Spoils of Victory (19 page)

O
utside the club, the cold night air felt good on his face. It did nothing for the cramping in his gut—or his mind whirling with questions about Laura's sanity. His stomach heaved, but only a little bile and blood came up. He was sure he'd be peeing blood for a couple of days. He waited until he was deep in the Casa parking lot before spitting out the sour-metallic taste in his mouth. That was when he noticed Abrams leaning against a car.

Abrams threw down his cigarette and met Mason. “What happened in there?”

“I found Schaeffer. We had a little chat.”

“Mason!”

Mason looked back and saw Laura taking quick steps across the lot. He looked beyond her, back to the club, but no one looked on. At least she had waited until deep in the parking lot to call out his name.

“Laura, what the hell?”

Laura caught up to them, her hard breathing creating puffs of condensation in the cold air. Mason took off his coat, though the movement made his stomach cramp. With some effort, he threw the coat over her shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” Laura asked.

“I knew I shouldn't have eaten the sauerkraut.”

Laura let him know she didn't think that was funny. Another cramp made Mason lean forward.

“Lean on me,” Abrams said. “We'll get you home.”

Abrams put his shoulder under Mason's armpit and took some of his weight. Laura took his other arm. Mason let them help, though he could have made the last few steps on his own.

“Must have been an interesting conversation,” Abrams said.

“He showed his hand.”

“Showed his hand, then buried it in your gut?”

Mason chuckled then recoiled from a spasm of pain. “That's about the size of it.”

Laura helped him into the passenger's seat and slipped into the backseat. Abrams got behind the wheel, started up the car, and turned on the heat.

Mason turned in his seat to look at Laura. “I told you to stay out of sight, and you come to the worst place of all.”

“I wanted to check out the club for myself. No one knows who I am.”

“Does Ricky have any idea what you're up to?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“So, no. Poor sap doesn't know what he's in for: you chasing danger like a dog chasing cars.”

“I came out here to see if you were okay, not to be insulted.”

Mason turned to Abrams. “Tell her how ruthless these guys are.”

“I'm not getting into the middle of a domestic dispute,” Abrams said.

That quieted both of them.

“There's definitely something shady going on in there,” Laura finally said. “Feels more like a Chicago mob hangout than an army nightclub. And, no, before you ask, I didn't talk to any of the employees. I simply observed. I see what you mean about the waitstaff. And
the manager circulated through the crowd, shaking hands like a crooked politician. Then a group of colonels and generals went upstairs to the back offices.”

“Kessel and Schaeffer's clubhouse of iniquity,” Mason said.

Abrams said, “I've been trying to dig deeper about how the club operates, where the money comes from, where it goes, but I hit a brick wall every time.”

“It's a neat little setup, that's for sure,” Laura said. “And right under the army's nose.”

“You should press charges,” Abrams said to Mason. “An officer striking a CID investigator will land him in the stockade.”

“He can produce enough witnesses to refute that claim.”

Abrams shook his head. “I should have come along.”

“I heard about the machine gun fire near the Rathaus,” Laura said. “Was that you?”

“It was
for
me. This hit squad is picking off anyone with the slightest association with Winstone. At some point I'm sure Abrams here and I will be next on the list. That's why you need to get home and stay there.”

“You've got to find those missing documents,” Laura said. “If what Winstone told you is true, that should bust the whole thing wide open.”

“We've searched Winstone's villa,” Abrams said. “We've searched his office, his safe . . .”

“Well, search harder. You usually don't give up so easily.”

Mason said, “Now, wait a minute . . .”

“I'd better get back,” Laura said and pulled off Mason's coat. She opened the door then turned back. “And if either of you ever needs a safe place, you can always stay a few days with Richard and me.”

Abrams thanked her. Mason said nothing, seeing no point in repeating why he considered that a really bad idea. They watched Laura until she made it safely back into the club. Mason felt another cramp coming on and slumped in the seat.

