He shuffled into the bathroom and considered himself in the mirror, baring his teeth. No, he decided, he couldn’t possibly do without his nights with his girls, because, apart from all the guilt and regret that surfaced afterward, ultimately they were giving him too much pleasure. So he just had to ensure that he never fully lost control.
A quarter of an hour later, Blum stepped out of the bathroom freshly showered. In the bedroom, he wrinkled his nose at the odor of spunk and sex. Let his cleaning woman deal with it when she changed the bed linen tomorrow morning. He went to the window and yanked it open even before raising the automatic blinds.
It was late, but as a rule, Blum got by on about four hours of sleep a night. He still had time to stream a movie online and eat a little something—maybe a veggie dip and chips—before going to bed. He went downstairs into his roomy kitchen and pulled out crème fraîche, mascarpone, and various vegetables from the fridge. Right when he got everything out on the counter, his front doorbell rang. He looked up from the cutting board, startled. Who the hell was bugging him at a time like this? He glanced out the kitchen window but couldn’t tell who his visitor was. Growing curious, he moved into the foyer and looked through the peephole. He hesitated a moment, but opened the door. His visitor’s friendly looking smile turned to a glare of outright hatred, and Blum knew he’d made a mistake. The man raised a hand. Blum saw the Taser and flung up his arm, but it was too late. His attacker landed the shock right to his neck.
He grabbed the unconscious detective by the shoulders, then pulled him into the foyer and shut the door. The bastard would probably stay unconscious awhile, but to avoid any risk he bound the guy’s hands and feet with cable ties. Then he looked around carefully, taking all the time he needed. He spotted a door leading right into the garage. Perfect, he thought, smiling.
Five minutes later, he had transported his helpless victim onto the passenger seat of his flashy SUV. The final step was pulling a see-through plastic bag over Blum’s head and placing a cord around his neck. Then it was time to wait.
As soon as he woke, Blum fell into a panic. The man doing this to him had ramped up Blum’s fear first before tightening the noose. The detective floundered but had no chance tied up and bagged like he was. He screamed and threw his body against the passenger door. The plastic bag fogged up as he frantically struggled to get more air. Gradually, his convulsions ebbed. The man tightened the cord around Blum’s neck once more, yanking the ends in opposite directions.
Sandra stared at the clock on her DVD player. By now she was starting to fear she’d been wrong trusting Matisek to get the job done. Several hours had passed since she’d left Michaela’s apartment, and she hadn’t heard from him. She needed to know what was going on.
She was starting to wonder if maybe she really should pack her bags and take off for good, but right then her phone rang. She started even though she’d been waiting for the call. When it rang again, she pressed the “Receive Call” button with a shaking finger.
“Hello?”
“Your problem . . . It’s finally solved,” Matisek said.
Suddenly she felt so light and untroubled, like a kid with a day off from school on a sunny day. “I belong to you again,” she said meekly in thanks.
But all she got in response was a dial tone. He’d hung up.
4
Chief Criminal Detective Katharina Rosenberg of the Cologne police took one last look inside the vehicle. With the garage door open, the fluorescent ceiling light stayed on automatically, flickering over the car. While the corpse had been taken away a few minutes ago, the sight of the murdered officer was indelibly etched in Katharina’s mind.
What a way to die, she thought somberly. She left the garage, fishing out the pack of cigarettes in her jacket. The medical examiner, Franzen, came to stand next to her on the neatly cobbled driveway. As Katharina lit up a cigarette, her colleague shook his head in disapproval.
“Why kill yourself like that?”
“How do you mean, Herr Franzen?”
He pointed at her cigarette. “Can I invite you over next time I’m doing an autopsy and have some lungs that’ve been devoured by cancer? An intelligent woman like you, midthirties, you really should know better. Why are you ruining your health?”
Katharina swept aside a strand of the shoulder-length black hair that kept hanging in her face, bugging her.
