Street Dreams (19 page)

Decker sat back, visualizing his morning jog through the parklands that abutted the Isar—a hint of the indigenous Bavarian
wilderness—the area so long that it went under city streets. The cement pillars that supported the roadways above had been
stamped with graffiti that was—not surprisingly—written in German, the same crude epithets as in America no doubt. He recalled
his body washed with numbness as his face hit the frigid air at six in the morning. Jet lag had been playing games with his
diurnal clock, and at that hour it was still black outside, dawn at least an hour away. It was dangerous for him to be out
so early, but he took a perverse pleasure in flirting with peril, daring anyone to try to mug him. The leafless trees had
dripped gelid moisture, the ground wet and muddy in spots, filled with detritus from the nighttime Munich rains. The air reeked
of moss, mold, and rotting flora. The Isar was roiling after the storm, bubbling over with water and spray, boisterously shouting
as it rolled over rocks and boulders that lined the riverbed.

Toward the end of his jog, a gray light shrouded the city. Decker’s mind flashed back to the upscale neighborhoods on either
side of the river. All around had been imposing stone buildings constructed with perfect proportions and mindful of detail.

He wished he had paid more attention to his surroundings. The trip was lacking the sharp, defined angles of clear retrospection,
like reading the paper in bad light. Although he had passed many landmarks, he had no idea where they were in relation to
one another. Then again, how was he to know that his sight-seeing might be crucial in solving this long-buried, unsolved case?

Looking at the city as a whole entity—not just a road map to chart where the hell they were in relationship to the hotel—Decker
discovered that the Englischer Garten was located in Munich’s northeast corner. He and Rina had stayed at a hotel on Maximilianstrasse,
a thoroughfare that housed great restaurants, five-star hotels, and most of the designer boutiques. When he was there, the
distance between the hotel and the garden didn’t seem very far at all. On the map, it looked much more distant.

Rina had also provided him with a detailed map of the garden, vast with long stretches of lawn and lakes and lots of walking
paths. The rebuilt Chinese Tower lay in the center, a bronze-colored, spire-shaped piece of architecture that approximated
a pagoda. Next door was one of the many Munich
biergartens,
a summer gathering spot filled with tables and chairs, where people sat around, drank beer, and enjoyed the open space. The
concession stands were closed in the wintertime, naturally.

The garden also contained Munich’s Cricket Grounds, and along the northern perimeter, there was an area called Aumeister,
which featured an early-nineteenth-century hunting lodge. Those landmarks failed to jar loose any recollections. What he viscerally
remembered was empty copses of trees in steel-cold air, wetness, and the smell of decay.

It was probably his mood.

Rina came in with a cup of coffee and set the mug in front of him. “Anything?”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ve been here for four minutes.”

“I expect miracles.”

“Wait in line.” He sipped coffee. “Wow, this is good. Thanks.”

Rina sat down and placed her hand over his. “Take your time. Seriously.”

“I’m trying to picture the geography. The Englischer Garten is big. Your grandmother was dumped in the northern end. So that
brings several questions to mind.”

He picked up a pencil and wrote on the notepad. “First, what was she doing there? From the guide books and my own pitiful
memories, that area is and was very ritzy. Your omah wasn’t aristocracy. She wasn’t even petite bourgeoisie. She didn’t go
on daily strolls through the park, twirling her parasol in a silk-embroidered gown. Your grandmother was a poor Jewish woman.
She probably worked from the moment she woke up until she went to sleep. What was she doing in the area?”

“Maybe she wasn’t in the area. Maybe she was just dumped there because the park was big and a good place to hide bodies.”

“So then the murder wasn’t a random killing. Someone
brought
her over there with the specific purpose of killing her or at the very least, dumping her there. Now these other two women—Marlena
Durer and Anna Gross—they’re different stories. They lived near the garden, so they could have been random rapes and homicides—in
the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So why did the other guy include Omah with Gross and Durer?”

“What other guy?”

“This one. Kriminalpolizeiinspektor Axel Berg.” She smiled. “That’s a tongue twister. I think all the homicides might be related.
Did you read all of Inspektor Kalmer’s notes?”

“No. Why?”

Rina flipped through to his interview notes. “Read this. You’ll find it interesting.”

