FRIDAY, MAY 14—LINCOLN PRAIRIE
Marti overslept and missed roll call Friday morning. Slim, Cowboy, Lupe, and Holmberg were all in the office when she arrived. Vik arrived a few minutes after she did. The coffee smelled exotic and Mildred had baked a coffee cake. Slim sauntered over to Marti, a smile spreading across his face.
“I take it you’ve seen the write-up in the newspaper about me and Ben.”
“That we did,” Slim admitted. “And while we are all here to congratulate you, that is not the sole purpose of this conclave.”
“Word is,” Cowboy added, “that Lieutenant Nicholson is more than a little put out about that newspaper article, and the Dyspeptic Duo’s trip to Los Angeles put her right over the edge.”
“So far over the edge,” Lupe went on, “that Holmberg and I have been ordered not to assist you in any way with any current investigations.”
“Which means,” Holmberg concluded, “whatever you need, you’ve got.”
“From all four of us,” Slim added.
Marti felt a familiar acid churning in her stomach. She took a couple of deep breaths.
“We also hear,” Slim went on, “that said Dyspeptic Duo were not in the mood to take stuff and that said lieutenant was so advised.”
“And?” Marti said.
“We don’t take kindly to outsiders coming in and taking over,” Cowboy said. “Not unless they show us some respect.”
“Right,” Slim agreed. “We take orders. We don’t take shit.”
“And furthermore,” Cowboy added, “we don’t like it when someone disrespects one of our own.”
“Therefore,” Slim said, “please be advised that ninety-seven percent of the members of the Lincoln Prairie Police Department have personally requested that we take whatever action is necessary to aid and abet our fellow officers, the Dyspeptic Duo, in any or all of their endeavors.”
“The other three percent allows for suck-ups,” Cowboy explained. “That said, me and Slim are going to amble on over to the courthouse and see if we can bring a few johns to justice, or at least embarrass them. Just remember"—he cocked his middle finger and pointed with his index finger—"we’ve got your backs.”
Marti sat for a few minutes, thinking that through, then looked at Lupe, then Holmberg. “1 don’t have that much to lose in this situation. Neither does Vik. You do, especially you, Holmberg. You’re a first-year man. You’ve got the right people’s attention and you’re well respected.”
“Not for being a suck-up,” Holmberg said.
“Agreed, but you don’t have a history yet.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay,” Vik said. “Marti and I are going to go over the latest on the skeletal remains case and the Savannah Jones case. All who care to may listen in. Those who have work to do or find it boring are free to leave.”
“Well,” Marti began. She told them about the call from Dennis Moisio and their visit to Miss Montgomery.
“So, we do know who the rental agent was during the time the place was renovated,” Holmberg said.
“Unfortunately, the only people who might be able to tell us more about that are either dead or demented,” Vik added.
“And so far,” Holmberg went on, “we have no evidence to support the possibility that the sisters, Rosie and Rachel, were in the area after mid-March nineteen-forty-three.”
“But we’ve narrowed the time range when the second floor must have been sealed off to April of forty-two through June of forty-four,” Lupe added.
When they got to the update on the Jones case, Holmberg said, “I can start playing around on the Internet tonight. I’ll see what I can find out about Von Weiss in particular and zirconia in general, and pick up a few historic facts about Eastern Europe in the thirties and forties. I might even get into gemology.”
“As for me,” Lupe added, “I think I’ll just see what I can pick up about that building where the bones were found while I’m cruising the ’hood. Get a feel for the times maybe. Who knows? It was renovated sixty-odd years ago. There are a few folks who lived here back then who aren’t dead yet. Or demented.”
Marti wanted to hug them both. “Be careful,” she warned.
“Not to worry,” Lupe assured her. “Lieutenant Lemon’s got a few brownnosers, but they know they are significantly outnumbered. Holmberg and I can handle ourselves. Just do what you’ve got to do. One monkey don’t stop no show.”
Marti laughed until her sides hurt. Even though that wasn’t that funny, it was something she had heard Momma say ever since she could remember.
Dennis Moisio called again a little after ten. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Nothing that tells us when the false ceiling was put in or who did it,” Marti told him.
“Oh, you need to know that, too?”
“Yes. We thought that if we could find the person who rented the pace out, they would know, but Mr. Montgomery is deceased and the only relative who was alive back then has advanced Alzheimer’s.”
“Let me see what I can find out,” Dennis offered. “We have access to those kinds of records, too. I’ll call if I find out anything.”
Marti thanked him and hung up.
Holmberg was on the computer and printing something. “This Dennis Moisio is doing okay.” He brought over several sheets of paper. “I’m on a search engine checking out Von Weiss. I’m going to look for a few other things, too. I’m not sure of exactly what you’ll find useful, so I’m narrowing the search to expanding on what we know. If something else comes to you, just tell me.”
