The Shadow Man (47 page)

‘Names. I need names. If we can find out who he once was, then perhaps we can find out who he is now’

‘Yes, yes,’ Wasserman answered. ‘I will do this now. I will call you back when I get some information. Names.’

She hung up, leaving Espy Martinez to think that she was making some progress. She thought of calling Walter Robinson to update him, but decided to hold off until she actually knew something. So, instead, she paced about her

small office impatiently, fiddling with other cases that she had pending that had been neglected and forgotten. This simply enervated her more, and before too long she thrust these files aside and simply sat at her desk, staring at the telephone. Time seemed to fray the edges of Espy Martinez’s patience as she waited for the woman in Austria to call back.

It was past one when the phone finally rang.

‘Miss Martinez?’

‘Miss Wasserman?’

‘I have some names for you, but I must extract a promise first.’

‘What is that?’

‘That if this is true, if you succeed in finding the Shadow Man alive, that you will share what you learn with us. Not merely who he is, but how he escaped death in 1944 and how he arrived in the United States. All the details of his past, Miss Martinez. There is nothing that would not interest us.’ She paused, then added: ‘He sent many to their deaths, Miss Martinez. And there are some we believe he may have killed himself. This is a man who many will want to see brought to justice.’

‘That is what I’m trying to do, Miss Wasserman,’ Espy Martinez said.

‘I think we may not be speaking of the same justices.’

‘I will provide you with all the information I can, as long as I don’t jeopardize my case here. You are interested in deaths that took place fifty years ago. But I want to prosecute him for killings that are here and now.’

‘I understand.’

Again the woman hesitated. ‘There is a sensation, Miss Martinez, when you finally get close to one of these men. S.S. men, usually. Camp personnel. There is a special coldness about them. Perhaps it comes from living with

such immense lies for so long that they come to not believe they did anything wrong…’

There was another silence, before the woman concluded:-

‘Here are five names from our files, which is the best I can do on such short notice. I will keep working, though. Two men held the equivalent rank of major, which would have meant they were in their thirties or forties back in 1943, so I would not expect much from them, if they are still alive. The other three were a captain and two sergeants. They, perhaps, would have been younger, but of less importance. Good luck. I doubt they will cooperate, even if they do know something. But one never knows.’

Espy Martinez wrote down the names. She stared at them, slowly drinking coffee, as she waited for morning in Berlin. At eight a.m. overseas, she dialed the number for the police liaison in Bonn. To her surprise, he was at his desk.

‘Any success, Miss Martinez?’

‘Perhaps. You were right. They were eager to help…’ ‘Good. I thought they might.’

‘I have some names. Could you get them run through some sort of data bank? Tax rolls? Driver’s licenses? All would be elderly…’

‘Let me see what I can do. Stick by your phone. I’ll simply tell the police these names have come up in a Stateside murder investigation. I’ll tell them we’re looking for some next of kin, or something. The police will be wary, but we’ll see.’

She rocked back in her seat and watched the second

hand of her wall clock sweep about. Exhaustion began to

cling to her thoughts, and she rubbed a hand across her

face. She put her head down on her desk.

The ringing of the telephone awakened her. Startled,

she almost lost her balance on her seat as she reached out for the receiver. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly five a.m., and she felt a momentary dizziness as she answered the phone. It was the police liaison in Bonn.

‘Miss Martinez?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, burning the midnight oil, I see. You must really want this guy something fierce. What’s the weather like home in Florida?’

She shook the sleep from her eyes as quickly as possible. ‘Well, as best as I can tell, the weather is a constant sixty-eight degrees here in the Justice Building. I haven’t been out for hours.’

‘I miss it, you know. No palm trees over here. None of that good old Florida sticky goddamn hot either. Don’t know how nice it is until you land someplace cold, like Germany.’

‘I guess not’

‘Well, here’s what I have for you. Of those five names, only two seemed to produce any possibilities, when I factored in age and location. Those were the men you thought held the sergeant’s ranks. One of the guys, Friedman, well, that’s like Smith in New York. List ran into the hundreds. The other, well, Wilmschmidt, is a little less common. Still, got a couple of dozen names across the country. I can fax you the entire list for both.’

