An Image of Death (8 page)

“Antwerp is the second largest city in Belgium,” David said. “It’s the home of the painter Rubens. An international center for diamonds.” He paused. “And there’s a large Jewish population. At least compared to other European cities. Maybe he settled there after the war.”

“It’s possible.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” he said worriedly.

“It’s not that. It’s just—what part of the letter makes you think your uncle wrote it?”

The words were hardly out of my mouth. “First off,” he cut in, “the writer knew exactly where the Gottliebs lived. There—”

“Anyone who was familiar with the village might have known that.”

“That’s true,” he conceded. “But it’s obvious the letter was written by someone of a certain age. Someone who was alive during the war.”

“Or someone whose elderly relatives told him what the village was like.”

The waiter returned with fresh wine, chardonnay for me, merlot for him. David tugged at his shirt collar, as if it were too tight. “Maybe. But how many people would call her ‘Lilie’?”

“Lilie?”

“It means lily in German. That’s what her little sister called her. She couldn’t pronounce Lisle, so she called her ‘Li-li.’”

“How do you know that?”

“My mother told me.” His chin jutted out. “That’s not something just anyone could know.”

I didn’t answer.

“Ellie, why do I get the feeling you don’t believe me?”

“It’s not that.”

The hollow patch at the base of his neck throbbed. “Then what is it?”

I rubbed my temples. It was clear David wanted the letter to be from his uncle so much, he was trying to persuade me into agreeing. I couldn’t blame him. Still. “I…I just don’t want you to be disappointed if it’s not what you think.”

He was silent. Then his mouth tightened. “Typical.”

“Excuse me?”

“Any time something comes up in my life, especially when it concerns my family, you’re always quick to dismiss it or disparage it or tell me it’s not what I think.”

Where was this coming from? “I—I didn’t—”

“You couch it in these ‘oh, I don’t want you to be disappointed’ terms, but the truth is, Ellie, I wonder if you want me to find out anything about my family. Like with the Iversons. I think you’re afraid you’ll lose something if I strike out on my own.”

I struggled to hold on to my temper. “I’ll lose something? Like what?”

“Control, maybe? The upper hand? I don’t know. I’m not a shrink. But I do know it’s always about you.”

I blinked. I do have issues of control. Money, airplanes, shoplifting—it’s an ongoing struggle. But I wasn’t convinced that was the case now. David was upset—that much was clear. But had I done something to provoke him, or was I just the nearest target? I chose my words carefully. “David, there were good reasons to be cautious about pursuing your family connections in the past.”

He shot me a dubious look.

“I didn’t want you in the middle of my problems. They turned out to be dangerous, if you recall.”

“That was then.”

“Yes, but it was a letter from a stranger that triggered the chain of events then, too.”

He didn’t answer.

“Look. I know how important this is to you. I’ll help in any way I can. And…it wasn’t all bad. Back then.” I reached for his hand. “If I’d never gotten that letter,” I said softly, “you and I would never have met.…”

He sank back in his chair, his anger dissipating like the tail end of a storm. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just…I’m so keyed up.”

I squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. And you’re right about one thing. Whoever sent the letter knows something about the village. And the Gottliebs.”

It wasn’t a smile, but the lines on his forehead smoothed out. “The problem is we—I—don’t have much time. There was that phrase about being at a juncture that required him to write.”

“You think whoever wrote the letter is ill?”

“Don’t you?”

I opened the menu, a sheet of parchment inside a faux leather binder. “I don’t know.” I scanned the stiff, mottled paper. “But tell me, why is Mrs. Freidrich so eager to help you?”

“Her cousin was my mother’s best friend when they were children. I think she feels some…some responsibility.”

“She’s not Jewish.”

“No. And she claims she didn’t know anything about the Holocaust until years afterward.”

“Oh, sure.”

David shrugged. “She says there were no textbooks in German schools for years after the war. And no one ever talked about it, either—it was as if someone took a scalpel and surgically excised the Hitler era from German history.”

“What did she think happened to the Jews? They all packed up and went on vacation?”

