Beyond The Window: A Fast Paced Crime Thriller (Private Detective Heinrich Muller Crime Thriller Book 2)

by Robert Brown

  The upper floor had a series of booths set in a circle and looking in on an interior room. Heinrich got in one as his friends got into others. He closed and latched the door behind him and could barely see with the dim light streaming through the booth’s open top. In front of him was a panel and a coin slot.

  Heart pounding, he stuck in a quarter. The panel slid aside to reveal a small room in the middle of the booths. A woman in pink lingerie lay on her front on a padded mattress. The panel opening caught her by surprise, and for a moment Heinrich saw her as she really felt. Her face was a Gothic ruin of weariness and decay.

  A moment later her features changed entirely. She put on a gap-toothed grin, looked at Heinrich, and licked her lips.

  One by one, his buddies opened their own panels. This woman, who looked older than their mothers but probably wasn’t much older than they themselves were, shimmied and rubbed her thighs. She gave luscious looks to her teenaged admirers.

  “Take it off!” shouted one of his friends through the glass partition.

  She pretended not to hear him, instead continuing her weary routine. His friends began hooting and howling, calling out suggestions for what she should do next.

  Heinrich felt sick. This was all so fake, and the least sexy thing he had ever seen. He was no innocent, no prude. He’d made it with several girls his age. They had wanted it, though. This tired slab of flesh didn’t care one way or another. Heinrich never went back to Times Square.

  He’d made it out of Amsterdam’s Red Light District now, and he felt better. He’d feel even better once he had his scheduled Skype call.

  At the hotel, he fired up Skype and dialed Jan’s number. Jan was a teenaged kid he had met on the Polish case, a Nazi skinhead whose eyes had been opened when he discovered that the local far-right party had murdered his favorite uncle. Now he was in a halfway home for troubled youth, ignored by his useless parents and eager for his twice-weekly calls with Heinrich.

  Heinrich knew a thing or two about useless parents. While he had never gone in for racism, he knew plenty about being a teenaged troublemaker, too.

  So now Heinrich was being what he himself had never gotten at that phase of his life—a voice of sanity, a voice of discipline born not out of ego or jealousy like that of his parents but out of a sense of duty. Jan grabbed onto it like a drowning victim thrown a life preserver.

  The kid’s face lit up as Heinrich turned on his camera.

  “Hey, Heinrich! How you doing?” Jan said in English. The kid had a talent for languages just like Heinrich did.

  “Good, how are you?”

  The kid looked better every time he called. Eating real food instead of junk food, going to school regularly, and keeping well away from the toxic influence the neo-Nazi parties once had on him.

  “Check this out.” Jan put a math test up to the camera. He’d gotten a seven out of ten—twice his previous two marks.

  “Nice one, buddy. You’re finally getting it.”

  “I still have top marks in my English and German classes.”

  “Of course you do, you’re a natural.”

  Jan practically glowed. This kid had been so desperate for approval, he had fallen right into the neo-Nazis’ arms. Now he had approval from the right sources. Hopefully that would stick with him.

  Jan peered behind Heinrich. “You’re not at home. Where are you?”

  “A hotel in Amsterdam. I’m on a case.”

  “Oooh, Amsterdam.” Jan made a motion like smoking a joint. Reforming a street thug took time.

  “Not that. It’s a case.”

  “Are you coming to Poland?”

  Jan’s face looked so eager, Heinrich was taken aback. He felt bad that he hadn’t thought about it before.

  “We’ll see how this case goes.”

  “Great!” Jan pumped his fist in the air. “When do you get here? Can you take me around the city like last time?”

  The director of the halfway house was a friend of a friend, and because Heinrich was the one to get Jan off the streets in the first place, he was allowed visiting rights. It wasn’t like the kid’s parents ever showed up.

  “Well, it depends on the case.”

  “Hold on.” Jan started tapping on the keyboard.

  “Is a girl texting you?” Heinrich ribbed him.

