Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (34 page)

"Yes, I imagine so. He certainly did a job of that on me
yesterday, when he claimed to be an investigator for your committee.
But how did you learn his real identity?"

"Purely by coincidence. The last synagogue the ingratiating
young man approached was Temple Emanuel, in King of Prussia,
Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia. There he was once again posing as a
magazine writer; probably he assumed he was far enough away from
White Plains that he could resume his first disguise. And using the
same story as he had earlier was not what gave him away."

"What did, then?" Halpert asked.

"A member of the congregation—a
man who had recently moved east from San Francisco—recognized
him as one of the men who had been arrested for the firebombing of
the Hillel Foundation here. He went to the rabbi, but before they
could confront Levin about it, he, and three of the temple's Torahs,
disappeared. It was unfortunate he got away, but at least we could
identify him."

"So you hired investigators in San Francisco," I said.

"Yes. They showed Levin's picture to various congregations,
both here and in other parts of the state, who had unwittingly
purchased stolen Torahs during the past two years. They all
identified Levin as the seller. Again, he had appeared so charming
and sincere that no one had thought to question the rightful
ownership of the scrolls he was selling until it was too late."

"Didn't that pretty much put him out of business?"

"It did. We've sent his picture and explanatory material to
every congregation in the United States. But we are still interested
in Mr. Levin's recent activities because a number of the Torahs he
stole—seven, to be exact—are still missing. We have had
him under surveillance a great deal of the time since we learned who
he was and our investigators located him here. But he had not led us
to those Torahs— and now he never will."

I swirled the dregs of my coffee around in my cup, thinking over
my conversation with Levin. Cohen watched me expectantly. Finally I
said, "I don't think Levin had possession of the scrolls when he
died."

"Why not?"

"Because he claimed to be looking for them. A lot of what he
told me was lies, but I think they were designed to make his
activities more plausible. Somehow those scrolls had gotten out of
his hands, and he wanted them back."

Cohen nodded and poured more coffee. This time he didn't bother to
add sugar.

I said, "What did your investigators find out about Jerry
Levin? What had he been doing in the time between the firebombing and
his appearance on the East Coast?"

"Initially he was living in a cabin in the Santa Cruz
Mountains. There's not too much information on his activities during
that period; he seemed to have been fairly reclusive. After he
started robbing the synagogues, he maintained the cabin and was in
and out of there from time to time."

"Probably when he came west to unload some of the Torahs."

"Yes. A month after he was recognized in King of Prussia, he
made a final attempt to sell a Torah to a Palo Alto synagogue. The
rabbi recognized him from the picture our investigators had shown
him, and excused himself to call the police. Apparently Levin sensed
the danger, because he was gone, along with the Torah, when the rabbi
returned to the room."

"And this was when?"

"Three months ago. Our investigators later learned he had
remained in the cabin for one of those months, but then it burned to
the ground. Soon afterward he turned up here in San Francisco, in a
Tenderloin hotel. After that—until last night—he
frequented the flea market on the frontage road near Brisbane, as
well as the vicinity of Mr. Whelan's house."

"Were your investigators following him last night?"

Cohen shook his head ruefully. "No. We'd had to cut back our
surveillance; unfortunately, our funds are not limitless."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was a fly buzzing against
the upper panel of the bay window. Then I said, "This cabin in
the Santa Cruz Mountains—can you tell me how to get there?"

Cohen looked surprised. "Yes, I've visited the site. It's
near Boulder Creek." He took out a pencil and a small notebook
and drew a map that seemed reasonably in scale. "Why, may I ask,
do you want to go there? It's nothing now but charred wood."

"I don't know that I do. But I need to know much more about
Levin if I'm to build a defense for Willie Whelan."

"Won't the police check out Levin's background, including
that cabin?"

"The police have a plausible subject. They'll concentrate on
that end, building a case that will stand up in court."

Cohen nodded. "Have you anything to add to what you've
already told me?"

"No, I don't. I only spoke to Levin the one time, and then I
found him dead."

