Eye Wit (10 page)

They returned to Suites D and E. Herr Doktor was eager to proceed.

After making a great show of extracting a test tube of blood from each bottle for analysis under the microscope and then carefully labeling each tube with the donor’s name, Mengele performed the transfusions.
Luludji watched as
the
bottle
s
of blood from
each of the
sick twins, Punka Jansen
and Yanko Teiki
n,
were
transfused
by Mengele
right
back into Punka and Yanko
, despite the doctor’s belief he was doing the opposite.
Luludji’s analysis of Mengele’s intent had been correct
, and thanks to her mislabeling of the bottles, the
healthier twin in each p
air, Nicu Jansen and Tobar Teiki
n
also
each received a transfusion of his own blood.

She doubted that Mengele would ever realize he had been foiled. He might wonder why this pa
rticular experiment did not work as
he had
expected and why all four boys recovered, rather than dying at varying rates he
projected
. But he would simply attribute it to all the unknowns that were so fascinating in the lesser races.

Perhaps…a smile
spread across Luludji’s face….perhaps der W
eisse Engle would
even
attribute the twins’ miraculous survival to Luludji’s crystal ball.

She chuckled at the thought. “That would be the truth, Herr Doktor, and how will you explain that in your report?”

17

Yoko followed Zoran upstairs. When they entered Marco Fellini’s office, Yoko was struck by the brightness of the room. Light flooded in from banks of tall, narrow windows on two walls of the room, a large, high-ceilinged space that occupied most of the building’s second floor. The windows on the north and east walls had their blinds raised to admit maximum natural light. How fortunate none of the windows would admit direct sunlight, except perhaps for an hour or so, during mid-summer sunsets. Direct sunlight certainly would damage the finish and fabrics on the fine antique furniture so artfully grouped about the room.

Marco’s assistants, Iona Duncan and Jessica Ware, rose simultaneously from chairs behind mahogany desks that sat at right angles to the north wall and faced the doorway Yoko and Zoran had just passed through.

“Hello, may I help you?” Iona said. She looked nervous.

“I assume you are the detectives who want to talk to us?” Jessica Ware said. “I hope this won’t take long. Iona and I are quite busy, trying to fill all the blanks Marco left behind. And terribly upset.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose vigorously.

Uh, oh, Yoko thought, as Jessica Ware blew her nose. She wondered how Zoran would handle this affront to his OCD-enhanced need for personal cleanliness.

To Yoko’s surprise, Zoran walked up to Jessica and held out his hand. After shaking her hand, then Iona’s, he said, “I am Zoran Zeissing. I am a detective lieutenant from the 13
^th
Precinct.” Nodding towards Yoko, he continued, “This is Dr. Kamimura, my associate and a civilian consultant to the department.”

Jessica and Iona shook Zoran’s hand respectfully, then Yoko’s hurriedly, scarcely paying attention to Yoko. Typical typecasting, Yoko thought. The man’s always in charge, especially with the police. Of course, it was irritatingly true in most situations. Still, makes it easy for me to observe. Jessica and Iona stared at Zoran, who was involved in one of his OCD moments.

Zoran brought his right hand under his nose, sniffed briefly, then extracted a Purell wipe from his jacket pocket and carefully cleaned both hands and returned the used wipe to a zip-top baggie kept in his other jacket pocket just for that purpose. Apparently, Zoran had faith that his wipes protected him from Jessica’s and Iona’s germs. As usual, Yoko noted, he was completely unaware that his actions might seem odd to others—in this case, the two women waiting to be questioned.

Zoran gestured to a grouping of a very long, and very uncomfortable looking Louis XVI sofa and flanking curlicued side chairs arranged in front of an elaborate marble-faced fireplace on the east wall of the room. The fireplace’s mantle was filled with small white statuary, all trimmed in gold. “Shall we sit over there? I promise we will be as considerate of your time as you are forthcoming in your answers to my questions.”

