Spoils of Victory (14 page)

Adelle dropped her spoon in the cereal and sat back in her chair with her arms crossed. “That was a heartless thing to say.”

“You're right. I apologize.”

Adelle looked at him for a moment, then said, “Hilda was the really talented one. She was eight when she started exhibition skating. I'm five years older than Hilda, and I started about the same time as her. I was good, but too interested in boys to be serious. Then I got pregnant at seventeen.”

“You have a child?”

Adelle shook her head. “I lost her in childbirth.” She swallowed hard and looked away. “Anyway, the boy who got me pregnant married me. His father was a powerful local Nazi. He loved his son, so he covered up that my mother was part Jewish. My husband . . .” She made a crooked smile. “He joined the Waffen-SS two years later. I was the upstanding
Hausfrau
to my little Nazi
Soldat
. It kept me out of trouble . . . for a while.” She stopped, and looked as if the remembering was painful. “Then I was impetuous enough to petition for the release of my father. That was just before my husband was killed in '43 in Russia, and my father-in-law died of a heart attack a month later. There went my only protection, and I was arrested. They put me in a camp and I was attached to a work detail, cleaning up after bombing raids and digging defensive trenches against the Russian army. I was a wreck after the war. It was Hilda who convinced me to start skating and dancing again. There you have my sad war story.” She pointed her chin at Mason. “I noticed your scars: the one on your left rib cage, your back, and the one on that lovely ass of yours. My little pincushion. Also the scars on your feet. Burns?”

“Frostbite from when your comrades forced me and a thousand other POWs on a death march.”

“A big, strong he-man like you . . . I bet you came out of it just fine. The boy grows up in the American dream to become a war
hero. That's what most of the Ami soldiers want you to believe, telling me how wonderful life is in America, so that I'll rend my clothes, pull my hair, and curse God for not making me an American.”

Mason smiled and leaned on his elbows. “I was born in Augsburg, but when my father died in World War One, my mother, along with my grandparents, emigrated to the U.S. We went to the state of Ohio, where my grandfather had a brother with a farm. My mom married an American, a mean drunk named Robert Collins. Because of the anti-German sentiment, they changed my and my sister's name from Strächer to Collins, my first name from Meinrad to Mason—”

Adelle chuckled. “They did you a favor, there.”

“My stepfather left home when I was eight. My sister died of polio, and my mother from booze. My grandmother raised me. I was a cop, then a detective with the Chicago police. Then because I was a detective and fluent in German, army counterintelligence recruited me. I was captured, and became a POW for four months. And now, here I am, fraternizing with a gorgeous ex-Nazi.”

“You've come full circle. Back to the Fatherland.”

“It's not my fatherland. Not after what Hitler and Germany did. I'm still trying to understand how an entire population supported, even cheered, a man like that.”

“We're all innocent, and all guilty. Didn't you know that? All supporters, and detractors. All willing participants, and helpless bystanders. That's the only way it
can
work.”

“You're pretty smart for a skater.”

“I didn't know there was a maximum IQ requirement for skaters. On the other hand, in my experience, there does seem to be one for cops. Present company excluded, of course.”

Mason finished his coffee. “Speaking of being a cop: I still have a few questions.”

“For my room and board?”

“To find your sister's killers.”

When Adelle didn't respond, Mason asked, “Why did you and Hilda live apart? And why keep the fact that you were sisters a secret?”

“We lived apart because that's how I wanted it. It didn't take long after coming to Garmisch for me to resent her, and I grew angry. She had all the talent. She got all the men. I acted just like when we were kids. Plus, I didn't like some of the things she was getting into. We fought like cats, then I refused to talk to her. Hilda came to me about three weeks ago. She was afraid, and she didn't have anyone else to trust. She told me everything, and through it all, we became close again. And we didn't keep that we were sisters a secret, exactly. Hilda thought I would be safer if we simply kept quiet about our relationship.”

“Any idea why Winstone recruited Hilda as an informant? What kind of contact could Hilda have had with Giessen and the rest? How did she know them?”

“This is a small city. Anyone who dealt on the black market—and that's just about everyone—knew of these men.”

“But for Hilda to get that close, she must have had some direct connection.”

Adelle took interest in her spoon for a moment, turning it over and over in her empty cereal bowl. “Hilda was Herr Giessen's lover.”