Decker’s eyes scanned over the writing until he came to the sentence in question. He backtracked and read it carefully:
An interview with Julia Schoennacht was conducted. The victim, Regina Gottlieb, was in Frau Schoennacht’s employ for three
months, with Frau Gottlieb’s employment ending after her services were no longer required.
He looked at Rina. “Your grandmother worked outside the home?”

“The first I’ve heard of it.”

“What do you think she did? A maid?”

Rina tried out a winsome smile. “I’ve got a confession to make.”

Decker sneered. “Do tell.”

“I screwed up my courage and called my mother this morning after you left.”

“I
knew
this was going to happen! Did you get into a fight with her? Rina, the woman is in her eighties!”

“No, I did not fight with her. To my surprise, she was actually receptive to talking about her past. I was shocked.”

“Did you happen to tell her what you were doing?”

“Not exactly.”

“Here we go again.” Decker was used to his wife’s little white lies. “What yarn did you spin?”

“I told her Hannah was doing a family tree. I just needed to know what her mother and father did. I told her that I knew that
Opah was a tailor. Then I said I assumed that Omah was a housewife. I asked if she had anything to add. …”

“And?”

“There was this pause. Then, in a voice bursting with pride, Mama told me that Omah was also a very fine seamstress. She used
to make Mama and her sister beautiful party dresses. They were the best-dressed girls in the neighborhood, and the most beautiful
girls as well.”

“Your mother’s words? I’ve never known her to brag.”

“Old age … I guess her inhibitions are lowered. Then she told me that Omah used to sew dresses for some of the richest people
in Munich. Then … almost conspiratorial, as if my grandfather could hear from the grave, she said that Omah was a better seamstress
than Opah was a tailor. Then”—Rina’s face took on a slight blush—“Then she said if Hannah needs more information, she’d be
happy to talk with her.”

“Have you informed Hannah about your deception?”

“Hannah was happy to help me out. I think she likes playing detective. Truly her father’s daughter. So putting two and two
together, it stands to reason that Omah worked for this woman Julia Schoennacht as a seamstress.”

“Where did Julia Schoennacht live?”

She pointed to her address. “Near Ludwig-Maximilian-University in Schwabing … not so far from the Englischer Garten. So maybe
Omah
was
a random murder. Maybe she was walking through the park on her way home when someone grabbed her.”

“I don’t know where your grandmother lived. Would she have walked through the park to go home?”

“My grandmother lived around here.” Rina located the area on the map. “Near the Gartnerplatz off Reichenbachstrasse.”

“These names are going to kill me,” Decker said.

“You’ve got to add imaginary slash marks.”

“Your grandparents’ house was nowhere near the park,” Decker pointed out. “And to get to Julia Schoennacht’s house near …
what’s this street … Ludwigstrasse or is it Leopoldstrasse … they look like they run into one another. … Anyway, there wouldn’t
be any reason for your grandmother to walk through the Englischer Garten. It’s out of the way.”

“It’s not that much out of the way and it is more scenic. And look here”—Rina flipped through several pages—“Look at this,
Peter. My grandmother was—quote unquote—relieved of her services about two weeks before she was murdered. Do you want to hear
my theory?”

“Lay it on me.”

“Maybe she went back to the house for some unfinished business. Maybe there was a pay dispute or something. Maybe a fight
broke out and a tragedy occurred. The house was near the garden, so that was the easiest place to hide the body. And of course,
Julia Schoennacht wouldn’t tell the police any of this.”

“So already you have decided that your grandmother’s killer was her former employer. It’s as good a theory as any.” Decker
closed the file. “So why don’t we leave it at that. Besides, there’re too many
strasses
on the map.”

Rina said, “I want to know the truth—or as close as I can come to the truth. Besides, I can’t picture a wealthy, aristocratic
woman dragging my grandmother into a park and bludgeoning her to death.”

“She hired a servant to do it. You said it yourself, Rina. What would be the big deal? Another dead Jew? Good riddance to
bad rubbish. When was Kristallnacht?”

“In 1938.”

“So this was before.”

“About ten years before. But Hitler was already a dominant force.” Rina rubbed her hands together. “Since everything was going
so well with Mama, I accepted an invitation for dinner at her house on Tuesday night—if that’s okay with you.”

“If you want to be a masochist.”

Rina hit him. “Don’t be like that.”

“I like your parents. I don’t fight with them. You do.”

Silence.

“Okay, you have a point,” Rina admitted. “Look. I promise I won’t fight. Besides, they want to see the boys. So maybe we can
continue the family-tree ruse?”

