Beyond The Window: A Fast Paced Crime Thriller (Private Detective Heinrich Muller Crime Thriller Book 2)
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Beyond the Window
By Robert Brown
© Robert Brown 2018 All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction, any names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are purely from the imagination of the author or used for fictitious and entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to real people living or dead and actual events is purely coincidental.
No parts of this book may be reproduced. Reviewers may quote small passages in the book for reviewing purposes.
Dedication
This is for everybody that reads and contributes to helping writers everywhere have a dream.
✽✽✽
Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.
Lao Tzu
When confronted with two alternatives, life and death, one is to choose death without hesitation.
Yamamoto Tsunetomo
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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CHAPTER ONE
Heinrich Müller had interviewed potential clients in many strange places—under bridges, at heavy metal concerts, even in the living room of a collector of Nazi memorabilia. When one was a private detective, that came with the territory. But of all the hidden corners and odd locations where he had heard clients’ stories and listened to their pleas for help, this one had to be the worst.
Starbucks.
He hated the soulless chain stores ruining his once-vibrant city of New York. Starbucks was right there at the top of his shit list.
Standing in line waiting for his coffee, he couldn’t count the number of square beards, ironically waxed moustaches, cat’s-eye glasses, and heads of dyed hair that surrounded him. The hipsters were an invading army, and this was their command center.
“I’d like a Caramel Brulée Frappuccino,” said someone in line ahead of him.
“I’d like a Toasted White Chocolate Mocha with soy milk.”
“I’d like a Chestnut Praline Latte with extra whipped cream.”
Heinrich shook his head and tried not to hit someone. These weren’t coffees; these were confections.
“Next, please,” said the guy with the nose ring behind the counter.
The twenty-something in front of Heinrich didn’t hear. He was too busy on Facebook.
Heinrich prodded him.
“You’re up, phone zombie.”
The guy turned with what was intended to be a withering stare. The effect was ruined by the fact that he was wearing a tweed vest and a bow tie. In any case, the expression died as soon as he saw the person who had poked him in the small of the back—a man twice his age and ten times his muscle mass. Heinrich boxed three times a week and pumped iron on off days. This guy’s idea of exercise was mashing an avocado.
Mr. Tweed Vest hurried to the counter. “I’d like a Teavana Shaken Peach Citrus White Tea Infusion, please.”
“With a double order of estrogen,” Heinrich added.
The guy behind the counter glanced at him. Mr. Tweed Vest pretended not to hear.
Once he left, Heinrich stepped up. “A black coffee, please.”
“Milk and sugar?” asked the guy with the nose ring. Heinrich remembered that the people who worked there were called “baristas.” A fancy name for a crap job.
“I said a black coffee.”
“Any flavorings?”
Heinrich’s fists clenched.
“Black. Coffee.”
“What size?”
“Small.” He wanted to spend as little as possible in this shithole.
“That’s one tall black coffee,” said Mr. Nose Ring, taking some time to find the unfamiliar buttons on his touchscreen.
“I said small.”
Mr. Nose Ring looked at Heinrich like he had a mental disorder. “Tall is small. It’s our smallest size.”
“Then why do you call it tall?”
Mr. Nose Ring clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes like the teenager he was.
Fucking hell, Heinrich fumed. Where’s Black Lives Matter when you need them? Aren’t they supposed to be picketing this place for flagrant display of white privilege or something?
Once he got his coffee, Heinrich looked around the too-bright, too-crowded, and too-clean interior for his potential client. The guy had said he was with a baby. That made him easy to spot.
Brixton Murphy sat in a corner, sipping some huge pink drink in a plastic cup. Strapped to his chest in a cloth sling was a sleeping baby who looked about a year old. The guy was in his early thirties. He wore Buddy Holly glasses and a black dress shirt and slacks. Like everybody else in this damn place, He was staring at his phone. Like most parents of small children, the guy looked tired.
Heinrich sat opposite him. “Mr. Murphy?” he asked.
“Ah, Mr. Müller, glad you could make it.” They shook hands. Heinrich hoped Brixton’s hand hadn’t been wiping the brat’s nose or anything.
“How can I help?” Best to cut to the chase. Heinrich didn’t want to spend any more time here than necessary.
Brixton’s face assumed a pained look that emphasized the circles under his eyes.
“It’s my wife. Casey left me and took one of our daughters.”
“Kidnapping is a police matter.”
Brixton gave a little shrug. “It’s not really kidnapping, and I don’t want the police involved.”
My clients never do, Heinrich thought. Out loud he said, “I think you need to explain better.”
Brixton shook his head. “Sorry, my mind’s been in a muddle. Everything’s happening so fast.”
“It’s all right. Take your time.”