Mason lit a cigarette to mask his surprise. “Even while she was with Winstone?”

“No. Giessen and she were only together for a few months last summer. Hilda volunteered to strike up a renewed friendship with Giessen for Winstone's investigation.”

“She met Winstone when?”

“Sometime in December. She was with Eddie Kantos at the time.”

“Kantos? One of the other skaters insinuated he was a pretty tough guy.”

Adelle nodded. “I guess he was rough on her. That lasted about five months, until Winstone recruited her to inform on Kantos. She
fell in love with Winstone during that time. Poor girl never had much luck with men.”

“Do you think Kantos killed them out of revenge?”

“Could be.”

“Anyone else you can think of who might have wanted to kill them?”

“Whoever they got too close to in the investigation, I imagine. Whoever is trying to take over the black markets.”

“The million-dollar question,” Mason said and rose from the table. “Are you going to be here when I get back?”

“I haven't made any plans to do otherwise.”

“Then stay out of sight and don't answer the door for anyone but me or my partner.” He disappeared into the living room and came back a moment later with Adelle's Walther P38. He laid it on the table in front of her. “Just do me one favor and don't open fire unless you're sure it's not me coming through the door.”

Adelle stared at it for a moment then looked up at Mason with alarm in her eyes. “Do you think they know I'm here?”

“No. But you're not the only one they could be coming for. Me, for example. You and me, it seems we're in this mess together, whether we like it or not.”

M
ason ignored Abrams's increasingly insistent questions about where'd he'd been, and why he looked like Jack the Ripper just before plunging his blade into his next victim. He followed Mason across the detachment headquarters and up the stairs, having to take two steps to each of Mason's long strides. On the third floor, Mason zeroed in on Densmore, who once again was bending the ears of three MPs about some case while he was a detective for the St. Louis police department.

Densmore took one look at Mason and dismissed his less-than-enthralled audience before Mason could get there. Abrams wisely fell back so as not to be in the line of fire.

Densmore feigned a smile. “Investigator Collins. You look chipper this fine morning.”

“I've just come from the morgue,” Mason said. “You'll never guess what I discovered: Winstone's body was shipped out. The ME never had a chance to perform an autopsy.”

“Calm down, Mas—”

“Was that your idea? Get rid of the only evidence that could determine whether it was suicide or murder?”

“Just hold on a minute.”

“You're deliberately sabotaging this investigation. Why?”

“I'm still your superior, so you
will
calm down,” Densmore said. He jerked his finger in the direction of his office. “In my office. Now.”

Mason held his glare a moment longer before complying.

Densmore entered and closed the door. “That was not my idea.”

“That's a load of crap. You're the supervising investigator. Gamin's out of the picture, so that leaves you.”

“The orders came from someone higher than my pay grade. Supposedly the wife refused permission for an autopsy to be performed here. She wanted the local ME in Schenectady to do it.”

“A homicide investigation supersedes that.”

“This isn't a homicide investigation. For all intents and purposes, it was a suicide.”

“So you rolled over on the request.”

“This is the army, Mason. When the Third Army provost marshal issues an order, you snap to and do it.”

“The only way the provost marshal could have gotten involved is through you.”

“I had nothing to do with informing the PM. I don't know where the orders originated or who told the wife it was suicide to begin with. I assumed you'd contacted Mrs. Winstone, since you knew her and were friends with Winstone.”

Mason stopped. He'd intended to contact her so she could hear the news from someone she knew and not an impersonal telegram or a phone call from an army clerk. He'd let it slip his mind and got wrapped up in the investigation. It wasn't the first time he'd let his fixation on a case blot out the rest of the world.

“I didn't call her,” Mason said.

“Well, someone did. Maybe if you'd called her, you could have convinced her to let the autopsy take place.”

Densmore had a point, but once Mason had something in his teeth it was hard to let it go. “Someone with authority is trying to cover his tracks.”

“We could debate who all day, but there's still Sergeant Olsen, abducted and possibly murdered, and whoever is muscling in on the black market.”

“They're all related, and Winstone's the key. Which brings me to the Italian who put a gun to my head. Genovese. He was released last night, when I wasn't here to object. What's going on here?”

