Back from the Dead (12 page)

Harry had packed a bag and was getting ready to drive to the airport, catch a flight to Florida, find out what the hell was going on with Joyce, when he got the call. It was a woman with the Detroit police, telling him there had been a homicide at the scrap yard, asking if he could come down right away.

There were two police cars, lights flashing, one in the yard near his night watchman, Columbus Fletcher’s Chevy, which Harry was surprised to see, the other in the parking area by the office. Next to the police car was a black van that said
MEDICAL EXAMINER
on the side – never a good sign, and next to that was an unmarked Plymouth Harry’d seen before. Phyllis’ VW Bug was in its usual space.

The scene was familiar, almost a duplicate of the morning Harry’d arrived to find police investigating the murder of Jerry Dubuque. There was a cop in uniform standing next to the door.

“I’m Harry Levin,” he said. “I own the place.”

“Go ahead.”

He walked in the lobby. Through the window he saw Detective Frank Mazza sitting at Phyllis’ desk, Phyllis across from him, smears of mascara on her cheeks, Columbus Fletcher on his back, arms bent, legs apart, blood stains under him, dark against the gray low-pile industrial carpeting. A cop from forensics was dusting the lock box for prints. And someone else was photographing Columbus from different angles, flashbulbs popping.

Harry walked in the office, glanced at Phyllis first and then Mazza, noticed the metal cabinet against the wall was damaged. By the look of it someone had used a sledgehammer. Frank Mazza said, “Mr. Levin, you’re keeping us busy.”

“Not my intention,” Harry said, annoyed by the remark. Phyllis got up and came over. Harry hugged her and she started crying, body heaving against him. He guided her back to the chair she was sitting in.

“Perp or perps cut through the fence out there.” Frank Mazza turned the swivel chair toward Harry and pointed north. “Just on the other side of the building. Broke a window, came in through the lavatory. Came in here like they knew what they were looking for. Broke into the cabinet where Ms. Wampler said you keep the lock box. How much was in there?”

“Not much. Maybe five hundred dollars. I keep most of the money in the safe in my office. Leave a little for Phyllis to get started in case I’m late.”

Mazza had traded his Sears wash-and-wear suit in for a tweed sport coat.

“Your night man must’ve heard or seen them and come in to have a look. Shot him with a .45 Colt. Cause of death was multiple gunshot wounds. Manner of death was homicide.”

“How do you know it was a .45?”

Mazza took a small plastic evidence bag out of his sport-coat pocket, three shell casings in it. He pushed his heavy-looking hair up on his forehead and it fell back where it had been. “What can you tell me about Columbus Fletcher?”

“Years ago he was a fighter, middleweight.”

“I wondered what happened to his face.”

“Two hundred seven stitches, he told me, thirty-nine fights.”

“Ever see him in the ring?”

“One time,” Harry said, “exhibition bout at Cobo.”

“Married?”

“Three times. Daughter works at Henry Ford Hospital.”

“What was he like?”

“Quiet, likeable, easy-going. Showed up on time, never missed work.”

“How would you know?”

“Everyone punches a time card.”

“He use drugs?”

“I doubt it.”

“He ever been arrested, convicted of a crime?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you sit down, we’ll try to figure out who had motive.”

There was a swivel chair at another desk across the room. Harry wheeled it over and sat.

“Who knew you kept cash in the office?”

“Everyone we did business with. People bring scrap to us in trucks, cars, vans, trailers, you name it. We weigh it, take their name and address, send them in to see Phyllis and she pays them in cash.”

“I told you,” Phyllis said, giving Mazza a dirty look. She liked his hair but didn’t care much for him.

“Why don’t you go over all the receipts the past few days, see if anyone rings a bell.”

“Say you decide to rob a scrap yard. You come in for a look, sell a load, see the money. You think they’re going to give us a real name and address?”