Marti scanned the printout. “If we could find out why he used zirconia, and maybe any other gems that seem unusual, we might be able to get a better handle on whether someone specifically wanted Jones’s jewelry, or if they just wanted unusual, and therefore valuable, work by Von Weiss.”
“We might be looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack,” Holmberg said. “The Nazis took everything from the Jews that looked like it might be of value, even furniture. Not only that, they looted just about every eastern European museum and church. Nobody was exempt from the looting or the oven. They marched through Europe, looting as they went, and sent everything to Germany. Then the Soviet army did the same thing when they marched through Germany. It’s all part of the war game. There’s no way of telling what was lost, stolen, destroyed, or is in someone’s private collection.”
“So you don’t think we’re going to be able to narrow this down?”
“Well, this Von Weiss was no Faberge. There aren’t many people who would look at that earring and say, ’Oh, a Von Weiss.’ But I think you’ve done a good job of narrowing the parameters.”
“Do you really believe there were American soldiers involved in any of this?”
“Sure there were.” He thought for a few moments. “When the Allied troops went into Germany there was this group of English and Americans; they called them monument officers. They were supposed to find the artworks, take care of them. But it was so chaotic over there as the war ended. . . .” He shrugged.
“Then one other thing we might want to find out is the names of local World War Two veterans from Lake County and try to find out if any of them were involved with these monument officers. That’s the most obvious way that the jewelry made it to Lincoln Prairie. Can you do that?”
“You’re going to end up with a lot of names.”
“Yes, but hopefully by then I’ll have a short list to compare them with.”
Holmberg gave her a thumbs-up and began tapping on the keyboard.
Marti filled her mug with coffee and returned to her desk. Instead of reaching for the case files, she leaned back, inhaling the aroma of Cowboy’s “Arabic blend.” The most thought she had given to any war was Johnny’s war—Vietnam. Now she realized how limited her perspective was. Guns, grenades, explosives. Those who died, those who survived, those who learned how to enjoy life again, those who found isolated places within where they remembered what they could not talk about or forget. She felt depressed.
“Who do you know who came here from Europe during World War Two, Jessenovik?”
“I wasn’t even born then.”
“But you’re Polish. Eastern European. What was it like for Von Weiss?”
“I don’t think we need to know that.”
“Me neither, but Holmberg has got me thinking.”
“Then think about what’s in those files.”
A half hour later, Vik slammed a folder, gave it a push that sent it to the edge of his desk, and said, “Old Mrs. Stoker.”
“What about her?” Marti asked.
“I think she might be Hungarian.”
He leaned back, arms folded, eyebrows almost meeting in a scowl, and gave a deep sigh. “Oh what the hell. We’re not getting anywhere here.” He looked at Holmberg. “What’s taking so long?”
“I’ve been printing, I’m printing now. I’ll have something for you real soon.”
Vik picked up the phone. When he hung up he said. “Let’s go. She’s hard of hearing and still speaks with an accent, but her daughter can communicate with her in Hungarian.”
The house they went to was a small traditional Tudor that sat back on a large, tree-filled lot. It made Marti think of a castle. As they went up a cobblestone walk, Vik said, “She’s eighty-seven, tends to fall asleep without warning. The daughter said we’d get more out of her in Hungarian. She’s going to interpret for us.”
“How long have you known her?”
“I don’t know her. She and Mildred’s sister Helen belong to the Lincoln Prairie Woman’s Club.”
“Didn’t we talk to them once?”
“We were the reassurance committee when they were having those break-ins around here, tagged along with Officer Friendly, met at the library. Helen says Stoker’s the one who was snoring.”
A woman who looked to be about fifty opened the door. She was wearing a dress and an apron. “Vik, so nice to see you. And you’re Marti. I remember. You spoke to our women’s group five years ago. I came right home and called a locksmith. We had dead bolts installed two days later. Mother is right here in the dayroom. Just follow me.”
The dayroom was a corner room with windows framed with lace curtains along the two outer walls. Outside, the sky was overcast, but the room was painted a cheerful pastel yellow. Daffodils bloomed in clay pots arranged on a bookcase and there was a vase with an arrangement of cut flowers on the table in the center of the room. Classical music played in the background. Marti recognized the melody, but couldn’t name the composer.
Mrs. Stoker was dozing in a reclining chair placed where she could see out of the windows. Her face was scored with fine wrinkles. She was wearing a sweat suit and socks. An afghan had slipped to the floor.
“Just pull those two chairs over by Mother, Vik, and I’ll make tea. We’ll just let her sleep for a few more minutes.”
She set up a couple of tray tables and returned with a tray of individual teapots and matching cups. “Mother enjoys having company.”