“He's an American citizen. You denied him treatment for the broken arm that
you
gave him. You didn't get anything out of interrogating him. Either he or someone on his behalf alerted some heavy-hitting lawyers in New York, and they put pressure on the Judge Advocate's office. Plus, the Italians had a warrant out on him for racketeering and suspicion of murder. It was a political hot potato for JAG and the brass, so they were more than happy to hand him over to the Italians. I got my ass chewed out by the Third Army provost marshal about that, too. Next time you want to hold a witness and deny him medical attention, make sure he's not connected up the ass. Now get out of here, and don't you ever come storming at me again or you won't know what hit you.”

Abrams followed Mason into his office and closed the door.

“Okay, I want to know how to do that,” Abrams said.

“Do what?”

“Stick it to your commanding officer and not get busted down to private.”

Mason couldn't help cracking a smile. “I wouldn't advise trying until you're too valuable to get rid of.”

“I think you're close to spending all your currency in that regard. I'd like you to hang around long enough for me to learn something from you.”

Mason walked over to the chalkboard. While he filled Abrams in on what Adelle told him, he wrote down Hilda's name and drew lines to Winstone, Giessen, and Eddie Kantos. Then he added Abbott and CIC with a question mark off to one side. Next to that he added the Casa Carioca with Kessel's and the general manager Schaeffer's
names. “We need to find out whatever we can on Kessel, Schaeffer, and Kantos.”

“What about Abbott? We should check with the CIC to see if he works there or if they've got anything on the name.”

Away from the other names, Mason added Adelle's and Densmore's names with question marks.

“Densmore?” Abrams said. “You think he belongs on the list, or are you trying to piss him off?”

“Could be a little bit of both.”

Abrams handed Mason a file. “This just came in from the special services branch. It's all they have on Major Schaeffer.”

Mason glanced through the two-page document. Schaeffer, aged thirty-nine, had joined the army in 1926. It cited his two medals, a Silver Star and Legion of Merit, but not what he had done to earn them. He stood six feet, three inches and weighed 190 pounds. His official photo showed a lean, muscular man with a dark complexion, slicked-back black hair, and dark piercing eyes topped by thick eyebrows.

Mason double-checked the thin dossier. “This doesn't go into any detail further back than a year and a half ago, when he joined the Third Army as adjunct administrator to the general staff—which means nothing. Is this all they could give you?”

“That's all they had. The rest is classified.”

“CIC?”

“They didn't, or wouldn't, say. And the three other managers Kessel said run the Casa Carioca? The two from Army Corps of Engineers have been in Berlin since the beginning of the year. And the one from civil administration was mustered out of the army a month ago and is now stateside.”

“You mean Kessel didn't tell us the truth?” Mason asked sarcastically.

“I can try to request Schaeffer's classified file.”

“Do it, but I don't expect we'll get anywhere.” Mason dropped the file on the desk.

There was a knock on the door. A private opened the door and held out an envelope. “Sir, this came down from OMGB.”

OMGB was the Office of Military Government, Bavaria.

Mason thanked the private and opened the envelope. After reading the letter, he said to Abrams, “Come on. We're going to the CIC to see if we can piss them off, too.”

*   *   *

T
he reception clerk at the CIC villa headquarters examined General Pritchard's written orders as if great secrets might be revealed to anyone willing to stare at the piece of paper long enough. The grandfather clock and crackling fire were the only sounds in the place. Mason tapped his foot with impatience and looked at Abrams, who just shrugged. Finally the clerk went to Major Tavers's office door and knocked. He opened the door a crack and spoke at length.

Mason had had enough. He tapped Abrams on the arm for him to follow, and he marched down the hall, blowing past the clerk, snatching the letter out of the clerk's hand, and stopping at Tavers's desk. “Written orders from General Pritchard, granting me permission to search Agent Winstone's office and safe.”

Tavers stared at Mason for a moment, then took the letter and examined it with the same interminable scrutiny as his time-killing accomplice. Mason noticed Tavers had a partially completed crossword puzzle laid out in front of him. Tavers looked at Mason and, with a slight flush in his cheeks, laid Pritchard's letter on top of the puzzle. He turned to a large safe behind his chair and made sure his body blocked Mason's view as he turned the dial. Once he'd opened the safe, he pulled out a key and a sealed envelope. “Follow me.”

As they exited the office, Tavers said, “I suppose you've finally concluded that Agent Winstone was murdered and didn't commit suicide.”

