“Did Dr. Herschel beat her up?” I tried not to sound too eager.
“Christ, Vic, this is really serious, don’t joke around, pay attention. Did you know that Paul Radbuka was shot today? Rhea got the word partway through the afternoon. She’s been terribly upset. For Dr.—”
“Was he killed?” I put in.
“He was fucking lucky. Home invaders shot him in the heart, but what the surgeon told Rhea was they used a low-enough-caliber gun that the bullet lodged in the heart without killing him. I don’t understand it myself, but apparently it does happen. Amazingly enough, he should make a complete recovery. Anyway, Dr. Herschel somehow got hold of some papers of Paul’s—” He stopped, as the connection hit him. “Do you know about these?”
“His father’s ledgers? Yes. I was just looking at them, up at Max Loewenthal’s. I knew Dr. Herschel took them with her.”
“How did Loewenthal get them?”
I pulled into a bus stop on Sheridan Road so I could concentrate on the conversation. “Maybe Paul brought them up to him so that Max would understand why they were related.”
I heard him light a cigarette, the quick sucking in of smoke. “According to Rhea, Paul kept them under lock and key. Not that she’s been to his house, mind you, but he described his safe place to her. He brought his books in to show her but he wouldn’t let Rhea, whom he totally trusts, keep them overnight. I doubt he would have lent them to Loewenthal.”
A Sheridan Road bus pulled up next to me; an exiting passenger angrily pounded the hood of my car. “Why don’t you give me the details if you have them. Where did this happen? Did some Beth Israel patient get fed up at the Posner demonstrations and open fire?”
“No, it was in his home. He’s pretty muzzy now with anesthetic, but what he’s said to the cops and to Rhea is that a woman came to the door wanting to talk to him about his father. Foster father.”
I interrupted him. “Don, does he know who shot him? Can he describe her? Is he sure it’s a woman?”
He paused uncomfortably. “As a matter of fact, he—uh, well, he’s a little confused on that point. The anesthetic is making him a little hallucinatory and he says it was someone named Ilse W?lfin. The She-Wolf of the SS. That’s immaterial. What matters is that Dr. Herschel called Rhea and told her they needed to talk, that Paul was dangerously unstable if he believed these papers proved he was Radbuka, and where did he get the idea that Sofie Radbuka was his mother. Of course, Rhea refused to see her. So Dr. Herschel announced she was going to Compassionate Heart of Mary to talk to Paul in person.
“Can you believe it?” His voice went up half an octave in outrage. “Guy is lucky to be alive, just out of surgery. Hell, she’s a surgeon, she should know better. Rhea’s gone over there to stop her, but you’re an old friend, she’ll listen to you. Go stop her, Warshawski.”
“I find this request pretty ironic, Don: I’ve been begging Rhea for a week to use her influence with Paul Hoffman, as I guess his name really is, and she’s been stiffing me as if I were a plague carrier. Why should I help her now?”
“Be your age, Vic. This isn’t a playground. If you don’t want to keep Dr. Herschel from looking like a fool, you should stop her from seriously hurting Paul.”
A cop flashed his spotlight on me. I put the Mustang in gear and turned the corner past a Giordano’s pizza parlor where a bunch of teenagers were smoking and drinking beer. A woman with short-cropped dark hair walked past with a Yorkie, who lunged fiercely at the beer-drinkers. I watched them cross Sheridan Road before I spoke again.
“I’ll meet you at the hospital. What I say to Lotty depends on what she’s doing when we get there. But you’re going to love Ulrich Hoffman’s journals. They really are in code, and if Rhea broke it, she’s wasted on the world of therapy—she ought to be in the CIA.”
XLIII
Bedside Manners
Compassionate Heart of Mary was perched on the fringe of Lincoln Park, where parking spaces are so scarce I’ve seen people get into fistfights over them. For the privilege of sitting in on Lotty and Rhea’s encounter I had to pay the hospital garage fifteen dollars.
I got to the lobby at the same time as Don Strzepek. He was still miffed at me over my parting crack. At the reception desk, they said it was past visiting hours, but when I identified myself as Paul’s sister—just arrived from Kansas City—they told me I could go up to the fifth floor, to the postop ward. Don glared at me, bit back a hot denial, and said he was my husband.
“Very good,” I applauded as we got on the elevator. “She believed it because we’re clearly having a little marital tiff.”