  “I got plenty of girls. You’re the one who can’t get any pussy.”

  One of the monitors walked by behind him. Jan looked over his shoulder and then grinned at Heinrich. It was one of the monitors who didn’t speak English. The kids got demerits for speaking inappropriately, which meant Jan got a lot of demerits. Another reason to learn English.

  “Check your email,” Jan said.

  He opened it up and found that Jan had sent him a link to a vintage record fair in Warsaw, where he lived. Heinrich raised an eyebrow.

  “They say it’s the biggest in Eastern Europe,” Jan told him. “All those boring old records you like. It’s on next week.”

  The hopeful note in the kid’s voice made up Heinrich’s mind.

  “All right, kid. If I get through this case quick enough, I’ll come.”

  Jan cheered.

  “No promises, though,” Heinrich quickly added. “It’s a weird case and I don’t know how long it will take. And you have to stay out of trouble.”

  The warnings rolled right off the kid. The rest of their conversation focused on all Jan’s plans for when Heinrich got to town. He even promised not to act bored at the vintage music fair.

  After they ended the call, jetlag pulled Heinrich into a nap from which he awoke at 10:30 p.m. He looked at his laptop, wishing he could speak to Jan again. Funny how that little punk had become a bastion of sanity in his life. Heinrich splashed cold water on his face to banish his drowsiness and headed out the door.

  “Let’s get this thing done, buddy, and I’ll come see you,” he said under his breath.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Red Light District looked completely different at night. The doorways glowed bright and garish under streetlamps kept deliberately dim. The water of the canals rippled red with their reflections. The crowds had grown thicker, and the women more beautiful, or at least less well-lit. Heinrich made a beeline for Casey’s booth.

  When he got there, he found the curtain closed. He moved a few steps away and waited, trying to figure out how to handle this. He figured the direct approach, telling her of Wanda’s death and how much trouble she—Casey—was getting into, would probably work. Not that he had any illusions that an appeal to logic would get through this idiot’s head, but her friend’s murder would wake her up to danger. In his line of work, Heinrich had found that while most people were pretty dumb, once the survival instinct kicked in, they broke through many of their illusions.

  After a few minutes, the curtain moved back and a thin older man walked out. He passed Heinrich with his eyes down, walking with a slight limp.

  Casey stood in the doorway. Her bright red hair looked unreal in the red strip lighting around her. She wore a corset and fishnet stockings, and held a long bullwhip. Heinrich walked up to the door.

  “Goedenavond,” he said. It meant “good evening” in Dutch. He figured the previous hooker he had met had warned her about him, so it was best to catch her off guard by speaking a different language.

  “Goedenavond,” she replied, badly mispronouncing it. “Do you speak English? I’m new.”

  “Yes, I speak some English,” he said, putting on an excellent imitation of a Dutch accent. Heinrich’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and Germanic features helped with the illusion. “May I come in?”

  “What would you like?”

  To smack some sense into you, tie you up in a sack, and fly you home.

  “A good spanking, I think.”

  Casey smiled. “You’ve come to the right place. It’s fifty euros for twenty minutes.”

  Is that the going rate for everything here?

  “All right.” He handed over the money.

&
nbsp; Casey opened the door. Heinrich stepped through and Casey closed the door behind him, then drew the curtain. Just as he was about to speak, she opened the interior door leading into the bedroom.

  “Get in there, you piece of shit!” she barked.

  Heinrich rounded on her. “Who the fuck do you think … oh right.”

  You’re supposed to be a submissive, dumbass.

  He slumped his shoulders and walked meekly through the door, hoping he hadn’t completely blown his cover. She closed the door behind them. Heinrich saw that the room was furnished almost as it had been during the daytime, although there were more devices than before. Many he couldn’t even name, let alone figure out their use.

  Casey gestured toward a rack of whips and paddles.

  “What’s your poison, dirtball, or would you prefer the bare hand?”