“People are dumb,” Frank Mazza said. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

Phyllis got up, moved to the other side of the desk, knelt next to Mazza, opened a drawer and took out a manila envelope. She folded back the metal clasps and handed it to Harry. Harry dumped the receipts on the desktop. Frank Mazza got up, tapped a Lucky out of the pack and said he was going outside to smoke. Harry sat where Mazza had been, shuffling through the receipts, looking at names and dollar amounts: Clarence Cherry, an address on West Grand Boulevard in Detroit, $68.75, Donnell Lewis on 2nd Avenue, $159.33. He looked at forty more, all from the inner city, and then he came to Aubrey Ponder, a trailer park in Pontiac, $28. Right away that one struck him as odd. Harry didn’t get many customers from the suburbs. And it was a long way to come for hardly any money. Harry handed the receipt to Phyllis. “Remember who gave you this one?”

She studied it and looked at him. “There were two of them, sleazy-looking, like they hadn’t used soap and water in a while. They were wearing caps. One said Red Man, the other Cat Diesel. Guy that did the talking had a southern accent.”

Based on that description they sounded like the two who kidnapped Colette. “How do you remember so much?”

“I handed the guy twenty-eight dollars and said, ‘Don’t spend it all in one place.’ ”

“Were they driving a green Ford pickup by chance?”

“I don’t know.”

Harry went outside and talked to his scale man, Archie Damman, saw Mazza smoking, talking to the cop he’d met on the way in. “Remember two guys came in yesterday, wearing caps, one had a southern accent?”

“Both did. Drove up in a white El Camino with a primer gray hood. They brought in an old icebox from the twenties, weighed a ton. Couple of confederates.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a rebel flag on the tailgate,” Archie said. “They have something to do with what’s going on here?”

“Looks that way.”

“Here you go,” Harry said, handing Mazza a piece of notepaper. “The two that killed Columbus. Gary Boone lives on Clark Street in Pontiac, drives a green Ford F-100, and Aubrey Ponder lives in a trailer park at that address.”

“You know them?”

“I can’t say that,” Harry said.

“What’s going on, they have something against you?”

“You’ll have to ask them.” Harry paused. “If there’s nothing else …” He would’ve preferred to go after the rednecks himself, but Columbus Fletcher was dead, and Joyce was still alive.

Someone was knocking on the door. Hess crossed into the salon, glanced out the window and saw Lois Grant standing at the front door, holding a silver tray covered with tin foil. That’s right, Max had said she would bring him food, baked goods.

Lois rested the tray on brick steps, moved toward the living-room window, placed an outstretched palm over her eyes, trying to cut the daylight glare and see inside. Hess stepped away from the window, out of sight, his back against the living-room wall. He could see Lois’ face close to the glass.

Then he saw her through a side window, carrying the tray, walking back to her house. Hess didn’t like it. He couldn’t be sure what this woman was going to do next. Hess went back in the salon, stood at the window, scanned the street. Zeller’s Ford sedan was parked in front of the vacant lot, Hess wondering when the reinforcements were coming. He believed Zeller was federal police, BKA, and knew they would have sent more than one agent. They would need at least four to set up surveillance, to find and apprehend him, or take him out.

Hess filled the bucket at the kitchen sink, listening to a message on Max Hoffman’s answering machine. It was Lois Grant saying, “Max, where are you? I’ve left three messages. That car parked next to the vacant lot, nobody in the neighborhood knows who it belongs to, so I called the police.”

He carried the bucket to the garage, surprised by how much water had pooled under the worktable on the seal-coated concrete floor, streams running all the way to the garage door. Zeller’s white shirt was so wet Hess could see right through it – his skin and the hair on his chest. Hess could hear Zeller forcing air through his damaged nasal passages, the exhale sounding like a snort, face wet, watery bloodshot eyes watching him.

Hess ripped the duct tape off Zeller’s mouth leaving red marks where the adhesive had stuck to his skin. Zeller’s arms flexed, pulling at the restraints.

“You are with Bundeskriminalamt.”

“No.”

“Where are the other agents?”

“I’m alone.”

“Sure you are.” Hess wrapped the wet towel around his face, picked up the bucket and started to pour.

Zeller knew that as soon as he gave up Gerhard Braun’s name it would be all over. Hess would finish him. He tried to hold his breath but the water came and kept coming and now he was gagging, pulling on the ropes, muscles flexing, chest heaving, lungs burning. Then he was drowning, under water, and his air was gone and he started to lose consciousness, started to fade and the water stopped. Hess removed the towel, Zeller spat water out of his mouth and blew it out his nose, tried to focus on Hess through bleary eyes.

