“I have traced his whereabouts to a posting at the University of Salzburg, from 1932 to 1939, and then on a hunch, I checked out a few listings at the Universities of Bern, Lausanne, and Geneva, and hit paydirt on Lausanne from 1939 to 1941.”
“He fled to Switzerland,” Dutch said, and I found myself grateful that he knew more about geography than I did.
“Yes, which was quite common at that time given the Reich’s iron fist when it came to outspoken men of learning. It was a sign of the times that many men of noble birth often took postings at university if they didn’t take an active role in politics. Helmut, it appears, followed these lines until 1941 when he and his family simply disappeared.”
“How many were in the family?” I asked.
“From the records I’ve found, there appeared to be four in total: Helmut, his wife, Frieda, their son, Pieter, and a daughter, Eliza.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up on end. “Eliza?”
“Yes.”
“It’s her, isn’t it, Abby?” Dutch asked as he watched me carefully. “It’s Liza.”
My right side immediately felt light and airy. I nodded to him with a sad smile.
“Liza is this woman you say was murdered?” T.J. asked.
I nodded again at him and asked, “So what could have happened to them?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” T.J. said. “The war made record-keeping a nightmare. The Germans kept meticulous records of things they wanted to document, and meticulously didn’t keep records of things they didn’t want to document, and while they never invaded Switzerland, there was much collusion between the two countries. Switzerland was in a rather precarious position, and if they hadn’t fully cooperated with the Germans, they might have felt the same stinging backlash as other countries like Poland and Hungary.
“If Helmut was as outspoken as some of his published papers displayed prior to 1939 and 1940, he would have posed a significant threat to the Nazis. Back then, they had ways of making you disappear.”
“You think the Swiss turned the family over?”
“It’s possible,” T.J. said, scratching his head. “In fact, it’s even probable. Right now I’m working on a different angle for you.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Frieda’s side of the family. Her lineage is also of noble lines, the von Stiessen family. If I can trace that lineage to someone alive today, I might be able to get in touch with a relative who can tell you what happened to the family.”
Dutch looked at me, his face telling me he was missing something. “So how does this tie in with Jean-Paul?”
“Who?” T.J. asked.
“Jean-Paul Carlier. He was a French café owner in Lyon who was heavy into the French Resistance during the war.”
T.J. looked sharply at Dutch. “In Lyon, you say?”
“Yeah.” Dutch nodded.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” T.J. chastised.
“Why? Is that significant?” I asked.
“Yes, of course, because if Helmut feared he was about to be turned over to the Nazis by the Swiss, his only choice would have been to get to Lyon. It would have been dicey, but it’s highly likely that he would have tried it. In fact, there is a central railway leading right from Lausanne to Lyon. This may be where the family headed, then changed their identity to avoid detection from the Nazis.”
“But I thought France fell to Germany in 1940,” I said, recalling my high school history.
“Yes, that’s true,” T.J. said, nodding at me. “The Germans invaded France in the spring of 1940 and divided the country in two. There was the Occupied Zone in the north, and the Free Zone in the south. The southern zone was run from Vichy, a small spa town in the center of the country, but the most important city—economically, politically and socially—was Lyon. Before the war, the population of the city proper was about five hundred thousand. But in the few years before and after France declared war on the Reich there was a massive influx of refugees into the south of France. Jews, Spanish republicans, Belgians and, of course, anyone unlucky enough to have made themselves unpopular with the Reich in the early years of the administration.”
“So, if you got to Lyon, you were home free?” I asked.
“No, not necessarily,” T.J. cautioned. “You see, even though Lyon was allowed a measure of freedom so to speak, and a ‘free’ French government was set up, it was merely a puppet of the Gestapo who ruled with tight control. Lyon had citizens of power, influence and money, and the Gestapo sucked it dry.”
“That’s got to be it,” I said looking at Dutch. “That’s got to be how Liza came into contact with Jean-Paul.”
“So what’s the missing link?” he asked me. “Why would she show up here thirty years later and steal from him?”
My intuition buzzed and I looked at T.J. “It’s the notebook,” I said. “That’s the missing link. There’s something in there, boys, that ties this whole mystery together. T.J, could you try and decipher it?”
“I can try,” T.J. said. “I should have some free time this weekend. Will that be soon enough for you?”
“It’ll have to be,” Dutch said, looking at his watch and standing. “Thanks, buddy, we really appreciate all the help.”
“Absolutely,” T.J. said. “You know I love this stuff.”
“We’ll let you get back to your classes,” I said as I shook his hand and Dutch and I left.
On the drive home we were quiet, both of us lost in thought about what T.J. had told us and how it fit in with what we already knew. Suddenly, I looked at Dutch, my intuition on high. “There was something else in the box!” I said.
“What?” he asked me.
“In the box! The one with Liza’s crest! It’s not the notebook that was kept hidden. There was something else in there before the notebook.”
“Like what?”
In my mind’s eye I saw a large diamond in the shape of an egg. “Gems,” I said, following the line of intuitive information dancing in my head. “Treasure . . . like the kind the adjunct of a pope would give you for saving the country from Turkish invaders.”
