bored with them, Feldie. About all I get from him is bullshit. If there’s a story in this, you’ll get it. I promise.”
“All right, Stark. You’re a journalist. Follow up.”
Muttering that she ought to give up on the lazy shit, Alice stalked back to her desk. Matthew drank some more coffee and read the piece on Rachel Stein’s death. She could easily have slipped. He remembered how tiny she was, how wrinkled and old-looking, even if the article said she was only sixty-five. She wasn’t used to snow and ice. So maybe she slipped and maybe she didn’t—did it make any difference? He went back to the beginning and reread the piece.
And there it was. Rachel Stein had emigrated from Amsterdam in 1945, having spent the last months of the war in a Nazi concentration camp. She was a Dutch Jew.
A Dutch Jew.
And the man Ryder was supposed to have met, Hendrik de Geer, was also Dutch.
Stark looked up at the LZ poster, not seeing it. Something else was stirring around in his head, but he couldn’t pin it down. He pulled out the program he’d saved from the concert, just in case Feldie wanted proof he’d attended, just in case he felt like cutting out the picture of Juliana Fall and sticking it on his partition.
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