When Mrs. Stoker was fully awake and had enjoyed one cup of tea and requested another, her daughter turned to Vik. “What would you like to know?”
“How she got here during the war.”
After her daughter asked the question, the old woman spoke slowly but in a surprisingly strong voice, “It wasn’t the soldiers,” the daughter translated. “It was the government, the laws. For everything we did, there was a law or rule to be broken. Careful, you always had to be so careful. Where we lived, it was two little rooms and there were eight of us. We only went out to get food. They let us buy whatever was left over from what was sent to Germany. We were their allies then, part of the Axis. That was how they treated their friends.
“You could see the change, that they did not trust us. My aunt came to this country, then my uncle, and another uncle. Then there were whispers that we would be occupied. We were afraid of the camps, even though we were not Jews. You did not have to be a Jew to go there, just an enemy. We were becoming the enemy. The soldiers became meaner. We were afraid. Fear was like air, everywhere. Even when they were nicer to us, we knew what was happening other places. Always we got up in the morning and thought today I might be arrested and sent to the camps. Always we thought we would die.
“Our uncle sent money so that we could leave. Small amounts that they might not take from us. When our papers came, we sold everything we could and gave the rest away. Even until we left we feared we would not be allowed to go. The day that we left we were searched before we got on the train. We even had to take off our underwear. We could take nothing with us.
I had a stuffed dog, Fritz. He was made from scraps of fabric that matched one of my dresses. My mother would not let me wear the dress that matched Fritz because she was afraid they would think we were rich or Jews. They took Fritz. He was all I had brought with me and they took him. Mama squeezed my hand very tight. I knew I must not cry.
“The train was very crowded, but no one spoke. All you could hear was the train whistle, the wheels on the tracks. Everyone had their hand in their pocket. That was where their papers were, the papers that said they could leave. There was a man who had a cold. He stuffed his glove into his mouth so they would not hear him cough and decide he was not fit to leave and send him instead to the camps. At the border they searched us again. There were three of them. They made me turn around, lift my arms, bend over. No man had ever seen my body until then. Later I told Mama that no man ever would again.”
The old woman laughed. “Even after I was married, I never let your poppy see me without my nightgown on. And always the lights went out before I would get into the bed.”
She sighed, turned her face toward the window, and dozed off again.
“Is she all right?” Marti asked. “Have we tired her out?” The old woman had talked much longer than she expected before taking a nap.
“No. She’s fine. I could tell you what she told you myself, but she insisted. I have heard it many times and would not care if I never heard it again. But the telling makes her feel strong, resilient. As strange as it may seem, I think that talking about surviving those days makes her even more determined to live a long life. You should have known her when she was younger. She was always happy, always laughing. There was always joy in our house, and always too much food.”
“How did she reach America?” Vik asked.
“They stayed in France with friends of my uncle for several months because the scarcity of food in Hungary and what was available to eat was very hard on my grandmother. She needed time to regain her strength in order to survive the sea crossing.” As she spoke, she gathered the teapots and teacups and stacked them on the tray. “She is very proud, you know. Proud that she did not cry when they took Fritz. Proud that she did not let them see her shame when she had to undress. And ...” she went to the door, “Fritz, here Fritz.”
A medium-sized mixed-breed dog skidded on the hardwood floor as he ran into the room. “We have always had a real dog named Fritz.”
Neither of them spoke as Marti drove back to the precinct. There was an inch-thick stack of printouts on her desk. Holmberg was gone. Marti thought about food. They had skipped lunch, but she didn’t feel hungry. War. Damn. She knew the Holocaust was unlike any other recent war experience, and that wars of extinction occurred before Christ. The concept of the Holocaust wasn’t what made it different. It was the method, the arrogance of superiority, and the intensity of hatred. Jew and Holocaust had become synonymous; so had Cambodia and Vietnam.
The camps, Mrs. Stoker had said again and again. The fear. Until today, Marti had taken it for granted that the Jews were the only ones targeted. Now she realized that the scope of the crime was much wider than that. Anyone could be the enemy. Non-Jews were gassed, too. Even now, after listening to Mrs. Stoker’s story, the magnitude of the atrocities of war was beyond her comprehension. “You had to be there,” Johnny told her once when she had awakened him from yet another nightmare. “You had to be there.”
She shook her head as if that would clear the word pictures from her mind and began reading the computer printouts Holmberg had left for her. The first half-dozen pages were all about zirconia; where it could be found in measurable quantities, mined, and sold. Romania was the only significant European country. There was no indication that due to scarcity zirconia was ever a popular gem of choice.
The next half-dozen pages could have been called “The Known Travels of Von Weiss.” The man moved around a lot, but he seemed to travel in circles. Marti wondered if he could have left, just as Mrs. Stoker did, or if he was prevented from leaving. Other artists had made it to France; poets and playwrights, architects. Why did Von Weiss stay? And why did he use zirconia crystals?
