He had had a relaxing afternoon on the beach across from the Winthrop House, resting and looking at women in bikinis. From the cabana Hess could train his binoculars on select females, studying them, wondering how they would perform in bed. It had been over a month since he had been with a woman and he was feeling the urge. Thinking about finding a prostitute, but he wanted a woman with class, not a street hooker.
By five most of the sunbathers had packed up their belongings and departed. The sun was fading. Hess felt a cool breeze blow in from the ocean. He focused the binoculars on Joyce Cantor’s empty balcony, hoping to see her standing there but didn’t.
Hess drove back to Pompano, cruised past Lois Grant’s house, turned into Max’s driveway, pushed the remote and backed into the garage. He closed the door and opened the trunk. Zeller was right where Hess had left him, head over the edge of the worktable, duct tape over his mouth, panic in his eyes, pants wet where he had urinated.
“I have good news. You are going to be released soon.”
Zeller was making sounds under the tape. He obviously didn’t believe it. He wanted to talk. Of course he wanted to talk. Hess pulled the tape off his mouth. “You were saying, comrade.”
“Bring me the phone. I’ll tell Herr Braun you’re dead.”
Hess smiled, he couldn’t help himself. He thought Zeller would say something like that. A person in this situation would say anything to stay alive.
“That won’t be necessary.”
He ripped a fresh strip of tape off the roll and fit it over Zeller’s mouth.
At 3:00 a.m. Hess went out to the garage. Zeller was asleep. He could hear him breathing through his nose, a nice easy rhythm. Zeller awoke while Hess was taping his ankles together. The man struggled as Hess turned him over and taped his wrists together. Hess moved the car closer to the worktable, slid Zeller off of it into the trunk and closed the lid.
He took Interstate 95 north to PGA Boulevard and east toward Singer Island. Past A1A Hess could see glimpses of Lake Worth. The causeway between North Palm Beach and Singer Island was dark. He had driven this stretch of road earlier and decided it was the perfect place to dump a body. With Lois Grant snooping around he couldn’t take a chance burying Zeller on Max’s property.
When he could see water on both sides of the road Hess slowed down and pulled over. He got out, looked up at a half moon, felt a breeze come at him from the lake. He opened the trunk, reached in, took hold of Zeller, pulled him out and dropped him on the hard-packed dirt roadside. Hess, breathing hard from the effort, bent over, hands on his knees. When he got his wind back he squatted, lifted Zeller’s ankles and started to drag him toward the water. Zeller bent his legs, kicked and sent Hess to the ground holding one of Zeller’s shoes that had come off. Hess scrambled to his feet, moved to Zeller, kicked him in the face, took the fight out of him. Zeller was conscious but woozy as Hess dragged him to the water’s edge. Hess heard something, looked and saw headlights approaching from the island. He pushed Zeller in the lake and watched him thrash, trying to stay afloat, and then disappear in the dark water, bubbles rising to the surface.
The car was approaching, slowing down. It crossed the center line and stopped on the side of the road in front of Max Hoffman’s Chrysler. It was a police cruiser. The policeman got out with a flashlight and came toward him, aiming the high beam in his face. Hess blinked and squinted, brought his hand up to shield his eyes.
“What’re you doing out here middle of the night?” the policeman said, southern accent. He moved to the Chrysler and aimed the flashlight beam in the trunk. Hess put his hand behind his back, felt the handle of the .38 under his shirttail.
“What’d you dump?”
Hess said, “I couldn’t sleep so I decided to take a drive.”
The policeman moved toward the water, shined the light where Zeller had gone under. “Got some ID?”
“In the car,” Hess said.
“Get it.”
Hess could feel the man behind him as he walked to the Chrysler and opened the passenger door. The dome light came on. He reached in, picked up Max’s billfold, opened it and handed the driver’s license to him. The policeman looked at the license and back at Hess.
“You’re a long way from Pompano. I’m going to ask you one more time. You don’t have an answer I like, I’m gonna take you in.”
The policeman was big, the tan uniform tight across his chest and shoulders, revolver in a black holster on his hip.
“You dumped something in the lake is what I think. Now you better start talking.”
“My dog died,” Hess said in a burst of inspiration.
“What kinda dog?”
“A dachshund.”
“A what?”
“Little dog with a long body and short legs.”
“Looks like a sausage.”
“Exactly.”
“What’d it die of?”
“I don’t know but Fonzie was almost fifteen.”
“Well there you go. That’s a long goddamn life for a dog. My Doberman, Pepper, passed at thirteen.” The policeman shook his head. “Why’d you throw it in the lake?”
“I was upset, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“I’m sorry for you, buddy. It’s a sad day man loses his best bud. You take her easy and keep it between the ditches. Next time bury it like a normal person, okay?”
Hess closed the trunk and got in behind the wheel. The policeman, still standing next to the Chrysler, waved. Hess turned the key, heard the engine rev, backed away from the police car and made a U-turn. He was calm, steady, thinking you never knew what was going to happen in a situation. He had been ready to pull the .38 a couple of times, sure his only way out was to shoot the man.
Twenty
Joyce could see cars zipping along on the turnpike in the distance. She and Cordell had adjoining rooms at a Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge, which Cordell had said was safe.
Joyce had said, “Compared to what, your apartment?”
“Colombians got what they wanted. They’re not gonna be comin’ back.”
“I’m not worried about Colombians, I’m worried about Ernst Hess.”
“You seen him on the floor with a hole in his chest and blood everywhere,” Cordell said. “Man’s still alive he a vampire.”
“A Palm Beach detective told me he was picked up by a fisherman in the Bahamas.”
“Bahamas is like seventy miles away. How you think he got there, the backstroke?”
Joyce said, “The same man escaped from a hospital in Freeport, hijacked a boat in Port Lucaya, left the owner and his wife stranded on a remote island, and headed for the Florida coast. That night he strangled a woman in her house in Palm Beach. The police say the prints they found in the dead woman’s house match the prints they found on the security guard’s car, gun and flashlight, and the prints found at my friend Lenore Deutsch’s house. I know you don’t believe me but I’m telling you I saw Hess in the lobby of my building earlier tonight.”
Cordell said, “Why don’t you think I believe you?”
“Maybe it’s that look on your face, that grin you can’t hide.” Joyce walked over, put the chain on the door, and wedged a chair under the door handle, a security precaution she had seen in a movie.
“Anyone try to get in, I be on the motherfucker,” Cordell said, pulling the gun he referred to as his nickel-plate.
They kept the doors between the rooms open, and Joyce had to admit, knowing Cordell was right there put her at ease.
Early the next morning he popped his head in her room, said he had to take care of some business. “You be okay? I’ll check on you in a while.”
Joyce, still in bed, yawned and said, “See you later.” Thinking he’d be back reasonably soon. She heard his door close and saw him walk by the window. Joyce locked the door between their rooms and called her office. Told Amy, the office manager, her aunt died. She was going to Baltimore to sit shiva.