Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (28 page)

“Holy shit. How did you get it in there? Where did you hide it?”

“Don’t ask. And if you ever tell anybody I’ll come looking for you,” he says.

It takes me a few seconds before I realize . . . Herman doesn’t have any metal in his hip.

THIRTY-SEVEN

T
wo weeks after our trip to Las Vegas and the Bavarian castle overlooking “Sin City,” Herman and I finally have results back from a private lab. The report shows what the lab believes to be a solid DNA profile for Ricardo Menard. The problem is, we have nothing to compare it with. Not for the moment anyway.

We obtained a court order immediately after Sofia’s autopsy requiring the state to freeze the embryo taken from her body in order to preserve the evidence. But so far we have been unable to get beyond this. A subpoena filed in Emma’s case earlier this week demanding DNA from the embryo as well as the microscopic scrapings from under her fingernails ran into problems when prosecutors objected.

They wanted to know the evidentiary basis connecting the two cases, Sofia’s murder and Emma Brauer’s manslaughter charge. The only thing we had was Sofia’s telephone trinket found in Emma’s backyard, circumstantial evidence that, if she wasn’t murdered there, she at least arrived at that location before she was killed.

We presented it along with declarations signed under penalty of perjury: one by Harry attesting to where it was found, and two others by Joselyn, as well as two of our secretaries, stating that the trinket looked like the one from Sofia’s phone. I filed my own declaration testifying to the fact that Sofia left my office the day she was murdered intending to go to Emma’s house on an errand for the firm.

Prosecutors argued that this was nothing but a fishing expedition and the court agreed. The judge ruled that without a more definitive showing that the trinket was actually the one that belonged to Sofia, along with forensic evidence demonstrating that she was killed at Emma’s house, he had no legal basis to force the state to cough up evidence in an ongoing murder investigation, a case in which we have no client. It’s an irony that because we don’t represent a defendant in Sofia’s murder, we are denied the usual broad rules of discovery that might prove who killed her.

But for the moment we keep our powder dry and look for another opening. Harry and I have been on and off the phone with Tony Pack for the last two days keeping him current. Tony tells us he has another meeting with the police in Oklahoma City regarding his father’s murder, some new information that might cause them to take another look. Tony has also found out that the local authorities have a lead as to the possibility identity of the hit-and-run driver who killed Walter Jones. If the information is accurate, it was a killing for hire. I am not surprised. If it proves out, and if it connects to the Blood Flag, it’s a major break. Evidence that either one of these was an intentional homicide and tied to the flag would help provide Emma with a defense. If two of the three soldiers involved with the flag have been murdered by someone who wanted it, isn’t it probable that the third one who died under similar circumstances was killed for the same reason?

This morning Harry and I are in my office discussing all of this when the door flies open. Brenda, my secretary, is standing there breathless. “Joselyn’s on the phone. She wants you to turn on CNN immediately. She says there’s something on the news about Brauer’s case.”

Harry and I head for the conference room, running down the hall behind Brenda. By the time we get there, the entire staff is congregated in front of the large flat-screen mounted on the wall. A running red banner,
BREAKING NEWS
, flashes by under the image of a reporter on a busy street, what looks like New York.

“According to the story, what happened to Robert Brauer, how he died and why, may not be the only unanswered question in this ongoing riddle regarding what some are now calling the long-lost Hitler Blood Flag. A second homicide, this one involving a young woman in California by the name of”—the reporter looks down to read from her notes—“Sadie Marie Leon, is also believed to be connected to the flag. How is unclear. But according to sources cited in the wire service report, Leon’s murder, which occurred five weeks ago, is, and I quote, ‘intimately involved’ with people who are looking for the flag. That murder remains unsolved, with no arrests and no suspects or persons of interest identified. Efforts to obtain information from the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department were met with the response that the investigation remains open and active, but that the department will have no further comment at this time. So far that’s all we know. But I’m sure that given the feeding frenzy surrounding the flag and the fact that it apparently exists, we will be hearing more as time goes by.”

