A group stood outside a closed-up food stand. Kids were racing around the pedestrian zone on their mopeds, and a man in a fur coat was walking his bull terrier. Jan wasn’t interested in any of these people, however. What did get his attention was a figure leaning inconspicuously against a streetlight, playing a game on his phone and keeping an eye on the road. Jan was hoping that no one recognized his car—otherwise the drug dealers would vanish within seconds.
Jan reached another subway entrance not far from a pharmacy. A young man with Rasta dreads was leaning against a “No Parking” sign, puffing away on a self-rolled cigarette. He wore a multicolored knit cap and jeans three sizes too big for him.
Jan rolled down the passenger’s-side window and stopped the car. The young man glanced around to check his surroundings, then approached the window.
“What’ll it be, boss?” The dealer’s gaze indicated he was high as a kite.
Jan pulled his pistol and held the barrel to his face. “Get in or I’ll give you a third nostril.”
The young man’s head cleared in an instant. He raised his left hand and carefully opened the door with his right.
“Dude, hey. What is up with you?”
“It’s Detective Tommen to you, Adrian.”
“This any way to treat an informant?”
“Ever since you fucked me over, I consider you my ex-informant.”
“Still no reason to go spraying lead all over.”
“I’ve got no time for this; I need intel. Give it to me and you’ll never have to see me again. Lie to me, and today is the last day you’ll be in business.”
“What is this, some new cop technique?”
“Go submit your complaint at the station tomorrow. Where is Tim Ratinger?”
“Who?”
Jan cocked and pointed the gun at Adrian’s forehead. “I’m going to repeat the name one more time. Tim Ratinger. Also known as ‘the Rat.’”
“Okay, okay,” Adrian said. “Go try Café Meier on Kurfürstenstrasse, not far from the subway station. Tim chills there a lot.”
Jan lowered the pistol and waved him out of the car. “To your continued success.”
Adrian hadn’t even shut the passenger’s-side door completely when Jan took off. It was almost four miles to Kurfürstenstrasse. A ten-minute drive if he obeyed the traffic rules. He figured he’d only need five.
Zoe came racing up in her Z4 as if trying to win the German Grand Prix. Two kids holding beer cans saved themselves only by leaping aside when she drove up onto the sidewalk.
She climbed out, slammed the door, and rushed over to Jan. “Glad you texted me. Is the Rat still inside?”
“I think so. It’s supposedly his favorite bar,” Jan said. “Since I’ve never seen him, I need you to ID him.”
It was a seedy joint. The plaster was flaking off the walls of the building, the windows were grimy, and the customers loafing around on the sidewalk out front looked as though they’d gotten to know each other in the slammer.
“Classy,” Zoe remarked. “You got a plan?”
“The mad pig.”
“How’s that go?”
“Storm in, grab him, drag him out. Someone has a problem, shout them down, show the badge, and wave the gun around if need be.”
“Sounds reasonable. And what if he’s not in there?”
“Then we bribe the bartender.”
“And if he’s not bribable?”
“I doubt that’ll be a problem. If it is, grab him and drag him out. You know the rest.”
“You ever heard of the word subtle?”
“No. Should I have?”
“I’ll explain it some other time.” Zoe gave him a sly grin. “So let’s head on in.” She pushed a young guy out of the way, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Jan had to admire Zoe. At least a hundred years’ worth of jail time was sitting in this bar. Most had likely been in for assault or manslaughter, but here she was waltzing into the place looking calmer than any cop he knew. She positioned herself at the door, folded her arms, scanned the room.
“So? Do you see him?”
She shook her head.
“Let’s try the bar.”
The bartender was several inches taller than Jan, his bald head covered in tattoos. The big ring in his nose didn’t make him look any more simpatico. He was serenely polishing a beer mug.
Jan placed a twenty-euro bill on the bar. “I’m looking for Tim Ratinger; he goes by ‘the Rat.’”
The bartender looked at the bill and raised his eyebrows in disapproval.
Zoe reached into her pocket and laid a hundred-euro bill next to it. “Now talk!”
The bartender set the mug down on the bar and took the money. He gestured toward the restroom with a slight nod.
“We need a minute,” Zoe said. The bartender nodded and went back to polishing the mug.
When they reached the restroom, the door swung open. Tim came out and stopped in front of Jan and Zoe. All three stared at each other for a second, unsure what to do next. Zoe was the first to react.
Her punch sent him and his glasses flying back into the restroom.
Jan turned to Zoe. “Not your usual hello.”
“We’re old friends.”
Jan stood by the door and waited for the man to pull himself back up.
“What in the hell was that for?” Tim said. He held his nose, picked up his glasses. “I don’t have anything new on Robin Cordes.”
“Robin’s history. I’m more interested in Chandu,” Jan said.
“Ask crazy boxer chick here. She’s the one who hangs out with him.”
Jan ignored the remark. “If I was looking to find out where Chandu lives, who would I ask?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
Jan turned to Zoe. “Want another go?”
Zoe cracked her knuckles. “All righty . . .”
Tim raised his hands and took a step back. “I’m telling you all I know.”
