Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (15 page)

“Law Offices of Elliott Fish. There’s a P.O. box, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and a zip.”

“It was sent from a law office?”

“Looks like it,” says Harry.

Harry gives me the name again and I punch it into the computer. Sure enough, I find a website with a phone number. I pick up the phone and dial. A receptionist answers: “Elliott Fish Law Offices, can I help you?”

“Is Mr. Fish in, by any chance?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Attorney Paul Madriani, from Coronado, California.”

“Just a moment please.” I get an earful of elevator music.

A few seconds later a male voice comes on the line. “This is Elliott Fish. Who am I speaking to?”

“Mr. Fish, this is Paul Madriani. I’m a lawyer out in California.”

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I have a client whose father received a small package from your office. His name was Robert Brauer. Can I ask who you represent and why you sent it to him?”

“Do you represent Mr. Brauer?”

“No. No, I’m afraid Mr. Brauer is dead.”

“Oh, I see. Do you represent his estate?”

“I represent his daughter, Emma Brauer.”

“May I ask when Mr. Brauer died?”

“About six weeks ago.”

“And may I ask how you know about the package?”

“It’s sitting here on my desk right now.”

“I see. Then you should be able to tell me the contents of the package.”

“A key. Looks like a safe-deposit key. And some kind of an ID, very old. In German, the name Jakob Grimminger.”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Am I correct in assuming that you sent the package to Mr. Brauer?”

“I did.”

“Was it on behalf of a client?”

“It was.”

“May I ask who the client was?”

“That I can’t tell you.”

“May I ask why?”

“It’s confidential lawyer-client information,” he says.

“Well, let me explain. Mr. Brauer’s daughter, Emma Brauer, is my client. She has her own set of problems at the moment.”

“Yes?”

“Well, she’s charged with homicide. Mr. Brauer, who was quite ill before he died, was in a VA hospital out here, and it seems the authorities have reason to believe that he may not have died of natural causes. They seem to believe that my client may have put him out of his misery in a mercy killing.”

“I see.”

“At the moment it’s a single charge of voluntary manslaughter, but I’m concerned that if I can’t determine what’s happening here it could become more serious.”

“What makes you think that the package has anything to do with your client’s case?”

“Before Mr. Brauer died, his home was burglarized. Whoever broke in was looking for something. Mr. Brauer told his daughter that he was fearful both for himself and for her, and told her to place the package in a bank vault for safekeeping.”

There is a lot of heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

“Last week an employee of my office, a young woman, went to Brauer’s house on an errand for the office. Ms. Brauer was not there because she was in jail. That employee was found murdered Monday morning. We have reason to believe that she was killed at the house and that her body was deposited at another location.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “But if, as you say, Ms. Brauer placed the package in a bank vault and it wasn’t in the house, how can you be sure that it’s in any way connected to the death of your employee?”

“The placement of the package in the bank was a private matter known only to Mr. Brauer and his daughter.”

“I see. This does complicate things,” says the lawyer. “I’m not certain whether I can disclose the identity of my clients.”

The way he says it makes it clear that there is more than one.

“When did you say Mr. Brauer died?” he asks.

“About six weeks ago.”

“Do you have a death certificate?’

“I can get one.”

“You might send me a certified copy,” he says. “He would have been the last.”

“Last what?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say. But I should advise you that there may be other claimants.”

“Claimants to what?”

“I can’t say. But you should be aware that since you hold the box and its contents you may be on the receiving end of one or more lawsuits.”

“For what? By who?”

“By persons with a valid legal claim to the item in question.”

“What’s the item?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know the answer to that myself. I’m simply carrying out the instructions of my clients.”

“Can you tell me when you were hired?”

“The specific date? I’d have to look, but it was several years ago.”

“Can I ask you—and you don’t have to answer if you can’t, but I’m really up against the wall here. I’m assuming that whatever’s going on here has to do with Mr. Brauer’s former military service with the 45th Infantry Division in Europe during the Second World War.”