“Zhe just up and left one day, taking our daughter Arizona with zir. That was a week ago. I found out only yesterday that zhe was in Amsterdam.”
Heinrich blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
Murphy began repeating his statement. Heinrich stopped him.
“Who’s Zhe?” Heinrich asked.
“Oh, that’s Casey’s preferred pronoun.”
“Huh?”
“Casey is gender fluid. Zir preferred pronoun is zhe because zhe doesn’t adhere to any traditional gender definitions. At times zhe feels more like a woman, and at other times more like a man, but always somewhere in between.”
“But she gave birth to your kids. That makes her a woman.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Murphy’s face. “Just because zhe has a uterus doesn’t mean zhe’s a woman.”
Heinrich laughed so hard, people at the other tables glanced over at him.
“If you’re going to be phobic, I can get another detective!” Murphy snapped.
That woke up the baby nestled in his sling. The kid started to cry.
“Aw crap, I’m sorry,” Heinrich said.
/> “Sadly, I’m used to it. But try to be a little more open-minded, OK?” Murphy said, stroking the baby’s head.
Actually, I was apologizing for waking up your kid, Heinrich thought.
“Shhh, it’s OK, Serenity,” Brixton whispered as he pulled out a milk bottle.
Heinrich waited as Murphy comforted the baby and gave her some milk. He suspected it was soy milk, judging from the disgusted look on her face and the fact that she spat up more of it than she swallowed. Poor kid.
Once she had quieted down, Heinrich said, “How about you tell me everything that happened.”
Murphy took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Casey and I had a happy marriage, or at least I thought so. We both make good money. I have a social media startup and zhe’s a professional dominatrix.”
Heinrich suppressed a chuckle. Murphy went on.
“I thought we were happy. Then one day zhe ups and disappears. Zhe took Arizona, our eight-year-old daughter, and moved to Amsterdam.”
“How do you know she’s there?”
“Zhe. Say zhe. One of our mutual friends told me. She also cleared out our bank account. Seventy thousand dollars. Our entire savings.”
“Ouch. Do you think she’s run off with someone?”
Murphy shook his head. “Zhe doesn’t need to. Casey and I have an open marriage.”
“So you give yourselves permission to cheat on each other?” This guy was unbelievable.
“Don’t be so patriarchal. Limiting people to only one partner is what got the world into this mess.”
This is going to be a long case, Heinrich thought. “So, why Amsterdam?”
“Casey has always talked about setting up a dominatrix business in Europe. Zhe wants to live there but I need to be here in the city for my startup. Zhe has Irish citizenship thanks to zir grandparents. They were born in Dublin. That lets zir work anywhere in the European Union. Zhe always said it would be so easy. I never thought zhe’d do something like this, though.”
“Why take only one kid?”
The hipster stroked his child’s blonde hair. “Serenity is still small. Maybe Casey thought she’d slow zir down.”
“But your other daughter, Arizona, she’s only eight. Wouldn’t that cramp a dominatrix’s style?”
Murphy gave a helpless gesture. “I don’t know.”
Heinrich thought for a moment. He didn’t like this guy and his made-up words, and he didn’t feel like getting his freak of a wife back for him. However, a kid was involved. If Mommy was setting up shop in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, who knew what could happen to the girl?
“All right, I’ll take your case. I charge $200 a day plus expenses, with no complaints about how I spend it.”
“Sure. Anything. You busted those Nazis, so you can’t be all bad.”
Heinrich nodded. That case with the neo-Nazis in Poland had made headlines and brought him a lot of business. It had also brought him a few anonymous death threats.
“You sure you can afford this?” Heinrich asked. “I thought your wife cleaned you out.”
“My dad is helping me out.”
Yeah, I bet he’s been doing that all your life.
“All right. I need all the information you got on your wife and daughter—a recent photo, passport number, that sort of thing—plus the contact details for the friend who told you they’re in Amsterdam.”
“All right.”
Heinrich got up to leave. There was only so much Starbucks he could take.
“I’ll be in touch. I’ll get her back for you.”
“Zir. Why can’t you say zir? Zhe’s not a woman.”
Heinrich grinned. “Then why do you call her your wife?”
He walked out of the coffee shop before Murphy could sputter out a response.
CHAPTER TWO
The friend who had told Brixton his wife had fled to Amsterdam turned out to be a fellow dominatrix named “Wanda the Whip,” real name Wanda Smith. She had shared a work space called Dark Night Studios with Casey Murphy. It was an old studio loft that twenty years ago had probably been a punk squat or a shooting gallery for junkies. Now it went for top dollar to hedge fund managers and trustafarians.
Before entering, Heinrich took a turn around the block. The neighborhood had been gentrified with pop-up shops, high-end galleries, a chain tattoo parlor, and juice bars. At least the dominatrix joint was something different from this soulless corporate crap. Weird, but different.