Zoe sighed, disappointed. Tim glanced back and forth at them as if he wasn’t sure who was crazier. “What happened?” he added.
“Let’s just say that Chandu got a visit from someone who wasn’t too nice to him.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Not good.”
“Chandu worked for some tough guys. He was mixed up with dudes who can hold grudges. Some of them might have wanted to get their revenge. It’s a long list.”
“How did they know where to go?”
“Well . . . seeing how it’s such a long list, a person could make some money off knowing Chandu’s hideout.”
“So you sold Chandu’s address to them?” Zoe said.
“No, no one ever even asked me for it. A few years back I trailed him until I found out where he lived. But I never told anyone. It was a waste of time.”
“Anyone else know?”
“Sure. The guys he collected dough for. Those are some real control freaks. They eventually put their own people on it.”
“How much is that worth?”
“Hundred euros. Maybe two hundred.”
“Can you tell us a couple names?”
“Not exactly.” Tim shrugged. “Top of my head, I can think of twenty-odd people who’d sell info like that.”
“What about his former employers?”
“You couldn’t get within ten yards of them before they’d bump you off.”
Zoe reached in her pocket again. She pressed three hundred-euro bills into Tim’s hand. “You’re working for me now.” She showed him a photo of Elias Dietrich. “I want to know who sold this guy here Chandu’s address and where I can find him. And I want to know as fast as possible.”
“How fast?”
“In twenty-four hours. Otherwise, Chandu’s a dead man.”
Tim rubbed at his aching nose. “Listen, I’m not going to lie to you two. I’ll go without my beauty sleep tonight and really get on the case, but one day isn’t much time. I’d have to land a lucky strike, and fast.”
He looked Zoe in the eye. “I’ll give it my best shot, but you two really should have a plan B.”
“What do we do now?” Zoe asked Jan as they left the bar. “I have no desire to put Chandu’s life in the Rat’s hands.”
“I don’t intend to,” Jan said. “They’re releasing Linus from custody first thing tomorrow morning. I’m going to pay the bastard a visit tonight and question him a little more persuasively this time.”
“We are, you mean.”
“Just me,” Jan insisted. “After I question him I’ll be suspended, maybe even arrested. My career is over, and I’ll go down in history as a prime example of the violent cop. Court trial. Media circus. All the beautiful things in life.” He pulled his car keys out. “But it’ll be worth it.”
“I’m coming along anyway.”
“There’s no reason for you to sacrifice yourself.”
“And there’s no point talking about it. We’re losing time. I’m going with you, and there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me.”
Jan turned to Zoe and looked her in the eye. Her usual spite had been replaced with a firm resolve. She had no idea what kind of avalanches they might trigger tonight. But it did feel good to have a partner.
“Well, then, you’re driving. Let’s hit it.”
As Zoe raced through Berlin traffic, oblivious to whatever damage she might cause, Jan pulled his badge from his pocket. He’d dreamed so long of reaching detective—sat through countless night shifts, spent hours studying for the tests in his free time, and improved his shooting skills. Getting called up to Homicide had been one of the proudest moments of his life.
The Detectives Division had demanded a lot of him. Sleepless nights, nightmares, long weekends, and canceled vacations, but he had accepted all of it. He loved what he did.
He was going to pay a high price tonight, but his friend’s life was at stake. The friend who had saved him as he lay dying on the sidewalk. The friend who had risked it all for him.
I had a great run, Jan thought wistfully, running his fingers over his badge. Tomorrow morning it would be over for good, and he’d never get it back.
“I had no idea they had cells here,” Zoe whispered as they made their way down the stairs to the basement of police headquarters.
“These aren’t meant for a long stay; sometimes we just have to keep a suspect locked up here before transferring to Moabit prison.”
“So where’s Linus Keller being held?”
“In the third cell.”
“Keys?”
“The officer watching the cells has them. I’ll tell him Bergman needs to speak to him and that I’ll keep watch meanwhile. Two minutes or so ought to be enough.”
Jan put on a smile and strode down the corridor toward the cells. He had no idea who was on duty down here, but he needed to lure him away from his post one way or another.
The officer sat at a table watching the video monitor of the cells. He turned when he heard Jan’s and Zoe’s footsteps.
It was Fabian Gisker.
“What are you doing down here?” Jan said in surprise. “I thought you were still on leave.”
“I got myself transferred down here for the night. No pay.”
“How come?”
“To save your ass, young ’un.”
Jan’s hands curled into fists. “You’re not going to stop me.”
“Am so.”
Jan pounded on the table. “Linus Keller is a weapons smuggler. Arrested four times for assault. This bastard sold a flash grenade to a sick serial killer. Give me one good reason why he hasn’t earned a good roughing up.”
“Because we’re on the other side,” Bergman said from behind him.
Jan spun around at the sound of his boss’s voice. He hadn’t heard him coming. “Not tonight.”
“We’ll find him,” Fabian said, trying to reassure him. “There’s still time.”
“We’ve been on the case all day, and we’ve got nothing,” Zoe said. “We have no idea what he’s done with Chandu—who knows whether he’s murdered him already? And the only thing standing between us and saving him is one goddamn gunrunner who just laughed in all your faces when you questioned him.”