Chapter Thirteen
When we got home, Dutch called T.J. and left a message to get back to him about what specific kind of treasure the von Halpstadt family had received for its dutiful service against the Turks. Then, while Dutch worked on his FBI brief, I puttered around the house until about five thirty when Milo arrived and we all headed back over to Willy’s office. Knowing Dutch’s injury was bothering him, I insisted on driving so that we could get a decent parking slot close to the building.
Milo didn’t put up much of a fight about it, and it was then that I noticed he looked like he’d had a long day. “Politics not the bag of fun you thought it would be?” Dutch goaded when were all nestled in the car.
“Let’s just say there’s a lot of room for improvement,” Milo quipped from the backseat.
When we got to Willy’s we headed inside and waited for Dutch to catch up as Milo and I reached the second floor well ahead of Gimpy. We chatted as we walked down the hallway and noticed Willy’s door slightly ajar.
Milo pushed through first and came up short at the scene in front of him. The office was in ruin. The large stack of papers that yesterday had been piled neatly along the edge of Willy’s desk now lay scattered about the room like enormous bits of confetti. The desk chair had been overturned, a filing cabinet had been knocked over and now leaned against the desk, the files spilled out onto the ground and one of the windows held the impression of something large and heavy that had smashed into it. The signs of a struggle were all over the room, and to make matters worse as I gawked at the floor and the mess my eyes fell on a family photo of Willy, his wife and their three kids.
Looking flat and plastic from out of the frame was a smiling accountant, and my heart sank as I realized he was dead. “No!” I said as I went to reach for the photo.
“Whoa!” Milo said grabbing my arm. “Abby, hang o
n there! You can’t touch anything here.”
“No!” I wailed again, my eyes misting at the thought that Willy’s family had just suffered such a tragic loss.
“Abby?” Dutch said, alarm in his voice as I continued to struggle against Milo, wanting to reach the picture, to be sure that I wasn’t mistaken. “Abby, what’s wrong?”
“He’s dead,” I said, my voice now a whisper.
“What?” Milo asked, looking to where I was now pointing.
“The picture,” Dutch said as he looked at his former partner. “She can tell when someone’s dead by their photograph.”
Milo looked around at the room. “Wait here,” he said as he shoved me out the door. “Do not move,” he warned and disappeared inside the room, grumbling about contaminating a crime scene, then he came back out into the hallway holding the picture with the edge of his coat. “Look closely,” he offered. “Are you sure?”
I was leaning against the wall in the hallway feeling like the air had been let out of me. I looked at the photo closely, but the image did not change. Willy was flat and plastic looking, one-dimensional. The rest of his family smiled up at me, vibrant with life. I nodded and turned away, as a tear slipped down my cheek. “Poor Willy,” I said to no one in particular.
Immediately, Milo pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. “This is Detective Milo Johnson of the Royal Oak P.D. I’m at 2670 Long Lake Road, suite 207. Reporting a possible homicide and requesting police and CSI immediately!”
An hour later the police had come, taken our statements and were now processing Willy’s office. Milo had indicated that I was especially gifted at knowing when someone had fallen victim to foul play, and the fact that he backed me up in the face of two very skeptical Bloomfield Hills detectives was testament to his faith in me. After talking with them for almost a half hour, Milo came back to Dutch, who was holding me close and watching the crime techs take their pictures and dust for prints.
“They’re looking through the building for a body,” he said as he got to us.
“It’s not here,” I said.
“How do you know?” Milo asked.
I tapped my temple and squeezed my eyes closed, wanting to shut out the scene. Intuitively, I knew there was a connection to our investigation, and the fact that Willy had paid the ultimate price for merely trying to help us was weighing heavily on my conscience. Just then, my intuition buzzed and I said, “Milo, there’s something in his car.”
“Whose car?” he asked.
“Willy’s,” I said. “There’s something important in his car. A clue of some kind.”
“Where’s the car?” he asked me.
“Here,” I said. “In the parking lot. Look for a light blue sedan.”
Milo pulled out his cell phone and hit a number on speed dial. “Hey, Tina. Detective Johnson here. Can you get me the make, model and license number for a car registered to a William Breger of Bloomfield Hills?” Milo fished out his notebook, waited a minute or two then jotted down the information when Tina gave it to him. “Got it, thanks,” he said and flipped his phone closed.
Turning to me he said, “You’re on the ball today, Abby. Light blue Oldsmobile. Let’s head downstairs and find it.”
We found Willy’s car parked in the back of the building, and as Milo peered inside the windows, careful not to touch the glass, he said, “No body, but there are a couple of Banker’s Boxes on the seats.”
“There’s a clue in those boxes,” I said.
Milo nodded. “I’ll head up to the detectives upstairs.”
I stepped in front of him, my intuition buzzing. “They won’t let you have them.”
“Well, it is their crime scene,” Milo reasoned.
“We don’t need all of them,” I said, hating that I was even thinking about this.
“What are you saying?” Milo asked warily.
“Just one should do it . . . that one,” I said and pointed to the one in the front passenger seat. “We could just take that one and no one would be the wiser. Hell, they probably won’t even think about his car for another couple of hours yet.”