“Ellie.” He scowled at me. “She was only a child.”

“She had parents.”

“They weren’t party members. They owned a grocery store.”

“You’re telling me they didn’t know what was happening?”

“She says the only thing her mother ever said—and this was years later—was that Germany got what they deserved.”

“Why?”

He paused. “Because, she said, they raised a hand against God’s chosen people.”

I didn’t have a comeback.

“Mrs. Freidrich said they were even talking about renovating the synagogue a few years ago.” He made a small sound in the back of his throat. “Course it’ll never happen.”

“Why not?”

“There aren’t enough Jews in the village for a
minyan
.”

The waiter came and took our order, then took it over to the chef, who was hunched over a huge wood-fired grill in the middle of the room. Orange flames erupted into plumes, then obediently subsided, like children who’d been roundly disciplined. I was staring at the flames, thinking about David, his mother, and a village near the Black Forest, when a movement near the grill skipped across my peripheral vision. Three people were heading in our direction. When I recognized one of them, I slouched in my seat.

“What is it?” David asked.

“Don’t look, but Ricki Feldman’s got us in her sights, and she’s zeroing in.”

“Who?”

I explained.

“The woman who recruited you for the video?”

“Yes, but—”

David turned around. “She’s a knockout.”

I inched a finger up the stem of my wineglass. Gee, thanks.

“Good evening, Ellie.”

“Hello, Ricki.” I pasted on a smile as Ricki, accompanied by two men, came over. Her hair was down tonight. That, combined with the silky dark brown outfit she was wearing, intensified her eyes. Which were wholly focused on David.

“My, my, who is this?”

I grudgingly introduced her to David.

“You’re the one who got Ellie involved in Transitions,” he said.

“That’s right.” She flashed him a dazzling smile before withdrawing her hand. Slowly.

“Ellie’s been telling me about it. It sounds like a wonderful program. I—I was a foster child myself.”

“Really.” She flicked her gaze back to me. “Doing research, are we?”

“Actually, David and I met last year. He’s…he and I—”

“Have a lot in common,” David cut in.

“I see.” Again, a dazzling smile.

For some reason, I thought back to a comment Jordan Bennett made during our meeting. Something like “No wonder Ricki wanted you on the project.” Could it be she already knew about David? But how? That would mean.… Before I could dwell on it, one of the men with Ricki cleared his throat.

“Oh, dear.” Ricki turned to her companions. “Where are my manners?”

I nodded politely as she made introductions. I recognized Stanley Lawrence’s name from the green-and-white signs that dot most of the construction sites around the North Shore, but I didn’t know her other companion, a short, rotund man with thinning gray hair and eyes that bugged out so much they seemed to eat up his face.

“This is Max Gordon, an old friend of my father’s. He started Gold Coast Trust.”

He came around the table, and we shook hands. He couldn’t have been much taller than five four, but he sported a large diamond ring, a Cartier watch, and a suit that had to have been custom-tailored. Though he looked prosperous and respectable, something about him made me think of a wizened Pillsbury Doughboy.

David extended his hand. “We’ve heard great things about Gold Coast Trust.”

Gordon moved over to shake David’s hand. “Are you in the business?”

“I’m the director of foreign currency trading at Franklin National Bank in Philadelphia.”

“Is that so?” A flicker of interest swept across Gordon’s face. “We specialize in international markets.”

“Max is just about to build the first major skyscraper in downtown Chicago in twenty years,” Ricki said importantly.

“Congratulations,” David said.

Gordon smiled and rocked back on his heels. Why is it small men always build big buildings?

“Well now, Ellie.” Ricki returned her attention to me. “Are you going to interview David for the video? I’ll bet he’d have some fascinating input.”

I felt my face flame. David’s turned crimson, too, except his was from pleasure—mine was pique. Only Ricki Feldman would have the chutzpah to tell me how to produce a video. I should have expected it. Last year when I was shooting the Glen video, Ricki would pop in with suggestions to include or exclude certain people or places, all of which sounded reasonable and innocuous at first glance. Ultimately, though, those suggestions always portrayed her as a smart, savvy businesswoman with a heart of gold. Of course, she was paying the bills then, and I didn’t have a choice. I took a sip of wine. She was paying the bills now, too.