“And you don’t think Mama will catch on when I start to take notes?”

“Could you be a little more subtle?”

“Subtlety is not my strong suit,” Decker remarked. “However, if I should think up the questions and you should ask them …”

“Better still, let Hannah ask them.”

“What kind of a mother would use her own daughter as a shill?”

“Not a shill—a cohort.” Rina patted his shoulder. “Detection as a family affair. I see a screenplay in the making.”

“Funny. All I see is trouble in the making.”

T
he urge to comb
the streets for information was overwhelming. But I had made a promise to my father, and that was that. Even so, I devised
a mental list of how I’d proceed if I were a gold shield. First I’d talk to Klinghoffner, and find out all I could about David—who
he was and where he might have gone. Then I’d ask him if there had been any trouble between his students and street gangs.
There were also the girls I had talked with at the high school. If anyone would know about street gangs, it would be those
who lived where the hoodlums operated. I also knew street people: Alice Anne, Magenta and others of her ilk, and even her
pimp, Burton. There were times I could have busted him, but I chose not to because, after some strong prodding, he had closed
shop for the night. I had come by my “ears” honestly.

I also thought about how to approach Russ MacGregor. Would he want my help? Would he care about a six-month-old crime? Would
he bother with a case that had never been reported to the police, where there was no physical evidence,
and
where the primary witness was a mentally disabled girl who had just abandoned her baby? I sorted through all these what-ifs
because the morning’s conversation with Sarah and Louise Sanders had piqued my curiosity.

Then I remembered the last time I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. A year of therapy and I could almost get through a
session without breaking down. Progress was slow, and I didn’t need another trauma. I kept telling myself to play by the rules,
but the old rebellious urges kept surfacing like bottles bobbing in the ocean. I guess that meant I was getting better.

At loose ends, I wanted to be anywhere but home. Once, I had loved my place, but now it was just a pit stop. I should have
moved, but I didn’t want yet another upheaval in my life. So I slept and I ate and I pretended I was doing fine. With Dad
gone, I felt very much alone. I put on a bright blue blouse, black wool crepe trousers, and four-inch-high black boots that
adjusted my height to almost six feet. I made up my face and hit the road in my five-year-old black Lexus, courtesy of Dad
and Mom. They had thought a big car would increase my sense of well-being. All it did was increase my gas allowance. I wasn’t
complaining, though. My wheels had a drop-dead stereo and cushy seats with lumbar support, which helped my sore back as well
as my bruised ego.

As I looked in the mirror, I struck a pose that said I hadn’t a care in the world. I was always an accomplished fibber.

From my apartment, I drove north on Beverly Drive, passing the green lawns and flower beds of suburban Beverlywood, through
the shopping district of Beverly Hills—lots of foot traffic out today—into the astronomically expensive and bloated estates
of Beverly Hills. From there, I continued north until I hooked a right onto Sunset. I cruised through West Hollywood in slow-moving
traffic, passing all the hot clubs, one of them sporting long lines even though opening time was hours away. I drove by a
half-dozen edgy clothing boutiques, a couple of live theaters, and a block filled with kissy-kissy restaurants offering sidewalk
dining, overpriced grub, and lots of lost souls.

When I turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, I purposely avoided looking for any of my sources, figuring why screw if you can’t
come. I opened the moon roof and enjoyed the heat and sunlight on my skin, the red downy hair of my arms bleached strawberry
blond in the bright rays. Here, in the heart of old Tinseltown, pedestrians abounded. There were the tourists who gaped at
the street show and snapped picture after picture of weirdo after weirdo. Joining the fray were scores of pierced and spike-haired
kids, snacking on junk food, just hanging around. I even spotted some families out for the afternoon, reading the names on
the famous star-studded sidewalks. I passed the Kodak Theatre, Mann’s Chinese Theatre, the El Capitan, the newly constructed
shopping malls, the old kiosk gift shops, the tattoo parlors, the tacky lingerie boutiques, the sex shops, and other various
and sundry scamsters including budget lawyers advertising special rates for bail bonds. Mixed into the scene were the ubiquitous
high-rise office buildings. I turned left onto Western, riding the boulevard until it dead-ended at Griffith Park. More people
and more traffic, but I didn’t care. I had a destination in mind, but I wasn’t in any hurry to get there.