Lying in Wait (9780061747168) (23 page)

For a moment, there was dead silence around the table, then Moise said, “Those soldiers aren't gold, Detective Beaumont. You can check them yourself. They're made out of some other metal. Lead, maybe.”

The soldiers weren't gold? There went my latest pet theory, shot straight to hell!

“Where is the damn gold then?” I demanded. “If Gunter didn't use it to make the soldiers, what the hell did he do with it?”

A tweak of amusement turned up the corners of Avram Steinman's mouth, wrinkling the corners of his eyes and twisting his face into a wry grin. “That, Detective Beaumont,” he replied, “is what we were hoping you could tell us.”

There was some stiff small talk after that. Moise and Avram were looking for information that neither Sue nor I was prepared to share.

I skipped the brandy. While drinking my second cup of coffee, I caught Michael Morris checking his watch three different times. Obviously, he had an important previous engagement. Our visit with Moise Rosenthal and Avram Steinman was making him late.

I passed on the waiter's offer of a third cup. I made one abortive attempt to pick up the tab, but Moise waved that aside, telling me it was handled on a direct-billing basis. Thank you, Simon Wiesenthal. Sue, Michael, and I made our joint exit a few minutes later. Because it was cold outside, we stood just inside the entrance while a pair of attendants brought around the cars.

“Do you think those two guys are really on the level?” Sue asked.

“Up to a point,” I answered, “but I wouldn't trust them any farther than I can throw them.”

“What about old man Gebhardt? Is he alive or dead?”

“Good question,” I replied. “It's a crap-shoot either way. If I were you, I wouldn't bet any money one way or the other.”

My 928 is always popular when it comes to the young men who work valet-parking concessions. Naturally, the Guard-red Porsche appeared in the
hotel driveway long before Sue Danielson's battle-weary Ford Escort. It's possible the parking personnel at the Sorrento might have frowned on handling such lowbrow transportation, but Sue's considerable display of well-turned calf and thigh kept the car jockeys from making snide comments about her car. They did, however, feel free to comment on her looks.

Sue was fully capable of handling herself. She simply ignored their admiring but verging-on-rude leers. Rather than challenge them on it, she merely got in the car and drove away, stiffing the car jockeys out of their expected tip. When Michael Morris and I drove away, one attendant was busy griping to the other about how come she did that. I could have told him, but there are some things in life guys need to be smart enough to figure out for themselves.

Once Michael and I started down Madison, I caught him stealing yet another surreptitious glance at his watch.

“What have you got,” I asked, “a hot date?”

He shook his head. “I'm worried about Kari,” he said.

“What about her?”

“My mother didn't invite Kari to dinner tonight. She said that under the circumstances, with Mr. Gebhardt dead, she was sure Kari wouldn't want to accept a dinner invitation. The truth is, Mom doesn't like Kari at all. That was just an excuse not to have her over. But I told Kari I'd come over to her place right after dinner. Now I'm worried about showing up so late.”

“Ten-thirty isn't all that late,” I reassured him.
“As soon as I get you back to your car, you can be at Kari's house in a matter of minutes. There's hardly any traffic this time of night.”

Michael's car, a bright blue Geo Storm, was parked on Cherry just east of Third. He was in such a hurry to get where he was going that he leaped out of the Porsche while it was still rolling. He took off without so much as a wave or a thank-you. It's a wonder he didn't break his leg.

Such is love, I thought, watching him scramble into the car, start it, and peel out of the parking place. Love, youth, and raging hormones.

As the pair of bright red taillights sped up Third Avenue, I hoped he'd pay attention to his driving.

It would be too bad if some hard-nosed traffic cop pulled the poor kid over and gave him a ticket, I thought, not because Michael was screwed up on booze or drugs, but because he was an inattentive, lovesick swain.

The first
few sprinkles of rain dotted the windshield as I headed for Belltown Terrace. Unlike Michael Morris, I could afford to drive at a far more leisurely pace. As I made my way through the broad, flat streets of the Denny Regrade, I was thinking about the few housekeeping chores—washing sheets, remaking the guest-room bed, putting out clean towels—that I needed to handle in advance of Ralph Ames' scheduled arrival the next afternoon.

In fact, I was just putting the load of soiled sheets in my apartment-sized stacked washer/dryer when the phone rang. It was 10:45.

“Detective Beaumont?”