Nothing but breathing and silence from the other end.

“Hello?”

“I’m here,” he says. “There is one peculiar thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You did say that the police believe that Mr. Brauer may not have died of natural causes, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s a strange coincidence.”

“Yes, what’s that?”

“There’s another individual out here in Oklahoma City who says his father died under similar circumstances. He was in a nursing home. And according to what I’ve heard, there is at least one person who doesn’t believe he died of natural causes. He’s requested an investigation by authorities, but so far they have no evidence to establish foul play.”

“Am I to assume that this other individual, the man who died, is somehow connected with Mr. Brauer?”

There is no reply from the other end of the line, but I can still hear him breathing. In this case I construe silence as assent.

“Was he by any chance a member of the 45th Infantry Division?”

More silence. “You put me in a very difficult position,” he says.

“You don’t have to answer. My client told me that the package came from one of her father’s military buddies. That’s what he told her before he died. The wrapper has your return address on it. So I have to assume that the group you represent consists of Mr. Brauer’s former military associates. I would further assume then that whoever is raising questions about the man’s death, the gentleman back there in Oklahoma City, must be a relative or a friend of one of these men?”

More silence.

“Let me ask you, do you have an attorney-client relationship with the individual who is complaining about the death of this gentleman?”

The lawyer finally exhales and says, “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” He seems almost relieved to give up the information. “Do you have something to write with?”

“I do.”

“His name is Anthony Pack.” He gives me the man’s phone number and address. “I think if you contact him, he may be able to help you.”

“Thank you very much.” I hang up.

NINETEEN

E
arly Wednesday morning and Herman is in my office first thing. He is looking tired, haggard, and unhappy.

“Did you get Emma settled in?”

“Yeah. We’ve got security watching the place.”

Late last evening before I went home I trekked out to Brauer’s house and gave her the bad news about Sofia. She took it hard. Herman had brought the dog over so Emma wouldn’t talk to the neighbor before I got there. It took her a couple of minutes to get the bottom line. She looked at the dog, thought for a moment, and then asked me whether Sofia ever made it to her house. I didn’t lie. I told her the truth, that the cops were operating on the theory that Sofia never got there. We talked for a few more minutes and I asked her if she had a cell phone. She said no. Said she wouldn’t know how to use one. I asked her if she had any relatives or friends who might have had one and used it in her backyard recently. She looked at me and asked why. I took a chance, pulled out the Eiffel Tower charm, and showed it to her. I told her we found it in her yard and wondered whether it might belong to someone she knew. She looked at it, shook her head, and said no. The fact that it doesn’t belong to her or a friend is a sword that cuts both ways. No doubt Noland would pounce all over the fact that she didn’t remember seeing it on Sofia’s phone in the office on Friday, either.

“So what did you find?” I look at Herman.

“You want the truth, it looks like we wasted a lot of their shoe leather and your money.” He plants himself in one of the client chairs and opens his notebook. “We covered Brauer’s neighborhood, both sides of the street all the way to the next intersection in each direction, north and south. We couldn’t find a soul who saw anything unusual at her house Friday night. There was one older couple said they walked by the house about eight o’clock. They don’t recall any vehicles parked out front, none in the driveway. They didn’t notice extra lights on in the house.”

He glances down at his notepad. “One neighbor on Brauer’s side of the street, two doors to the south, says she thought she heard the dog barking, but she didn’t bother to look, cuz she said the dog barked all the time.”

“Did she say what time?”

“She couldn’t remember. But she said it was dark so it must have been later.”

“What about cameras? Do any of the neighbors have security videos?”

He shakes his head. “We found four or five, but none of them close enough to catch anything at Brauer’s house. One of them might have picked up a narrow slice of the street out in front. We’re checking to see if we can get a copy of the video. There’s a slight chance, very slim, it might have picked up somebody driving to or from the house assuming the motion of the car was close enough to trigger the camera. Even if it did, you won’t be able to see Brauer’s place. The camera was one of those little pinhole security jobs. It was across the street, on a front porch, but about four houses down.”