“Of course,” Jessica said. She led the way to the furniture grouping, heading for the left end of the long sofa. Iona Duncan scurried to the right end of the sofa, where she sat, immediately crossing her legs and clamping her arms tight across her breast to ward off imminent assault.

Jessica motioned towards the flanking chairs, inviting Yoko and Zoran to be seated. When they had—Zoran in the chair nearest Iona, Yoko in the other—Jessica lowered herself gracefully onto the sofa and sat, her back as straight as an arrow. “Please, ask your questions, Detectives. We’re eager to help, however we can. We’re very anxious to see Marco’s murderer brought to justice.”

“Yes, well, we both handle…I mean,
handled
all the administrative matters for Marco,” Jessica said.

Yoko noted Iona’s eyes tearing up at the past-tense mention of Marco Fellini’s name. One of the reasons I’m here, Yoko thought. Zoran depends on me to see. After all, I am the expert on vision, and vision boils down to perception, how individuals perceive life and what goes on around them.

Zoran continued, “You have records of all your customers, suppliers, contacts—that sort of thing?”

“Certainly,” Jessica said.

“So you would have records pertaining to the claim by Hans, a Swiss man, regarding something that Marco Fellini had obtained illicitly?”

“You mean Hans Reiniger?” Jessica said. “The fellow Marco had to get a restraining order on?”

“Yes, the man on whom you obtained a restraining order. Mrs. Fellini was telling us that he was here some months ago, bothering Marco Fellini.”

“Not just here. Everywhere,” Jessica said. “Hans Reiniger was practically a stalker. Not just here in the office, but at exhibits—wherever Marco happened to be. It got to be more than bizarre, it felt dangerous. He even materialized in Seattle once—or was it Bainbridge Island, Iona, when you were there with Marco?”

“Yes, on the island,” Iona said. “When we were picking up some food to bring to the cabin. We were at that market in Winslow…is it Town N’ Country? Anyway, this Hans guy confronted Marco at the check-out stand then followed us out to our car. He was yelling, a real creep. He kept talking about how he came from a long line of Gypsies and that Marcus had stolen something from his Gypsy family back in World War II—something to do with fortune telling and the Nazis—and that anyone who stole from Gypsies would be forever cursed….”

Iona shuddered at the remembrance. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she shook her head and stopped talking.

Jessica picked up the story. “Marco was absolutely infuriated. He called the Bainbridge cops, who arrested the Gypsy. And he had a restraining order filed against Reiniger that covered Bainbridge Island, but they said they couldn’t do anything about Reiniger harassing us in New York. So Marco called me, here at the office, and told me to have our attorney get a restraining order. The lawyer did that right away—the same day—and as soon as the judge signed the order, he had a process server meet all the flights coming in from Seattle. The restraining order was served on Reiniger as he disembarked. After that, we never heard from him again.

“Detective, it was all so frustrating, and so utterly ridiculous. In the first place, Marco wasn’t even born until after the war, and in his business, he would never have anything to do with anything that was stolen, by Nazis or anyone else.”

“Would you have a copy of the restraining order against this Hans Reiniger in your files?” Zoran said. “If so, would you make a copy for me?”

“I understand it was you who found the experts who verified the authenticity of the Bernardem Collections jade figurine, the hunting scene with two archers.” He paused, noting Iona’s startled reaction. “Please explain how you located those experts.”

“Perhaps I can answer that, Detective,” Jessica said. “Two or three years ago, Marco and I conferred with Jamilla Rodrigo in Seattle about a 300-year-old set of Chinese chess figures carved from jade. Jamilla seemed so knowledgeable about all things jade that I suggested to Iona that she contact her and have Jamilla recommend someone else in the Seattle area who also was knowledgeable about things from China, especially items of jade.”

“Why did you seek experts in Seattle? Why not here?” Zoran said.

“Because Marco and Iona had planned to be in Seattle anyway, to examine items from a private estate sale in the Madison Park area. The fact is, Seattle is a prime import point for many items from China and the Far East.”

