The Shadow Man (53 page)

And so, the idea that a piston in this machine was living among them created an unsettled sensation, a step or two on the road to panic, that summoned remembered nightmare in all their voices, sounds that went unheard and unrecognized by the young and the trendy occupants of the Miami Beach scene on their way to the dance clubs and night spots, but which fairly shouted to those older

people.

Espy Martinez was peripherally aware of the stir that had been created. She sat in the living room of the rabbi’s apartment and listened as he and Frieda Kroner handled phone call after phone call. She quickly understood that these were not calls containing information, but pleas for reassurance. This the rabbi handled expertly, speaking in a soothing, practiced voice, listening, letting memories drop around him like so many invisible petals from dying plants.

She listened as she overheard him say:

‘No, Sylvia, it is just this one man …

‘Yes, the authorities are searching for him. We will find

him…’

‘I agree. This is a terrible thing. Who would have

thought it?’

And then he hung up, turned toward her as if to say something, and the telephone rang again. He picked it up, smiled wanly, and said: ‘Of course, Mr Fielding. Of course I remember you. Ahh, I see. You heard as well. Is there something you know? No? Oh, I see. Of course. Of course…’

The rabbi shrugged, and continued to speak with his

caller. .

Martinez turned to where the uniformed Beach police officer was busy reading the Sports section of that morning’s paper. She opened her mouth to say something, then

stopped. Instead, she rose to her feet and walked to the patio doors, staring out for a moment. The horizon seemed to glow with a dull silver intensity created by the city’s lights. She wondered where Walter Robinson was, and wished she were with him.

He and Simon Winter were sitting in a briefing room at the Beach police headquarters, discussing arrest procedures with theSWAT captain and his nine-man team.

‘In and out. I don’t want to give this guy even one second. Full restraints as soon as we have control, I mean hands pinned, and legs too.’

‘No problem,’ replied the SWAT captain with an offhand wave. He seemed singularly unimpressed with the need for a tactical squad to arrest one elderly man. ‘You have a judge sign a warrant?’

‘Got it right here.’ Robinson paused. ‘I had trouble with my last arrest,’ he understated.

‘Heard that,’ the SWAT captain replied. ‘But you followed established procedure. These things happen.’ He was an experienced policeman, who wore his military training every waking minute and probably snored in his bed at night to a marching cadence. Square-shouldered and close-cropped, he was the type of person who considered discipline a virtue beyond intelligence and who was forced to quit coaching his son’s Little League team because of too insistent an approach to victory.

‘The man we’re arresting should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.’

‘Everyone we arrest fits that category,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Automatic weapons?’

‘No. I don’t believe so.’

‘Well, there you have it. Likely to surrender when confronted?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘Likely to run?’

‘More likely to disappear,’ Simon Winter added softly, but with just enough force for the SWAT captain to hear him. The captain turned to him.

‘That would be a first for me, old-timer,’ he said condescendingly.

‘This is a case of firsts,’ Winter replied.

The captain unfolded himself from the briefing chair, and as he did, the nine members of his team rose with him.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said confidently.

Walter Robinson nodded. He went to a wall telephone and tried Espy Martinez’s home for the tenth time, only to once again get her answering machine. Then he dialed the number for the rabbi’s apartment. This was the fourth time he’d tried this number, only to be frustrated by the busy signal. He had the authority to get the phone company to interrupt, but he was reluctant to use that. He merely wanted to inform the rabbi that they’d had a break in the case, thinking that even without a lengthy explanation, this news would reassure the old couple. Simon Winter had concurred in this view.

He was surprised when the phone rang and the rabbi’s voice was immediately there.

‘Yes, this is Rabbi Rubinstein. Who’s calling, please?’

‘Rabbi, it’s Detective Robinson.’

‘Ah, Detective. Your announcement has had some effect. The phone is ringing off the hook.’

‘I’ve been trying to get through. Any information?’

‘No. Only people upset, which is understandable. But I am still optimistic someone will know something. It seems as if they will be calling all through the night.’

