A Taste of Old Revenge

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

When we pulled up in front of Aaron Polanski’s palatial home's gated drive, I glanced at the dashboard clock and saw it was a quarter to three in the morning. I made a note of that because, frankly, I was surprised to find lights on and someone still up when I got out of the car to buzz the main house. When Polanski personally answered the gate phone before the phone had time to buzz twice, I found my curiosity was shaking the fatigue out of my brain.

Why would a corporate lawyer be up at 2:45 on a Saturday morning? Could it be that conscience might be prickling his mind with daggers of guilt? Insomnia? Or maybe something as ordinary and mundane as a bad case of the flu. Whatever the reason, both myself and my partner agreed it was worth remembering.

I identified myself and walked back into the car through the fresh snow. The lawyer activated the twin monogrammed iron gates, and they were swinging open, carving a path through the snow on large iron wheels, as I opened the car door and slid into the Ford's interior warmth. Climbing in, Frank glanced at me and lifted his right eyebrow into a high arch, his way of saying he was impressed, and then pulled the car into gear and started slowly down the long driveway.

We were in the middle of a Winter Wonderland.

In a sea of crystalline ice and snow.

In a fairyland of virgin whiteness. But with its edges dipping into grimy reality.

In the city the falling snow laid a blanket of silence over the noise and traffic. But out here in the country the vast carpets of white stuff, bathed in the bright flood light of the moon's glare, seeped through the breaks in the clouds and seemed starkly ethereal, even surreal to my taste. As we heard the fresh layer of snow crunching underneath the tires, I kept my eyes on the darkness of the big house Polanski's money had built and wondered what a bachelor lawyer did in such a monstrous palace. Sitting in the middle of some moderately rolling hills, with large trees flanking both sides of the house, everything was covered in a white crystalline carpet and large splashes of bright moonlight. On the other side of the sweeping curved driveway was a large pond and fountain. In the middle of the pond was a series of marble statues encased in ice and rumored to have been carved by Michelangelo. As Frank stopped the car in front of the double doors, I reached for the door handle thinking of Orson Welles' Citizen Kane. Maybe Polanski could show us the real Rosebud if we asked nicely.

He was waiting for us at the top of the landing, framed in the bright light of one opened door, hands stuffed into a heavy looking smoking jacket, but with shadows hiding his facial expression from view.

“Detectives Hahn and Morales, good to see you!” he said, coming out of the doorway and extending a hand. “What brings you out this early in the morning?”

We shook hands but did not say anything until we had stepped into the house and waited for him to close the door behind him. The vastness of the house struck me instantly as we heard the door close. One man, a few servants, and a home large enough to be four-star hotel basically described Aaron Polanski. The eerie silence of completely uninhabited space came to my ears as the attorney turned and led us down a long hallway and finally into a vast cavern of a room filled with books and lit by a blazing, crackling fire stoked to high intensity in a natural stone fireplace.

“Care for some hot coffee? It's a terribly cold night to be out and about. I'm sure both of you need something to thaw out with. Unfortunately, I only drink coffee.”

We declined the offer, and then with no way to say it gently, quietly told the small dark eyed man why we were here. I watched as the color drained from the small man's face and his eyes suddenly filled with tears. Turning his back to us quickly, he lifted a hand up to his face and stood there for a moment or two before regaining his composure and turning back to face us. The man's complexion remained ghostly pale, but the tears were gone from the eyes and there was this mask of grim determination on his face I found interesting.

“When did you discover his body?”

“About an hour ago,” I said, watching the man intently. “We got a call about shots being fired in an alley behind your father's garage. When we arrived, we found a back window jimmied open. Inside we found your father upstairs in the office.”

“How did he die?”

“A bullet in the back of the head,” I answered without trying to make it less harsh.

Sometimes a harsh answer straight into the face of a possible suspect generates an interesting response.

“An execution? My father? Were there any signs of a struggle? Anything taken?”

“None.” Frank grunted, scribbling intently on a small spiral notebook before looking up at the attorney. “He'd been smoking and working at his ledger when the killer came up from behind and shot him. I doubt your father even heard the door open behind him.”

Polanski watched Frank for a moment with a set, grim face, and then nodded as if at least agreeing with what Frank had envisioned.

“Yes, you're probably right, Sergeant. Father was very hard of hearing and refused to acquire a hearing aid of any kind. He liked to work on his books late at night. He hardly ever slept more than three or four hours at a time.”