“Who sent you?”

“Give me a minute.”

Hess draped the towel over his face again before he could take a breath, and then water filled his nose and mouth and he was gagging, out of air, experiencing fresh trauma, the pain severe and then, like before, he was starting to go under.

Zeller opened his eyes looking up at the rafters. There was a strip of tape over his mouth and his nose was plugged. He snorted out water and felt the passages clear, inhaling as much air as he could. He heard the faucet on in the kitchen, Hess filling the bucket again. Zeller didn’t know how much more he could take.

He heard a car drive in and park next to the house, and a car door open and close. Heard the doorbell ring. The faucet in the kitchen was turned off. He heard someone banging on the front door. Heard voices and then footsteps on the concrete outside the garage. And then someone banging on the garage door, the echo reverberating around him.

A voice said, “Pompano Beach Police. Is anyone home?”

Zeller grunted under the tape, tried to lift his head, neck muscles bulging but he didn’t have the strength to do it. He heard footsteps going back to the car. He heard the door close, the engine start, and the car drive off.

Standing at the kitchen sink, Hess heard the phone ring, and the answering machine click on. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Hoffman, this is the Pompano Beach Police. An officer will be arriving at your home any minute. Please answer your door.”

A Palm Beach cruiser rolled up the driveway and parked next to the house. A policeman in a tan uniform got out, looking around. He seemed to be focusing on water that had streamed out from under the garage door and pooled on the concrete driveway.

Hess heard the doorbell ring. He moved through the house to the living room, saw the policeman at the front door. On the street a tow truck was backing up next to Zeller’s Ford sedan. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lois Grant approaching. She and the policeman talked for several minutes, Lois pointing at the tow truck.

Lois walked around the house, looking in windows. He heard the French doors rattle, Lois shaking the handles, face distorted, pressed against a glass pane. After a while she gave up and went back to her house, and Hess went back to the living room. He watched the police car back down the driveway. On the street the tow truck was lifting the front end of Zeller’s sedan.

Hess finished filling the bucket and carried it into the garage. Zeller had had a nice long rest, and now he would have to start all over. Zeller’s eyes were closed. Hess stood over him, ripped the tape off his mouth and Zeller’s eyes popped open. “You can stop the pain. You can save yourself from any further discomfort. Tell me who sent you.”

“Gerhard Braun,” Zeller said.

Good old Gerhard, Hess was thinking. You can’t trust anyone.

“Mr. Hoffman, don’t you get nervous carrying around that much cash?” the homely, big-breasted teller said. “I know I would be.”

“That’s just it,” Hess said. “Nobody would suspect someone of carrying that much. It is totally unexpected.”

“You have a wonderful day,” the fat teller said.

Hess walked out of the National Bank of Florida with $6,500 of Max Hoffman’s savings. Earlier he had stopped and withdrawn like amounts from two other NBF branches, and now had a total of $19,500. That was enough for today. Hess was concerned about attracting too much attention.

He had had a relaxing afternoon on the beach across from the Winthrop House, resting and looking at women in bikinis. From the cabana Hess could train his binoculars on select females, studying them, wondering how they would perform in bed. It had been over a month since he had been with a woman and he was feeling the urge. Thinking about finding a prostitute, but he wanted a woman with class, not a street hooker.

By five most of the sunbathers had packed up their belongings and departed. The sun was fading. Hess felt a cool breeze blow in from the ocean. He focused the binoculars on Joyce Cantor’s empty balcony, hoping to see her standing there but didn’t.

Hess drove back to Pompano, cruised past Lois Grant’s house, turned into Max’s driveway, pushed the remote and backed into the garage. He closed the door and opened the trunk. Zeller was right where Hess had left him, head over the edge of the worktable, duct tape over his mouth, panic in his eyes, pants wet where he had urinated.

“I have good news. You are going to be released soon.”

