Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 10 (49 page)

“You think Sommers is a Jewish name?” I was startled:
I only associated it with my client.

“In this context, yes—it’s there with Brodsky and
Herstein, after all.”

I looked at the paper again myself. Could this be a
different Aaron Sommers altogether? Was that why the policy had been paid out?
Because Fepple’s father, or the other agent, had confused my client’s uncle
with someone else with the same name? But if it was just a case of simple
confusion—why had someone cared enough to steal all the papers relating to the
Sommers family?

“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing I’d missed what else
she’d been saying. “The dates?”

“What are they? Attendance records? Payment records?
It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to say they were written by a European person.
And you know the man was German. Other than that, I can’t help you. I didn’t
find anything like this in the files I looked at, but of course Ajax has
company files, not client records.”

She didn’t seem quite ready to leave, so I asked her
if she had heard any further accusations from Bertrand Rossy about feeding Ajax
material to Alderman Durham. She played with a large turquoise ring on her
index finger, twisting it and looking at it under the light.

“That was a strange event,” she said. “I suppose
that’s really why I wanted to come by. To ask your opinion—or to trade
professional opinions. I hoped I could tell you something about your document
so that you could give me your opinion about a conversation.”

I was intrigued. “You did your best, I’ll do mine.”

“This—is not an easy thing for me to tell you, and you
would oblige me by promising to keep it confidential. That is, not to act on
it.”

I frowned. “Without knowing in advance—I can’t promise
that if it makes me party to a crime, or if the information would help clear my
client of a potential murder charge.”

“Oh! Your Mr. Sommers, you mean, your non-Jewish Mr.
Sommers. It’s not that kind of information. It’s—it’s political. It could be
damaging politically, and embarrassing. For me to be known as someone who gave
out the information.”

“Then I can safely promise you that I will hold what
you say in confidence,” I said gravely.

“It concerns Mr. Durham,” she said, her eyes on her
ring. “As a matter of fact, he did ask me to give him documents from the Ajax
files. He knew I was working on their history—everybody did. Mr. Janoff—you
know, the chairman of Ajax—was quite gracious about introducing me to people at
the gala they held for their hundred-fiftieth anniversary, even if he was a bit
patronizing—you know how they do it, ‘Here’s the little gal who wrote up our
history.’ If I’d been white, or a man, would he have introduced me as ‘the
little guy’? But at any event, I met the mayor, I even met the governor, and
some of the aldermen, including Mr. Durham. The day after the gala he—Mr.
Durham, that is—called. He wanted me to give him anything I had found in the
archives which would support his claim. I told him it wasn’t mine to give, and
that even if it were, I didn’t believe in the politics of victimhood.”

She looked up briefly. “He didn’t take offense.
Instead—well, I don’t know if you’ve met him in person, but he can have a great
deal of charm, and he exercised it on me. I also was—relieved—that he didn’t
start haranguing me as a race traitor, or something of that ilk, as people do
sometimes when you don’t go in lockstep with them. He said he would leave the
door open for further discussions.”

“And has he?” I prodded, when she stopped.

“He called me this morning and said he would take it
as a favor if I would overlook his having asked me for the material. He said it
had been out of line for him, and he was embarrassed to think that I might have
thought of him as a man who would behave with such little attention to ethics.”

She turned her head away. “Now that I’m here, this
seems—you know someone stole all my research notes.”

“And you’re worrying whether he might have engineered
the theft? And that he’s called to ask you to lay off because he already has
what he needs?”

She nodded, miserable, still unable to look at me.
“When he called this morning, I was only annoyed. I thought, How gullible do
you believe I really am, although I didn’t say it.”

“You want my professional opinion? Just with that bit
of information—I’d agree with you. You see an empty cream jug and a cat licking
its whiskers—you don’t need to be Marie Curie to add two and two together. But
there’s another little wrinkle on this.”

I told her about Rossy and Durham talking in the
middle of Tuesday afternoon’s demonstration and Durham going up to Rossy’s
apartment an hour later. “I’ve wondered if Ajax was trying to buy off Durham.
Now—your news makes me wonder if Durham was trying to blackmail Rossy. Was
there anything in the data that Edelweiss would pay blackmail to keep quiet?”

“I didn’t see anything that struck me as that kind of
secret. Nothing on Holocaust files, for instance, or even a serious slavery
exposure. But there were hundreds of pages of archives, things I copied that I
thought I might look at later for a different project, for instance. I’d have
to be able to see them. And of course I can’t.” She turned her head so I
wouldn’t see the tears of frustration.

Durham and Rossy. What had brought them together?
Posner had said it was only after he had started demonstrating outside Ajax
that Durham began his campaign—but that didn’t prove anything except Durham’s
flair for the limelight.

I leaned forward. “You’re a trained thinker. I told
you yesterday what’s been going on around here. Now Durham’s demonstration has
completely stopped. He was a big presence at the Ajax building last week and up
to Tuesday afternoon, when Rossy spoke to him. I called his office: they say
they’re pleased that Ajax blocked the Holocaust Asset Recovery Act since it
didn’t include an African slave reparations section. So they’re putting their
demonstrations on hold.”

She flung up her hands. “It could be that simple. I
suppose it could have nothing to do with my papers at all. I see it’s a
complicated problem. I’m sorry to say that I have another appointment—I’m
teaching a seminar at the Newbery Library at seven—but if you can give me one
of the photocopies I’ll study it later. If something occurs to me, I’ll call
you.”

I walked out with her, locking everything carefully. I
brought the photocopies I’d made along with the two books themselves. I wanted
Max to look at the material to see if he understood the German. The original
might be easier for him to decipher than a photocopy.