I thought I recognized the voice, although it wasn't entirely steady. “Michael?” I asked. “Is that you? Is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure, but maybe,” he answered. “Nobody's here.”

“At Kari's house? Maybe they went out,” I suggested with reasoned calm calculated to neutralize the rising panic in his voice. “To a friend's house for the evening, or maybe to visit a relative.”

“Kari said she'd be home all night long,” Michael countered. “She said for me to come over whenever I finished up with dinner. But there aren't any lights on anywhere in the house. I tried all the doors, both front and back. Nobody answered.” That didn't sound good, even to me. My stomach gave a sharp lurch. “Where are you calling me from?”

“From the house across the street,” Michael answered. “Talking to the lady here is what got me so upset.”

There was only one house directly across the street from Else Gebhardt's. I happened to know that one belonged to June and John Miller. “What did the lady say?” I asked.

“That her dog was barking like crazy earlier this afternoon. She said there was a big truck parked in the driveway at Kari's house, and that it was backed up all the way to the garage door. She said there were people with dollies carrying stuff out of the house and loading it into the truck.”

“Put June Miller on the phone,” I said.

“Who's that?” Michael asked.

“June. The lady who lives there.”

Michael turned away from the phone. I heard him asking a question, then he came back on the line. “You aren't even here. How did you know her name?” he asked.

“Never mind. Just put her on the phone.”

June Miller came on the line a moment later. “This is Detective Beaumont,” I said. “What's going on?”

“I'm not sure. I was downstairs with Brett when
Barney started barking his head off. I heard him outside. I tried to get him to shut up or come inside, but he wouldn't stop, and he wouldn't come in either. Barney's terribly nearsighted. I think he saw this big thing sitting there and couldn't figure out what it was. He was so agitated, I was afraid he'd go out of the yard even with his collar working. Finally, I went out to get him. That's when I saw them loading the truck. That's what all the fuss was about—loading a truck.”

“What kind of truck?”

“One of those big rental ones. It starts with an
R
.”

“Ryder? Rollins?”

“Rollins. That's it.”

“You said someone was loading a truck. Who? And could you tell what they were loading?”

“Not really. I only saw two men, although there might have been more.”

“What did they look like?”

“One was older. And then there was a younger one—a middle-aged man, balding, but with reddish hair. And whatever it was they were loading, it must have been heavy. They were using a dolly. You know, the kind of thing appliance-delivery guys use when they're unloading washers and dryers and refrigerators.”

Balding, with reddish hair. That sounded all too familiar.

“Shit!” I started to say, but then I cut it off and turned it into a discreet cough.

“Excuse me?” June Miller said. “Did you say something?”

If I had spoken them aloud, the string of epithets roaring around in my head would have burned June Miller's ears. Whatever was happening, my friend Alan Torvoldsen—good old Champagne Al—was in on it up to his eyeballs. God
damn
it! And I never saw it coming, not at all.

I knew good and well it was too damn early for Else Gebhardt's moving sale, so there could be only one thing that was being spirited out of Else Gebhardt's house. It had to be the gold—all those missing gold teeth from Sobibor.

“I didn't say a thing,” I said, coughing again for good measure. “Could you tell exactly what they were loading?”

“Not really, and I didn't want to stare,” June Miller said.

“What time did all this happen?”

When I came home and started doing the laundry and household chores, I had slipped out of my clothes and into a heavy-duty terry-cloth robe. Now, though, holding the phone to my ear with one shoulder, I started trying to dress again—clumsily pulling on a pair of Dockers and slipping into my shoes.

“It wasn't dark yet, but it was getting close when Barney started kicking up the fuss,” June answered. “That must have been around four or so. And I think I heard the truck engine start up again right around the time I was putting dinner on the table. That would have been a little before seven.”

Damn. That meant they had almost a four-hour head start on us. They could be almost anywhere in that length of time. They could be almost
through Portland if they had headed South down I-5 or two thirds of the way to Spokane on I-90, or across the international border into Canada, or well on their way to Neah Bay.

“Okay, June,” I said, trying to keep a handle on the anger and frustration in my voice. “Thanks a lot. Put Michael back on the phone for a minute, would you?”

A shaky Michael Morris came back on the line. “What do you think?”

He didn't want to hear what I was thinking. “Listen,” I said urgently, “and do exactly as I say. As soon as I get off the line with you, I'm going to dial nine-one-one and send a squad car over there. You stay right where you are until one of the officers comes to get you. Under no circumstances are you to go anywhere near Kari's house until I give you the go-ahead. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Michael answered.

