Edited for Death Read Free

wasn’t empty.
    The frame held a small piece of paper, maybe six or seven inches square. This pulled away from the matting and slid to the table. The paper had an odd texture, thick and heavy and kind of lumpy. It was yellowish and crinkled when he picked it up.
    The drawing was a pen-and-ink sketch of a group of very fat or round-looking horses. Up in the right-hand corner was a sketch of a structure that might have been a bridge.
    He was no art expert. He had no idea what this was—except that it was old, and probably valuable . The ink was fading and the lines were sketchy, drawn quickly. The small picture shook in his still-icy hand.
    Feet grated against the sand in the hallway and a voice said, “Check out every room.”
    With the instinct of a petty thief, he jammed the paper down his shirt.
    Three of the GIs came into the room. He took a deep breath and casually gestured at the table.
    “Looks like they were transporting stuff that didn’t belong to them,” he said. “I don’t know what all this is, like those weird candle holders, but I sure don’t think anybody would keep a bunch of empty frames around to hang on the walls.”
    “Those candle holders are menorahs for Hanukah,” a G.I. said.
    “What’s that?” he asked. “And how do you know?”
    “That’s a Jewish festival and I know because I’m Jewish.”
    He hadn’t met any Jews until the Army. Best as he could tell, they were pretty much like everybody else—cold, tired, crabby and wanting to go home. Why would these Jewish things be in a house in Heidelberg, waiting to be transported somewhere?
    “Get those hands up. I said get those hands up, you stupid bastard.”
    The shout came from a GI in the back garden, followed by a single shot. The other Americans tore down the stairs to help, but he ran to the windows. A GI in the garden had his rifle pointed at a short, slight German in an SS uniform.
    In the far corner of the garden was a bonfire he hadn’t noticed before. The German had been feeding it a pile of papers and objects. When the GI found him, the German had frantically tried to shove the entire pile into the fire.
    As the SS man stood there shivering, looking more like a skinned rodent than a member of the death squad, the Americans rushed to save the papers. They started kicking the glut away from the flames.
    This seemed like a good time to leave, so he turned from the windows, patted his stomach to hear the crinkly sound and headed downstairs.

 
     
    CJAPTER FOUR
     
    Clarice finally heads for the mountains. Don Roberts is first to notice her absence. Roberts is older, and should be wiser. He’s been at small dailies all his career and believes that he needs just “a break,” the fluke story that will go national.
    For now, he covers religion, writes an occasional feature and does the minimum so I won’t fire him. He’s supposed to be the lead reporter on the mega church that’s oozing through the city’s planning process. Most of his time is spent finding ways to con the other reporters into doing his work.
    He watches the clock until 3 p.m. waiting for Clarice to come in, panting after her race from nowhere.
    “Where’s your little pal? Off chasing some ambulance or cop car?” he smiles a snarky grin. “I hope you don’t think one of us will do her work.”
    “No, Don. She’s on an assignment. Might take a couple of days. Things are covered.” I turn my back on him and even he’s not so dense, picking up that I’m finished with him.
    I slot Clarice’s police-chief story for page one and call over the summer intern.
    “OK, it’s time you learned how to do routine cop calls.”
    “I’ve never done them,” she says, her voice rising an octave. “I’ve never even talked to a cop.”
    “It’s easy.” I cajole her with my Mom voice. “Here’s the list of phone numbers. Just call them in order, tell them who you are and ask if they have anything. Use Clarice’s desk, the cops are used to getting calls