I stopped at home to collect Ninshubur from the dryer.
The little dog was still slightly damp, and he was a paler blue than he used to
be, but the stains around his head and left side were almost gone: a week of
being dragged around by a child would soon mix enough dirt into his fur to make
the faint line of blood unnoticeable. Before I left, I tried Rhonda Fepple
again, but she was either still out, or not up to answering the phone. I left
my name and cell-phone number a second time.

I was getting into my car when I decided to go
upstairs to my safe for my Smith & Wesson. Someone was shooting guns
awfully close to me. If they started firing right at me, I wanted to be able to
shoot back.

Family Party

A
s I drove
north, I turned on the local news. Police were anxious to speak to the woman
who had admitted paramedics to the home of a Lincoln Park shooting victim.

She told paramedics she was a family friend but didn’t
give a name. By the time police arrived to investigate the crime scene, she had
fled, shedding the navy service coverall she was wearing. It’s possible she
belonged to a cleaning service and surprised a robbery in progress, since no
obvious valuables were missing. The police are not releasing the name of the
victim, who is in critical condition following surgery to remove a bullet from
his heart.

Dang. Why hadn’t I thought to say I was with a
cleaning service? My navy coverall had been perfect for it. Hopefully the
paramedics thought I was an illegal immigrant who had fled to avoid revealing
my papers to the cops. Hopefully I hadn’t left my prints on anything. Hopefully
the person who had shot Paul hadn’t been hanging around the house when I walked
up to it.

To my surprise, when I got to Max’s, not only was
Michael Loewenthal there but also Carl Tisov—and Lotty. The strain was still
evident in the lines around Lotty’s mouth and forehead, but she and Carl
actually seemed to be laughing together.

Agnes Loewenthal greeted me exuberantly. “I know I
shouldn’t be
so
pleased that someone’s lying in hospital, but I’m
ecstatic—Christmas and my birthday tied up in one gorgeous package. And Michael
here to enjoy it with us.”

Carl bowed to me with an extravagant flourish and
handed me a glass of champagne. They were all drinking, except Lotty, who
seldom touches alcohol.

“You came with Michael?” I asked.

He nodded. “Max is after all my oldest friend on the
planet. If anything happened—well, a child is more important than one concert
more or less. And Lotty even decided the same thing about one operation more or
less. Then we got here and found we could relax, that that delusional menace
won’t be around again, at least not while the little one is here.”

Before I could respond, Calia hurled herself into the
living room, yelling, “Give me my Ninshubur!” Agnes promptly went to her,
urging her to display a few manners.

I pulled the dog from my briefcase. “Your little puppy
had a big adventure today. He saved a man’s life, and he had to have a bath:
he’s still a bit damp.”

She grabbed the dog from me. “I know, I know, he
jumpted into the river and carried the princess to safety. He’s wet because
‘Ninshubur, the faithful hound, leapt from rock to rock, heedless of any
danger.’ Did that bad man take his collar? Where are his tags like Mitch? Now
Mitch won’t know him.”

“I took off his collar to give him his bath. I’ll get it
back to you tomorrow.”

“You’re bad, Aunt Vicory, you stoled Ninshubur’s
collar.” She butted my leg.

“Aunt Vicory is good,” Agnes remonstrated. “She went
to a lot of trouble to get your little dog back. I want to hear you say thank
you.”

Calia ignored her, running around the room like a
demented bumblebee, bouncing off furniture, off Michael, off me, and off Tim,
who had appeared with a tray of sandwiches. Excitement over the sudden arrival
of her father, whom she hadn’t expected to see for some time, and excitement
over the day’s events had sent her completely over the top. At any rate, she
didn’t need my explanation of why her dog was damp and stained—it fit perfectly
with the story of the faithful hound.

Michael and Agnes tolerated her antics for about three
minutes before marching upstairs with her to the nursery suite. When they had
gone, Max asked for a detailed capitulation of the events around Paul’s
shooting. I told him everything, including the frightening display devoted to
himself and his family in Paul’s closet.

“So you don’t know who could have shot Paul?” Max
said, when I’d finished.

I shook my head. “And I don’t even know if it was
someone who was after the books I found in that dreadful closet. Maybe the fact
that he was telling everyone he had papers proving his father was with the
Einsatzgruppen
made some real Nazi conspirators seek him out. They didn’t know he was a
lunatic—they thought he was on to them. So they shot him. The evil temptress,
of course, Ilse Bullfin, seduced Paul in order to get him to open the front
door.”

“Who?” Max demanded sharply.

“Didn’t I tell you? I asked him who shot him, and he
said a woman named Ilse. I know I didn’t get the last name quite right. It
sounded kind of like Bullfin.”

“Could it have been Wölfin?” Max asked, saying the
name in a fast, low voice.

I strained to hear the difference between what he said
and what Paul had said. “
Vull,
you’re saying, not
Bull
? Yes, I
suppose it could be—the two sounds are very close. Is she German? Do you know
her?”

“Ilse Wölfin—Ilse Koch, known as the She-Wolf. A most
monstrous concentration-camp guard. If that’s who this poor devil thinks shot
him—umph. I’d like to lay all this in front of a psychologist—this shrine, his
obsession with the Holocaust. I don’t suppose he’d let anyone besides this Rhea
Wiell actually talk to him, but I don’t know if you could even count on it
being a woman who shot him. I don’t know enough about delusions—he might
confuse an assailant with an SS guard, but would he still know the difference between
a man and a woman? What do you think, Lotty?”

Lotty shook her head, the lines of strain deeper in
her face. “That kind of pathology is beyond me. We only know he’s been deluding
himself for a week about his relations with you—but confusing you with his
brother hasn’t made him think you were his mother, after all.”

Max shifted uneasily. “What hospital did you say he
was going to? Compassionate Heart? I could send someone over there—he’s so
eager to be listened to he might talk to another doctor.”