“Thank you for your time, Herr Arnold. If I have any further questions, I’ll be in touch.”
“Glad to help.”
Jan hung up, leaned back on the bench, and closed his eyes. The leads were scant. Even the traces still to be analyzed weren’t going to bring them any closer to the murderer. Jan would have to rely on his own three investigators. They were meeting again at Chandu’s that night. Before that he had to finish another report, one that Bergman was not going to like.
He was just getting up from the bench when his phone rang a second time. He looked at the screen but couldn’t place the number. He hoped it wasn’t his new friend, Anton.
“Jan Tommen,” he answered.
“It’s David here. Fabian Gisker’s partner.”
“Hello there, David.” It was good to hear from the young man. One corpse was enough. He didn’t even want to think about a cop being murdered. “How’s your head?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“What about that stun you took from the murderer?”
“That wasn’t the murderer.”
“What?” Jan’s weariness vanished.
“You’re going to think I’m nuts. But I didn’t just imagine what I’m about to tell you.”
Jan was the last one to get to Chandu’s, his report having taken more time than he’d expected. He grabbed a beer off the table and sat down on the couch.
“Salami with extra cheese and pepperoni,” Chandu said, handing him a personal pizza box.
“You’re not cooking?”
“No time. I caught up on sleep and then had to take care of some business.”
“This works.” Jan took a slice from the box and sank his teeth into it.
“Find out anything?” Zoe asked with her mouth full. She managed to smoke, drink beer, and eat pizza all at the same time. Luckily her pizza was covered with garlic, which helped offset the cigarette smell.
“The fog is slowly lifting,” Jan replied. “The murderer got to Moritz Quast’s house by coming through the neighbors’ yards. No signs of a break-in were found, so he must have had a key to the back door. Moritz Quast was not into security, kept his windows open, and liked to throw parties, all of which made it easy for the murderer to get a key.”
“No one noticed it missing?” Max asked. He’d moved on from pizza to ice cream.
“The rear entrance is fitted with a standard pin lock,” Chandu said. “The murderer would only have needed an impression to make a duplicate.”
“Talking from experience?” Zoe asked.
“You bet.”
Jan continued: “Our perpetrator entered the home around eleven p.m. Then he woke Moritz Quast, went into the kitchen, flicked on the light. Which, in turn, made our patrol suspicious. Fabian went in the front and got the stun-gun treatment. David, who was supposed to be covering the rear door, heard a thud and ran around to the front entrance.”
“Didn’t that warn him, make him all the more wary?” Max asked.
“It did, actually. But now for the freaky part. Inside? He didn’t encounter the murderer, but rather Moritz Quast. He put David down with the stun gun.”
“The victim himself?” Zoe asked. “Was he crazy, or maybe in cahoots with the killer?”
“I’m guessing the killer forced him to do it. According to David, Quast was near tears.”
“But if Quast knew that he was going to die,” Max said, “why didn’t he defend himself?”
“If someone has a gun in your back, you do anything,” Chandu replied.
“Even attack the very people protecting me?”
“Anything. Believe me.”
“Clever,” Zoe said. “No one’s counting on the victim attacking.”
“That neutralized Quast’s guards,” Jan continued. “The killer tied both up and then had enough time to do the deed.”
“Moritz Quast was beaten to death at the cemetery,” Zoe remarked. “How did he get him out of there?”
“On foot. We found footprints in one of the neighbors’ yards matching Moritz Quast. Then, on a side street, they got in a vehicle and drove to the cemetery. By the time Fabian and David freed themselves? It was too late.”
“Speaking of cemeteries,” Zoe said, pulling out her cell phone. “I want to check in with evidence analysis, get the latest results.”
She dialed a number, switched the phone to speaker, and set it on the table. On the third ring, a woman answered: “Berlin Police, Evidence Analysis, Franziska Niklas.”