“Why did you not accompany Mr. Fellini on this trip, Ms. Ware, since you had been there before and already consulted with this Jamilla Rodrigo.”

“Because Iona is…I mean, was, Marco’s fair-haired assistant du jour. It was her turn.”

“Why do you say ‘Iona
was
Mr. Fellini’s assistant.’ Was she not his current mistress?”

“No. I mean, Marco is not
anyone’s
lover, now. He’s dead.”

“Yes. I see. It is always cumbersome, discussing the newly dead.”

Marco turned back to Iona Duncan. Yoko noted Iona looked both bewildered and dismayed by Jessica Ware’s frankness. Was it the freshness of her lover’s death or was she worried that too much had been revealed?

“Ms. Duncan. Please explain, as completely as possible, how the jade figurine’s provenance was verified while you and your employer were in Seattle,” Zoran said.

Yoko watched as Iona took a slow, deep breath and gazed up at the white-painted coffered ceiling, looking from panel to panel as if reading a comic book that contained all the answers to life’s mysteries, the ones concerning her at the moment clearly being,
Why is Jessica being so mean to me, and why is she so unfeeling about Marco?

“I…I’ll try. Let’s see. We got to Seattle about mid-morning on a Monday and we were supposed to meet Jamilla Rodrigo at her gallery downtown first thing the next morning, Tuesday. She’d arranged for someone else to meet us at her gallery, a man named Curtis…Curtis Schoenfeld, who also specialized in Asian antiques. But when I turned on my Blackberry at the airport, there was a message from Jamilla Rodrigo that said Mr. Schoenfeld wouldn’t be available until Wednesday morning, and that we’d have to meet at his gallery, rather than Ms. Rodrigo’s, because he was going to be out of town on Tuesday and had no one to watch his gallery on Tuesday because his assistant was scheduled to have her baby by C-section on Tuesday and he couldn’t arrange coverage, and….”

Zoran held up his hand. “I do not need quite that much detail. Please just tell me how the jade figuring was authenticated, and by whom?”

Iona continued, her needle stuck in the one track in her mind that was audible to her shocked sensibilities. “Marco and I decided we might as well take Tuesday off too. We rented a car and drove to the ferry terminal and took the ferry to Bainbridge Island. Then we drove to his family’s cabin—more of a house, really, than a cabin––and decided do some sailing—he’s got this beautiful 34-foot catamaran, the cabinets and counters and paneling are teak and the roof is too, I mean, the deck, and the rails just gleamed, all polished—is it brass?”

“Please, Ms. Duncan. Just tell me about the figurine and how….”

“It was gorgeous on the water, blue skies, light winds We sailed all around and saw such sights, a school of porpoises in the Sound, a submarine tied up at the docks at Bangor, even an aircraft carrier heading into Bremerton—huge compared to Marco’s boat, and….”

Iona halted, her eyes spilling over with tears. Her head dropped to her chest, as if it had been suspended by only the most tenuous of threads, now irrevocably broken. “The next day we stopped at the deli at the Town N’ Country and had them pack us a picnic lunch so we could go sailing again, this time up the sound to the Strait of Juan de Fuca…and now…now he’s gone, and I’ll never see him again, and it’s all so…so…awful! It’s just so unfair! Who would do this to Marco? That creep, Hans?”

Zoran glanced at Yoko, grimaced, and removed a neatly pressed linen handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his sport coat. He carefully unfolded it, smoothed its creases, then handed it to Iona Duncan, his reluctance obvious.

“Thank you,” she gurgled, pressing the handkerchief over her eyes, then blowing her nose with a decidedly undainty honk.

Zoran shuddered as she held out the sodden handkerchief, offering to give it back to him. “Please. Keep it. I have another. Many others.” He reached into his other inside breast pocket and removed a wipe and carefully cleaned both hands, while Iona honked her nose again.