An Eye for Murder by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

scrolled past the pictures and entered the name “Gottlieb” in the search box. Seconds later over a hundred messages popped up. A prolific family. I skimmed through queries about Heinrich, Emily, and Alfred Gottlieb, but came up blank for Lisle. When I got to the end, I rolled my neck muscles, hunched my shoulders, and started to scroll backward. I was almost back to the top of the page when I saw it.
     
    Looking for any information about Lisle Gottlieb or Lisle Weiss. She lived in Chicago during World War Two .
     
    I brought up the full text.
     
    Looking for any information about Lisle Gottlieb or Lisle Weiss. She lived in Chicago during World War Two. Moved away in forty-five. All replies confidential. [email protected] .
     
    Goosebumps broke out on my arms. [email protected] was Skull’s E-mail address. He had written this post. I read it again. The second sentence was the most revealing. If Lisle Gottlieb or Lisle Weiss lived in Chicago during the war, the odds that she was the woman in the European snapshot were low; the photo I’d seen had been shot around the same time. So who was she? And why was Skull looking for her? Did it have anything to do with the theft of his things?
    I scrolled up to the date of Skull’s post. April 5. Skull died April 12, I recalled. I checked the date of DGL’s reply. It had been sent April 13. The day after Skull died. Skull never saw it. But someone in cyberspace did, and they knew Lisle Gottlieb.

 
     
    Chapter Fifteen
     
     
    Cottony clouds scudded across the sky as I turned into Midwest Mutual’s corporate park. A low-rise complex with several wings sticking out of its core, the building was surrounded by grassy fields dotted with geese. At the side of one field was a man-made pond with small dinghies that employees could use. Several people were paddling around now, making lazy circuits. I parked and headed in the opposite direction.
    I waited in the glassed-in lobby for an escort to my client’s office. Karen Bishop is a working mother like me. Well, not exactly like me; she’s still married, and she’s worked out a deal where she’s off every Friday. I always assumed she spent it catching up on errands until I asked her about it one day, and a sly look came into her eyes.
    “Are you kidding?” she purred. “The kids are in school, and Sam works freelance. I spend Fridays in bed with my husband.” Now that’s a woman with her priorities in order.
    But today wasn’t Friday, and Karen looked hassled. Cradling the phone on her shoulder, she was trying to persuade her client, the managing director of the Cat Teams, that our video was worth the cost. After repeated promises to shave as much off the budget as possible, she slammed down the phone.
    “The jerk!” she fumed. “He claims he didn’t know how much it was going to cost.”
    I sat down.
    “Ellie, I told him from the get-go he was looking at close to thirty grand. I even have the E-mail to prove it.”
    I made sympathetic noises. “Are we still on?”
    “Of course we are. He needs the video for his managers’ meeting. He just wanted to yank my chain.” She shook her head. “You know, if I were a man, this conversation would never have taken place.” She riffled a stack of papers on her desk, as if that would clear the air. “Did you bring the shooting schedule?”
    “I E-mailed it last night again. Along with the script.”
    “I’m sorry. Jared’s baseball team is in the playoffs. I got in late.”
    “No problem.” I rooted around in my bag and fished out a hard copy.
    I had budgeted an out-of-town trip to shoot a catastrophe or the aftermath of one, but after we discussed it, Karen didn’t think it was necessary. “We’ve got plenty of B-roll on file. Hurricanes, forest fires, the Mississippi River floods.”
    “But is it utter devastation and tragedy?” I asked. “Sure.”
    “You have shots of people clinging to each other, grateful to be alive, even though they’ve lost