I took a deep breath, trying to tamp down my annoyance—I needed her help, which would never be forthcoming if I kept her pissed off at me. “Fifty years ago, Mr. Loewenthal looked for a Radbuka family who had lived in Vienna before the war. He didn’t know the family personally: they were acquaintances of Dr. Herschel’s. Mr. Loewenthal undertook to search for any trace of them when he went back to central Europe in 1947 or ’48 to hunt for his own family.”
Mitch gave a short bark and ran to the door. Mary Louise came in, calling out to me about Fepple. I waved to her but kept my attention on the phone.
“When Paul said he was born in Berlin, Mr. Loewenthal said that made it extremely unlikely that Paul was related to the Radbukas he’d looked for all those years back. So Paul instantly offered two alternative possibilities—that he’d been born in Vienna, or even in the Lodz ghetto, where the Viennese Radbukas had been sent in 1941. We all—Mr. Loewenthal, me, and a human-rights advocate named Morrell—thought that if we could see the documents Paul found in his father’s—foster father’s—papers after his death, we could work out whether there was any possibility of a relationship. We also suggested DNA testing. Paul rejected both suggestions with equal vehemence.”
Wiell paused, then said, “Paul says you tried to keep him out of the house, then you brought in a group of children to taunt him by calling him names.”
I tried not to screech into the mouthpiece. “Four little ones came pelting downstairs, caught sight of your patient, and began yelling that he was the big bad wolf. Believe me, every adult within a twenty-foot radius moved rapidly to break that up, but it upset Paul—it would unnerve anyone to have a group of strange kids mock him, but I gather it awoke unpleasant associations in Paul’s mind to his father—foster father. . . . Ms. Wiell, could you persuade Paul to let me or Mr. Loewenthal look at these documents he found in his father’s papers? How else can we trace the connection Paul is making between himself and Mr. Loewenthal?”
“I’ll consider it,” she said majestically, “but after last night’s debacle I don’t trust you to consider the best interests of my patient.”
I made the rudest face I could muster but kept my voice light. “I wouldn’t deliberately do anything that might harm Paul Radbuka. It would be a big help if Mr. Loewenthal could see these documents, since he’s the person with the most knowledge of the history of his friends’ families.” When she hung up, with a tepid response to think about it, I let out a loud raspberry.
Mary Louise looked at me eagerly. “Was that Rhea Wiell? What’s she like in person?”
I blinked, trying to remember back to Friday. “Warm. Intense. Very convinced of her own powers. She was human enough to be excited by Don’s book proposal.”
“Vic!” Mary Louise’s face turned pink. “She is an outstanding therapist. Don’t go attacking her. If she’s a little aggressive in believing her own point of view—well, she’s had to stand up to a lot of public abuse. Besides,” she added shrewdly, “you’re that way yourself. That’s probably why you two rub each other the wrong way.”
I curled my lip. “At least Paul Radbuka shares your view. Says she saved his life. Which makes me wonder what kind of shape he was in before she fixed him: I’ve never been around anyone that frighteningly wobbly.” I gave her a thumbnail sketch of Radbuka’s behavior at Max’s last night, but I didn’t feel like adding Lotty and Carl’s part of the story.
Mary Louise frowned over my report but insisted Rhea would have had a good reason for hypnotizing him. “If he was so depressed that he couldn’t leave his apartment, this at least is a step forward.”
“Stalking Max Loewenthal and claiming to be his cousin is a step forward? Toward what? A bed in a locked ward? Sorry,” I added hastily as Mary Louise huffily turned her back on me. “She clearly has his best interests close at heart. We were all rather daunted by his showing up uninvited at Max’s last night, that’s all.”
“All right.” She hunched a shoulder but turned back to me with a determined smile, changing the subject to ask what I knew about Fepple’s death.
I told her about finding the body. After wasting time lecturing me on breaking into the office, she agreed to call her old superior in the department to find out how the police were treating the case. Her criticism reminded me that I’d stuffed some of Rick Hoffman’s other old files into Fepple’s briefcase, which I’d dumped into the trunk and forgotten. Mary Louise said she supposed she could check up on the beneficiaries, to see whether they’d been properly paid by the company, as long as she didn’t have to answer any questions about where she’d gotten their names.
“Mary Louise, you’re not cut out for this work,” I told her when I’d brought Fepple’s canvas case in from my car. “You’re used to the cops, where people are so nervous over your power to arrest that they answer your questions without you needing any finesse.”