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.
23
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?'