“That's my conclusion.” And for emphasis, he added, “General Pritchard's as well.”

Tavers issued a noncommittal grunt as he unlocked Winstone's office door.

“Anyone been in here since Winstone's death?” Mason asked.

“We locked it up as soon as we heard.”

“Which was when?”

“When you two clowns showed up the first time.”

“So at least eight hours from the time he was killed?”

“If you say so,” Tavers said and escorted them into the office.

Winstone's office had probably been the villa's morning room before the CIC took it over, as the set of windows faced east and overlooked the southern end of the city that doglegged along the Loisach River. The original chairs, settee, and coffee table had been pushed to the windows to make room for the desk and two filing cabinets, one short and one tall. On the floor, along one wall, was a series of cases, and above that, a chalkboard with lists and charts. Mason felt a brief moment of melancholy for his dead friend.

“Everything in this room stays in this room,” Tavers said.

“If I find evidence—”

“Your orders grant you permission for a search, not to remove official CIC documents.”

Mason turned to Abrams. “Write down the names and draw out the charts on the chalkboard.” He said to Tavers, “If you'd open the safe for me, please.”

Tavers led Mason over to a wall safe behind the desk. He broke the wax seal on the envelope and removed a piece of paper listing all the safe combinations in the building. Once again, he used his body to block Mason's view as he turned the dial. He opened the safe door and stepped aside. Inside, a shelf divided the safe into two compartments. The upper part contained a Browning nine-millimeter pistol, along with a file folder containing a handful of photographs. The lower compartment contained a stack of file folders. Each folder had
a handwritten label indicating dossiers on individuals. He laid the files on the desk and sifted through them.

“Got everything,” Abrams declared from his spot at the chalkboard.

Without looking up, Mason said, “Start with the cases on the floor, then the small file cabinet.”

Mason returned his attention to the files and went through them again. The files only contained information on German gang members, and he already knew almost all the people and their particulars. Frustrated, he leaned on the desk. “They're not here.”

“What were you hoping to find?” Tavers asked.

Mason ignored the question. “Are you the only one with the combination to this safe?”

“Yeah, but I didn't go in there and take anything, if that's what you're implying.”

“Anyone else have the combination to
your
safe?”

“Nope.”

Mason strode over to the tall file cabinet and rifled through the hanging files in each drawer.

Abrams said, “One case contains a camera and lenses. The other ones have equipment for wiretaps, listening devices, and a few boxes of unopened tape stock.”

“None of the tapes look like they've been used?”

“None that I can tell.”

“Even if they were, removing them is not part of your search parameters,” Tavers said.

Mason slammed the final cabinet drawer closed. “It looks like someone has cleaned out everything of relevance.”

“If you'll just tell me what you're looking for—”

“Major, if you're the only one who has the combination to both your safe and Winstone's, then logically, you know what I'm looking for.”

“No, I don't. And I resent the implication.”

Mason let him squirm as he studied the major's expression and posture.

Tavers spit out lamely, “Maybe someone cracked the combination.”

“Are you telling me that your hotshot CIC agents would let someone wander into their headquarters, break into Winstone's office, and crack his safe? All without being detected?”

Tavers seemed flustered and at a loss for words. From what Mason could determine from Tavers's reaction, the detachment commander truly had no answer.

Mason said, “Then it had to be another one of your agents. What about Winstone's two German assistants?”

“All I know is, they came out of the CIC in Frankfurt. They were not under my command.”

“But they could have access to this office and the combination of the safe.”

“I haven't seen them in the last couple of days. And to save you the trouble of asking, I don't know where they are or where they're billeted. Why don't you ask your buddy General Pritchard?”

“What about a Lester Abbott? Is he one of your agents?”

“I've never heard of him. And if he was with this detachment, I'd know about him.”

“Would it be possible for you to check with CIC central command and see if he is?”

Tavers went to the door and called for his clerk. They talked a moment, then Tavers returned.

“Sir,” Abrams said, “could you look at this, please?”

Mason joined Abrams at the chalkboard, and this time Mason blocked Tavers's view. With a subtle nod Abrams indicated a list of names written in chalk at the bottom of a chart. Yaakov Lubetkin was written at the top with two small arrows pointing to Giessen and Bachmann, then one to Kantos.

“You think Yaakov was an informant for Winstone?” Abrams whispered.