Restoreth My Soul (Psalm 23 Mysteries) Read online

  Many different people had worked long and hard to restore items that had been stolen during the war. Most people thought of the art stolen from Jewish people living in Germany and the countries it invaded. However, other countries besides Russia and other people had been subject to looting. Half of the Hesse Jewels belonging to Prussian royalty and stolen by American soldiers had never been recovered.

  So many things lost, perhaps forever. It was one of the great atrocities of war that people often didn’t think about. The theft and destruction of items of personal and historic value was a travesty.

  That was why he had to finish this translating. He had to know what Heinrich had had in his possession and where to find all of it. He only hoped that the information was there.

  When he had entered the house that morning it had taken all the strength he had not to tear up the carpets in every room looking for more pieces of the Amber Room. He was sure Mark had already been thinking along the same lines. He’d have to confer with the detective about it a little later.

  For now, though, he needed to get through this translation in the hours left to him before the Days of Awe were upon him. Marie was already furious that he wasn’t in the office tending to matters in preparation for them.

  At least he had made it to the end of the war. Heinrich, who had ultimately joined the military, had managed to slip through the cracks in the final days and had returned to his family’s home.

  Jeremiah went and got himself a glass of water. His throat was getting tired from the constant talking. At least he didn’t have to speak loudly into the recorder. While he drank it he wandered into the dining room. After a moment he realized he was scanning the carpet to see if he could detect any suspicious bumps. He walked slowly over the whole thing but couldn’t see or feel anything out of the ordinary.

  Frustrated, he returned to the translating. “I became very much of interest in the things that I have seen and the things others have seen that have been done to my parents’ brewery. I begin to wonder if there might be something I can take for myself to help make new life somewhere else. One night I took shovel and set out determined to uncover truth if nothing else.”

  Jeremiah could feel himself starting to get excited. Maybe Heinrich would finally reveal what it was he wanted to know. His throat was raspy and his eyes were tired but he pushed forward.

  “What I find that first night not so much. What I find second night equally poor. But third night was everything more than even dreams can be made of. What I find is beyond measure. I know I must keep secret or lose my life. I am good at secrets. Good at finding and good at keeping.”

  You’d have to be if you managed to smuggle part of the Amber Room out of Germany and into the United States without anyone being the wiser, Jeremiah thought to himself.

  He was tempted to skim ahead, but that wouldn’t help him finish his work in time. He kept reading. “I know others will come for what I have. I must protect. I must hide. I must move. I think to myself where will no one look for these things. I know the answer to be America. So this presents new problem for solving. I feel myself equal to task for reward is great and failure is to die.”

  He kept going and after a few more minutes realized that Heinrich was steadfastly refusing to mention what exactly it was that he had found. He ground his teeth in frustration.

  Maybe that would come later, though, when he talked about hiding his treasure in America. His stomach growled and he realized that it was past lunchtime. He hadn’t brought anything with him and he realized now that was a mistake. He couldn’t take the time to leave and go get something. He’d just have to wait until dinner.

  He kept going until his voice was nearly ready to give out. Something had to give and if he wasn’t careful it was going to be him. He sighed and got some more water. He’d have to get some honey and lemon for his throat.

  He grabbed his phone and after only a moment’s hesitation he texted Cindy. Any chance I can get you to bring pizza again tonight?

  A minute later she replied.

  Absolutely. Anything else?

  Something for tired, sore throat. Honey, lemon, and hot tea would be great.

  Will do.

  Thx.

  I can come early.

  What about work? he texted.

  Left early. Explain later.

  R U OK?

  Yes.

  See you at 4?

  Yes.

  He shoved his phone back into his pocket. He could hold out until then, but he needed to rest his voice for a couple of more minutes now.

  He found himself once again in the dining room staring at the carpet. It was only a matter of time before he pulled an edge up to see what was underneath. He shook his head. He had nothing else to do while giving his voice a break. He crouched down in the far corner and tugged.

  The carpet seemed to be anchored down well. He moved slowly down the wall, feeling every few inches. Then he moved to the next wall. At last he had made his way all around the room. The carpet was tacked down really well. The only way he’d be able to see what was under it was to cut it. His hand slipped to his one pocket where he kept a Swiss army knife. In two seconds he could answer his question for good.

  Then it would be a simple matter to test the floors in every other room of the house. If there were more pieces of the Amber Room present he could find out in about two minutes.

  He moved his hand away from the knife. He wasn’t ready to go that far without the detective’s permission. At least, not just yet at any rate. He got up and headed back into the writing room and tried to estimate just how long it was going to take him to finish. He didn’t like his odds of completing it.

  It was time to get some more help.

