“They followed you—”
“They didn’t follow me,” said Nick, his anger building. “They don’t even know where I am. That’s why they decided to come for you instead. That’s why they came for your brother, Jessica. Look, I explained this to you already. No living heirs, no investigations. If they can’t find the PI’s, they’ll try to find the heirs. That’s the deal.”
She ran her hands through her hair. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t
believe
this! I never wanted to be involved in this.”
Nick’s patience snapped like a pencil lead. He was almost shouting now. “And you think I do? I didn’t ask to be a part of this, okay? It’s your family’s past that everyone’s so pissed off about. Yeah, I may have stepped on this land mine, but it’s
your
family who buried it. Go ahead and blame it all on me if that helps you hide, but this all goes back to your uncle. That’s right—
your uncle.
”
She stared at him, a stunned look on her face. He pressed forward.
“Two people are dead,” he said, stepping toward her. “When are you going to realize that, yes, you’re involved now?”
Her eyes flared. She stood trembling slightly before
sinking to the bed. Despite her best efforts, the tears came in powerful sobs. Nick walked past her to the bathroom and turned the faucets on. His face was hot. He filled his hands with cool water and doused himself. His cheeks were red with scratches from the cornfield, his hair matted together. He was dying for a drink, something with a nasty bite.
He sat on the other bed as he dabbed his face dry with a towel. She had gathered herself quickly, defiantly brushing away the tears. Neither of them said anything for ten minutes. She rose to her feet and went into the bathroom. Nick didn’t watch her but he could hear the faucets start up again.
“Fine,” she said, leaning over the sink. “You made your point. We don’t go to the police. So what
should
we do?”
“I didn’t say I had a lot of other ideas,” said Nick, with a helpless shrug. “This isn’t exactly your garden-variety situation.”
They both went quiet. Jessica finally broke the silence as she was looking into the mirror.
“My uncle’s past is something I haven’t wanted to deal with. It’s not easy to face up to the fact that you’re related to a war criminal. . ..”
“War criminal?” said Nick, placing the towel aside. He approached her and stood in the doorway. “You never said anything about a war criminal.”
She walked past him and sat on the edge of the bed. He followed her closely.
“Care to elaborate on that?”
She exhaled and glanced up at him. “Look, we have to come to an understanding here. We tell each other everything we know. No secrets. You agree to that?”
“I’ve told you everything
I
know. Sounds like you’re the one withholding things.”
She gave him a frustrated look. “Put yourself in my shoes, okay? One second I’m relaxing on the couch after a hard day’s work and the next thing I know my brother is
dead. And then there was our little jog through the cornfield. This may be another day at the office for you, but it’s not for me.”
Despite himself, Nick gave a helpless little laugh. “Believe me, running for my life from armed thugs is nothing I’m used to. I work in an office, just like you do. Spend most of my time doing research at courthouses, talking to little old ladies on the phone.”
Her lips slowly curled upward. “You’re shattering my images of the modern-day PI.”
“It’s not that glamorous.”
“Maybe I should be holding the gun then.”
“I used to be a cop. I can handle myself. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be carrying a weapon too.”
“I’ve been around guns,” she said, curling up a leg and sitting on it. “You’ll need to talk to your connections and get me one too.”
Nick nodded. He was all for that. All he needed to do was find these mythical connections. He sat down next to her at the foot of the bed. “So what’s this about a war criminal?”
She looked down at her lap. “My mother said her brother was a war criminal who’d been imprisoned.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me this earlier?”
“Because it was none of your damn business, that’s why.”
“What crimes was your uncle imprisoned for?”
“I don’t know. My mother never said.”
“Imprisoned where? Germany?”
She nodded.
“This sheds a different light on it,” he said, unsure what that light was. “What else?”
“Nothing else. That’s everything I know.”
He kept his eyes locked on hers. “You fed me that line earlier. Why do I get the feeling you’re just tossing me little tidbits here and there? Why don’t you come clean with me?”
