The Storyteller Read online

  This feeling takes me by surprise. I spend my life hunting down people who want to stay lost, but I have had considerably less luck finding someone I'd like to keep around for a while.

  Stuffing the file into my briefcase, I shake these thoughts off. Maybe my mother is right and I do need a massage, or whatever form of relaxation it will take to get me back to separating my work life from my private life.

  All of my best-laid plans, however, go out the window as soon as I arrive at her place and find her waiting for me. She's wearing jean shorts, cutoffs, like Daisy Mae. Her legs are long and tan and muscular, and I can't stop staring at them. "What?" she says, glancing down at her calves. "Did I cut myself shaving?"

  "No. You're perfect. I mean, you look perfect. I mean . . ." I shake my head. "Did you talk to your grandmother this morning?"

  "Yeah." Sage leads me into her home. "She's a little scared, but she's expecting us."

  Last night, before we left, Minka had agreed to look at a photo spread. "I'll make her as comfortable as I can," I promise.

  Sage's house is the visual representation of that favorite sweatshirt you own, the one that you search through your drawer for, because it's so comfortable. The couch is overstuffed, the light creamy and soft. There's always something baking. It is the kind of place you could settle down for a few moments and wake up, years later, because you never left.

  It's completely orthogonal to my apartment in Washington, which is full of black leather and chrome and right angles.

  "I like your place," I blurt out.

  She glances at me oddly. "You were here yesterday."

  "I know. It's just . . . very cozy."

  Sage looks around. "My mother was good at that. At drawing people in." She opens up her mouth and then shuts it again abruptly.

  "You were going to say that you're not," I guess.

  She shrugs. "I'm good at pushing people away."

  "Not all people," I say, and we both know I'm talking about last night.

  Sage hesitates, as if she is about to tell me something, but then turns and walks into the kitchen. "So what color did you decide on?"

  "Color?"

  "For your nail polish." She picks up a mug of tea and hands it to me. I take a sip and realize she's put in milk but no sugar, just the way I took it last night at the cafe. There's something about that--her remembering--that makes me feel like I've taken flight.

  "I was going to go with cherry red, but that's so FBI," I reply. "A little too flashy for us DOJ folks."

  "Wise decision."

  "And you?" I ask. "Did you glean any wisdom from People magazine?"

  "I did what you told me to do," she answers, and suddenly the mood has dropped like a stone in a pond. "I saw Josef."

  "And?"

  "I can't do it. I can't talk to him and pretend I don't know what I know now." Sage shakes her head. "I think he might be upset with me."

  Just then my cell phone rings, and I see my boss's number flashing. "I have to take this," I apologize, and I drift into the living room to answer the call.

  He has a logistical question about a prosecution memo that I edited on a different case. I walk him through some of the changes I made, and why, and by the time I hang up and walk back into the kitchen, I see Sage drinking her coffee, perusing the front page of Reiner Hartmann's SS file.

  "What are you doing?" I ask. "That's classified."

  She looks up, a deer in headlights. "I wanted to see if I could identify him, too."

  I grab the folder. I can't show her Reiner's file; she is a civilian. But I hold up that front page, the one from his SS file that gives his name, address, birth date, blood type, and photo. "Here," I say, offering a quick peek of the image--the parted hair, the pale eyes you can't quite see.

  "He looks nothing like Josef now," Sage murmurs. "I don't know if I could pick him up out of a lineup."

  "Well," I reply, "let's hope your grandmother doesn't agree."

  *

  Once, a historian in my office named Simran brought me a picture of Angelina Jolie. It was on his iPhone, and it was a party scene. There were balloons all over the place and a birthday cake on the table, and in the foreground pouting was Angelina. "Wow," I said. "Where'd you take that?"

  "She's my cousin."

  "Your cousin is Angelina Jolie?" I asked.

  "Nope," Simran said. "But she looks just like her, don't you think?"

  As it turns out, witness identification is frequently total crap. It's often the weakest part of the proof phase of criminal law enforcement. It's why DNA testing is continually overturning the convictions of rapists who were identified positively by their victims. There really are a very limited number of facial variations, and we tend to make errors of judgment. Which is great for Simran's cousin, but less great if you work for the Department of Justice and you're trying to get an eyewitness ID.

  Minka's cane hangs over the edge of the kitchen table, upon which is a glass mug of tea and an empty plate. I'm sitting beside her; Daisy, her caretaker, stands with her arms crossed in the doorway of the kitchen.

  "Voila," Sage announces, and she sets down one perfectly baked roll on the china.

  The roll is knotted on the top. Crystals of sugar dot the surface. I don't have to wait for Minka to break it open to know that inside is cinnamon and chocolate, that this is the roll her father once baked for her.

  "I thought maybe you'd missed these," Sage says.

  Minka gasps. She turns the small roll over in her hands. "You made this? But how . . . ?"

  "I guessed," Sage admits.

  When did she have time to bake this? During the morning, maybe, after she met with Josef? I stare at Sage, watching her face as her grandmother breaks open the pastry and takes the first bite. "It's just like my father used to make," Minka sighs. "Just like I remember . . ."

  "Your memory is what I'm counting on," I say, sensing a perfect segue. "I know this isn't easy, so I really appreciate you making the sacrifice. Are you ready?"

  I wait for Minka to meet my gaze. She nods.

  In front of her, I place a photo spread of eight Nazi war criminals. Genevra has outdone herself, in both speed and precision. The picture of Reiner Hartmann--the same one Sage had been looking at earlier in his SS file--is on the bottom left. There are four photos in the row above it and three more beside it, which depict other men of generally similar appearance, wearing identical Nazi uniforms. This way, I am asking Minka to compare apples to apples. If Reiner's photo was the only picture of a man in uniform, it could be seen as prejudicial.

  Sage, sitting beside her grandmother, looks down at the spread, too. The eight individuals all have the same parted, slick blond hair as Reiner Hartmann, they are all facing the same direction. They look like young movie stars from the 1940s--smooth-shaven and strong-jawed, matinee idols for a macabre documentary. "It's not necessarily the case that anyone in this photo array was at the camp, Minka, but I'd like you to look at the faces and see if anything jumps out at you . . ."

  Minka picks up the paper with unsteady hands. "We did not know them by name."

  "That doesn't matter."

  She passes a finger over each of the eight faces, as if it is a pistol held to the forehead of each man. Is it my imagination, or does it hover over Reiner Hartmann's portrait?

  "It's too hard," Minka says, shaking her head. She pushes away the photo spread. "I do not want to remember anymore."

  "I understand, but--"

  "You do not understand," she interrupts. "You are not just asking me to point to a photograph. You are asking me to poke a hole in a dam, because you are thirsty, even though I will end up drowning in the process."

  "Please," I beg, but Minka buries her face in her hands.

  The anguish on Sage's face is even more profound than it is on Minka's. But that's what love is, isn't it? When it hurts you more to see someone else suffer than it does to take the pain yourself? "We're done," Sage announces. "I'm sorry, Leo, but I can't put her through