“Aloha,” Zoe said. “Dr. Diek here from the medical examiner’s. I need the results on the Moritz Quast case.”
“Other team did that one. Who you want to speak to?”
“Any of them will do,” Zoe grumbled.
“Who exactly?”
“That Robert one.”
“There’s no Robert here.”
Zoe moaned. “That young whippersnapper. Black hair, little tummy going, smells like Clearasil and has never had to shave.”
“Ah, you mean Romir?”
“Like I was saying.”
“Just a sec.”
The phone was set down. A moment later, footsteps could be heard approaching.
“Romir Hannim,” the young man answered.
“Well, finally,” Zoe said. “It’s Dr. Diek from the medical examiner’s. Remember me?”
“Sure. You’re the bossy chain-smoker with the charm of a power saw.”
“How about I come right over there and—”
Jan yanked the phone off the table and turned to the side. He needed those results from the cemetery and didn’t want to go spoiling things with the crime-scene techs. “Hi, Robert, it’s Detective Tommen here from Homicide.”
“Romir.”
“I’m running the investigation on the Valburg and Quast cases. You secure any evidence from the cemetery?”
“We’re still analyzing, but we have most of it.” Romir cleared his throat. “So. The cemetery was the crime scene for this case. The murderer had Moritz Quast kneel down at the grave and killed him with a blow from behind. Quast had pajamas on and was barefoot.”
Jan turned to Zoe. “You confirm the blow to the back of his head was the cause of death?”
“I did,” she replied grumpily. She was leaning back on the couch and blowing streams of smoke up toward the ceiling.
“So was it the same murder weapon used on Bernhard Valburg?”
“Most likely.”
“Most likely?”
“Ninety-nine-percent match.”
“Which is nearly a hundred percent,” Max remarked.
“You don’t say, Maximum Wiseass,” Zoe snapped.
Jan turned back to the phone. “You find any other clues?”
“We found footprints and boot prints. They match the ones from the yard of Simon Illgen, that neighbor of Moritz Quast.”
“And the DNA sample from the blood on that pebble?”
“We compared it to Moritz Quast’s DNA. The match is ninety-nine point nine percent.”
“Which is nearly a hundred percent,” Zoe remarked.
“Thanks for the pro tip,” Romir added over the phone.
Chandu whispered to Zoe, “I think he likes you.”
“Shut it, Mr. T. Why don’t you go make me some coffee.”
Chandu grinned and saluted her, then went into the kitchen.
“Any fingerprints or DNA from the murderer?”
“We combed the area around the grave millimeter by millimeter. The rain didn’t wash anything away this time, but we still found nothing.”
“And the cross?”
“Identical material as Bernhard Valburg’s. Same wood, same nails, same paint. Mass goods, get ’em at any home-improvement store. Can’t be traced back.”
“How could he make that cross without leaving any fingerprints? He wearing gloves?”
“Didn’t have to,” Romir explained. “He nailed the cross together and smeared a thick coat of paint on it. That will cover any fingerpr
int. We also found traces of bleach. The murderer thought of everything.”
Jan sighed. “I guess it would’ve been too easy, finding something.”
“Searching for clues is a dead end,” Romir said. “You’ll have to get the murderer some other way.”
“Okay. Thank you very much.”
“Anytime. If we do find anything else, I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
“Well, that’s my cue,” Max said. He turned the projector on, and a photo of Moritz Quast appeared on the wall.
“To recap,” he said, pointing at the picture with the last slice of pizza. “Moritz Quast worked for a big health insurer and helped doctors fake bills for expensive meds. He got a suspended sentence and became a car salesman.”
Max pressed some keys, and a photo of Bernhard Valburg appeared next to Moritz Quast. “Dr. Valburg was suspected of conspiring to commit insurance fraud but was acquitted of all charges.”
“We know this,” Zoe said. “This undermines our one possible link between the two victims.”
“What if the charges against Dr. Valburg were justified, though?”