  It had been good to sit and talk things over with another cop. They had ended up having several cups of coffee while they talked. Mark had sorely missed Paul in that regard as well. It seemed wrong to be working cases alone and it helped to have someone to bounce ideas off of. Liam seemed to be a good guy and a good cop. He could go far in his chosen profession so long as nobody shot him first.

  Liam’s phone rang and he answered it. He talked for less than a minute and when he hung up he looked disappointed.

  “What’s wrong?” Mark asked.

  “After the trap door was found yesterday I asked a friend of mine to find me any information on the house that he could, when it was built, by who. I wanted to see if maybe there was anything else like that we should be looking for.”

  Mark raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That was some real initiative,” he said. He left out that it was also overstepping. “So, what did they find out?”

  “It was built 15 years ago. The contractor and three of his crew died in a car crash just a couple of days before it was finished.”

  “Tough luck.”

  Liam laughed. “Maybe it really is part of the Amber Room that was found. Some say there’s a curse on it.”

  “Get something flashy enough or famous enough and everyone’s bound to start finding curses connected to it. I wouldn’t put too much stock in that,” Mark said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time to get back to it,” Mark said, standing and getting ready to leave the coffee shop.

  “If there’s anything I can do to assist you, let me know,” Liam said.

  “I appreciate it, but do yourself a favor and make sure your days off stay your days off. This job... it’s too easy to let it suck you in and consume you. You need to take the time off for your own sanity and that of those around you. You understand?”

  “Yes, and thank you for the advice.”

  Mark’s phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “The rabbi’s calling,” he said.

  Liam nodded as Mark answered.

  “Hello, tell me you have some good news.”

  “I’m not calling with news, I’m calling because I need some help here,” the rabbi said.

  “I’ll send the secretary over. I’m sure she’ll bring food, extra batteries for
the recorder, whatever you need.”

  “No, I need help translating. You have to find someone else to help me with this.”

  “Sorry, I’ve checked, there’s no one but you.”

  Another call was coming in. He’d have to call whoever it was back.

  “I have a hard time believing that,” Jeremiah said. “There must be someone you can get.

  “It’s the truth.”

  It was a lie. Mark hadn’t checked. The rabbi was doing a great job and he wanted to make sure they maintained quality control and consistency of translation throughout. Plus he just didn’t have time to find someone qualified and meet with them in order to determine whether or not he could work with them.

  “So, have you found something interesting for me?” Mark asked.

  “Lots interesting, but I’m not sure if any of it is helpful at this point.”

  “Well, keep going, I know you can do it.”

  “Thanks,” Jeremiah said sarcastically.

  “You’re welcome,” Mark said brightly before hanging up.

  He checked his voicemail. A creepy, oily sounding voice began to speak and he felt his lips curling even as he forced himself to listen.

  “Detective, I think you’ll find your blood results from the wrapping around the painting to be very interesting. Let’s just say they belong to an old friend.”

  He deleted the message and glanced at Liam.

  “It’s Gordon,” he said making a face.

  “Who?” Liam asked.

  “One of the lab guys, specializes in blood typing, DNA analysis, that sort of thing.

  “Gordon...is that his last name or first name?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met him,” Liam said.

  “Probably not. They don’t let him out of his cage that often to interact with people.”

  Liam looked surprised and almost offended by the remark.

  “He’s a bit of a ghoul,” Mark explained.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Well, among other things, he collects celebrity blood samples.”

  “That’s... disturbing,” Liam said, making a face.

  “I told you.”

  “Where does he even get his items?”

  “I don’t ask and thank heavens he doesn’t tell.”

  Mark took a deep breath and called back. When he was alive Paul had always been the one to interface with Gordon.

  Gordon answered with a cackling laugh. “Can’t wait to hear what I have to say, can you?”

  “No, Gordon, I really can’t,” Mark said, gritting his teeth. If I could, I would, he added to himself.

  “I finished my analysis and I think you’ll find the results very intriguing.”

  Mark didn’t want to be on the phone with him any longer than he had to be.

  “Skip to the punch line. Whose blood is it?”

  “Mike Haverston, that art dealer who got killed last year.”

  8

  Mark froze. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not,” Gordon practically purred into the phone.

  Mark ended the call.

  “What is it?” Liam asked.

  “The first new evidence in the Haverston case since November.”

  “Which is?”

  “It was his blood on the wrapping for the dog painting.”

  Mark called Jeremiah’s cell.

  “What is it?” the rabbi asked on picking up.

  “You sound terrible.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Have you come across any references to a Mike Haverston or to art dealers?”

  “No.”

  “Well, keep looking and tell me if something comes up.”

