The Shadow Man (9 page)

it was a pocketbook that you ripped from her shoulder. I’m going to see you go to Hell. She held her gaze still for a moment, then nodded.

The two men from the morgue glanced at each other. What was special to Espy Martinez was the stuff of daily drudgery to them. Still, they lifted Sophie Millstein slowly and carefully.

‘Jesus!’ one of the morgue men shouted. He almost dropped the body back on the bed.

‘Holy shit!’ his companion said brusquely.

Espy Martinez gasped and had the presence of mind to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

‘Goddamn, look at that!’ the other morgue man whispered. ‘Hey, Detective! You might wanna picture of this!’

Walter Robinson had darted to the side of the bed. He looked down at what had been uncovered. He held his gaze for a moment, then gestured to the police photographer, who was setting up for yet another series of pictures. Then he turned to Espy Martinez. She had taken a step back, but held her position.

Their eyes met. He shrugged.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know,’ he said.

She nodded, not eager to try her voice for an instant or two.

Walter Robinson looked down at the bed again. He stared at the small white fangs bared in terror.

‘I’ve never seen a strangled cat before,’ he said quietly.

‘Neither have I,’ Espy Martinez said grimly.

Simon Winter stood outside next to the young patrolman, but his eyes caught the sight of Detective Robinson and Espy Martinez, heads together in discussion, standing in Sophie Millstein’s living room.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘That’s the assistant state attorney. Martinez, I think.’

‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Policy, you know. There’s an ASA assigned to every recorded homicide, but the reality is, they’re only called in on the ten percent or so that the detectives think are gonna make the evening newscasts or land on the local front of the Herald.’

‘Sophie Millstein?’

‘Yeah, more’n likely. News for a day or so, at least until something else happens.’

‘I guess so. You’re probably right.’

‘So,’ said the patrolman, ‘I bet you want to head in and get some sleep. Right, Old-Timer? Me, I’ve got four more hours on this shift. Tell me your story.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You saw the victim tonight, right?’

‘You want my statement?’

The patrolman had a small pad and pencil in his hand. He looked exasperated. ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

Winter organized his thoughts and spoke rapidly. ‘Early this evening, perhaps seven p.m., Mrs Millstein knocked on my apartment door. Number 103, right over there. She had been frightened after doing some shopping, and she wanted me to accompany her through her place, to make certain it was safe.’

‘So you did?’

‘That’s right. The apartment was empty, and I checked the doors and windows and they were all securely locked. But what frightened her—’

‘You didn’t see anyone hanging around. Especially anyone who fits the suspect’s description?’

‘No.’

‘Like out back, when you checked the patio door? Nobody hanging back there?’

‘I told you, no. There was no one that I saw. There was

nobody there when I was in the apartment. But she described this person she saw earlier.’

‘Okay, tell me about that.’

‘She said it was someone she had seen during the war…’

‘What war?’

‘World War Two. In Berlin. In 1943.’

‘Berlin?’

‘Germany.’

‘Oh. Okay. So, this someone she saw, he wasn’t a young black male was he?’

Simon Winter stared at the patrolman as if he had just asked the stupidest question he’d ever heard, which was undoubtedly true.

‘No,’ Winter said carefully. ‘He wasn’t a young black male. He was an elderly man, but she described him as singularly intense. She called him Der Schattenmann.’

‘Someone shot a man?’

‘No. It’s German. Der Schattenmann. It’s a title, not a name.’

‘A title? Like what? Mayor? Or County Commissioner?’

‘I’m not sure what it means.’

He saw the young patrolman’s pencil pause above his notepad, then scribble down something swiftly.

‘She didn’t know the guy’s name?’

‘No. He was someone connected to her arrest and subsequent deportation. To Auschwitz. He was someone—’

‘Yeah, a lot of the old folks here on the Beach got busted back then and did time.’

‘Auschwitz wasn’t doing time. It wasn’t a prison. It was an extermination camp.’

‘Right. Right. I know that. So this guy she recognized …’

‘She wasn’t sure.’

‘She wasn’t sure she recognized him?’

‘Correct,’ Simon Winter said. ‘Fifty years had passed.’

‘Okay, so she was frightened by this Shotinmin guy. If it was the guy, after all. You’re not sure, and neither was she. Okay. You think it had anything to do with her murder tonight?’