“Did you come by car?” Abrams asked.

“I was so pissed, I practically ran over here.”

“Why don't I drop you off?” Abrams said.

Mason nodded. Abrams pulled the car out of the parking lot, and they drove in silence for a while.

“I screwed up in there,” Mason said as he stared out the side window. “I lost my temper. But I did confirm two things: Schaeffer's guilty as hell, and he's partnered up with none other than our mysterious Herr Z—ex-Gestapo major, Ernst Volker.”

“The guy who tortured you during the war?”

Mason nodded. “I knew it when I smelled the Turkish tobacco at the Steinadler.”

“Let's arrest him, then.”

“First we have to find him, then convince the CIC it was a mistake to clear him of war crimes.”

Mason filled Abrams in on what he'd learned from the meeting with Udahl and Pritchard: the autopsy confirming Winstone's murder, and Schaeffer's background. That not only was the mysterious Abbott ex-OSS, but Schaeffer was as well. He left out the part about Adelle's past. Then he briefed Abrams more fully on what had happened in Schaeffer's office. “Kantos was SOE, Schaeffer and Abbott OSS—could be some kind of connection. A brotherhood of trained saboteurs and assassins.”

“Maybe we should follow up on the OSS lead. There could be other ex-OSS agents in league with Schaeffer's gang.”

“Scary thought,” Mason said, more to himself. “We'll see what we can dig up.”

Abrams parked the car in front of Mason's house and started to get out. Mason put his hand on Abrams's arm. “Thanks, but I can take it from here. And I was thinking . . . it might be best if you lay off the case. At least the fieldwork. They might decide to go gunning for you.”

“I'm not going to sit this out. You can't ask me to do that. Besides, I'm already in too deep for them to ignore me.”

“Back in Munich, I nearly lost my last partner. I don't want it to happen again.”

“Partners don't leave their partner's ass hanging out in the wind.”

Mason nodded, accepting the premise, but hoped he wouldn't regret it. He knew he'd blame himself if something happened to another partner, another friend. He exited the car and watched Abrams drive away.

After making a visual sweep of the area, he mounted the porch steps, unlocked the door, and pushed it open until it was flat against the wall. The house was dark and silent. He pulled out his .45 and took one step into the living room. While watching for movement in the darkness, he flicked on a light switch, which illuminated a floor lamp.

If someone wanted to take a shot at me, they would have done it by now. . . . “
Adelle?”

He waited. “Adelle, it's me. Mason.”

He heard a rustling noise coming from the first bedroom off the hallway. Then a hand wrapped around the door frame, followed by Adelle peering into the living room. She moaned in relief and ran to Mason, burying her face in his chest.

“I didn't hear from you for so long, I . . .” Adelle said.

Mason didn't return the hug. “You thought I'd been killed?”

Adelle nodded against his chest. “Or in the hospital.”

Mason took her arms and broke the embrace. “All the reasons I could have been late, and you assumed I'd been gunned down?”

Adelle stepped back. “Why does that sound strange? Look at how many people have already been killed.” She backed away to get more distance from him. “You make it sound like I knew something was going to happen. When are you going to stop being a cop for more than thirty seconds? You suspect everyone is guilty.”

“I do when I find out they've been lying. For instance, that sob story you told me about being arrested after your husband's death and put in a labor camp. But you left out that you were released because you were screwing a high-ranking Nazi gauleiter.”

“I was twenty-two. I'd just lost my husband and father-in-law. I'd lost all hope and was facing death in a prison camp. I did what I had to do. I took a lover who saved me from prison. Go ahead, judge me. I'm a Nazi-loving tramp who doesn't deserve a chance.”

