuous frauleins.”

Why had I bothered to ask? Of course the old wolf's fantasies would involve women.

I looked at the other men. “Did anyone else know Ernst? Or Gunter and Josef, or anyone else who was at Camp Papago?”

Head shakes all around. Disappointed, I made ready to leave.

But then Schauer's friend Klaus added something that rekindled my hopes. “Oh. I forgot. I myself was not at Gemuetlichkeit the day Erik Ernst visited, but I hear that Gerhardt Mantz met him. And that Gerhardt…”

“Klaus!” For an old man, Stefan Schauer's voice was surprisingly firm and still carried the don't-talk-back authority of a U-boat captain. “Our friend Gerhardt is dead now, so these things no longer matter.”

Klaus fell silent and the other men averted their glances.

Schauer pasted a smile on his face, one much less genuine than before. “Klaus gets confused, as do we all at this age. Do you not, Klaus?”

Klaus' smile was as false as Schauer's. “Oh, yes, yes. Very confused. You must forgive me for being such a foolish man.”

But my smile was genuine.

***

As soon as I left Gemuetlichkeit I drove around the corner, parked the Jeep in the shade of a low-hanging olive tree, and called Jimmy. “Run a check on some guy named Gerhardt Mantz. See if he's any relation to Ian Mantz, a Glendale dentist. Looks like Gerhardt used to attend the German-American club in Glendale and once met Kapitan Ernst. When it was brought up, everyone turned paranoid. While you're at it, check out former U-boat captain Stefan Schauer. He was at Camp Papago and knew Ernst, too.”