He got to the front door half an hour earlier than he had told her. It was best to surprise witnesses and informants, catch them off guard.
But it was Heinrich who was caught off guard.
As he approached the little alcove, he noticed the door was ever-so-slightly ajar. He hadn’t seen that from across the street when he had passed by a little while earlier. No one left their front door ajar in New York, not even in a yuppie neighborhood like this.
Glancing at the name tags on the buzzers, he saw that Dark Night Studios was on the third floor.
He put a hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, where he kept a compact 9mm automatic. Heinrich used his other hand to ease the door open.
It gave way with barely a sound. In front of him, a steep stairway ascended to the next floor. To his left was a door with a sign that told him it was the entrance to a dentist’s office. Heinrich couldn’t help but smile. Why get tortured by two crazy women upstairs when you could get it done on the ground floor by a professional? Hey, you even got your teeth fixed in the bargain.
He closed the door to the street. If someone really had broken in here, they had left the door open for a speedy getaway. Closing it would delay them by a second or two, and that was a long time when chasing a perp.
Stepping quietly to the stairs, he peered up. Nothing. No sound. Hugging the wall so no one looking down would spot him, Heinrich moved up the stairs two at a time.
On the third floor landing he found two doors, one with no sign, perhaps a private residence, and the other with a small black sign with the words “Dark Night Studios” written in red.
As he expected, this door was closed and locked. If someone was giving Wanda the Whip an unwelcome visit, they would want this door closed for privacy.
He had to work fast. No telling what was going on in there, and that door looked thick. The walls in old warehouses like this were usually concrete. Wanda could be screaming her head off and he wouldn’t be able to hear.
Heinrich pulled a little leather bag from his pocket and opened it to reveal a set of lockpicks. Besides being an amateur boxer, a licensed private detective, and an expert on early jazz and blues, Heinrich was an accomplished locksmith. It came in handy.
The lock proved simple enough to pick. He had it open in less than a minute.
He put away his tools, pulled out his gun, flicked off the safety, and opened the door, hoping it wasn’t bolted.
It wasn’t, but the door banged to a halt after two inches as a chain stopped its progress.
Shit, that made too much noise.
No time for stealth now.
He stepped back and gave the door a good, hard kick.
What most people didn’t realize about chain locks was that they were usually fixed to a little brass plate held onto the doorframe by four small screws. Any decent amount of force would pop the plate right off the frame.
And that was exactly what happened.
The door swung open, hitting the wall of the apartment’s front hall with a crash. Heinrich got a glimpse of erotic photos on the walls and an open door to the right, leading to an empty lounge. He ran for the open doorway that led to the large main room ahead.
Just as he got there, a figure ducked out of sight behind a wide concrete pillar to the left.
Heinrich leaped back into the hallway, expecting a shot.
No shot came.
He dared a glance into the room.
It was a high-ceilinged loft of bare concrete, well-lit with bright fluorescent lights. That surprise
d him. He had expected red candles or something. Perhaps they hadn’t opened for business yet. Four large concrete pillars held up the roof. The figure he’d seen had moved behind the near left one. Screens of black velvet sectioned off various parts of the room, creating what looked like a maze. To the left of the pillar behind which Heinrich’s friend hid was a long stretch of black velvet that reached to the wall. Whoever it was could have moved off anywhere in the three seconds since Heinrich had seen him last.
Him? Yes, the figure had been too bulky to be a woman. Beyond that, Heinrich had scoped out only a black woolen hat, gloves, a red bandanna across the face, and dark clothing.
OK, now what?
“The police have been called and are on their way!” Heinrich shouted.
Silence.
“Wanda, if you can hear me, give some sort of indication.”
A muffled grunt came from somewhere ahead. It sounded like it was from the far end of the room but he couldn’t be sure.
“Whoever is in here, let’s talk. I’m not here for you. I’m a private detective investigating the disappearance of Wanda’s partner. Let’s talk. If Wanda’s OK, I’ll let you go. But I need some information first.”
Another muffled grunt, but the intruder didn’t reply.
“Stay cool, Wanda, I’ll get you out.”
And how are you going to do that? Heinrich asked himself.
From the doorway, he would have to take several steps in the open to get to the pillar and the first screen of black velvet. He would be a sitting duck if that guy with the red bandanna on his face peeked out and decided to shoot him.
Fuck it.
Heinrich charged, his gun aimed at the edge of the pillar as he angled left to get out of the direct line of fire.
Still no shot came. Had Red Bandanna fled?
Heinrich made it to the velvet screen and stopped, immediately tiptoeing a bit to the right in case Red Bandanna had good-enough ears to hear where he had ended up and decided to take a potshot at Heinrich through the fabric.