  “Sit down first,” Heinrich said.

  She frowned at him. “I give the orders around here!”

  “Please sit down. Madam.”

  Something in his tone, at once sympathetic and forceful, got her to do as he asked. She studied him.

  “Are you for real?” she asked.

  Heinrich decided to stick with the direct approach.

  “Wanda is dead.”

  Casey froze. Her face turned pale and her eyes fixed on him. She shook her head slightly. “No,” she whispered.

  “Yes. She was strangled by a masked man in her studio, your studio. She had told your husband that you had come here with your daughter Arizona. I’m thinking that’s why she was killed. The killer was a pro, well, a semi-professional anyway. Not the best technique but he did have the cold-bloodedness and that’s all a hired killer really needs when he’s starting out. Were you aware that these were the kinds of people you were getting mixed up with?”

  “Who are you?” Casey demanded, still frozen in place on the edge of the bed. She held her arms stiff at her side, her knees pressed together. The posture gave her an oddly virginal look despite her clothing.

  “My name is Heinrich Müller. I’m a private detective hired by your husband. He says he loves you, forgives you, and begs you to come home. Your other daughter, Serenity, misses you.”

  As he said this, Heinrich studied her reaction closely. The mention of her husband brought only irritation to her features. The forgiveness part actually made Casey angry. Her facade cracked a little at the mention of her other daughter.

  She quickly rallied. Glaring at Heinrich, she said, “So you tracked me down here and posed as a client? You must have been the one who questioned the daytime girl.”

  “You stole money from your husband and Wanda is dead. The police are involved. You either deal with me or deal with them. Either way, you need to get Arizona out of danger right now. Where is she?”

  A tiny movement of her left arm caught his eye. She had been gripping the end of the bed, but as Heinrich had been talking, her hand had moved down slightly so that her fingers could curl under the mattress to the plank holding it up. Her forefinger pressed something.

  Oh, shit. You stupid little girl.

  The door to the hallway burst open and two of the biggest men Heinrich had ever seen squeezed through the threshold. They were Dutch, identical twins, with identical blonde crew cuts, muscle shirts, hard faces, and clenched fists.

  Heinrich didn’t stay surprised for long.

  “People know I’m here and the police—”

  That didn’t slow them down. Heinrich stopped talking as soon as Crew Cut Number One got into range. Heinrich’s right cross stopped him in his tracks, while a jab to the ribs got a grunt out of the guy. Crew Cut Number One countered with a right hook that would have taken off Heinrich’s head if it had been any faster. As it was, Heinrich managed to duck and back away, nearly colliding with the door that led to the annex. A flick of the lock, a turn of the handle, and then the same with the street-side door and he’d be out of there, but that would take a whole three or four seconds he didn’t have.

  Heinrich gut-punched Crew Cut Number One and experienced the satisfaction of getting a proper reaction out of him this time. The guy doubled over but didn’t fall.

  Another slug to the head would have brought him down but Crew Cut Number Two didn’t give Heinrich time. This guy had even less technique than his buddy. He rushed at Heinrich, slamming him into the door and taking the wind out of him.

  Heinrich gave him a one-two that his attacker shook off. Crew Cut Number Two picked him up and slammed him against the door again.

  “Help!” he managed to shout. Heinrich had grown up on the streets, had lived a life toughened by juvenile delinquency, personal disappointment, and brawling, but that didn’t make him too proud to call for help.

  No response came. Just as Crew Cut Number One’s fist slammed into the side of his head, he realized he hadn’t heard a sound from any of the adjoining rooms.

  Soundproofed, you idiot.

  That was the last thought that went through his mind before he went under.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Heinrich awoke to a splitting headache and a whispered conversation in Dutch. Instinctively, he kept his eyes closed, trying to suss out his surroundings while his captors still thought he was unconscious.

  Because he was definitely captured. The ropes on his wrists and ankles securing him to a metal chair were all the proof he needed.

