The Confession

24

Emil, sitting on the edge of Leonek’s desk, looked surprised when we entered together at noon. Leonek did too.

I called the forensics lab to give them Antonin’s address. Emil appeared as I hung up. “You guys together, then?”

“For the moment. Can you see about this Vlaicu guy? He might know something.”

“Already did. He’s having a show.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night, seven o’clock. Have you heard about Malik Woznica?”

I peered up at him.

“He came by yesterday. Looking for us. Seems to think you found his wife and didn’t give her back.”

“What did Moska do?”

“Told Woznica he was mistaken-it was a wrong ID. What else could he say?”

“I better talk to him.”

Emil shook his head. “Don’t. I started to, but he put his hands over his ears and told me to leave his office.”

I called the civil records office over at the Ministry of Justice and spoke to a man with a guttural Polish accent. “This is Militia Inspector Ferenc Kolyeszar. I need some information about a divorce and a marriage.”

“We close at three.”

“It’s one now.”

“Then you’ve got plenty of time to come over.”

“I’d rather not. The name is Kullmann. Antonin Kullmann. He divorced his wife Zoia Lendvai in ’forty-eight.”

There was a long, phlegmy sigh, then a bang as he set the receiver down.

I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder and watched Emil sitting opposite Leonek, where they pored over more interviews, muttering to each other now and then.

“Antonin and Zoia Kullmann,” said the unhappy clerk. “It’s right here.”

“Good. Is there any mention of who Zoia Kullmann married afterward?”

“Of course not. This is a divorce certificate.”

“I want to know who she married. It would have been the same year, or the next.”

“You’re really going to have to do this yourself. I’m busy here.”

“Comrade,” I said. “This is a direct request from Colonel Mikhail Kaminski, from Moscow. I suggest you take care of it.”

Another pause as the threat registered, and he envisioned everything it signified. “Moment.”

Moska came out of his office with a sheet of paper and went over to Brano Sev’s desk. I hadn’t noticed Sev’s arrival. He had the silence of all those in his field, and I wondered if he had heard me use Kaminski’s name. Moska showed him the paper, then they conferred quietly. After a minute or two, he straightened and returned to his office, going out of his way not to look at me.

“Please tell Comrade Colonel Kaminski that there is no record of a Zoia Kullmann or a Zoia Lendvai remarrying in 1948, or any year since then.”

When I hung up, Emil dropped his pages and came over. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You bring Magda to this Vlaicu show, I’ll bring Lena, and beforehand we can all have dinner at our place. That way we won’t look so much like a couple of flatfoots.”

“Flatfoots?”

“It’s American,” he said proudly. “American for cop.”