“You didn't touch anything while you were over there, did you?”

“Only the doorknobs. To see if they were locked.” He paused. “What do you think they'll find?” he asked softly.

By now I feared the worst, but there was no point in telling Michael Morris that. He was scared enough already. On the other hand, I felt morally obliged to give him some advance warning.

“I don't know,” I said.

But by now Michael had some idea what we were up against. “It could be real bad, couldn't it?” he said hollowly.

“Yes,” I said. “It could. I've got to go, Michael. Remember, you stay put.”

“Okay,” he said. “I understand. How soon will you be here?”

“As soon as I can,” I said. “But I have to make one stop along the way.”

One stop. One goddamned stop!

I have no memory of racing into the rest of my clothes, of putting on my shoulder holster, or of fastening my backup ankle holster under my pant leg. I waited until I was out of Belltown Terrace's underground parking garage before I used my cellular phone.

“This is nine-one-one,” the lady at the Com Center said. “What are you reporting?”

“This is Detective Beaumont with the Seattle P.D.,” I said. “And I wish to God I knew what I was reporting.”

I gave her the information I had as quickly and concisely as I could. The operator could have taken the same view I did with Michael initially—that Else and Kari Gebhardt were merely spending the evening with relatives or friends—but something about the urgency in my tone of voice must have convinced her that an innocent, happy ending was most unlikely.

It felt like it took damn near forever for me to drive from Belltown Terrace out to the end of Fishermen's Terminal. I left the Porsche idling in the fire lane and raced on down the slick, timbered dock, hoping against hope that I was wrong about Alan Torvoldsen; praying that
One Day at a Time
would be snugged up against its moorings the way it belonged.

But it wasn't there. The spot where Alan Torvoldsen's old scow had been berthed was empty.
There was nothing there but cold black water reflecting back the sickly yellowish glow of the overhead lights.

“Damn!” I raged.

Sick at heart, I turned and fled back down the dock through what was fast becoming a cold, steady downpour. I barely felt the rain that instantly soaked into my clothing.

“Damn!” was all I could say. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

I was the one who had gone looking for Alan Torvoldsen earlier that afternoon. I alone had asked him—no, almost begged him—to go over to Blue Ridge and look after Else Gebhardt. Asked
him
to look after her! Jesus Christ. I had invited the damn fox right into the henhouse, handed him a napkin to tie around his neck, passed him a knife and fork, and told him to help himself. Which he had.

Back in the Porsche, I rammed it into gear and skidded my way out of the fire lane and back toward the parking lot. Heading back out of the terminal, I spotted the Rollins truck parked discreetly between net sheds three and four.

I stopped the car, got out, and examined the truck without touching it. The vehicle was parked and locked with the keys still in the ignition. Whoever had rented that truck had no intention of returning for it. If he had, he would have taken the single set of keys with him.

Quickly jotting down the license number, I phoned it in. “Run a check on this one,” I told the Records clerk who answered the phone. “Wake up whoever you have to wake up to do it, but I want
to know the name of the person who rented that vehicle. In the meantime, I want it impounded ASAP!”

There was always a chance I was wrong and had just impounded some innocent bystander's vehicle. Under the circumstances, however, it was a risk I was willing to take.

I have no idea why the Ballard Bridge was open at that hour of the night. They were most likely testing the drawspan, because there wasn't a boat of any kind in sight. Naturally, I got stuck in the traffic backup while the bridge went up and slowly, ever so slowly, came back down.

The unavoidable stop gave me enough time to call Sue Danielson, break into yet another one of Jared's endless phone calls, and bring her up-to-speed. She said she would get dressed again and meet me at Else's house as soon as she could. I was just ending the call to her when the drawbridge finally returned to its original position, and traffic began to move once more.

Much as I complain about advanced technology, computers do have something to offer, especially in the world of law enforcement. The call on the truck from Records came back long before I ever made it to Culpeper Court.

Records had tracked down and spoken to the manager from the truck-leasing company, who said he didn't have to go into his office to check the name on the rental agreement. He remembered the woman all too well because she had given him and his people a hell of a hard time in the course of making the transaction. She was a foreigner
who had rented the truck with an International as well as a German driver's license.

And her name was Erika Weber Schmidt.

Damn! And double damn.