“I
am
coming clean,” she replied firmly. “I swear to you. What reason do I have to hide things? I’m in as much danger as you are, right? Probably more.”
Nick purposely held his stare an extra second before standing and approaching the nightstand. He pulled out a phone book.
“Ever been to New York?” he asked, knowing the answer already from her background check.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re going back there tonight with me.”
“For what?”
“We’re going to meet up with my partner and figure out what to do. You got yourself a free flight back East, courtesy of Merchant and Associates.”
This time it was her fingers that disconnected the phone.
“There’s no way I’m going like this.” She stood and ran her hands down herself. “I look like a bum.”
Nick checked her over. She was five foot four, all right—in heels. Somehow, in her dirty blouse and torn nylons, she didn’t look half bad to him. Not bad at all.
“Is there a city nearby with a decent department store?” he asked.
“Ames. About ten minutes down the highway. They’re open until ten on Saturdays.”
“We’ll take a cab there then. After we get clothes and a couple of travel bags, we’ll go straight to the airport. Till then we sit tight.”
“I have to call my office and let them know I’ll be out for a while.”
“A long while, I’d say. If they press you for details, I wouldn’t get into it with them.”
A car door slammed out in the street. Nick checked through the curtains. Jessica grabbed the remote and clicked the television off.
“I told you what I know—it’s your turn now. I want to hear about everything you’ve found.”
“That ain’t much.”
“Then it won’t take you too long. I’m all ears, Mr. PI.”
Nick sat across from her on the bed and started talking.
The Institute for Historical Review was an unremarkable little building situated between a Russian bakery and a twenty-year-old furniture store in downtown Albany. Three blocks east of City Hall, the institute was rarely frequented by pedestrians, but that would change today.
Alex had never taken much notice of the building the dozens of times she had been downtown, but now the modest two-story Victorian on Columbia Street stood out like a beacon. She found parking down the street and pulled to the curb.
She sat for a moment in silence as a fly buzzed about the inside of the car. She was thinking of her mother again, and the pit of her stomach had contracted accordingly. She knew her mother didn’t read the newspapers. Her television time was almost exclusively dedicated to the Spanish channel. She probably wouldn’t know of the charges against Nick, but with her blabbermouth friends, that could change quickly. And if one partner of Merchant and Associates was now a wanted fugitive, could the other be far behind? The thought of putting her mother through something like that was enough to make her shudder.
She stepped from the car, feeling slightly nauseous. She had called Nick immediately with the news but hadn’t been able to reach him. Her partner didn’t go anywhere without his phone. She couldn’t think of a single comforting reason why he wouldn’t be answering it.
A bell chimed against the back of the door as she entered the building. She looked around, a bit confused. Despite the distinguished title, the place had the look of a used bookstore. The room was dusty and poorly lit, with rows of dented book stands forming narrow passageways for several browsing patrons. The musty scent of aged
manuscripts filled the air. A lanky man of about forty emerged from a row. He approached Alex with a friendly smile, his arms holding several worn volumes.
“You must be Ms. Ramos.”
“Yes—Debra Ramos,” she replied, offering her hand. “Are you John?”
“Yes, I am—John Franklin. We spoke this morning.”
“I appreciate you sticking around so late, John.”
“Oh not a problem. Our senior researcher, Mr. Gruber, is here now, as usual.” He brought a hand to the side of his mouth. “Old guy practically lives here. He’d probably stay all night if we’d let him.”
“Well I’m definitely grateful,” Alex said, scanning the interior. “What kind of business is this exactly?”
“We’re a state-funded, nonprofit group which does historical research, mostly for universities and local government agencies.” He noticed her expression. “Our funding hasn’t exactly been abundant lately. Can you follow me please?”
Alex followed him back through the tight rows of books and into a small, poorly lit office. In the center of the room was a large, neatly organized desk behind which sat a bearded elderly gentleman. The man looked up from his papers and nodded at Alex with a cordial smile.
“This is Paul Gruber, Ms. Ramos,” said Franklin. He turned to the seated gentleman. “She’s the one who wanted the research done on Ludwig Holtzmann.”