"Then I had better be on my way." He stood and handed me
a card. "That's where you can reach me." With a last
interested glance around the room, he started for the door, Halpert
following.

"Mr. Cohen," I said.

He turned as he was about to step over the rolled rugs.

"May I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Why didn't your committee simply turn the matter of Levin
and the stolen Torahs over to the police?"

"We intended to, once we had recovered the Torahs."

"You didn't think the police would recover them for you?"

"Perhaps. But their main concern would have been apprehending
Levin. Ours was ensuring that the Torahs survived." He smiled
then, a smile that contrasted sharply to his wintry eyes. "Besides,
Miss McCone, our people are accustomed to doing things for
themselves."

As I watched David Halpert show Cohen out, I remembered the men
and women who had devoted their lives to hunting down Nazi war
criminals. Yes, I thought. His people certainly were accustomed to
doing things for themselves. And with good cause.

I stopped at a
tacqueria
on Mission Street and bought a
beef burrito, then went back to All Souls. As I came through the
front door, our secretary, Ted, stared at the bag I was carrying and
said, "Uh-oh." Most of the folks at the co-op were food
faddists—I think that year it was
sushi
—and
their tolerance for Mexican fast food was limited.

Hank was the only person in the kitchen, however, so nobody was
going to pick on me about my poor dietary habits today. Like me, my
boss would eat anything. He was always whipping up pots of hearty
chili or exotic curries, at which the others turned up their noses.
It was funny, though, how those leftovers mysteriously disappeared in
the dead of night.

I unwrapped my burrito, got a Coke, and joined him at the big oak
table. He was polishing off a Dagwood sandwich and reading a rough
draft of a brief. One of the pages had a big mustard smudge on it.

"What's happening with Willie?" I said.

"The arraignment's at two o'clock. I've already talked with
the judge and the D.A.'s man. Willie should be out on bail by
tonight."

Bail in capital-offense cases was usually high. "Can he
afford it?"

"Don't let Willie's appearance or lifestyle fool you; he's
managed to sock away plenty of cash in his day. How are things coming
on your end?"

I told him about my talks with Fat Herman, David Halpert, and Ben
Cohen. Noncommittally silent, he continued eating.

"Hank," I said, "this would be much simpler if you
could persuade Willie to tell you where he was when Levin was killed.
You're his friend; can't you just lay it on the line for him?"

"I intend to."

"Good. Will you also tell him to do something for me?"

"What?"

"Search his house from top to bottom for those Torahs."

"Didn't someone already do that?"

"Not necessarily. Even if that was what he was after, we
don't know that he found them. That's a big house, and there's a lot
of junk in it."

"You really think the Torahs are there?"

"Levin seemed to think so, and he invested a lot of time in
watching Willie."

"All right, I'll tell him to look." Hank stood up and
took his empty plate to the dishwasher. "In the meantime, where
will you be?"

"In the Santa Cruz Mountains, researching Jerry Levin's
past." I tossed the Coke can and the foil the burrito had come
in into the trash, then went to my office and called home. It had
occurred to me that Don might enjoy an excursion in the hills. The
phone was picked up by my answering service, and I remembered then
that Don had said something about delivering his demo tape and taking
a tour of the KSUN studios today.

That was just as well, I decided as I hung up. I was preoccupied
with the problem of Willie Whelan and probably wouldn't be very good
company. Besides, I could accomplish the trip in far less time alone.
I gassed up the MG at my usual station, then headed south on
Interstate 280.

Following Ben Cohen's hand-drawn map, I left Highway 17 at Old
Summit Road south of Los Gatos. The road curved up into the
mountains; it was in reasonably good repair and lined with expensive
homes on thickly landscaped lots. Then, after about five miles, it
narrowed and the pavement deteriorated somewhat. I came to a couple
of forks that weren't indicated on Cohen's map and followed the
branches that looked most promising. Houses were no longer in
evidence, save for a few mailboxes, and the road continued to climb,
winding in switchbacks through rocky terrain that was covered with
scrub oak, pepper trees, and occasional scraggly pines.