‘Look, Rabbi, Mr Winter and I have found something

out, no, don’t interrupt, I don’t want to go into detail right now. I will call you later, but we may have made some progress. Just sit tight, you and Mrs Kroner, okay? Is the officer still there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Make sure he stays alert.’

‘Of course. But you say you have discovered something? This is good news. What sort of progress?’

‘Really, I’d rather discuss it later, in case it amounts to nothing.’

The rabbi hesitated. ‘All right,’ he said after a moment. ‘Do you wish to speak with Miss Martinez? She is here.’

Walter Robinson smiled and felt his stomach leap. ‘Yes,’ he said rapidly. There was a momentary pause before he heard her voice. ‘Walter?’

‘Espy, I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m sorry I missed the flight, but we’ve had a break. I’ve got a name and address—’

‘Are you heading there now?’ ‘Yes. Stay there. I’ll call you when we’re finished.’ Espy Martinez felt a surge of excitement. She wanted to accompany the arrest team, but she was also aware that Walter Robinson had not asked her to. ‘I want to be there,’ she said firmly. ‘Espy, last time I allowed you to go on an arrest in the middle of the night, I nearly got you shot. Not this time.’ She started to protest, but stopped. ‘Your trip—’ he started to ask.

‘I learned some things,’ she said. ‘Fascinating things. I

mean, I never knew. You study history in high school,

college, but you don’t really know it until you come face-to-face with it. That’s what happened. This guy, Walter,

the Shadow Man, he was carefully trained by the Gestapo.

All sorts of techniques. Surveillance. Forgery. Murder. You name it. A mean customer, Walter, be careful.’

Robinson had a vision of Leroy Jefferson in his wheelchair and thought: beyond mean. He realized that Espy Martinez knew nothing of what had happened to their witness and was about to tell her, and then decided against it. He could see the SWAT team strapping body armor into place, stamping their feet like a collection of quarter-horses before a roundup, and he realized he had to go.

‘They trained him?’

‘Made him into an expert. Can you imagine that? And these guys, Walter, they were the best, if you could call it that, and the man that told me all this says that he was the best of the best. So, play it safe, okay.’

‘Of course.’

He was about to hang up, but she stopped him, lowering her voice. ‘There’s one other thing, Walter. It might be helpful___’

‘What?’

‘He had a death camp number tattooed on his arm. That was one of the ways he disguised himself near the end, when all hell was breaking loose over there and all the rats were leaving the sinking ship. I have the number. He may have changed his identity a million times, but I don’t think he’ll change that number. If you get your hands on him—’

‘What is it?’

‘A26510,’ she said.

He wrote this down.

A block from the address of the man who said he was writing his memoirs, the SWAT team captain transferred from the van carrying his squad and into the unmarked patrol car that Walter Robinson drove. The SWAT captain hurriedly tossed himself into the rear seat, moving as

swiftly as his body armor would allow. ‘All right, Walt,’ he said. ‘Let’s drive by.’ Walter Robinson wordlessly put the car in gear and they slowly drove down a dark, small side street in the midst of a modest residential area. The section of Miami Beach around Forty-first Street is an odd collection of houses; some, which abut the waterway that carves through the beach, were million-dollar homes. Others were large, elegant, two-story designs, with deco touches, and red barrel-tiled roofs, eagerly sought after by many of the young professional types moving back to Miami Beach. But interspersed with these, on streets with less imposing palm trees and pockmarked, gravelly roads, were far humbler houses, low-slung, with flat brick tiles, old jalousie windows, and a depressing uniformity. They were often what realtors liked to term ‘starter houses,’ which meant they could be afforded by couples just starting out and not being bankrolled by a parent, or the old and finishing-up people who still wanted to call the Beach home, and who had not yet been chased by fear of crime into the high-rise condos. Many were in that realtor’s euphemistic category of handyman’s specials, which indicated that years of constant heat and sun pounding away each day had caused the wooden floors to buckle and warp - or the cement foundations to crack and sway. It was not unusual for one of these houses, as old as their occupants and suffering from as many of the ills and pains of age, to lurk in the shadows thrown by some large, landscaped, remodeled home housing a doctor, a lawyer, or a well-heeled businessman and his family, sitting on the backside of progress like a poor reminder of neglect.

