Read Online A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red by A.W. Hartoin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: A.W. Hartoin
Ads: Link
Spidermonkey smiled and I could see that all his juices were flowing. This was a tasty bit of mystery.
“So what are you thinking?”
“It will take serious digging. Other than the death record, I have nothing. I may have to resort to hand sifting in Berlin. A picture would be helpful. If I can get that, we’ll be on our way.”
“But you don’t know if this has anything to do with the Klinefeld Group. How much is this going to cost?” I was getting even more nervous now. There were only so many double shifts I could pull and my modeling job for Double Black Diamond hadn’t started yet. I’d already spent my advance by paying off my debts.
“What do you say we split the cost?” he asked.
“Why would you do that?”
“I have a special interest.”
“In a guy that died in 1963?” I asked.
“Yes.” Spidermonkey took a drink and became thoughtful. “I have a connection in the Mossad. He’s retired, you understand, but still in the know.”
“ The Mossad? What can an Israeli do for us?”
“Think about it, Mercy. What does the Mossad do so well?”
“They’re spies, aren’t they?”
“And…”
Then I remembered Myrtle and Millicent discussing Simon Wiesenthal, a friend of Stella Bled Lawrence and a recently revealed Mossad agent. “Nazi hunters. Do you think Hoff was a Nazi?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
I drank my latte and stayed silent.
“Aren’t you intrigued?” he asked, frowning.
“I am,” I said.
“But?”
“I don’t want to get sidetracked. This is ultimately about The Girls and my parents for me.”
“I understand and I can do both, if it comes down to it. Are we agreed?”
We shook hands over the table and, all of the sudden, I was involved in tracking down a possible Nazi.
Spidermonkey leaned in. “I need you to see what you can find out about Stella Bled Lawrence and her activities in Europe throughout the war. Do The Girls have letters, diaries, anything like that?”
I thought about the scrapbook Florence Bled made of Stella’s covert activities, but didn’t mention it. Nobody was supposed to know about that. “I’ll see what I can do. You want to know if Stella knew this Hoff during the war, I assume?”
“I do. Anything about Berlin could be helpful, too. Make a list of any German names you come across.”
I agreed to do that, but I hadn’t a clue how I was going to accomplish it. Myrtle and Millicent weren’t keen to let any info about Stella’s activities go. We got up to leave. I put on the warm camelhair coat Mom gave me for Christmas and I felt safe in its folds. It even smelled like Mom, although she’d never worn it. For some reason, the thought of Mom led me to think of Dad. Long term investigations were his favorite thing. Now the Klinefeld Group was leading me into the distant past, his past, and I had to go. There were questions to be asked and answered.
“Wait,” I said as Spidermonkey opened the café door and a blast of January air came in. “How did Jens Waldemar Hoff die in ’63?”
“I was wondering when you’d ask that. The death certificate says, roughly translated, death by misadventure.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“We’ll find out.” And he left me wearing a warm coat and holding a cold latte.
Chapter Seven
IT WAS MY last shift in the St. John’s ER, so it had to suck. That was the rule. Last shift must be miserable. I’m sure it’s written out somewhere with my name in bold. To make my shift worse, I’d pulled the short straw and got assigned the nursing student. Brittany was smart, earnest, and sweet, which sounds great, but she also had the steely nerves of a stressed Chihuahua. Her hands shook every time she attempted to put in an IV line. I say ‘attempted,’ because she never actually succeeded. Word got around and patients started their consultations with, “Not Brittany.” That included a guy who
“So what are you thinking?”
“It will take serious digging. Other than the death record, I have nothing. I may have to resort to hand sifting in Berlin. A picture would be helpful. If I can get that, we’ll be on our way.”
“But you don’t know if this has anything to do with the Klinefeld Group. How much is this going to cost?” I was getting even more nervous now. There were only so many double shifts I could pull and my modeling job for Double Black Diamond hadn’t started yet. I’d already spent my advance by paying off my debts.
“What do you say we split the cost?” he asked.
“Why would you do that?”
“I have a special interest.”
“In a guy that died in 1963?” I asked.
“Yes.” Spidermonkey took a drink and became thoughtful. “I have a connection in the Mossad. He’s retired, you understand, but still in the know.”
“ The Mossad? What can an Israeli do for us?”
“Think about it, Mercy. What does the Mossad do so well?”
“They’re spies, aren’t they?”
“And…”
Then I remembered Myrtle and Millicent discussing Simon Wiesenthal, a friend of Stella Bled Lawrence and a recently revealed Mossad agent. “Nazi hunters. Do you think Hoff was a Nazi?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
I drank my latte and stayed silent.
“Aren’t you intrigued?” he asked, frowning.
“I am,” I said.
“But?”
“I don’t want to get sidetracked. This is ultimately about The Girls and my parents for me.”
“I understand and I can do both, if it comes down to it. Are we agreed?”
We shook hands over the table and, all of the sudden, I was involved in tracking down a possible Nazi.
Spidermonkey leaned in. “I need you to see what you can find out about Stella Bled Lawrence and her activities in Europe throughout the war. Do The Girls have letters, diaries, anything like that?”
I thought about the scrapbook Florence Bled made of Stella’s covert activities, but didn’t mention it. Nobody was supposed to know about that. “I’ll see what I can do. You want to know if Stella knew this Hoff during the war, I assume?”
“I do. Anything about Berlin could be helpful, too. Make a list of any German names you come across.”
I agreed to do that, but I hadn’t a clue how I was going to accomplish it. Myrtle and Millicent weren’t keen to let any info about Stella’s activities go. We got up to leave. I put on the warm camelhair coat Mom gave me for Christmas and I felt safe in its folds. It even smelled like Mom, although she’d never worn it. For some reason, the thought of Mom led me to think of Dad. Long term investigations were his favorite thing. Now the Klinefeld Group was leading me into the distant past, his past, and I had to go. There were questions to be asked and answered.
“Wait,” I said as Spidermonkey opened the café door and a blast of January air came in. “How did Jens Waldemar Hoff die in ’63?”
“I was wondering when you’d ask that. The death certificate says, roughly translated, death by misadventure.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“We’ll find out.” And he left me wearing a warm coat and holding a cold latte.
Chapter Seven
IT WAS MY last shift in the St. John’s ER, so it had to suck. That was the rule. Last shift must be miserable. I’m sure it’s written out somewhere with my name in bold. To make my shift worse, I’d pulled the short straw and got assigned the nursing student. Brittany was smart, earnest, and sweet, which sounds great, but she also had the steely nerves of a stressed Chihuahua. Her hands shook every time she attempted to put in an IV line. I say ‘attempted,’ because she never actually succeeded. Word got around and patients started their consultations with, “Not Brittany.” That included a guy who
Similar Books