‘No. I don’t know. It’s just unusual. Maybe coincidence.’

‘Was Mrs Millstein ever scared? I mean, like other

days?’

‘Sure. She was old and alone. She was frequently nervous. She changed her schedule so she wouldn’t be out at night.’

‘Okay. But, like, you didn’t see anything strange or different tonight. And her behavior wasn’t that different, correct?’

Winter froze the patrolman with a stare. ‘Yes. That is

correct.’

The younger man flipped his notebook closed. ‘Okay. I think I got it. You remember anything else, you call Detective Robinson, okay?’

Winter swallowed several nasty retorts and nodded. The patrolman smiled.

‘Okay, you can head on home now, Mr Winter. This crew will be wrapping up shortly. Might be some attention around here for a couple of days. News guys might bug you, but just tell ‘em to go to hell if you want. Usually works. I’ll make sure the detective gets a report of everything you said.’

Then the young patrolman turned and headed back toward the street, leaving Simon Winter alone, his face bathed by flashing police strobes.

In the kitchen, Espy Martinez watched as Walter Robinson picked up the telephone and carefully, double-checking each digit, dialed a number.

He finished and cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Middle of the night, phone rings. Your mother’s murdered. What a nightmare.’ Then he shrugged, as if to distance himself from the pain he was preparing to deliver.

Espy Martinez watched, slightly ashamed with herself for her own fascination, the same commonplace guilt one feels when one turns and gawks at the accident that has left the highway bejeweled with broken glass and stained with blood.

Robinson mouthed the word ‘ringing,’ and then straightened slightly when he heard the telephone receiver lifted.

‘Yes?’

‘Murray Millstein, please.’

‘This is he. What—’

‘Mr Millstein, this is Detective Walter Robinson of the Miami Beach police, down in Florida. I’m sorry, but I have some bad news.’

‘What? What?’

‘Mr Millstein, your mother, Mrs Sophie Millstein, died earlier tonight. She was the victim of a robber who broke into her apartment shortly before midnight and apparently killed her before looting her valuables.’

‘Oh my God! What? My mother what?’

‘I’m sorry Mr Millstein.’

‘What are you saying? My mother what? I don’t—’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Millstein. Your mother was killed earlier tonight. That’s what I’m saying.’

Robinson hesitated, while the voice on the telephone seemed to gather itself. He could hear another voice in the

background, penetrating the night, shrill questions, edgy panic. The attorney’s wife, Robinson thought. She’s sitting up in bed and she’s turned on the lamp on the table where she keeps her alarm clock and a picture of her children, and now she’s reached out and grabbed her husband’s arm, pinching it tightly, and she’s demanding to know why he’s swung his feet out of bed and is sitting there, frozen in place, pale, rigid, terrified. ‘Detective, uh …’

‘Robinson. Do you have a paper and pencil, Mr Millstein? I want to give you a telephone number.’ ‘Yes, yes, but—’

‘This is the number of my office at police headquarters.’

‘But what happened? My mother—’ ‘We do not have a suspect in custody yet, Mr Millstein. But we have a description and a significant amount of physical evidence gathered from your mother’s apartment. We are really just initiating our investigation, but we have complete cooperation from the state attorney and other forces in Dade County, and I’m hopeful we’ll make an arrest.’

‘But my mother, how, she always locked—’ ‘The perpetrator apparently forced a patio door open.’ ‘But then, I don’t understand…’ ‘Preliminary investigation suggests she was strangled. But final determination rests with the medical examiner.’ ‘She’s …’

‘Yes. Her remains will be transported to the county morgue. But after their examination, you will need to contact a local funeral home. If you call the morgue in the afternoon, a secretary there will give you some numbers.’ ‘Oh my God.’ ‘Mr Millstein, I’m sorry to have to deliver this news. I

have to warn you, you might hear from the local media. I’m sure you’ll want more details, and I’ll provide these as best as I can, but right now I have work to do. Please telephone me at your convenience at the number I gave you. I should be there by eight this morning. You could call me then.’

The attorney seemed to answer with a half sob and grunt, and Robinson hung up the telephone.