“You’re quite the athlete too,” Franzen continued. “Didn’t you win the ten-K last year?”
“No,” she shot back. “I was third. Could we now get back to what you’re—”
“Without that bad habit of yours, I’m guessing you definitely would’ve been standing at the top of the winners’ dais. In any case . . .” He cleared his throat, when he saw his line of conversation wasn’t gaining any traction, and his tone turned matter-of-fact. “Death occurred by strangulation. The victim’s head was clearly bloated and discolored blue-red. Facial skin, eye conjunctiva, and oral mucosa were covered with tiny spots of congested blood, typical for this kind of death. After removing the cord, it showed a groove on the neck about a centimeter wide. I also found a localized bruise on the neck, which is characteristic of an electric shock device.”
“Would you rule out the electric shock causing death?”
“Yes, because evidence of strangulation is so pronounced. I’ll provide you with further details after the autopsy. You’ll have the report tomorrow morning.” Franzen turned to leave, and then added as an afterthought, “Oh, and, do give up smoking.”
“I’ll take it under consideration.”
“That was a lie, Frau Rosenberg.”
Katharina chuckled as the medical examiner headed off. Saw right through me, she thought.
Right then, her partner, Frank Weimer, walked up to her. The detective was buff and had thick brown hair, lovely green eyes, and an impeccable oval-shaped face. Yet because he was only five foot six, he didn’t seem to think of himself as very attractive.
“What about those five murdered prostitutes inside four months?” she asked him, revealing thoughts that were buzzing like flies inside her head ever since she’d seen Blum’s body. “They were strangled the same way as Matthias here.”
“That was two years ago,” Frank said. “You really believe that has anything to do with this case?”
“You think it’s a coincidence? I, for one, don’t think so.” Katharina pointed at Matthias Blum’s palatial house. “Have a look around. That homicide case, it was a gold mine for Matthias. He and some journalist go write a book on the murders, and we ridiculed him for it. Then, next thing you know, it’s a bestseller.” She ambled over to the street and dropped her cigarette butt into the storm drain and then turned back to Frank. “Yes, it was a good two years ago. But for him it was still paying off. That’s why I don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”
“The murderer’s sitting in the pen, for life.”
“But what I’m saying is, he made threats in the courtroom—that Matthias would croak one day the same as those prostitutes. He wouldn’t be the first inmate to contract a revenge hit from a prison cell. Plus, we both know the rumors about Matthias remaining tight with those sex-industry types after the investigation had closed. Those threats could well be true, which might explain the crime. I’m going to take a look around inside. Coming with?”
The crime scene investigators hadn’t finished their work, so before Katharina and Frank could enter the house, they had to pull on protective overalls that rustled when they moved around. They first took a look at the ground floor and found no sign of forced entry there. Neither the front door nor the patio door had been broken open. They went into the kitchen, where Frank sat himself down on a designer barstool with white upholstery and a chrome frame. Katharina leaned against the counter, taking stock. The white cabinets seemed sterile to her, an unpleasant reminder of the morgue.
“So it’s
possible he knew the murderer,” Frank concluded, going on the evidence they had.
“That or he didn’t think it was a big deal opening the door for the perpetrator because the person looked harmless to him.”
At the moment Katharina and Frank had nothing left to inspect on the ground floor, so they went up the wooden spiral staircase together.
“Did you know him much personally?” Katharina asked.
“No,” Frank replied. “Way I heard it, he was avoiding contact with his old colleagues the last couple years. Not everyone has good things to say about him at headquarters.”
“I’m guessing there’s some envy going on there. A house like this, we could never afford it on our police salaries.”
Three officers were still in the bedroom. Four art prints hung in the roughly three-hundred-square-foot space, the pieces produced strictly as a limited edition, according to an inscription. Directly across from the wide solid walnut bed stood the latest home entertainment center, with a huge flat-screen TV, hard-drive receiver, and Dolby Surround. The closet could have fit a daybed in it, and the carpeting was thick and luxurious. Blum had set up a little corner office as well, the desk definitely a designer piece, not from some furniture discounter. Bordering either side of the bedroom were a luxury bathroom and a superbly equipped fitness room.