“Thank you, Barbara.” They switch back to the studio. Three talking heads around a table: “What a story. A Hitler Blood Flag, who would have thought? Sort of sends chills up my spine,” says one of the women.

“Fascinating,” says the guy on the other side of the table. “The fact that dealers in New York are saying it’s priceless, the only piece of art, if you could call it that, created personally by Hitler himself, that might be worth really big money . . .”

“Yeah, what did he say?” asks the woman.

“He compared it to a Matisse and then said no; because it’s one of a kind and because it’s a part of history, even though a dark part, it’s probably going to draw higher bids than a long-lost masterpiece. He said the estimates are anywhere from thirty million to one hundred and fifty million dollars. And as they say, that ain’t hay.” They all laugh. “Especially when you consider that Hitler was a failed artist.”

“Well, it’s not really a piece of art,” says the woman.

“Of course not . . .”

“Try Fox,” says Harry.

Somebody hits the remote and flips the channel. A story on politics. They surf the tube and find the story again on one of the business channels. It’s making the rounds of all the cable stations. A reporter on Wall Street in front of the stock exchange.

“It’s believed that these three soldiers from the 45th Infantry Army Division during World War Two, Robert Brauer, Walter Jones, and Edward Pack, that one or all of them had possession of the flag at one time or another.”

“Where is it now?” says a voice in the studio.

“We don’t know.”

“Is it possible that the dealer, the one quoted in the story, might already have it?”

“If so, he isn’t saying,” says the reporter. “We talked to his office by phone. They said he was busy. So far he hasn’t called us back. What we do know is that, according to the story, the three American soldiers were stationed in Munich, Germany, when the war ended. That’s where they found the flag. Scholars and historians confirm that’s where it was stored, in the Nazi headquarters known as the Brown House. It’s believed that the three GIs took it as a war trophy. Whether they knew what they had when they took it isn’t clear. And who actually owns it may be up for grabs. Some are saying it could be the German government. There are other reports that the US Justice Department as well as the Treasury may take an interest. If these men were on duty at the time they took it and they were in occupied territory, which we know they were, then the flag could belong to the federal government. When it was that the soldiers discovered its historic and monetary value isn’t known. All we know is that at some point they found out.”

“And now one of them, Robert Brauer, has been killed, is that right?”

“Yes, by his daughter, according to the police. Exactly how she fits into all of this we don’t know.”

“That’s why we have cops,” says Harry. “To invent shit so they can fill in all the blanks in your knowledge.”

“Relax, Harry.”

“Listen to the prick,” he says. “What he doesn’t know could fill an ocean. And he’s out there flapping his lips. Emma’s just acquired a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar motive for killing her father because this idiot needs to fill a couple of seconds of dead airtime.”

“So there’s a lot of unanswered questions,” says the studio.

“Exactly.”

“Well, we’ll be looking for more on it as time goes by. Thanks, Bob, for your report.”

“Yeah, thanks, Bob!” says Harry.

“Talk to you later.”

“Not if I see you first,” says Harry.

The anchor back in the studio says, “One thing is for sure, whoever it is who has this Hitler Blood Flag is going to be doing a whole lot better than most us who are invested in the stock market if today’s market reports are any indication.”

“Good segue,” says Harry. “Maybe next time you can air a lethal injection in between the two.”

Somebody taps me on the shoulder. I turn. It’s Brenda. “I found this online,” she says. She hands me two sheets of printed paper. “It’s the Associated Press piece, the one that broke the news on the flag. It appears to be what everyone else is talking about, the principal source. Everything else online refers back to it.”

“Thanks.” I take it.

“So what do we do now?” says Harry. “You can bet they will come and get Emma. Bump the charges up. Murder for money. She sure as hell would have thought about that in advance.”

“I know.”

“According to the judge we were unable to connect the dots between Brauer’s case and Sofia’s murder,” says Harry. “It seems the media didn’t have any trouble doing it.”

“They don’t have to produce evidence,” I tell him.

“You think the cops fed ’em?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Anything’s possible.”

“Maybe they know more than we think,” says Harry.

