'Wash is a good guy. Everybody likes him.'
'Not the judge,' I whisper back.
When Mace picks me up at the Townsend, he's more relaxed than at earlier encounters, especially when I hand him a cop of Dad's draft case study of Barbara Fulraine.
'Heavy,' he says, weighing it in his hand.
'But unfortunately unfinished,' I remind him.
'As he drives, I make an effort to match his affable manner while trying to force the prospect of working with Kate Evans from my mind. But it keeps intruding. After all, I ask myself, how can I not think about it?
Mace drives us out to Covington along the Gold Coast, the south a couple of blocks to Indiana Street, a trendy area of boutiques, artisan shops, bars, coffee houses, and little restaurants. I pick up the scent of affluence here, straight and gay young urban professionals. I also observe the same twinkle in Mace's eyes that Pam detected in mine last week – a smug have-I-got-something-in-store-for-you look.
Fine, I decide, let him play his hand.
The restaurant's called the Spezia. It's a cute storefront place with a three-star review taped to the door. Inside, visible from the street, happy diners are seated at crowded little tables tended by friendly servers.
A tall, lean, erect maitre d' with thick, gray, brush-cut hair greets us at the door with a sad, world-weary smile.
'Well… if it isn't our old friend, Inspector Bartel! We've missed you, Inspector. Nice to see you again.'
He speaks with a generic continental accent and exhibits an ultrasuave manner that doesn't go with the lack of pretension of the place.
'Our best table, perfect for discreet conversations,' he says, showing us to a table in the rear. 'You see, Inspector, even after a long absence, we don't forget our clients' special needs.'
He whispers something to a waiter, then moves away. Half a minute later, two kirs are delivered. 'Compliments of the house,' the waiter says.
'Jurgen's the owner,' Mace tells me. 'You probably ran across his statement in the file.'
I glance again at the man, now greeting a group at the door.
'Jurgen Hoff of The Elms?'
Mace nods. 'Funny, isn't it, the way he acts? Like he's still running the Cub Room out there. They young crowd here seems to like his style. Makes them feel like their in Europe… or at least New York.'
The waiter takes our order. After he moves away, Mace lowers his voice.
'Jurgen's the reason I brought you here. I always thought he was the key. He was close to Jack Cody, a lot closer than people knew. Cody left him some stuff in his will including his watch, an expensive gold jobbie – I saw it on his wrist when we came in. Twenty-five years and he's still wearing the damn thing.'
'Isn't he the one supposedly killed a man in Mexico?'
'I think Cody started that rumor. Still I don't doubt Jurgen could've done it. Those Foreign Legion guys played rough. There's something grave about him, isn't there? Something in his eyes like he's seen stuff he doesn't want to talk about. He's a bachelor. Never had a live-in girlfriend far as I know. Dates classy black call girls. Interesting they're always black.'
'You seem to know a lot about him. What makes you think he's the key?'
'If Cody ordered the killings, Jurgen knows. Maybe even carried them out.'
'If I recall, he had an alibi.'
'A call girl, Winnie something. She was probably lying. Actually I don't think Jurgen did it. But he could have. I wonder sometimes. With Cody dead and so many years gone by, I can't think why else he won't tell me what he knows?'
'You've asked him?'
'I ask him regularly. I'll ask him again tonight before we leave. He always gets a little nervous when I come in because he knows I'm going to ask. It's this game we play. I ask, he smiles and shrugs. What he wants is for me to think he doesn't know anything but that it amuses him to string me along.'
Now, studying Mace, I start seeing him in a different light.
'I know what you're thinking,' he says. '‘Hey Mace, get a life!’'
'You do seem a little obsessed.'
'I am. I've had other cases that didn’t get solved, but this is the only one that still haunts me late at night.'
He eats several forkfuls of chicken, wipes his mouth.
'There was this girl back in high school, Stephanie Beer. Great-looking kid, enigmatic, you never knew what she was thinking. I had a crush on her, but every time I asked her out, she'd smile mysteriously and shake her head. I've known a lot of girls since, married a couple too, but the only one I still think about it her… and to this day I don't know what she was about.' He takes a sip of wine. 'It's the same with Flamingo. It's the only case that still drives me nuts.'
Well, I think, we all have our ruling passions. But what I'm learning tonight is that though Mace and I share an obsession, we do so for entirely different reasons.
'It'd probably be easy for you now to track her down.'
He chuckles softly. 'Sure… and find a bloated-up cow with a hair salon called STEF'S. Tell you, David, far as Stephanie's concerned, it's better for me not to know. I get too much pleasure savoring my regret. That's what's different about Flamingo. I want to keep open the possibility of Stephanie, but I want closure on Flamingo, because the way that stirs me isn't fun. It's like an ache in a back tooth.'
We discuss the case through dinner. When I mention how struck I was by Susan Pettibone's account of Tom Jessup's agitation ten days before he was killed, Mace shrugs that off as just the telephone impression of a tangential witness.
Over dessert, Mace asks if I brought along the whip picture. I pull it out of my sketchpack, hand it to him. He adjusts his granny glasses and studies it.
'Yeah, it's her all right. Great tits.' He shakes his head. 'Amazing! Though I don't know why I think that… or what it really means.' He looks at me. 'Okay if I show this to Jurgen?'
'Go ahead.'
Mace turns the picture face down on the envelope, summons the waiter, asks him to send Jurgen over.
A couple minutes later, Jurgen appears. Mace invites him to sit down.
'Just for a minute.' Jurgen sits. 'Busy night. Lots of clients requiring attention.'
Mace introduces me without mentioning my connection to law enforcement. 'David's come up with an interesting artifact. I'd like to get you take.'
He pushes the picture, still face-down, toward Jurgen. Jurgen smiles slight, then turns it over. Mace and I watch him as he studies it. If Jurgen feels anything, he doesn't show it.'
'Very artistic,' he says finally. 'Looks like Max Rakoubian's work.'
'You knew Max?' I ask.
Jurgen nods. 'Max was one of the best.' He turns to Mace. 'Brings back lots of memories.'
'Of Barbara Fulraine?'
'Of Mrs. Fulraine, Jack Cody, The Elms, people and places from another time.' He glances at the photo again, smiles solemnly, and pushes it back toward Mace. 'We're all getting older, Inspector. The years pass… and, well… perhaps some things are best left behind.'
He smiles again, offers his hand. 'Nice to meet you, Mr. Weiss.' He stands. 'Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your dinner. And please, Inspector, don't be a stranger here. We treasure our loyal clients.'
We're on the interstate heading downtown.
'Damn!' Mace slaps the steering wheel. 'I played a good card and still he trumped me. I'll say this for Jurgen, he's quick on his feet.'