Katharina inspected the bed, where she found white stains on the dark linen, clearly visible.
“Anyone know if Matthias was in a relationship?”
Daniel Schult got their attention from off in the corner. He stood up from the office chair and came over to them holding a smartphone. Katharina found it amusing that Frank, for his part, headed over to the desk at the same time. That way he wouldn’t have to stand next to Daniel, who was at least a head taller.
“I’d worked with Matthias on occasion. He didn’t talk about his private life, at least not in his last year or so.”
Katharina scowled. “Awesome. Now I get to pick apart the private life of one of our colleagues. I hate that.”
Daniel handed her the smartphone. His manicured hands gave the overall impression of a well-groomed man, which she liked. And he smelled so good too, but she quickly reined in her thoughts. Fantasizing about a coworker wasn’t exactly fitting considering the situation.
“This might get us somewhere,” Daniel told them. “There’s an entry made for yesterday evening.”
Katharina, intrigued, looked at the phone’s calendar. It had Blum scheduled to meet “M” at 7:00 p.m. She scrolled back through the past few weeks.
“There are regular appointments in here with an ‘M’ or an ‘S.’ I bet you fifty euros that both of these are assignations with sexual partners. Find out their full names, please?” She handed the phone back to Daniel.
“I found something in his bank statements,” Frank called out.
Katharina went over to him and took one of the statements. She stared in disbelief at the account balance in bold.
“Whoa, his balance comes to more than forty thousand euros,” she exclaimed. “Impressive. You’d think he would have put all his money into this dream house.”
Amazed, she made eye contact with Frank. He could only shrug, just as baffled.
“Could he still be earning that much money from the book?” she asked.
“Apparently he’s landed another source of income.” Frank pointed to the desk, where he had receipts spread out. “Two to three times a month, he deposits money in his bank using an ATM.”
As Katharina checked the receipt dates, a nasty feeling crept up on her. She hoped her intuition was wrong, since she didn’t much feel like rummaging through a fellow cop’s dirty laundry. “Daniel, give me that cell again.”
He stepped over to her and handed her the phone. Her suspicions, to her regret, were proving true.
“Matthias consistently deposited money one to two days after those dates.”
Frank stared at her, eyebrows raised. “There are those rumors,” he said in a low voice. “Supposing he did maintain contact with the sex industry after the prostitute killer got caught.”
“Which could mean, he ended up seeing financial potential there, so he starts his own operation,” she added. “A cop offers girls lucrative advantages as a pimp. He can warn her about any police checks, protect her well on account of his status, and even procure solvent customers for them that way. For such services, they would gladly hand over his share—at those very appointments.”
Frank pointed toward the bed. “And be at his disposal otherwise.”
Katharina had that feeling she got, that she was weighing the right factors. Which left the obvious, glaring question: Had Blum’s spare-time job as a pimp led to his homicide?
She turned to Daniel. “Try and find out if M and S are prostitutes,” she said, and added with a rueful grin, “Well, shit. This investigation is going to be fun.”
5
Katharina turned her apartment key in the lock. Working on a case often distracted her from remembering, but at home the memories became bad-tempered demons lying in wait to make her life hell.
The door clicked open and Katharina stepped into the foyer. Without turning on the overhead light, she leaned against the white wall and pushed the front door shut.
“What a day,” she sighed, exhausted.
She rubbed at her face as if to physically wipe away the fatigue. Reflexively she reminded herself that most people her age were greeted by someone when they came home after a demanding day of work. By their partners, their children, maybe simply a house pet. No one was waiting for her.
It hadn’t always been like this. She could still hear, in her heart, the voice of her daughter yelling “Mommy!” all full of excitement. What she would give to actually be able to hear that again, if only one more time.