The address that Walter Robinson held in his hand was for one of those houses. He slowly crunched the car to the hard coral-rock curb

across the street. The house in question was set back from the street about twenty yards, with a desultory pair of scraggly bushes guarding the front door.

‘Window bars,’ Simon Winter said.

He’d been silent most of the ride, thinking hard about the man they were narrowing in upon.

‘Probably around back as well,’ the SWAT captain said. ‘And dead-lock bolts on the doors. There’ll be a side door, or one in the rear, but most likely by the side where those garbage cans are located. But that’s it. Two bedrooms, two baths, no central air, so those window units are on and going strong, and making a racket that will cover any noise we make. See any signs of an animal?’

‘No fence. Hold it…’

The three men froze in position as they saw a figure cross in front of a front window. A tall man. Moments later a shorter shape followed. In a moment the front room of the house filled with the unmistakable glow from a television set.

‘He’s got a wife,’ Winter said. ‘I’ll be damned.’

‘You want her taken as well?’ asked the SWAT captain. ‘Yes,’ Robinson said. ‘She may have helped him.’

‘She may also know nothing,’ Winter said.

‘Well, we can find that out back at headquarters.’

The SWAT captain took another long look, and then gestured for Walter Robinson to move the car ahead. He did this, not flipping on the headlights until they were a half block away from the target house.

‘No sweat,’ the captain said, leaning back in his seat. ‘Two in back, two at the side, then the rest of the team goes in through the front door. He won’t know what hit him.’

‘That’s what I thought would happen the last time,’ Walter Robinson said.

‘So what happened to that guy, the one that gave you the

trouble before?’ the SWAT captain asked.

‘He ran into the guy in that house,’ Robinson replied.

Simon Winter listened with half an ear to the SWAT captain brief his team one final time about the layout and the approach. He realized that Walter Robinson was allowing him along on the arrest as a courtesy, and realized as well that he had to stay in the rear, away from the actual action. A part of him wished that it were he going through the door first, but he realized this was simply his own ego speaking to him. He felt an odd mix of emotions; an excitement that the man that had dominated his thoughts was so close, but a bittersweet recognition that once handcuffs were slapped around the Shadow Man’s wrists, his own participation in the event would fade. He thought that he should be pleased, that it was his work that ultimately provided the connection between composite drawing and name and address, and he understood that in all likelihood he would get the instant attention and notoriety that newspapers and television bring. But this would diminish as the days went past, and he had the unsettling thought that a few weeks after the Shadow Man was arrested, he would inexorably return to precisely the same position he was in when Sophie Millstein had knocked on his door with terror in her eyes.

He remembered that position wryly: sitting on his couch with his revolver barrel in his mouth and finger on the trigger.

Without thinking, he lifted his hand to his left, where the pistol now rode in his old shoulder harness, concealed beneath a light windbreaker that was making him sweat as if nervous, which he hoped had so far gone unnoticed. He did not think that Walter Robinson realized he wore it. He did not care. The weight beneath his armpit was as

reassuring as an old friend’s handshake.

He turned away from the SWAT team as he heard the clickings and clackings of men checking weapons, and stared up past the dingy pale green streetlight glow toward the wide expanse of night sky, and tried to think what it’ was that he had learned that would speak to him in the days to come. For an instant he turned toward the young detective and measured him, finding a bit of envy reverberating around within himself. He wanted to have it all to do over again. Every moment. Every frustration. Every pain.

He thought he would not trade any of it, and he bit down on his lip at the thought that in a short amount of time he would once again be finished, useful to no one again, and alone.

‘Simon? You all set? Ready to get this guy now?’

He turned toward Robinson’s voice. He saw an enthusiasm in the younger man’s eyes.

‘Absolutely,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Walter Robinson said, putting his hand out and grabbing the older man by the arm, a gesture he recognized sprung in part from excitement, and perhaps affection. ‘Tomorrow, maybe we can go fishing. Or the day after. You promised, remember?’