“Find anything?” Vik asked.
“Lots.”
“Anything useful?”
“Not so far as I can tell.” That earring was still all they had. The rest of the pieces Jones had were missing. “It’s a start,” she said. “What have you got?”
“Less than you.”
She put the Von Weiss papers aside. Holmberg had actually found a list of World War Two veterans from northern Illinois. It wasn’t in alpha order, but taken from newspaper articles. Obituaries memorialized those who hadn’t come back. Holmberg had asterisked the names of those still living.
The phone rang while she was reading.
“Is this Detective MacAlister?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the jeweler you brought the Von Weiss to on Monday.”
“Has someone else brought something in?”
He laughed. “Von Weiss has become quiet popular it seems, but they did not come to me. I was attending a monthly meeting we have. Dinner, a little wine, a few informal transactions, and unofficial conversations, things all businessmen do.”
“And?” Marti urged when he paused.
“It seems that two other people came to Chicago this week to have a Von Weiss appraised.”
“Two? Who were the jewelers? Give me their names.”
“Oh, but I cannot do that. And you wouldn’t want me to. I would never be privy to information from any of my counterparts again.”
Marti decided not to argue the point. “What can you tell me?”
“A woman with a bad dye job—red hair—had a pair of garnet cuff links. A black woman with braids and dark glasses had a brooch with a peridot crystal in a silver setting.”
“Peridot, what’s that?”
“Well, it’s somewhat rare, and perhaps more commonly called olivine. My guess is that it came from Norway. This brooch was quite valuable, a beautiful golden-green crystal, surrounded by smaller, deep green crystals. The garnet is a more common gem. We refer to it as a demantoid, which is not important to you, but these particular gems were absolutely exquisite, green like emeralds, very rare, very beautiful, worth a lot of money. My friend said that based on the quality, plus the fact that it was definitely a Von Weiss, it must have been mined in the Ural Mountains in Russia. The best demantoid in the world comes from there.”
“Could your friends tell when Von Weiss made them?”
“We can date his work by the settings. The cuff links were made during Von Weiss’s minimalist period, early forties. The setting is very simple, a series of curves. The brooch had intertwining lilies and would have been made after the earring you showed me, late thirties.”
“And these woman did not give their names or anything?” Marti asked.
“No, no. And, the name Von Weiss meant nothing to them. And they just wanted an estimate of their value.”
“Does that suggest anything to you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I suspect... 1 strongly suspect that they are going to sell them to a private collector and we’ll lose them forever. We will never know the scope of Von Weiss’s work. All these pieces belong in a museum.”
“Then I hope we can find them.”
“Please let me know if you do. What work we have seen of his, and most of what is in museums or other known collections, has more familiar, more popular gems, diamonds and the like. These gems are a glimpse of his work that we have not seen before. I think there is a special reason why these gems were used.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I can explain it this way. My oldest daughter has some shards of glass that my grandmother salvaged after Kristallnacht—what you call in this country Crystal Night. They are to be given to the oldest daughter in each generation. A remembrance, perhaps. Maybe a warning. Or maybe just hope that it will never happen again. My grandmother never explained. But sometimes she would take out these pieces of broken glass and laugh. Other times she looked at them for a very long time and wept.”
“Thank you,” Marti said. “Thank you for the time you’ve taken to tell me all of this. Please thank your friends.”
“We are all hoping that you will somehow be able to recover at least some of this. If I hear anything else I will call you.”
After he hung up Marti thought, a black woman. Where would a black woman have got something like that in the forties? It wasn’t likely that there were any African-American monument officers. Blacks had enough trouble getting the Tuskegee pilot’s trained and airborne. The armed forces were segregated then.
Vik didn’t say anything for a few minutes when she told him what the jeweler had said. He sat with his head in his hands. Eventually, he said, “Damn. We’ve got one hell of a nightmare of a case here. The more we find out the less sense it all makes.” A few moments later, he added, “I suppose we’ve had worse.”
“Not that I can remember,” Marti said. For the first time in recent memory, she could not find a significant correlation with any of the information they had so far. It was like having a limited number of puzzled pieces, none of which fit together, and no picture of the entire puzzle. She wanted to check in with Mark Dobryzcki. She was hoping Dennis Moisio would call back. And finally, she was hungry.
“Why don’t I order a pizza?” she suggested. She didn’t think they would be leaving on time tonight.
“Fine by me.”
“Ground beef, Italian sausage, and extra cheese?”
“Sounds good. And onions, bell peppers, and olives.”
“Green or black olives?”
“Black.”
Marti wasn’t sure her stomach could handle that many toppings. “How about pineapple while you’re at it? Or eggplant.” Joanna had made a pizza once topped with eggplant and squash. Vik scowled at her.