“Any chance it might have night vision?”

Herman looks at me and chuckles. “Why don’t you ask for the Hubble Space Telescope while you’re at it. Not according to our man who looked at it. Said it looked like one of those forty-nine-dollar specials.”

“Let’s see if we can get the video and look at it.”

“We’re on it,” he says. “One other thing. We took a report from a neighbor down the block, lives about six houses to the north. She and her husband saw a car parked in front of another neighbor’s. It wasn’t in front of Brauer’s house. This would have been down the block a ways, parked at the left curb going the wrong way. And it wasn’t Friday. It was Thursday night.”

“Go on.”

“They got curious because they saw it parked the wrong way, parking lights on and the engine idling. The husband wanted to go check it out. She wanted to call the police. She said it was an old beat-up car, all rusted out.”

“Any make or model?”

“Old is all she said. Anyway, the husband went out the door. She didn’t want him to go alone, so she grabbed her phone and followed him. She said that as they approached the car along the sidewalk from behind, the driver saw ’em in the side-view mirror, threw the car in gear, and pulled away. According to her he left enough smoking rubber on the road for a lifetime supply of erasers.”

“Did they get a look at the driver?”

“White, is all she said. Two men. Driver and one passenger in the front seat. She said the one driving had a tattoo.”

“Where, on his arm?”

“Back of his neck and the side of his face. In the mirror she said she could see a metal ring, maybe two, she wasn’t sure, through the corner of his lip.”

“Sounds like they were fortunate not to make it all the way to the car. Any chance they got a license plate?”

“I knew you would ask. They got a partial rear plate, one number and two letters. Five, a space, the letters
PU,
and three more letters or numbers, they weren’t sure.”

“California?” I ask.

“They think so.”

“Then the last three ought to be numbers. Correct?”

“Assuming they got everything in the right order and it’s a California plate. The old man was trying to read it, but according to her it was moving pretty damn fast. And there wasn’t much light. She got a picture with her cell phone. The investigator got a copy, but it looks like nothing but fuzz to me.”

“Send it out to a lab, see if they can do anything to enhance it. Check the video from the home security camera and if there’s anything on it, do the same. I take it there’s no chance the husband or wife can identify the car?”

“All she said was it was big, fast, and had a lot of rust.”

“OK, well I guess that’s it.”

Herman is up out of the chair, headed to the door.

“Oh, what about the other thing?”

“I’m working on it,” he says.

“Let me know when it’s up and running.”

“Will do.” Herman barely clears the door and Harry comes in.

“Have you seen anything from the medical examiner on Brauer yet? Autopsy or toxicology?”

I shake my head. “No. Did you check the front desk?”

“It’s not there. I’m getting worried,” says Harry. “Where is it? You know they had it before they filed, so why haven’t they produced it?”

“Let’s not be in a hurry. You can bet the minute they give it to us they’re going to bump the charge to murder one and take Emma back into custody.”

“If they’re gonna do it, may as well do it now. At least then we’ll know.”

“Yeah, but a few more days might give you time to get ready.”

“Ready for what?” says Harry.

“I told Emma that if she has to go back in, you’d take the dog.”

“What?”

“You can’t imagine how relieved she was when I told her. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still frightened by the prospect of going back to jail, but telling her that you’d take care of Dingus made a huge difference.”

Harry makes one of those strange expressions, halfway between a smile and a question mark. “Yeah, right.”

“We can’t send the dog to a kennel, not after what he’s been through. And besides, Emma’s baking you a cake. She said she’d bring it by tomorrow. She likes you. She trusts you. I didn’t say anything to her, but we both know Dingus will feel much more at home sleeping in your closet, with your shoes.”