The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [165]
“Nothing.”
“Come on—nothing . . .” McVey heard the anger in his own voice. He wasn’t handling Benny Grossman’s murder as well as he thought.
“Nothing, baby. I’m sorry. Erwin Scholl’s who he’s supposed to be. A richer-than-hell publisher, art collector, and chum-chum with the ultras, as in presidents and prime ministers. In capital letters, my love. If there’s more, it’s dug deep in the sandbox where only the really big kids play. And little girls and boys like you and me aren’t going to find it.”
“What about a history—” McVey said.
“Poor immigrant comes here from Germany just before World War Two, works his keester off and the rest is what I already told you.”
“Married?”
“Never, babe. Not as far as I could find out in a coupla hours. And if you’re thinking gay, honey, the queens he plays with are the kind with emeralds and sable and armies. Ladies who have coronations and used to rule empires and probably still sit on jeweled heads.”
“Angel, you’re not giving me much.”
“One fact I can give you, and you can do with it what you want—your man is in Berlin until Sunday. Big commemoration or something at a place called—wait’ll I look at my notes—they’re here somewhere—Yeah, here we go—the place, a palace or something called Charlotten-burg.”
“Charlottenburg Palace?” McVey looked to Noble.
“A museum in Berlin.”
“Go back to your game, angel. I’ll take you to dinner when I get back.”
McVey, for you, anytime.”
McVey clicked off. Noble was staring at him.
“Angel?” Noble grinned.
“Yeah, angel—” McVey said flatly. “What about Osborn?”
Noble’s smile faded and he shook his head. “Nothing.”
83
* * *
“VERA—”
“Oh God, Paul!”
Osborn could hear the relief and excitement in her voice. Despite everything, Vera hadn’t been out of his mind for more than a moment. Somehow he’d had to get hold of her, talk to her, hear her tell him she was all right.
He couldn’t use the phone in his room and knew it. So he’d gone down to the lobby. McVey wouldn’t like it if he found out, but as far as he was concerned he had no other choice.
Once he reached the lobby, he’d found the phones near the entrance in use. Taking a chance, he’d gone to the desk and asked if there were others. A clerk had directed him to a corridor just off the bar where he’d found a bank of old-style private phone booths.
Entering, he closed the door and took out a small address book where he’d written the number of Vera’s grandmother in Calais. For some reason the old burnished wood and the closed door seemed reassuring. He heard someone in the booth next to him finish a call, then hang up and leave. Looking out through the glass, he saw a young couple pass, going toward the elevators. After that the hallway was empty. Turning back, he picked up the phone, dialed the number and charged the call to his office credit card.
He heard the phone start to ring through on the other end. It rang for some time and he was about to hang up when the old woman surprised him and answered. Finally, the best he could garner was that Vera was not there and hadn’t been. He felt his emotions begin to run away and he knew he’d go crazy if he didn’t get a grip on them. Then it crossed his mind that she was still at the hospital, that she’d never left. Using his credit card, he dialed her direct line. The number rang through and he heard her voice.
“Vera—” he said, his heart leaping at the sound of it. But she kept on talking and in French and he realized it was