  He tried to clear his aching head and focus on the conversation.

  There hadn’t been much time to learn Dutch, and the conversation came in half-understood fragments.

  Two men were talking, one in a deep voice, the other higher pitched.

  “He said he called the police,” Deep Voice said. Heinrich figured it was one of the twins who had given him a beating.

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re moving now,” High Pitched replied.

  “What do we do with him?”

  “We can use him for ------”

  Heinrich could have groaned in frustration. High Pitched used a string of vocabulary words he hadn’t yet learned. They didn’t sound similar to anything he knew from German.

  Crap. That sounded like the most important part.

  “But people will see,” Deep Voice said.

  See? Oh, great. Are they going to hang my body from a bridge like the Mexican drug cartels do with their victims?

  “We’ll ----- his face.”

  You’ll do what to my face? God, I wish I’d had more time to study this damn language.

  “All right,” Deep Voice said. “But first we need to talk with him.”

  High Pitched didn’t respond. Heinrich heard some movement. Footsteps going to his right. The scrape of metal on stone. Footsteps approaching. A liquid sound.

  A splash of cold water in his face caught Heinrich by surprise. He cried out, jerked back, and opened his eyes.

  He remembered himself and tried to act groggy, like he’d just been woken up.

  Blinking away the water, he saw that he was in what looked like a cellar, tied to a metal folding chair in the middle of a rectangular room about forty feet by twenty feet. The walls were made of dressed stone blocks. Oddly, the ceiling was stone, too. Light came from a single bare bulb in a metal bracket by the foot of some stone steps at the far end of the room. The air felt damp and humid.

  They must have taken me to the edge of town or out into the country, Heinrich thought. No cellars in downtown Amsterdam. The water level is too high.

  Other than that, he had no idea where he was.

  A man stood in front of him, holding a metal bucket from which a few drops of water fell onto the floor. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and was tall and reedy, with angular Dutch features and cold blue eyes. He wore black slacks, dress shoes, and a red button-down shirt. A few steps behind him stood the twins. One had several fresh bruises on his face. Heinrich smiled.

  “At least I can tell the two of you apart now.”

  Either they didn’t speak English or didn’t have a sense of humor, because neither of
them smiled.

  Instead, it was the reedy man who spoke, and he did so in English.

  “Well, Mr. Müller, it appears you have caused us some trouble.”

  Heinrich flexed his thigh muscle. Yeah, his wallet was gone. It had his driver’s license with his home address in it, as well as a bunch of other damning ID, such as his membership card for the Association of Private Investigators. Why had he been stupid enough to bring it with him?

  “Killing me will cause you a lot more trouble. People know where I am,” he said, trying to sound confident. He pulled it off. Almost.

  The reedy man shook his head and smiled.

  “No one knows where you are, Mr. Müller. At most they know that you intended to visit Casey and never came back.”

  “You guys already killed her coworker. If I disappear, along with her and the kid, the cops will track you down. There’s already an investigation into Wanda’s killing. You think you can just walk away after committing a bunch more murders? We aren’t in a movie.”

  His captor laughed at Heinrich’s last statement. “A movie? No, we are not in a movie, but very soon you will be.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Heinrich couldn’t quite keep a quiver out of his voice.

  The man spread his arms. “I’m in the movie business. Casey has been an excellent little model. When her first feature comes out, I’m sure she will be a big star. Now you can be her costar. We will make many, many movies together. I think you will find the sessions rather grueling, but don’t worry about any lack of training on your part. We will take care of everything. All you need to do is method act.”

  Heinrich rarely felt fear. Adrenaline, yes, when he got into fights, but fear was something he thought he had mastered.

  Seeing how this guy looked at him when he talked about making a movie made Heinrich scared.

  Then another thought scared him even more. His wallet had contained the electronic key to his hotel room. They could get into his room, get his computer. If they could figure out how to get past the password protection, they could see all his contact information.