‘Okay,’ she said wearily. ‘That would be fine. I can start…’

‘Well, I’ll send you those, but there was one name that kinda jumped out at me that I figure you might want to start with.’

Espy Martinez straightened up. ‘How so?’

‘Well, age would be right and he’s still living in a Berlin suburb, but more importantly, the records check showed

he’s a retired policeman. On the force dating back to the 1940s. Remember what I said about assimilation during the Occupation?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, Miss Martinez, you got to understand what this country looked like in 1945. Just death and rubble. That was pretty much it. You remember your history? The Berlin airlift? Anyway, someone had to keep order, and so the Allies generally picked the people with experience. So, even if you were Gestapo once, it wasn’t hard to make the leap to the postwar police. I’m just guessing now, but that would be my first choice for your mystery man. You’ve been pretty damn lucky so far, why not try him?’

She took the number down and gave the police liaison the fax number for the Dade State Attorney’s Office. She looked at the number for a moment, trying to collect her wits, shaking the residual exhaustion from her consciousness.

Why not? she asked herself. Worth a try. She dialed the number, not at all certain what she would say.

It rang a half dozen times before being answered.

‘Hallo?’

‘Hello. I’m trying to reach a gentleman named Klaus Wilmschmidt. Is this he?’

‘Was ist das? Ich spreche kein Englisch. EineMinute …’

The phone was silent, then a hesitant, younger voice came on.

‘Hello? What is this, please?’

“Do you speak English?’

“Yes. Who is this, please?’

‘My name is Martinez. I am a prosecutor with the Dade State Attorney’s Office in Miami, Florida. I am in the midst of a murder investigation and I believe that a Mr

Klaus Wilmschmidt can provide us with some relevant information. I’m trying to reach him.’

‘Yes, this is his home. I am his daughter. But murder? What is this? He has never been to the United States.’

Espy Martinez heard someone in the background asking a question in German, and the daughter hushed the man as she continued.

‘The information we are searching for dates back fifty years ago. To Gestapo Section 101 in Berlin, during the war. Is that where your father worked?’ There was no reply. ‘Miss Wilmschmidt?’ Again the line was silent. ‘Miss Wilmschmidt?’

She heard a burst of German being spoken on the other end, a quick, snapping exchange before the daughter replied: ‘Those times are past. He cannot help you. I will not allow it.’ The woman’s voice quavered.

Espy Martinez spoke swiftly. ‘I’m trying to find out about a man who worked in that section. A man who may have committed murders today. It’s important. Your father may simply have some information—’

‘He will not speak of those times. They are gone, Miss … I did not get your name …’ ‘Martinez.’

‘… Miss Martinez. He is old and those times are long ago in our history and he has lived a good life, Miss Martinez. He was a policeman and a fine man. I will not bring those times up to him. Now he is old and he is not well, Miss Martinez. He is not well, and deserves to live out his time on this earth in peace. So I will not help you, no.’

‘Miss Wilmschmidt, please, just one question. Just ask him if he knew of a man called Der Schattenmann? If the answer is no, then—’

‘I will not. He is not well. He deserves peace.’ ‘Miss Wilmschmidt

Before she could complete her plea, she again heard the gruff voice in the background demanding something in German, followed by a racking series of coughs. She heard the young woman angrily reply, and there was a sharp exchange of heated words before the daughter’s voice once again came over the line.

‘What was the name you spoke, Miss Martinez?’ ‘Der Schattenmann.’

Martinez heard the woman turn away from the phone and utter the name. Then there was silence. After a considerable pause, she heard more German echo over the distance. Then the young woman came back on the line. There was an odd hesitancy in her voice, as if she had seen something she was unsure about, but that might be terrifying.

‘Miss Martinez?’

‘Yes?’ She heard the policeman’s daughter battle a sob. ‘My father says he will speak with you, if you will come here so that he may see your face.’ ‘He knows?’