  Mark hung up and headed for his car.

  “Where are you going?” Liam asked.

  “To ask Mike’s kids what their dad had to do with an old Nazi.”

  From the expression on Liam’s face he could tell the other officer wanted to go with him. More surprising, Mark actually wanted him to come along. That didn’t make it a good idea, though. When he reached the car he turned.

  “I meant what I said earlier. Enjoy your days off. We don’t get nearly enough of them. And someday if you go for detective and make it you’ll find that you would give anything to have those days back.”

  Liam nodded solemnly, but he could still see the disappointment in his eyes. Mark felt bad, but he was doing right by the other guy. In the end that was what really mattered.

  Mark left and his thoughts were quickly consumed by the task at hand. By the time he pulled up outside the Haverston & Sons art gallery he was prepared to ask some tough questions.

  There was a sign in the window advertising the upcoming auction. Haverston & Sons had been around for a very long time. The previous owner, Mike, had been one of the titular sons, sole proprietor once his father and older brother passed away. Now his son and two daughters were each joint owners. Mark wasn’t at all surprised that all of them were eager to sell everything, get their money, and get out. None of them had struck him as the type who wanted to lower themselves to the status of business owner and pillar of the community.

  Of the three of them the son, Trevor, was at least the more reasonable and Mark was glad to find that he was the one who was in and talking with a representative for the auction house that would be handling the whole affair.

  Trevor looked surprised to see him, but he managed not to make any sarcastic comment in front of the very attractive blonde lady who was holding a briefcase and clipboard. It was pretty clear from their body language that Trevor had been flirting with her and that she could care less.

  Nice to see he didn’t get everything he wanted.

  “Would you excuse me for just a minute?” he asked the woman who nodded while she continued to study her clipboard.

  He gestured for Mark to follow him to the back of the store where the office was. Apparently he had no desire to discuss his father’s murder in front of the lady. That was fine with Mark.

  They walked into the office but Trevor didn’t close the door. He leaned against the desk, arms folded across his chest in classic defensive posturing.

  “Are you here because you finally figured out who killed my father?”

  “We have a possible new lead,” Mark said.

  Trevor’s eyes actually widened in surprise though the rest of his face remained carefully neutral. “What is it?”

  “I’d rather not say at the moment, it’s probably nothing, another dead end, but it brought up a few questions I think I forgot to ask originally.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I was going over my notes and I just needed to confirm a few things first. There wasn’t anything stolen from the store, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So we have to assume it wasn’t an attempted burglary or art heist or anything like that.”

  “It would stand to reason,” Trevor said.

  “I believe that most sales happened just from people walking in the store, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Now, the paintings that were here when he died are the ones going up for auction, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I got the auction catalogue, by the way, thanks for sending it.”

  “I didn’t. It was probably one of my sisters.”

  “Well, in that case, thank them for me.”

  “I know very little about art, so you can just sum up for me what kind of works he had here in the store?”

  “My father kept a variety on hand. He always said art was for all the people, not just the ones who could afford it. He sold some originals, a few by well-known artists and others by up-and-comers. Most of the art was lithographs and giclées, high-end reproductions, many with personal accents and touch-ups by the artists.

  “What was the most expensive piece he had in the store?”

  “I was just discussing it with the lady fro
m the auction house. There’s an original Coleman valued at about sixty thousand.”

  “Impressive.”

  “It would have been more impressive if he had been actively trying to sell it. It was the one piece of art he kept for himself. It hung in this office until last week,” Trevor said.

  “He must have loved being able to share art with the world through this store.”

  Trevor shrugged. “He did his duty, selling art, carrying on the family business. But his passion was always in art restoration.”

  “Restoration?” Mark asked, more sharply than he had intended to.

  “Yes.”

  “As in fixing damaged pieces?”

  “Occasionally. Most of the time it amounts to little more than cleaning them to remove years of dirt or smoke.”

  “How much does something like that cost?”

  Trevor shrugged. “It really depends on how much damage and what type have been sustained. Why, Detective, do you have a piece that needs some work done on it?”

  “Maybe,” Mark said. “My wife inherited a painting from an uncle and he was a heavy smoker.”

  It was a lie, but he wasn’t about to tip his hand.

  “I can give you the name of someone if you’d like.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Mark said, forcing himself to smile. “You don’t do that kind of work?”

  “No,” Trevor said, rolling his eyes. “You have to truly love art to want to do that.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I appreciate art for what it represents, and that’s money.”

  “I’m surprised, I figured all you Yale types were into that.”

  “Harvard.”

  “Excuse me,” Mark said.

  “I went to Harvard Business School.”