Harry is wondering the same thing I am. Whether the theory from the medical examiner spun to us that day at the crime scene, hovering over Sofia’s body, was a fable intended to keep us looking in the wrong direction. Maybe they’ve known all along that she was killed at Brauer’s house. That would explain why they weren’t interested in the tiny Eiffel Tower, her cell phone trinket. Maybe they have something that’s more compelling.

THIRTY-EIGHT

H
arry and I are back in my office. I scan the online news article handed to me by Brenda. According to the story, a dealer by the name of Ivan Rosch, associated with one of the big auction houses in New York, which they name, appears to be one of the sources of their information, along with another, unnamed individual.

I show the article to Harry. He reads it and says: “Call him.”

I google the name of the auction house, find the phone number, and call. I punch the speaker on my desk set so Harry can listen in.

“Given the blast in the media, the man’s probably hiding in a hole by now,” says Harry.

It’s answered on the third ring by a woman with a British accent who announces her employer’s name and says, “How can we help you?”

“I’m calling for Mr. Ivan Rosch.”

“One moment, please.”

A few seconds go by. Another woman with a British accent comes on the line. “Mr. Rosch’s office, how can I help you?”

“I’m calling for Mr. Rosch.”

“So, it seems, is half of the world, at least at the moment,” she says. “I’m afraid he’s unavailable. May I ask the name of your media outlet?”

“I’m not with the media.”

“Well, I’m afraid he’s busy right now. If you’ll remain on the line I’ll have our reception desk take your name and number and either Mr. Rosch or one of his assistants will call you the moment they’re free.”

“You might tell him I’m a lawyer in California. I represent Emma Brauer, Robert Brauer’s daughter.”

“Who did you say?”

“Robert Brauer, one of the soldiers who found the Blood Flag.”

“Just a moment,” she says. “Don’t hang up . . .” She doesn’t even put me on hold. We can hear her talking in the background, over another line. “Tell him Brauer’s lawyer is on the phone. I don’t know what he wants. He wants to talk to Ivan. I don’t have his name. OK, so I didn’t get it. I’ll ask him to hold. But get Ivan off the phone. Tell him to hang up . . . I don’t care if it’s the
New York Times
. Tell him if he wants a shot at the foocking sale, he better get on line one now.”

Harry lifts his eyes from the telephone speaker, looks at me, and winks. One thing we know about the Blood Flag that the media doesn’t: the New York auction house dealer who’s flogging it doesn’t have the thing.

In a flash she’s back on the line, composed and polite. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long. He’ll be right with you, I’m sure. I wonder if I could have your name?” she says.

I tell her and give her the city where our office is located.

“May I have your phone number?” she asks. “In case we get cut off.”

“Make sure we don’t,” I tell her. “I’ll give it to Mr. Rosch when I speak to him.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll be right with you.” She waits a few seconds and then says, “Give me a moment. Please don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.” This time she puts me on hold. I turn down the volume on the speaker to tone down the music.

“You know what the auction commission is on a sale of, say, a hundred million dollars?” says Harry.

“No. What is it, six percent?”

He shakes his head. “Anywhere from twelve to twenty-five percent of the sales price. Twelve to twenty-five million dollars. British accents come high,” says Harry. “I’m guessing she’s kicking the crap out of him about now. You wouldn’t want to be in Mr. Rosch’s pants right now. Caught between us and the
New York Times
.”

Before Harry can finish the thought she’s back on the line. “Mr. Rosch will take your call now.”

A second later a melodious voice comes over the speaker. This one sounds like it’s from the Bronx. “Ivan Rosch here. Who am I speaking to?”

“Mr. Rosch, my name is Paul Madriani. We’re on a speakerphone. My partner Harry Hinds is with me. We are criminal defense attorneys here in California. We represent Emma Brauer. I think you know the name.”

“I do indeed.”

“I read with interest today’s news article off the wire service in which you were quoted several times.”

“Yes. It’s all over the media,” he says. “It’s going to be quite a sale. Your client is going to make a great deal of money. I assume she is the holder of the item in question? I can assure you we will get top dollar. Of course, there will be costs, authentication, marketing . . .”