To banish the thoughts from her head, she turned on the light and went into the living room. She looked around the sparsely furnished room a moment, ashamed. How cheap it looked here in comparison to Blum’s house. A two-cushion black leather couch with attached ottoman was the sole attention-getter. Before it stood a low glass table. On the wall was a hi-fi cabinet she used to hold the TV and stereo. Apart from that, the space only had a little bistro table with two chairs, over near the window. The walls were as bare as the windowsill. No pictures, photos, or plants. Nothing that might have given her living room a personal note.
Katharina went over to the stereo and turned it on. The preset radio station’s playlist was perfect for drowning out the silence. She sat down briefly on the couch to take off her shoes and socks. At that moment a song came on that reminded her of Julius. She paused to listen. This song was playing on the car radio when he’d brought her home after their first date. How young and full of hope she’d been then! Back then she never would’ve thought it possible that they would one day become a married couple who fought all the time, making such great efforts to hurt one another. Barefoot, she padded into the kitchen—just as impersonal, though conveniently equipped. The laminate flooring was nice and warm, thanks to the under-floor heating. She opened the fridge, though she knew it was nearly empty. She shook her head, frustrated—and sad too. In those good years of their marriage, they had managed to cook together and eat as three almost every night. Nowadays she fed herself mediocre cafeteria food and rarely felt like going shopping, much less creating a meal for herself.
At least some beer bottles were waiting for her on the bottom shelf. She could always administer alcohol—as she so often did lately—in her battle against the torturous memories. Yet she resisted the temptation, for now.
She slammed the fridge door and plodded into the bedroom, looking for any clean workout clothes she had in the closet. She found one workout shirt that wasn’t dirty and had to combine it with tracksuit bottoms fished out of the laundry basket. She’d decided to chase away her irritable mood and lack of drive by going on a r
un. That would fire her up.
He had moved into position twenty minutes ago, thirty yards from her car, fifty-five from the front entrance. His camera lay on the passenger seat, ready for action. He waited it out patiently, hoping to get a look at her.
As the door to the apartment building opened, he was delighted to see he was in luck. She stepped out onto the sidewalk. He shot the first pictures while she warmed up stretching.
Eventually she jogged away and disappeared out of his field of vision at an intersection. He got out and walked toward her vehicle. Once there, he took two photos of the interior. The wrappers and bags piling up on the passenger-side floor surprised him. He strolled back over to his vehicle, wondering if her untidiness had any special meaning. He knew one thing—the new pictures would fit well in his collection.
Katharina reached the nearby park at a comfortable pace. It was already dark out but lampposts stood every fifty yards apart along the vast grounds, giving her enough light. Since the evening air was so nice and fresh, she’d decided to run her big eight-mile loop. She stood still a second, sensing that anticipation she got before a challenging workout. Lately she’d managed the stretch in forty-seven minutes; today she’d try to stay under forty-five. She pressed the button on her watch and ran off. As she did so, she remembered medical examiner Franzen’s warning to her. He was probably right in his assessment that she’d be faster if she quit smoking.
After a few hundred yards she passed a group of joggers going much slower. The more runners she left behind, the more inspired she felt to pick up the pace. As she ran, she thought about a first possible lead in the Blum murder. In her time on the job, she’d managed to get a number of persons convicted for serious offenses. Some of the offenders had verbally threatened her at length once the evidence and witnesses were revealed in court—and with others, she could read the silent hatred in their eyes. Some perps had actually considered themselves as victims of an overzealous police officer; without all her investigating, they never would have ended up behind bars. In Blum’s case, the puzzling factors surrounding his murder meant they would need to pinpoint everyone who might resent the slain detective and put them under the microscope. Her gut told her she couldn’t disregard the prostitute killer, though she couldn’t imagine how he would’ve put his plans for revenge into action.
Mark of Cain Page 2