Shaking his head in numbed disbelief I saw a sparkle of a tear coming back to his eyes, but the man refused to let his emotions take over and he grimly hung on as he turned and looked at me.

“You have any suspects? Any leads?”

“Possibly one. We think the man who shot your father was, in turn, gunned down by a third party. We're looking for the body of the first killer. He took a bullet in the alley behind the garage apparently just after shooting your father. We think we'll find the body very soon.”

“But you haven't found him yet, I take it.”

“No. Not yet.”

This shrewd attorney’s eyes kept staring at me for a moment or two and I could see he wanted to ask me a thousand more questions. But he paused, hesitated, then reluctantly held up a hand.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. But I must call my brother with this news. You haven't contacted him yet, have you?”

“Didn't know you had a brother, Counselor.” I answered truthfully, glancing at Frank, and then back at the standing attorney.

“Yes. Rabbi Hiram Polanski. He is the rabbi of the Children of Joshua Synagogue over on Belmont and Fifth. Our religion, gentlemen, requires us to deal with our dead as rapidly as possible. Please, excuse me and allow me to make a quick phone call. I am sure he would like to be here to hear what you have to say. It won't take long.”

He turned, hurried out of the room, and closed the door behind him, leaving us alone with the spitting, snapping fireplace and our own rather bland and somewhat rude thoughts.

Above the mantle of the fireplace was a large, framed piece of canvas of some abstract splash of color housed in a heavy-handed mahogany frame. Both of us were looking at it for some seconds in silence before Frank cleared his throat and tossed a thumb in its direction.

“It's not a Rembrandt,” he said with a twisted grin on his thin lips.

“Picasso.”

“Who?”

“Picasso. A genuine Picasso,” I stated with absolute certainty. Grinning.

“It's a fake.”

“Real.”

“Fake.”

“Real.”

“Fake. You couldn't tell a genuine Picasso from a Milky Way wrapper, Turn.”

“Betcha,” I said, grinning into my partner's face.

“A sawbuck,” he said, nodding, just as a door opened behind us and the attorney glided in through the dark gloom of the far wall and back into the amber light of the fireplace.

“That's odd,” he said, glancing at us just before sitting down in a chair close to the fire. “Hiram doesn't answer his phone. I find that quite peculiar. If anyone in our family was punctual about when to retire for the night and when to get up, it is my brother.”

“You expected him to be home,” Frank said, watching the attorney’s face carefully.

“Absolutely. He is scheduled to fly out tomorrow afternoon to Arizona. He's getting married out there next weekend. I know this morning was full of various things to do before he could leave. He should be home sleeping the sleep of the expectant groom.”

“We'll go by his house when we leave here,” I said, making a mental note to do so. “But we need to ask a couple of questions first.”

“Yes, I understand. Please, let me pour you some coffee. I'm sure you could use some. I know I need some caffeine in me.”

He didn't wait for an answer. On a small coffee table beside his chair were a silver tray and several unused coffee cups, along with a large sterling silver decanter of coffee. Handing a cup and saucer first to Frank, he poured a cup for me and handed it to me before pouring himself a cup. Sitting back in his chair finally, he sighed heavily and closed his aching red eyes for a moment.

“God, what a night! How is this going to affect Hiram? And worse, how in the world are we going to find David and get him back in time?”

“David?” Frank repeated after taking a sip of his coffee.

“Our younger brother. David Polanski, the world traveler and general black sheep of the family,” Aaron Polanski said, smiling sadly as he crossed his legs and balanced his saucer and cup in his lap. “He's the youngest in the family. The baby. The one pampered by father. He came so late in father's life that poor kid didn't have a chance. Father gave him everything he wanted and defended him whenever David screwed up. My youngest brother, detectives, has seen most of the world and has been thrown out of just about every major university on two continents. The last time I talked to him he was in Tel Aviv and about to go on an archeological dig for some American university.”

“When was this?” Frank asked, retrieving his small spiral notebook and a pen, and rapidly taking notes again.

“Three months ago. Maybe four, I don't remember.”

“And your other brother?” I asked, watching him as I lifted my cup up to drink. “When did you speak to him last?”

