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“Micheal Kreitz?” Gideon inquired.
The mole’s suspicious eyes darted back and forth over the three of us. I gave him my biggest, warmest smile to offset the expressions of the two harbingers on doom standing next to me.
“Who are you?” Mr. Kreitz asked in English.
“I’m Sebastian Horn, of Horn Investment Bank––” The arched eyebrow I gave him put a smile on his face. “And this is my wife, Vera Sava.” At the mention of that word my whole body turned to stone. Sebastian slapped an arm around me and pulled me tightly against him. Mr. Kreitz’s already small, blue eyes narrowed.
“Sava?”
Everything inside of me lit up at the sound of curiosity in his voice. “Yes, Sava,” I repeated with barely contained enthusiasm. I think you knew my father, Tyrone Sava?”
A slow smile grew on Mr. Kreitz’s face, brightening his features. “How is Tyrone?”
My face fell. “May we come in?”
The security latch came off immediately and the door opened. “Please, please,” he said, ushering us into the small apartment.
Twenty minutes later we were seated in a room that could have served as the setting for a turn of the century movie about a destitute nobleman. All the walls were covered with walnut bookshelves filled with old leather bound books. The fine velvet which covered the winged back chairs was threadbare. Dust covered every square inch of the place.
“He killed himself?” Mr. Kreitz repeated absently.
“I’m afraid so.” When I nervously began picking on a hangnail, Sebastian gently took my hand in his. Large and warm, his comfort spread all the way to my bones.
“Mr. Kreitz, I need to know about the manuscripts I found in my father’s personal items…you published them?”
His eyebrows rose comically high. “Published them? He was my best selling author for close to a decade.”
The news made me breathless, joy and excitement exploding in my chest. And then…my joy lost its shine. A thousand mixed emotions began to surface. Anger, suspicion, disappointment…anger. The look on my face must have said it all because his brow furrowed. “You didn’t know?”
Automatically my eyes darted to Sebastian who was tightlipped and watching me closely. “No…he never said anything about it.”
Mr. Kreitz frowned. “Quite odd.”
“Yes. Quite. And I have no idea why he would keep it from me,” I reluctantly admitted, my frustration palpable.
My eyes narrowed at the sunshine pouring in, highlighting the dust moats dancing in the air. When I was a child I was convinced it was invisible confetti that would only come out to play with the sun. His expression fathomless, Mr. Kreitz’s attention followed the shaft of sunlight out the window.
“Your father was a proud man…and a reluctant author. In ten years he came to see me once. To look me in the eye before he signed his first contract.” That seemed about right. My father believed you could tell everything about a man by looking him in the eye. He also said you could tell everything about a woman by looking into her heart. My thoughts drifted to the handsome man sitting next to me. I wondered what he thought of my heart––what he saw when he looked in it––because he was the only person I had ever revealed it to.
“He never did a single personal appearance, or book signing. I fought him tooth and nail, but he made me put it in the contract,” he said wistfully, a smile on his face as if he were reliving the argument and enjoying it. “It amazed and embarrassed him that readers wanted to meet him.” Mr. Kreitz broke off his reverie and looked me squarely in the eyes. “I think he was embarrassed of this work––too low brow for an esteemed professor. Pity, really, he was gifted…and then, he suddenly stopped.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“Exactly when did he stop?” Sebastian interjected.
His gaze unfocused, Mr. Kreitz pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and said, “2001…no, 2000. Yes, that’s it 2000.” Sebastian’s pointed gaze turned to meet mine. Words redundant. By now we had a language all our own; I knew what he was asking.
“Mr. Whitehurst returned to England that year. I enrolled in university.”
“Mr. Kreitz,” Sebastian started gingerly. “Ballpark…I mean, approximately. What were the royalties for Dr Sava’s books?”
“Let’s see…I published approximately three books a year for him over ten year period…translated into five languages…international sales…” he kept murmuring to himself. Then he met the anticipation on Sebastian’s face. “Approximately?”
“Yes, approximately,” Sebastian repeated with a slow smile.
“A little under two million U.S. dollars.” His small blue eyes darted between Sebastian and me. I’d never seen Sebastian speechless. Never. Mr. Kreitz had accomplished the impossible.
On the plane ride back home, I was a livewire, infused with the energy of a champion. I felt vindicated. Burning with the desire to scream from a mountaintop, dance on the ashes of my father’s accusers. My father had earned the money to pay for my education with what he believed to be a stain on his reputation.