Perhaps she was right, or perhaps Mason simply lacked the energy to continue. He'd expended every ounce of energy he had and felt an overwhelming need to sit. He shuffled over to the sofa and dropped onto the cushions. The onset of a raging headache reminded him that he hadn't eaten in twelve hours. He rubbed his forehead then noticed Adelle sitting in a chair opposite. She looked genuinely hurt, and he regretted pushing her so hard, but he wasn't ready to apologize. Too many people had lied to him, and, sadly, Adelle was at the top of the list.

Mason gave her a tired smile. “I forgot to bring more food,” he said and resumed rubbing his forehead. “Is there anything left to eat?”

That was the best he could do in declaring his desire for her to stay.

Adelle seemed to accept this, and Mason admired her for it. She rose from the chair. “We have eggs and bread. Breakfast okay?”

Mason nodded and rested his head on the cushion back. He stared up at the cracks in the ceiling as he thought. His headache flared when he thought about nearly having Volker in his grasp after all this time, only to lose him because of his temper. And there had to be a way to get to Schaeffer. Pritchard had warned him that he'd need hard evidence to go after a decorated major. The army protected their own, especially officers, and a war hero at that. Not to mention the probability that Schaeffer had a web of powerful yet secretive men behind him. Running a major black market operation required logistics, transportation, military passes, and travel orders, plus cooperation from the various security and law enforcement agencies. The army had branches serving all Schaeffer's needs, and with the unwieldy and chaotic occupation forces lacking top-to-bottom communication, each one operated autonomously and with ultimate authority. But which branches, and how many officers were involved?

A tangled web, indeed.

“Hey, are you awake?” Adelle demanded from the kitchen.

Mason raised his head and saw Adelle standing in the kitchen doorway. “Food's ready.”

Mason hauled himself off the sofa, entered the kitchen, and sat at the small table. The scent of the cooking piqued his appetite, and he took in bites with barely a breath in between. After a few moments, he noticed Adelle staring at him.

“Did you love him?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

She took a few moments before answering. “He was kind and gentle to me, but I could never get past what he did. I never liked politicians
or
cops.”

“And here you are . . .”

“I didn't think this was romance.”

“You just do what you must to survive.”

Adelle hesitated, looking into Mason's eyes. “Yes.”

“Maybe in another time. Another place . . .”

“I suppose so,” she said and rose from the table. She walked up to Mason, her body pressing into him. “I know that's the best you can do when talking of romance. I'm tainted, but so are you. Both of us came out of this war damaged.”

She cupped his chin and leaned his head back. She leaned over and kissed him deeply. Mason responded and stood. They never broke their embrace as he led her to the bedroom.

*   *   *

A
howling wind stirred Mason from a troubled sleep. Adelle was awake and sitting up with her back against the headboard. She was naked with the bedcovers pulled up only to her waist.

“You're not cold?” Mason asked.

“I got used to it living at the labor camp. Besides, I like the cold.”

“Not surprising coming from the Ice Queen.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Mason fluffed up his feather pillows to prop up his head. He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

Adelle took the cigarette from Mason's mouth and took a drag. “You were making quite a racket in your sleep, talking and moaning. Bad dreams?”

“No more than usual.”

“The war?”

“That, and my time as a POW. What's your excuse? Why are you up?”

“Other than fearing for my life? I couldn't help thinking of how Hilda suffered. We seemed to fight constantly, but I still love her and miss her.”

Mason took a long drag on the cigarette, trying to burn away the thoughts of Hilda's cut-up face and his friend forced to swallow the results. “Sometimes I dream about the victims in my murder cases. An occupational hazard. I got used to seeing dead soldiers during the war, but the civilians, the ones that were in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . like your sister. I never really get over those.”

“Hilda knew what she was getting into. It wasn't exactly the wrong time and place for her.”

“She's not as innocent as I made her out to be?”

Adelle became pensive as she helped herself to one of Mason's cigarettes. “What I mean is, she knew being with Winstone had consequences.”

Mason turned to face her. “Was Winstone into something I don't know about?”

“That night, at Winstone's villa, I could tell what you were thinking, looking at all those things in his house.”