‘I am surprised. He has never spoken of those times, not at least with any—’ She stopped, gasping a quick breath, before continuing. ‘You will come here? He cannot travel. He is far too ill. But he will speak to you.’

Again the woman paused. In the background, once again, Espy Martinez heard German being spoken.

‘This is the most unusual thing to say.’ The voice on the phone had a tremor within it.

‘What is that?’ Espy Martinez asked. ‘He said he has been waiting every day for fifty years for your phone call.’

Walter Robinson was standing a few feet away from the bodies of an elderly man and woman. They were side by side, stretched out on their bed, inside an expensive, well-kept apartment that overlooked the ocean. The man wore a tuxedo, the woman a slightly dated, long, off-white satin evening dress, and they gave the appearance of a couple just returned from a New Year’s Eve celebration. The woman’s makeup was carefully applied, and diamond earrings glistened every time a police photographer snapped a picture. The man seemed to have trimmed his brushy, white mustache and slicked his hair down. He had taken care to fold a bright red silk breast-pocket handkerchief so that it splashed color across the black jacket, giving him a rakish, devil-may-care look even in death.

An empty vial of sleeping tablets was placed on a bedside table, next to two half-filled champagne flutes. A bottle of Perrier Jouet, with the etched flowers on the green glass, stood at solitary attention in a puddle of water inside a silver ice bucket.

He wished they’d left a suicide note, but couldn’t find

one. The couple, however, had taken the time to arrange all their important papers, insurance policies, copies of their wills, their mortgage, their bank statements, in a neat pile on a dining room table. He noticed that on their balcony there was a table with some potted plants, and he stepped outside and touched the dirt in each planter and felt that it was damp. He took a long, deep breath of the humid predawn air. He looked out toward the sea, feeling the darkness around him thin ever so slightly as the minutes crept toward morning.

He stepped back inside. In the bedroom, the lead detective was making notes on the double suicide, and Robinson approached him.

‘They watered the plants too,’ he said.

‘I guess they took care of everything,’ said the other detective. ‘They even left a stack of envelopes addressed to relatives, and a list of instructions for the funeral home.’

‘Any idea why?’

The detective nodded. ‘Right on top.’

He handed Walter Robinson a manila envelope and Robinson pulled out the papers contained inside. These were reports and a letter from a medical office clipped to a small booklet entitled Understanding Alzheimer’s Disease.

‘I guess they understood, all right,’ the detective said. ‘It wasn’t too hard to see what was coming down the pike. Easier to go now, than try to fight that disease.’

Robinson shook his head. ‘Can’t see it,’ he said. ‘Can’t see giving up a minute of life, no matter how lousy.’

‘Hell, Walt, what’s so special about life anyway?’

Robinson was about to answer this question when the pager on his belt went off. He went into the kitchen to answer his call.

The Beach message center operator had a crass, businesslike voice. ‘Detective, I have two messages. They

came in almost simultaneously.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re to call A.S.A. Martinez at her office. And I have an urgent request that you meet with a Sergeant Lionel Anderson of the City of Miami police.’

‘Lion-man?’

‘He gave me this address: King Apartments. Said you’d know which one. Said you have a problem with a witness.’

‘A problem?’

‘That’s what he said. He didn’t say what sort of problem.’

Robinson disconnected the operator and called Espy Martinez. When she picked up the telephone, he joked: ‘Isn’t there some song about working hard just so’s you can end up on the late shift?’

She smiled through her exhaustion. ‘I don’t want to make a practice out of it.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

His eyebrows shot upward and surprise curled around the edges of his reply. ‘Really? What have you got?’

‘A man who knew the Shadow Man, way back, during the war.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Berlin. And he’s old and sick and he has a daughter who doesn’t want him to talk to anyone about those times. He’ll only talk face-to-face.’

‘Go,’ Robinson said impulsively. ‘Go right now.’

Martinez breathed out slowly. ‘That’s what I thought too.’

‘Just go and talk to the man. Whatever we learn—’

‘I made a reservation. Could you come?’

‘That would be nice. But I don’t think so. The brass