“Oh, just last evening. We had supper together and discussed his wedding plans. He wants me to fly out to Tucson this Friday. I'm to be his best man. He called me at the office yesterday in panic. He heard I was to be in court all the way up to Friday and he wanted to make sure I would be there for the ceremony on Sunday morning. I assured him I would catch the plane Friday night and be there for the wedding. It's his first marriage, you see. Right now, he's nothing but a throbbing case of jitters. That's why I’m surprised he didn't answer the phone on the first ring. I didn't think he'd be asleep, but he should be in bed.”

I nodded and frowned, thinking to myself. Where was the rabbi?

“Your father, Counselor. Did he have any enemies?”

“My father has been in his shop at that same address for over fifty years. He's been involved with any number of charity groups and civic groups from the beginning. He's taken in kids off the street and taught them a trade they could take and use for the rest of their lives. He's been a pillar in that community since 1949. I cannot imagine anyone hating my father.”

“He had people working for him?”

“Four. All trained by him, loyal to him. They have been with him for a long time.”

“Could we get their names?”

“I'll fax them to you just as soon as I get to my office.”

“How about finances? Any problems in this area?”

The lawyer pulled back gray lips and smiled wickedly for a brief second, then lifted his cup to his lips for a sip before answering.

“There were no financial problems, detectives. My father was a gifted artisan. People brought cars to him from all over the world and never discussed how much it was going to cost. Add to the fact that in the last few years my practice has been, shall we say, somewhat successful, and I think I can safely say there were no financial concerns worth noting.”

“When was the last time you saw him alive?” Frank asked, looking up from his little notebook and aiming his tiny little brown eyes at the attorney.

“Day before yesterday. We lunched together downtown.”

“And how did he seem to you? Acted okay? Nervous? Moody?”

“He acted like he normally did. Father is … was … plain and gruff and irritable at people he thought were trying to act superior to him. And he didn't like eating at one of the more civilized restaurants I like to go to. But he seemed to like the food, and our conversation went well. He was excited about a car almost ready to leave the shop. One of mine. He wanted me to come over and take a look at before I left for Hiram's wedding.”

“You have no idea why anyone would want to harm your father?” I asked, placing the empty cup onto the coffee table beside the lawyer. “No idea at all?”

“None.”

“Counselor, your father was a h*******t survivor?” Frank grunted, making the man in front of us to look at my partner quickly and angrily.

“Langenburg. Out of a father, mother, two sisters and six brothers, he was the only one to survive.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about that part of his life?”

“No. Most who endured preferred to keep it buried. On the other hand, because of his past, he made sure all three of his sons were aware of their heritage and insisted that we become diligent in our efforts to make sure something like that never happened again.”

I nodded, looked at Frank, then came to my feet. Frank closed his notebook and slipped it inside his coat pocket and we both looked at the attorney.

“Our condolences on your loss, Counselor. The investigation is just starting, but I am sure we will have some news for you in the next couple of days.”

The attorney came to his feet, smiled weakly, but shook our hands firmly before leading us to the front door of the house. He seemed, at this time of the morning, suddenly very small and very weak. He looked exhausted, and I have to admit, I felt sorry for him. It's not fair when you have to bury your father before it's supposed to be his time. And sometimes it's not enjoyable being in my line of work.

“Oh, one final question,” I said, just as Frank reached for the door and the cold icy tundra outside, “the painting above your fireplace. Picasso?”

A small light of appreciation flickered momentarily in the attorney's eyes as he smiled and shook his head.

“I'm impressed, detective Hahn. At least you recognized the style. But no, not a Picasso. A contemporary of his, to be sure. I picked it up in France about ten years go. Spent a small fortune to acquire it. But odd, now that you mention it. For the life of me the artist’s name escapes me.”

“Chagall,” Frank grunted, poker-faced, “Marc Chagall. A Russian living in Paris about the same time Picasso was there.”

I grinned and shook my head in disgust. Of course he would know. As the lawyer looked at that Neanderthal partner of mine, I reached for my billfold and pulled out a worn, threadbare ten-dollar bill.

“You are a connoisseur of art, Sergeant Morales?” Aaron Polanski asked, an odd smile on his thin lips and eyes looking at Frank with a totally different expression in them.

“Naw, I just read a lot.”

“My goodness. Not one in ten thousand would have recognized a Chagall,” mused the lawyer as he reached for the door handle. “Quite impressive, Sergeant. Quite impressive.”

Frank said nothing but calmly folded the sawbuck in half and stuffed it into his slacks as we walked out into the frozen night.