Zeller was making sounds under the tape. He obviously didn’t believe it. He wanted to talk. Of course he wanted to talk. Hess pulled the tape off his mouth. “You were saying, comrade.”

“Bring me the phone. I’ll tell Herr Braun you’re dead.”

Hess smiled, he couldn’t help himself. He thought Zeller would say something like that. A person in this situation would say anything to stay alive.

“That won’t be necessary.”

He ripped a fresh strip of tape off the roll and fit it over Zeller’s mouth.

At 3:00 a.m. Hess went out to the garage. Zeller was asleep. He could hear him breathing through his nose, a nice easy rhythm. Zeller awoke while Hess was taping his ankles together. The man struggled as Hess turned him over and taped his wrists together. Hess moved the car closer to the worktable, slid Zeller off of it into the trunk and closed the lid.

He took Interstate 95 north to PGA Boulevard and east toward Singer Island. Past A1A Hess could see glimpses of Lake Worth. The causeway between North Palm Beach and Singer Island was dark. He had driven this stretch of road earlier and decided it was the perfect place to dump a body. With Lois Grant snooping around he couldn’t take a chance burying Zeller on Max’s property.

When he could see water on both sides of the road Hess slowed down and pulled over. He got out, looked up at a half moon, felt a breeze come at him from the lake. He opened the trunk, reached in, took hold of Zeller, pulled him out and dropped him on the hard-packed dirt roadside. Hess, breathing hard from the effort, bent over, hands on his knees. When he got his wind back he squatted, lifted Zeller’s ankles and started to drag him toward the water. Zeller bent his legs, kicked and sent Hess to the ground holding one of Zeller’s shoes that had come off. Hess scrambled to his feet, moved to Zeller, kicked him in the face, took the fight out of him. Zeller was conscious but woozy as Hess dragged him to the water’s edge. Hess heard something, looked and saw headlights approaching from the island. He pushed Zeller in the lake and watched him thrash, trying to stay afloat, and then disappear in the dark water, bubbles rising to the surface.

The car was approaching, slowing down. It crossed the center line and stopped on the side of the road in front of Max Hoffman’s Chrysler. It was a police cruiser. The policeman got out with a flashlight and came toward him, aiming the high beam in his face. Hess blinked and squinted, brought his hand up to shield his eyes.

“What’re you doing out here middle of the night?” the policeman said, southern accent. He moved to the Chrysler and aimed the flashlight beam in the trunk. Hess put his hand behind his back, felt the handle of the .38 under his shirttail.

“What’d you dump?”

Hess said, “I couldn’t sleep so I decided to take a drive.”

The policeman moved toward the water, shined the light where Zeller had gone under. “Got some ID?”

“In the car,” Hess said.

“Get it.”

Hess could feel the man behind him as he walked to the Chrysler and opened the passenger door. The dome light came on. He reached in, picked up Max’s billfold, opened it and handed the driver’s license to him. The policeman looked at the license and back at Hess.

“You’re a long way from Pompano. I’m going to ask you one more time. You don’t have an answer I like, I’m gonna take you in.”

The policeman was big, the tan uniform tight across his chest and shoulders, revolver in a black holster on his hip.

“You dumped something in the lake is what I think. Now you better start talking.”

“My dog died,” Hess said in a burst of inspiration.

“What kinda dog?”

“A dachshund.”

“A what?”

“Little dog with a long body and short legs.”

“Looks like a sausage.”

“Exactly.”

“What’d it die of?”

“I don’t know but Fonzie was almost fifteen.”

“Well there you go. That’s a long goddamn life for a dog. My Doberman, Pepper, passed at thirteen.” The policeman shook his head. “Why’d you throw it in the lake?”

“I was upset, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“I’m sorry for you, buddy. It’s a sad day man loses his best bud. You take her easy and keep it between the ditches. Next time bury it like a normal person, okay?”

Hess closed the trunk and got in behind the wheel. The policeman, still standing next to the Chrysler, waved. Hess turned the key, heard the engine rev, backed away from the police car and made a U-turn. He was calm, steady, thinking you never knew what was going to happen in a situation. He had been ready to pull the .38 a couple of times, sure his only way out was to shoot the man.