Part 23 (1/2)

Demers and Isha had then met briefly at Ruth's funeral, and now Demers was sitting in Isha's home, with what she hoped might be a sliver of connective tissue between Ruth's murder and the man who called himself Marcus Baulman.

Isha set the tray down on the table, and carefully placed cork mats on the mahogany before adding the cups and plates. She poured the coffee, and allowed Demers to add her own cream and sugar.

'You will have some babka?' she said, although Demers felt that it was more an order than a question.

'I'd love a piece,' she said, and Isha cut her a slice as thick as her arm, and a smaller portion for herself.

Demers tried it. G.o.d, it was good not that she knew babka from bupkis, but this really was fantastic. It was crumbly and chocolaty, with a hint of familiar essence to it.

'What do you think?' asked Isha.

She had not yet touched her own slice. Her attention was fixed entirely on her visitor. Had Demers expressed dissatisfaction, even just through an absence of enthusiasm, she was certain that Isha would have been unable to eat, and might never have prepared her babka again. But there was no cause for Demers to feign enthusiasm. She thought she might actually weep, the cake was so good.

'It's wonderful. Are those nuts I'm tasting?'

'Are you allergic?'

'No, not at all. I just can't figure out what nut it is.'

Only then did Isha take a bite of her own cake.

'No nuts,' she said.

'Seriously?'

'Mascarpone cheese. Others use cream cheese, but mascarpone is better. It gives the dough that flavor. Before you leave, I must write down the recipe for you.'

Good luck with that, thought Demers. She wasn't a bad cook, but baking was too much like science or alchemy for her liking. It required the kind of precision that she instinctively applied to her work, but when she got home, she preferred to be a little more relaxed in her culinary endeavors.

'How is Amanda doing?' she asked.

Isha finished her own mouthful before answering.

'Good and bad,' she said. 'She has nightmares, and her condition, her syndrome, has worsened again. They say that maybe she should talk to a therapist.'

'It might help.'

'But I am here for her. I will always listen to her.'

'And that's good,' said Demers. 'She needs that stability. But the circ.u.mstances in which her mother died were particularly awful. Amanda saw her mother's body, and her killer, and was a.s.saulted by him in turn. She's still just a child, and if she receives the help that she needs now, it'll ease the burden later.'

'You're right, of course,' said Isha. 'Yes, a therapist. I will tell them.'

She used her fork to cut away another piece of babka. They spoke of the ongoing investigation into her daughter's death. Just as the police had done, Demers asked if Isha could think of any reason why Bruno Perlman might have wished to contact her daughter, but she could not.

At last Isha placed her fork on the plate, leaving the rest of her cake untouched. There was silence as she waited for Demers to explain why she was here.

'Mrs Winter,' she began, 'does the name Reynard Kraus mean anything to you?'

Isha reacted as though she had been stabbed with the point of a blade. She grimaced, and her right hand lifted slightly as though to ward off a second a.s.sault.

'Yes,' she said. 'I know that name.'

'He was at Lubsko, right?'

'He was a killer of children. I saw him take them away, when the Russians were coming. He had a small room at the back of the medical clinic, but I didn't know what he was planning to do with them in there, not then, not until I saw the bodies being carried out. Then we heard the first shots, and my father told me to run, and I ran.'

Demers let a few seconds pa.s.s before proceeding. She had met many former concentration camp prisoners in her time, and survivor guilt was a common trait. She could only begin to imagine the kind of guilt Isha Winter carried from being the only one to have got out of a camp alive.

'I'd like to show you a picture, if I may,' said Demers.

'Certainly.'

Isha wore her gla.s.ses on a chain around her neck. She put them on as Demers reached into her satchel and removed a blue plastic folder. From it she took the photograph of Baulman taken when he was first admitted to the United States. She placed it before Isha, who took it in her hands and examined it closely.

'I don't know this man,' said Isha.

'Please, look at it again. Take your time.'

Isha did as she was asked, but in the end she shook her head.

'No, I don't know him. Who is this?'

'Isn't it ... Reynard Kraus?'

'No, this is not Kraus.'

Demers couldn't believe it. She had been growing increasingly sure about Baulman, even if it was only circ.u.mstantial evidence and the claims of Engel as he tried to wriggle his way off the hook of extradition that pointed toward the possibility that he was Kraus. It took Demers a moment to find her voice, and she couldn't prevent it from betraying her disappointment.

'You're sure, absolutely sure?'

'You think I would not remember his face? No, this man is not Reynard Kraus. Who is he?'

Demers didn't know how to answer. She put the picture of Marcus Baulman on the table, and handed Isha instead Reynard Kraus's party members.h.i.+p photo.

'What about this one?'

Isha puffed out her cheeks. She held up the photo, adjusting it so that the light shone better upon it.

'It could be Kraus,' she said at last. 'Don't you have a better photograph?'

'This is all we have.'

'I I want to say yes. You know, it might be him, but I could not swear to it. Why are you asking me this? Do you think you've found him? Have you found Kraus?'

'I thought we had,' said Demers. 'Please, look again at that first photo. It's possible that Kraus may have had some work done on his face to alter his appearance.'

'I don't need to look at it again,' said Isha. 'The eyes are wrong.'

'The shape of them?'