demanded. As an afterthought he added, “What have you done with my fruitcakes?”
Again, no one replied.
Perhaps the store owner had gone up to the apartment located on the second floor above the main store or maybe he was in the alley taking out the trash. That had to be it.
It was then that Lewandowski felt more than saw a slight, barely perceptible movement to his right. Shifting his gaze, he noted a small boy, perhaps six or seven, in a center aisle, crouching behind a five-foot-high stack of canned goods, arranged to form something resembling a Christmas tree. The child was dressed in a blue coat, black gloves, dark pants, and a fur hat. As their eyes met, the apparently frightened boy darted from behind the display clipping one of the cans with his foot causing the rest to fall forward. The sudden noise in the quiet room seemed deafening. As the displaced cans rolled and bounced in every direction, the spooked youngster yanked open the door and raced out into the cold. Once more, the candy maker was alone.
As the last can rolled to a stop against the front counter, uneasiness entered the store like a late spring fog causing Lewandowski’s anger to dissipate as quickly as it appeared. Now what had been so important just a few minutes before was no longer a concern. Logic had replaced emotion and he felt no reason to stay and find out why his fruitcakes were not in their spot. He could do that tomorrow morning on his way to work. There would be plenty of time then. At this moment, getting Alicija’s sled and taking it home was much more important. Spinning on his heels, he began to retrace his path toward the entry, but managed only two short steps when he spotted the grisly reason his calls to the store owner had gone unanswered.
His body frozen in place by a vision too ghastly to imagine, Lewandowski’s brain slogged along in slow motion trying to understand what he was seeing. As the seconds deliberately ticked by, the candy maker noted a large pool of blood around the store owner’s body. The next thing that registered was the awkward manner in which Lombardi was sprawled on the hardwood floor. Then, as he hesitantly drew nearer, Lewandowski saw the man’s open, but unseeing eyes. Finally, its shiny red handle catching the overhead light, he spied a knife stuck deeply into the shopkeeper’s back. Now he knew why there had been no answer. Lombardi’s voice had been silenced when his heart quit beating.
“Nie,” the Polish immigrant whispered in his native language. As he bent closer to touch the grocer’s cheek, he reverted to English, “My lord, what has happened? Geno, who has done this awful thing to you?” As Lewandowski’s fingertips pushed into the victim’s still warm blood . . . blood now slowly seeping out of the man’s body and onto the floor, as the sticky liquid coated his fingers, the candy maker looked toward the store’s open cash register. As he studied the ornate, nickel-plated machine he thought back to the stranger he’d seen just moments before.
“Did he rob you?” Lewandowski demanded.
When the grocer didn’t reply, Lewandowski pushed up from his crouching position, yanked off his gloves, dropping them on the floor beside the body, and after grabbing the bloody knife handle in his left hand and pulling the seven-inch blade from the dead man’s back, the candy maker strolled behind the store’s main counter and looked into the cash register. With his right hand, he tapped a large stack of money still secure in the drawer. As he did the blood from his fingers transferred to a five-dollar bill.
“Why did they not take the money?” he whispered while making the sign of the cross. “What good was it to kill someone for nothing? Surely death had to have a reason?” He turned back to the dead shopkeeper and demanded as if expecting a reply, “Geno, why did they do this horrible thing to you?”
Lewandowski, too caught up trying to unravel a mystery he couldn’t begin to fathom, failed to note that he was no longer alone. It was only when he heard the bell above the front door ring that the stunned and suddenly terrified man raised the knife over his head and looked up.
Standing in the entry was not the man he’d seen just a few minutes before or the little boy, but one of Chicago’s Finest. The cop’s stern expression and drawn pistol dictated he was more than ready to shoot first and ask questions later. “Drop the knife down to the floor, then hands up, and don’t move,” came the gruff order.
Too dumbfounded to speak, Lewandowski let the bloody blade slide from his hand and to the wooden planks. The thunderstruck and silent candy maker then lifted his blood-soaked hands over his head. As he did, the cop stepped closer, glanced down at the dead store owner and back to the cash register. Shaking his head, the policeman noted, his tone as deadly serious as his countenance, “I didn’t get here in time to stop you from killing him, but at least I kept you from stealing him blind.”
Lewandowski’s jaw dropped and quivered as he whispered, “I did not do this.”
“That’s what they all say,” the cop grumbled. He then studied his suspect for a moment before noting, “I’ve seen you. You’re that candy maker with the crazy son.”
“I am Jan Lewandowski,” he admitted.
“Yeah, the guy who conned Geno into selling the fruitcakes. I guess you and your kid are just as nutty as what you make.”
The candy maker shook his head. “I swear I did not do this. I swear on all that is holy, I could not do such a thing.”
“The blood on your hands and that knife tell a different story,” came the quick reply. “They’ll fry you before the spring thaw, you can make book on it.”
“But I did not do this,” Lewandowski pleaded, tears now streaming down his face. “The child will tell you I did not do this thing.”
“What child?” the cop demanded.
“The little boy who was in the store when I entered. He can tell you that Geno was dead before I got here.”
The policeman shook his head, “Where’s this kid?”
“He ran out into the night,” Lewandowski explained, his eyes looking toward the door. “You must believe me, I did not do this horrible thing.”
“I’m betting a court says different,” the cop snapped. “Now, turn around and drop your hands behind your back.”
Sensing he had no choice, Lewandowski did as he was told. A few seconds later, he felt the cold metal cuffs go around his wrists. Suddenly his thoughts went back to the sled and his Alicija. Why had he gone into the store? Why hadn’t he just kept walking down the street? Then he thought of the big man. That man was not a complete stranger. He knew that face. He’d seen it before. If only he could remember when and where. And where was the child? The little boy could explain everything. As tears filled his dark eyes, Jan Lewandowski’s chin dropped into his chest and he muttered in Polish a prayer learned decades ago in his childhood. It was a plea for a mercy that would remain forever unanswered.
Chapter 2
2
Wednesday, December 18, 1946
9:55 p.m.
For over an hour, Lane Walker had been impatiently sitting on an overstuffed leather couch waiting for a black desk phone on the walnut end table to ring. During that time he’d read the latest issue of Life, worked a crossword puzzle from today’s Herald, and counted and recounted the seven bills—three ones, two fives, a ten, and a twenty—that made up the sum total of the cash in his wallet. Picking up a Montgomery-Ward Christmas catalog, he spent a few minutes considering what might be the best use for those forty-three bucks before tossing the catalog to one side, taking his handkerchief from the pocket of his suit coat and knocking the dust from his black wingtips. As a mantel clock in the mansion’s cavernous living room struck ten, the dark-haired, blue-eyed Walker pulled his lean six-foot frame from the soft cushions and strolled over to a large mirror. Staring into the glass, he studied his reflection.
He was no Robert Taylor, but he wasn’t Edward G. Robinson either. His jaw was strong, his eyes expressive, and his mop of wavy, dark hair showed no signs of turning loose or gray. While his thirty years of living had etched a few crow’s-feet outside his deep-set eyes and along the corners