“Huh?”
“Did you find evidence?” Jan asked.
“The records don’t tell the whole story,” Max said. “But maybe the cops didn’t find out everything.”
“Not a bad thought,” Chandu said. “Say Dr. Valburg was more clever than his colleagues. He profits just like they do, but he doesn’t get caught.”
“It might connect the two men,” Jan said, “but it’s too weak for me. Which brings me back to my original take. A few thousand euros in damages doesn’t turn you into a double murderer.”
“You had me convinced of that too,” Max interjected. “So I got in touch with an official in CID Three, crime analysis. A Bettina Arns, with Department Thirty-Two, responsible for white-collar crime. She worked the case back then and was happy to give me some details.
“She couldn’t tell me much, but one thing she said really got me listening. Moritz Quast was the puppet master in the whole operation. He actually should’ve landed in prison, but he engaged in a little horse trading and provided the police with evidence on a man they’d been after for quite some time, a man who’d made a tidy sum importing meds not approved in Germany. This deal spared Moritz Quast a prison sentence.”
“So he narked and sold out to save his ass,” Chandu said. “Which would explain the cut-out tongue.”
Max tapped around on his keyboard, and a third picture appeared on the wall, accompanied by the ta-da sound. “Allow me to introduce . . .” He made a sweeping gesture toward the wall. “Robin Cordes. The man Moritz Quast sent to prison. Herr Cordes just happens to have been set free from prison six weeks ago.”
“Well, fuck me,” Zoe said, standing up from the couch.
Chandu came running out of the kitchen as Jan stared at the photo, his eyes widening. The hair, that crooked nose, and the scar above his eyebrows. It all looked familiar.
They had found the man in the police sketch.
Chapter Six
Jan pounded on the door, waited a moment, then pounded again with a flat hand.
“Robin Cordes!” he shouted. “Berlin Police. Open the door.”
Jan preferred to make a dramatic entrance in such situations. Anyone with enough marks against them panicked when the cops hammered on the door. Some tried stupid moves or got violent, but the chances of catching a criminal were still better than with the polite approach. Politeness was generally just a waste of time.
Jan kicked at the door. He unclasped his holster and stood to the side of the doorway.
“All right!” a woman roared back. “I’m coming!”
The lock turned. The door opened, and a young woman stared at him with sleepy eyes. She held her bathrobe closed over her chest; she had only a black slip on underneath.
“Detective Tommen.” Jan showed his badge. “Can I come in?” He pushed the door open and headed for the hallway. “Thanks.”
“Are you crazy? I didn’t say you could—”
“Is Robin here?” Jan bounded down the hallway. To the left was a dimly lit bathroom. Empty.
“I’m filing a complaint,” the woman snapped.
“No problem. My name is Tommen with two m’s.” Jan shoved the next door open. The bedroom had two mattresses and a large wardrobe. Jan lifted the bedcovers and opened the wardrobe. A mess of clothes and shoes, but no one was hiding there.
“Robin’s not here.” She grabbed Jan’s arm.
Jan shook himself free. “Best not interfere with a police investigation. And you should put something on. You’re going down to the station with me. We’ll see how you like the cells there.”
The woman jerked back as if Jan had just hit her. She’d leave him alone now.
“I didn’t do anything . . .”
Jan exited the bedroom, crossed through the hallway, and entered a small kitchen. Barely bigger than a rabbit hutch.
“We’ll see about that.” Intimidation was part of the game.
He followed the hallway down to the end. The living room. A blue couch in front of a large TV. Case of beer on the floor. A cheesy picture of a naked woman on a Harley. But no Robin Cordes.
Jan looked out the window. No balcony. They were on the fifth floor. He whipped around to face the woman.
“Where’s Robin?” He took a step closer.
She shrunk back. “He’s not here.”
“I can see that. I want to know where he is.”
“I don’t know.” She was close to tears.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Robin’s girlfriend.”
