Free Back from the Dead by Peter Leonard

body, but not now. Hess was tired. He went back in the guest room, laid down on the bed and fell asleep.
    In the morning, Hess had two soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast, watched the news on the small TV in the kitchen. One story in particular piqued his interest. A somber female reporter was broadcasting live from a marina. “Last night the U.S. Coast Guard discovered an abandoned yacht half a mile off the Palm Beach coast. The names of the yacht owner and his wife are being withheld by authorities, pending a police investigation.”
    Now the camera pulled back and Hess could see the white fiberglass hull of Brank’s Hatteras behind her. The reporter gave her name and the name of the TV station and signed off.
    At 8:45, Hess drove Lynn Risdon’s car to the SunTrust Bank on Royal Poinciana Way, waited in the parking lot until the doors opened. Dana Kovarek, the assistant manager who had rented Hess the safe deposit box a week earlier, did a double take when Ernst walked into his office and said, “Dana, remember me? Gerd Klaus. I want to open my box.”
    “I remember, but it can’t be. You died. I saw the death certificate.”
    “Do I look dead?”
    Kovarek was nervous, eyes darting around. “Your daughter came with the key, a death certificate and a court order claiming she was your rightful heiress. Don’t you remember, I explained the terms, conditions and procedures associated with having control over your safe deposit box,” Kovarek said, sounding defensive. “We talked about relatives of the deceased and their right to claim the contents of the box.”
    Hess had no recollection of them discussing what would happen if he died.
    Kovarek said, “Your daughter had to open it to get burial information, the deed to your burial plot.”
    “Describe her,” Hess said.
    “Your daughter?” Kovarek rubbed his jaw.
    “She is not my daughter.”
    “An attractive woman with blonde hair, five feet eight, thirty years old. She had the key and the rental agreement.”
    Kovarek had just described Colette Rizik. “Was she alone?”
    “No, sir, there was a dark-haired gentleman with her, six feet tall, fortyish.”
    Harry Levin’s face flashed in his mind. Levin and the journalist. They had found the key to his hotel room, the keys to his briefcase and safe deposit box. They had obviously gone to his room before the police. “So you are telling me the box is empty?”
    “Yes sir, Mr. Klaus, and the contract has been terminated.”
    “Let me see the death certificate.”
    “I don’t have the original. All I have is a copy of a certified copy.”
    Kovarek stood and went to a bank of file cabinets against the wall, opened a drawer and took out a green folder. He came back to the desk and handed Hess a piece of paper. At the top in a heavy font it said: Certified Copy of Record of Death, and in smaller type under that: County of Broward, State of Florida.
    The deceased’s name was Gerd Richter Klaus. Cause of death: heart failure. Birthplace: Stuttgart, Germany. Born: April 1, 1920. Mother’s and father’s names not available. The document was signed by A. Robert Stevenson, Clerk of Palm Beach County Commission, West Palm Beach, Florida, dated October 17, 1971.
    “As you can see, Mr. Klaus, it follows the legal guidelines set forth by the State of Florida. Is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like to lease another safe deposit box, sir?”
    Hess wanted to pull the .38 and shoot the little four-eyed weasel. Instead he smiled and said, “Perhaps another time.”
    Kovarek handed him a business card. “If you have questions about any of our banking services, don’t hesitate to call.”
    Hess could feel the grip of the revolver in his pocket. It took all the willpower he had not to shoot the idiot.
    The safe deposit box had contained his real passport, $10,000 in cash and a locker key. Harry Levin and the journalist would have no idea where the locker was, or how to find it. Hess was thinking about