Still. “I usually don’t put people I know in my films, Ricki. It can strain the credibility of the piece, especially if the audience knows there’s a connection. And there’s always the risk of getting too close to your subject. You lose objectivity.”

Ricki’s gaze, suddenly disinterested, wandered off mine. “I’m sure you’re right, Ellie. You did talk it through with Jordan, didn’t you?” Was she showing off, or was it just her nature?

I bit back a reply. “Jordan Bennett runs Transitions here in Chicago,” I explained to David.

“He grew up in foster care, too.” As Ricki recounted how he moved here from California, I waited for a proprietary smile or an excessively casual shrug, something that would reveal the nature of their relationship. But she gave no hint of her feelings. “You and Jordan should meet,” she concluded.

“I’d like that,” David said.

I gritted my teeth.

Our meals came, and Ricki made her good-byes. The men fawned over her as they helped her on with her coat, and as she exited the restaurant, the maitre d’ kissed her hand.

“She was nice,” David said between bites. “Not at all what I expected.”

I sawed through my steak. Men could be so obtuse. “She’s probably trying to finance a new venture.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How do you know?”

“You don’t know who Max Gordon is.”

“Should I?”

“Gordon owns one of the most aggressive, fastest-growing banks in the country. Maybe the world. Gold Coast’s asset base has practically tripled over the past few years.
Fortune
did an article on him not long ago. He’s definitely a comer.”

“Must be nice.” I dug into my potatoes.

“He’s been actively involved in rebuilding the economies of Eastern European countries. His investments have done well. They say he has the ‘touch.’”

I polished off the potatoes, not much interested in bankers,
Fortune
, or Eastern Europe. “I hope you’re not upset by what I said about interviewing you.”

David shrugged.

He was.

“But we’ve…you’ve never really talked about it. Foster care, that is.”

“You never asked.”

“I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would.”

“Maybe you figured wrong.”

“Okay.” I put down my knife and fork. “I’m asking now.”

The silence that followed was so long, I thought he’d changed his mind. He looked down at his plate. Then he looked up. “You know how at Halloween kids bob for apples in a tub of water?”

I nodded.

“Imagine you’re one of those apples. You never know who’ll take a bite out of you. If you’ll be snagged. Where you’ll end up. What the people will be like. You might still be licking your wounds from the last place, but you’re worried sick about the next.”

“But you survived it.”

He shook his head. “Survival isn’t the issue.”

I shifted. “What is?”

“Terror. The sheer terror of having absolutely no control over what happens to you.” He waved a hand in the air. “You take all of this…for granted.”

I looked around. “All of what?”

“The security. The safety. You have support systems. Family. People who back you up. Christ, Ellie, I had nothing. And I was a little kid. When I.…” His face was impenetrable.

“What?”

Another shake of the head.

I leaned forward. “David, did…did something happen to you when you were in foster care?”

Shades of pain passed across his face. He took a breath. “I’m fine.”

“I know you are.” I reached for his hand. “I understand. That wasn’t my question.”

“Ellie, stop with the third degree, okay? I don’t want to be interviewed. You’re right. I did survive.” He pulled his hand away. “And I made a promise to myself never to be in that situation again. And I haven’t. But don’t tell me you understand, because you don’t. This guy Bennett probably can. And you remember Dory; she could, too. But not you.”

I felt like I’d been slapped.

“Your life is easy. You do what you please, go where you want. You take it for granted people are there for you. And they are. But that’s not how it is for most of us. You just don’t know.”

“No,” I said, my voice tight. “I guess I don’t.”

***

Our lovemaking that night was passionate and angry. He dug his fingers into me and pounded me with hard, bruising thrusts. He cried out when he came, then pulled out and turned away. I lay awake afterward, spent and sore, listening to him fall into a restless sleep.

C
HAPTER
N
INE