“Good to meet you,” said the old man, smiling again. “You’ll be pleased with what I’ve found.”
“I’m very interested in seeing it,” Alex replied.
The old man rose to his feet slowly and with great effort. “Come with me.”
Alex followed him up a narrow wooden staircase and into a low-ceilinged attic. Here, neatly organized in domino-like book stands, were thousands of manuscripts and volumes. The old man walked purposefully to a desk and took a seat, motioning Alex to a chair on his left.
“An interesting figure you’re researching,” said Mr. Gruber, leafing through a folder. “I confess that I normally consider myself quite the expert when the subject is World War II personalities, but I admit I was a bit thrown by our dear Herr Holtzmann. It took me some time to find anything at all on him.”
Alex watched him pull a single sheet of paper. He put on a pair of thick-lensed glasses and cleared his throat.
“Here we are—Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann. Born in Germany in 1913, died there in 1997.”
“Died in Germany in 1997,” repeated Alex thoughtfully. “How do you know this for sure?”
“The records verify it.”
“Records can be falsified,” she said softly. She saw his confused look. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”
Gruber turned back to his notes. “Holtzmann joined the National Socialist party in 1934.”
“National Socialist,” said Alex. “A Nazi, you’re saying.”
“That’s correct. A banker actually. Basically a bureaucrat of the worst kind. Received a war deferment in 1939—bad eyes supposedly. Humph. Whether this was a genuine infirmity or simply another case of a privileged party member having the right connections, we can’t know. The latter I would guess.” He found another sheet and extended it to her. “A photograph . . .”
She was anxious to see this. A studio shot—the young Gerald Jacobs. The face was as bland and generic as the biography she had just been given. A serious expression, a youthful face without a trace of humor. Tight, thin lips and bony jowls. The beady little eyes had a kind of subdued arrogance.
She handed the photo back and felt disappointed. She saw nothing remotely interesting about Ludwig Holtzmann. Certainly nothing notable enough to make him the center of all this attention.
“I’m confused about something,” she said. “If he was just a banker, just a common bureaucrat, how is it you found anything on him at all?”
The old man removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not being very clear.” He stood and walked toward a bare wall. “Perhaps a bit of footage can clear things up better than a forgetful old man can.” He reached the wall and pulled down a hanging screen.
Alex swiveled in her chair, confused. “What’s this?”
“You’ll see,” he said.
She let out a breath, impatient but trying to be courteous. She wanted information, not home movies. She opened her mouth to speak, but the old man had doused the lights. A film projector clicked into motion as a ray of light was projected to the screen.
“Mr. Gruber, I really don’t—”
A blaring of trumpets silenced her. She looked to the screen. A grainy and dark image formed. The deep baritone of thousands of male voices suddenly boomed from the speaker. The picture focused on the dagger-beaked head of a bird as the camera slowly panned out. The bird became enormous, its fifty-foot wings pinned outward onto poles like a giant specimen in a butterfly collection.
Alex looked backward at the old man helplessly.
“Almost there,” he said.
The camera now focused on two figures in military garb walking down the pathway through tens of thousands of perfectly aligned flagbearers. The volume of the singing reached a resounding crescendo as the two figures in military garb ascended a great stairway upward. In several seconds, they had reached the summit. They parted, one saluting the other. One of them now faced the thousands of onlookers on his private pulpit. The singing in the stadium stopped. With a sudden thrust to the sky, he saluted the masses. As one, they responded, rhythmically, fervently praising their leader. The camera switched to an elevated box holding perhaps thirty dignitaries.
Alex watched in silent fascination. She was no history buff, but she recognized several faces. The rotund Göring,
grinning widely in his gaudy white military uniform, his hands clasped together in unconcealed delight. The weasel-faced Goebbels, smaller but equally radiant in his joy in the moment. The picture suddenly froze.
“The Nuremberg party rally of 1938,” said the old man in satisfaction. He approached the screen. “The hierarchy of the Third Reich. The most sinister lot of criminals the world has ever seen.”