“So you have a name?”
“Friederike Roth.”
“You live here?”
“Most of the time. I still have a place over in Wedding. We want to move in together soon.”
“Robin is your boyfriend, you want to move in together, and yet you don’t know where he is?”
She sank to the floor. “He’s gone underground. Ever since that murder.”
“What murder?”
“Of that car salesman.”
“Moritz Quast?”
“Yes. That’s his name.”
“Could you be more specific? Did he pack a bag and book a flight to Australia, what?”
“I came back from my morning shift and he was gone.”
“How could you tell he was gone and not just out for a stroll?”
“Because of his father’s picture.”
“What?”
Friederike pointed at the TV. “His father and mother left him when he was two years old, so he has no family pictures. He has just one single photo of his father, from a park. He framed it, put it on top of the TV, dusted it every day. He even took the stupid thing along with him when we went on vacation.” She shrugged. “No idea what the deal was with him and his old man, but that photo was everything to him.”
“And that’s how you’re sure that he’s bolted?”
“Not bolted. Gone underground,” Friederike corrected him.
“Is there a difference?”
“He likes this apartment. Most of his things are still here. He’ll come back. He packed a duffel bag, stuffed some clothes in, went underground. Even his weird cable box for receiving Bundesliga games is still here.
She wiped at her runny nose.
“Maybe he wanted away from you?”
“If he wasn’t into me anymore he would just throw me out. Robin’s enough of an asshole for that.”
Jan sat down on the couch. “What did Moritz Quast dying have to do with his disappearing?”
“No idea. I didn’t know who Moritz Quast was until today.”
“Did he mention it?”
“He was completely freaking out at breakfast. Kept pacing around the living room like some crazy dude and babbling something about a Moritz. ‘Him too,’ he kept saying. I didn’t know what was wrong. I’ve never seen him so worked up, but I was running late and had to get to work. Wh
en I heard the news about that murdered car salesman, I knew for sure.”
“And then?”
“There was no ‘then.’ When I came back home, he was gone.”
“Did he mention a Dr. Bernhard Valburg?”
“No.”
Jan leaned back on the couch, observing Friederike. She was staring hard at the floor and clutching the bathrobe as if it was the only thing she had left in her whole bleak life. The woman didn’t seem to have anything to do with any of it.
“Put something on, please,” Jan said gently. “We’ll talk more about this later.”
Friederike nodded and shuffled into the bedroom.
Robin Cordes knew both victims. No surprise there. Dr. Valburg’s receptionist had identified him, and Moritz Quast had sent him to prison. Robin was obviously the perfect suspect, but his girlfriend’s story was making Jan doubt it. Either she was a great liar and Robin was the perpetrator, or she was telling the truth—in which case Robin got spooked and headed underground.
One thing seemed clear: if Robin wasn’t the killer, he knew the killer.
“The work hours used to be better,” Zoe grumbled as she stepped out of the car. “I didn’t have to hang around cemeteries in the middle of the night or drive to Berlin at all hours just to question some mouse.”
“Quit your whining, Princess,” Chandu said. “You were the one who wanted to come with me. Plus, his nickname is Rat. Not Mouse. Has to do with his looks—that and his last name is Ratinger.”
“Couldn’t we have done this tomorrow at lunchtime?”
“Nine thirty p.m. is early. Most people in this world have just eaten breakfast.”
Zoe took a look around. “What’s so special about this place? The buildings all look like a thousand others. Shops, a few pubs, no flashy cars on the street. Not even any hookers or drug dealers. It all looks pretty boring.”
“That’s exactly why we’re meeting here. A boring neighborhood with boring residents.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Tim is paranoid. Which is precisely why he’s survived as long as he has. Meeting with me in public is not without its dangers. I associate with people who don’t get along with certain other people. Someone sees us, he’ll be associated with my people, something that could cause problems for his business.”
Grave Intent Page 10