Finally the road became a mere cut in the hillside, walled on one
side by dirt and rock to which ferns clung. On the other, it dropped
off sharply. At a wide spot I pulled off and got out of the car. From
there I could look over the tops of trees to the soft contours of the
mountains on the distant horizon. Although it was a sunny day, a
light haze made them bluish-green. Across the valley a vineyard clung
to a hillside. Somewhere in the underbrush below a stream trickled,
and a jay scolded me from a nearby branch.

I looked at Cohen's map again. There was no telling if I'd
followed the right forks or come far enough. I debated going back,
but decided this road probably came out at Boulder Creek. If I
arrived there without finding Levin's place, I would ask directions.

After a few more miles, however, I suddenly came upon the
barbed-wire fence and rusty wagon wheel that the map indicated as
marking Levin's property. The driveway consisted of two ruts that
snaked off down the hill from the road. I considered whether the MG's
suspension could withstand the bumps, and decided to leave the car
where it was. The overgrown tracks descended steeply for some
distance and then bottomed out at a plank bridge that crossed the
little creek. The water, running swiftly over moss-covered rocks, was
clear and sparkled in the sun. I knelt down and felt its mountain
coldness.

From the bridge, the track climbed up again, into a copse of wild
sumac. Jays hopped from branch to branch, their blue feathers
brilliant against the dark foliage. At my approach, they began a
disapproving chorus. I looked at them warily, because I have an
unreasonable fear of birds, but kept going through the trees to a
clearing.

The tall grass there had been bleached to a wheat color by the sun
and was crushed and bent, as if a car had been driven in and parked
there. To the right of the clearing was a tumbledown shed, its doors
sagging on rusty hinges and most of its roof caved in. Straight
ahead, on still higher ground, stood what remained of Levin's cabin.

All that was standing was a cement-block foundation, a few charred
beams, and a chimney of blackened stone. The lower branches of the
redwood trees that shaded it had been burned, and their great trunks
were badly scorched and splattered with a yellow substance that might
have been a fire retardant. It was impossible to tell what the cabin
had looked like, but from the foundation I could see that it had been
little more than two rooms. I went up to it and stepped over the
cement blocks to get a closer look.

The kitchen had been at the rear of the structure, as evidenced by
a heat-blistered two-burner stove and refrigerator. A pair of
galvanized pipes showed where the sink had stood. The basin itself
lay on the ground, the cabinet that had held it having burned to
ashes. Blackened porcelain fixtures indicated that the bathroom had
been to the right of the kitchen. Near the stone fireplace lay the
charred remains of springs and a mattress.

How had the fire started? I wondered. Faulty wiring? Sparks from
the fireplace? Had Levin been smoking in bed? Or had he even been
here at the time? I began walking around through the ashes and debns,
looking for the blaze's origin.

I didn't know much about investigating the scenes of fires, but it
seemed logical that the place of origin would be where the most
damage was. The cabin, however, seemed uniformly burned. I assumed
there was no fire department up here and that Levin had not been able
to put the blaze out himself. Probably he had merely contained it and
allowed it to burn itself out. That might account for the equal
degree of destruction. Or maybe the fire hads started in more than
one place. I'd have to call a man I knew on the Arson Squad and ask
him about that when I got back to the city.

I stepped up to the blackened foundation and surveyed my
surroundings. To one side was a dense thicket where I could hear the
creek splashing over the rocks. Behind the ruins was a dark ring of
redwoods. The temperature under the trees was cool and the air was
redolent with the scent of bay laurel. Under it, the smell of charred
wood lurked like an unspoken warning.

I kicked at the foundation in frustration. There was nothing here
that would tell me any more about Jerry Levin. Even if I got down and
hand-sifted through these ashes, they would yield no information. But
maybe someone in Boulder Creek had known the dead man; I'd go there
after I explored the property a little more.