“You want to get me fired?” Milo asked, his voice rising at the audacity of the suggestion.
“How about this,” Dutch said as he gave me a pointed look. “How about you go get us a soda across the street, buddy, and we’ll meet you back at Abby’s car, in say, oh . . . ten minutes?”
“Dutch!” Milo exclaimed, “Are you crazy? Do you know what kind of trouble you could get in if anyone found out you contaminated a crime scene and stole evidence?”
“I’d like a Coke. Abby? What’s your poison?”
“I’ll take one of those as well,” I said, beaming up at him.
Milo sputtered at the two of us for another few seconds before stomping away in the direction of the drugstore across the street, while muttering things like, “You’re gonna get us thrown in jail!”
When he was far enough away Dutch said, “Can you go next door to that dry cleaners and get me a wire hanger?”
I smiled at him as I looked in the direction he pointed to. “Man! You notice everything, don’t you?”
“I’m a detail kinda guy, sweethot,” Dutch said and bounced his eyebrows a few times.
I rolled my eyes and trotted to the dry cleaners, returning to Willy’s car a few minutes later with a coat hanger in tow. Dutch took the hanger from me, then placing me in front of him he said, “Block the view, would ya?”
I nodded and turned my attention to the parking lot, playing lookout. Dutch had the car open within seconds and with a grunt hauled out the Banker’s Box. He used his good foot to close the door and nodded at me as we traversed the parking lot and I beeped my car doors open for him so he could put the box in the backseat. We then hopped in and waited for Milo, who was taking forever.
Finally, Milo appeared from the drugstore carrying three Cokes in his hands and walking toward our car doing his best to look casual. He got in and I put the pedal to the metal, peeling out of the parking lot with my heart racing.
We cruised home sipping on our Cokes as Milo pouted in the backseat. When we got to Dutch’s, Milo got out the second I turned off the engine and walked over to his car without a backward glance.
“Aren’t you coming in?” I called to him as he reached his car door.
“I want no part of that!” Milo said as he pointed to the box Dutch was carrying to the house.
“I was gonna make chicken Marsala for dinner,” Dutch called over his shoulder with a grin. Milo’s favorite meal was Dutch’s chicken Marsala.
Growling, Milo yanked open his car door and popped inside, leaving us with a final, “No part!”
Dutch and I laughed as we headed inside. Dutch deposited the box on the coffee table while I took off my coat. “Are you really making us dinner?” I asked hopefully. Between the two of us, he was far more domesticated. My idea of cooking usually involved a bowl, some ramen noodles and the microwave.
“Yep. Why don’t you look through Willy’s box while I get dinner started. Shout if you find anything interesting.”
I nodded and headed to the couch where I lifted the lid off and peered inside. The container held folders all neatly arranged and labeled by month. Within each folder were small stacks of handwritten sales receipts dated some forty years earlier. I sorted through the folders, at first just randomly pulling out files and taking a cursory look, then filing them back away. When I went to the oldest folder from March of 1965, I noticed something peculiar. There was a name at the top of the slip, a small notation really, in the corner next to the date. The name was German and I cocked my head as I read it. “Itzak Kleinburg,” I said aloud.
“What’s that?” Dutch called from the kitchen.
“Itzak Kleinburg,” I repeated louder.
“It’s a—who?” he said, appearing in the doorway, a bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other.
“Here,” I said, showing him the slip. “Look at this.”
Dutch re
ad the slip while he whisked and said, “That the guy he sold the diamond to?”
I turned the slip back to me and read down the paper to the notation about the one-point-seven carat diamond set in yellow gold. “No,” I said, pointing to the lines above that notation. “Here, see? This is who he sold it to, Christopher Fletcher of 206 Roxberry Court.”
“Weird,” Dutch said as he tapped the whisk on the side of the bowl.
“Very,” I said, turning back to the slip. My intuition continued to buzz, so I set the slip aside and dug through a few more files. After just a short search, I came across similar slips, some had the same “Itzak Kleinburg” notation at the top, and others had different names, like “Jakob Weinstein,” and “Samuel Katzberg,” and “Elijah Goldschtadt.”
There was something familiar about the names, and after a moment with the sales slips all spread out on the table, I closed my eyes and let my radar take me where it would. In my mind’s eye I saw the same swallow that had appeared in so many of my visions of late, and I followed it as it fluttered about a room and landed on the puzzle box. This time, however, when the bird pecked at the crest on top of the box, the box opened and the little fellow pulled out the notebook hovering in the air with it in its beak.
“Ohmigod!” I said as my eyes flew open.
“What?” Dutch said, coming into the room. “What’s happened?”
“These names!” I said excitedly. “They’re the same names as in the notebook!”
Dutch looked at the sales slips scattered on the table, picking them up one by one and sorting through them. “They’re Jewish names,” he noted. Then he snapped his head up and said, “Hang on,” as he headed into his study. A few minutes later he came back out carrying a book and flipping through the pages. “I was a history buff once upon a time,” he said as I took note of the book in his hand titled, Trail of Death: The Jewish Diamond Trade 1938-1940.