Espy Martinez was watching him closely. She felt, in part, like some voyeur, fascinated and repulsed, everything happening in front of her in some oddly slowed-down time. She saw a look of helpless discouragement pass across the detective’s eyes, stopping for just a moment, just long enough to play a single note, before it disappeared, echo fading. She abruptly thought: We are both very young.

But what she said, quietly, was: ‘That must be hard to do.’

Robinson shrugged, with a small, wry look on his face, and shook his head.

‘Well, you get used to it,’ he replied in a tone of voice that helped her recognize he was not anywhere near to telling the truth. And that he knew this.

The detective and the prosecutor walked outside. Espy Martinez thought the darkness seemed to have thinned, and she glanced down at her wristwatch and saw that morning was closing fast. She spotted a clutch of elderly people standing to one side of the small courtyard, but before she could ask, Walter Robinson anticipated her question.

‘Those are the folks that live here. Kadosh is the name of the old guy who got a look at the perp running away down the alley. His wife called 911. The tall guy is Winter.

He walked Mrs Millstein home earlier, and double-checked her locks. Apartment owner is a Gonzalez, but he’s not here yet. On his way. You know the damnedest thing? One of the neighbors told me he’d already put in new locks on half the apartments and was scheduled to come back this weekend to do Mrs Millstein’s place. I don’t think it would have made much difference, but you never know. That’s what’s gonna be in all the papers tomorrow.’

Walter Robinson gestured toward the group of reporters and cameramen. He gave them a quick wave, to let them know he was on his way over. Then he lowered his voice and said to Espy Martinez, ‘Okay, what we’re gonna hold back is anything about that gold chain with her name on it, and we’re not gonna talk about the print the tech lifted from her neck, at least until we see if we can make a match with it.’

Robinson lifted his eyes and saw a pair of detectives and several patrolmen coming around the corner of the Sunshine Arms, from the back.

One of the detectives waved and approached the pair. From about five feet away he said: ‘Hey Walter, you called that shot.’

Robinson introduced the detective to Espy Martinez and then said, ‘Down the alley?’

‘That’s right. In a trash container. We took pictures and then the lab guy bagged it. We might be really lucky; I think I saw a little bit of blood on one corner.’

‘What is it?’ Espy Martinez asked.

‘A brass jewelry box,’ Robinson said. ‘We’re not gonna mention it to the press either. Okay?’

‘No problem. I’d rather you did the talking anyway’

Robinson nodded. ‘All right. Let’s go.’ He smiled again and made a joke: ‘Hey, no worse than going to the dentist.’

He touched her elbow for just an instant, and then the two of them together walked into the sudden glare of the television minicam lights.

Simon Winter sat in his apartment, one finger hesitating over the push buttons on his telephone. Although midday sunlight filled the air, he had the sensation that he was about to step into a darkened room without knowing where the light switch was. What little sleep he’d managed had been fitful and nightmarish. Exhaustion mocked his movements. He took a final look outside his window, across the courtyard, where a slight breeze riffled the yellow police tape. Along with a red crime scene do not enter sign posted on Sophie Millstein’s door, it was the only outward, remaining indication of what had taken place the night before.

He did not know whether he was beginning something or ending it, but he thought himself obliged to make the call. He felt dizzy, almost as if he were sick, but then dragged himself to attention as the telephone started ringing on the other end.

It was answered by a distant ‘Hello?’ ‘Is this Rabbi Chaim Rubinstein?’ Winter asked. ‘Yes. Rabbi once, but now retired. And who is this?’ ‘My name is Simon Winter, I’m a …’ He paused, trying to think precisely what he was, and then answered, ‘… a friend of Sophie Millstein.’

‘Sophie is dead.’ The rabbi’s voice was singularly cold. “She was killed. Last night. By some intruder. A man searching for money for drugs. That is what the paper said.’

‘I know. I’m her neighbor.’

‘So. You know more than I. You know more than was in the papers. What is it you want?’

‘She came to me yesterday. Only hours before her death. She was frightened, and she felt she had to tell you something. You and two friends. A Mr Silver and a Mrs Kroner. She didn’t speak with you last night?’

‘No. No, I did not speak to her. Tell us? Tell us what?’ The rabbi’s voice had risen slightly, pushed by stress and sudden fear.