“Beating a confession out of him won’t get us anywhere,” Fabian said.
“Will so,” Zoe said. “It gets us closer to our friend.”
“You have any idea what the consequences would be?”
“Sure. Saving a life.”
“No. It throws us back to the stone age.”
“What’s so bad about forcing a convicted offender, who abetted a serial killer, to tell us what he knows?” Zoe asked.
“It’s not about Chandu, Elias Dietrich, or even Linus,” Bergman said. “It’s about crossing a line. When is it ever legit to beat up a prisoner? When it’s Linus, maybe. What’s next, though? A drug dealer? And then someone who was caught speeding?”
“Someone who was speeding isn’t holding back intel that could save a life.”
“What if we got it wrong? Say we wrongly accuse an innocent medical examiner and beat a confession out of her?” Bergman stepped closer to Zoe. “How would you like it if a cop came into your cell and broke your fingers for a crime you didn’t commit?”
Zoe coolly returned Bergman’s glare. “The fucker is guilty. No doubt about it.”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“But we’ve got nothing else,” Jan said, desperate now. “We’ve been at it day and night and don’t have a clue where Elias Dietrich is holed up. We don’t even have any idea why he kidnapped Chandu—and in a few hours he’ll be dead. We need a lead.”
“Not at this price.”
“What price, then?” Zoe shouted. “What’s worth more than a friend’s life?”
“You have no idea how things work in Detectives. You dissect your corpses, analyze your clues, and write up a report that might help solve a crime. Or not. I have to play God. I have to weigh what’s moral, what’s a legitimate course of action. I have to make decisions that no one should ever have to make.”
He looked Zoe in the eye. “I’ve let child molesters walk, been spat on by murderers and cursed as a dirty racist. I’ve watched friends die and had to let colleagues go who were doing nothing more than their duty. And while you get to go home and dream of sharpening your scalpels, my memories of these cases stalk me, always. Say Chandu dies. His face will be with me for the rest of my life, always reminding me that I failed. You think I’m a heartless bastard. I have to live with that. My soul might’ve gone to Hell a long time ago, but I will not sacrifice the system.”
“If the welfare of a motherfucker like Linus Keller is more important than Chandu’s life, then the system has been broken for a long time,” Zoe hissed.
“Perhaps. But I still believe in it.”
Zoe turned away from Bergman and spat on the floor. “Take that as my notice,” she said and ran off for the stairs.
Jan pulled out his badge and slammed it on the table. “I’ve been playing this game for twenty-four hours now. And I’ve been playing by your rules,” he added. “If anything happens to my friend, I won’t ever step into this fucking joint again, and I’ll tell every tabloid reporter who’ll listen just why Chandu had to die.”
He followed Zoe out.
“They’re right, you know,” Fabian said to Bergman once Jan was gone.
Bergman stuffed Jan’s badge in his pocket. “I know.”
It was three o’clock in the morning, but the restaurant was still open. The “Trattoria” sign illuminated two open parking spots in a dim yellow light. The green curtains had been pulled shut. Two boxwoods in ochre tubs framed the entrance.
Zoe hesitated. If she entered this restaurant, her life as she knew it would be over. She had built a good life for herself in Berlin, with an interesting job and even a little of what people called a social life. All that would be over as soon as the door closed behind her. She looked at the sign as though expecting to read something other than “Trat
toria.” Maybe “Abandon Hope, All Who Enter Here.”
She wasn’t religious, but she did believe in Hell. For her it was no fiery dungeon beneath the earth, populated by tormenting demons. Hell was a life that you despised and could not escape. A life that you hated waking up to in the morning, one plagued by joyless days, one in which sleep was the only respite. That would soon be her future. She could still flee, just get in her car and drive back to her apartment. But the price for doing that was Chandu’s life.
She reflected on those long evenings with Jan and Max in Chandu’s apartment, his cooking skills and booming laugh that could make the walls quake.
She made her decision and stepped inside.
She was greeted by lilting Italian music. The tables were covered with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths adorned with candles and napkins folded into stars. Two couples and a man who looked to be deeply absorbed in his newspaper occupied the main dining room. Zoe went past the bar and down the hall. A man of Chandu’s stature stood in front of an elaborately carved wooden door. He wasn’t quite so muscular as Chandu, but his chest did strain against his dark jacket. Chandu could win anyone over with his broad grin, but this man’s mug was that of a thug who took pleasure in carrying out his job. When he saw Zoe, he pulled off his sunglasses.
“Wasn’t expecting you here,” he said in his raspy voice.
“Morning, Maurice. Is he here?”
“Where else would he be?”
“No clue. Bordello, jail, in Hell.”
Maurice laughed. “Just like her mom.”
Zoe slapped him hard across the cheek. It made a loud clap. “Never mention my mother again, you filthy bastard.”
Maurice’s eyes smoldered with rage for a moment, reminding Zoe just what sort of violence he was capable of. But his anger subsided, and a smile returned to his face.
“He’ll be glad to see you.” Maurice opened the door and let Zoe in.
The adjoining room looked just like the main dining room—same decor, same tablecloth and candle—but there was only one table in this room. A man sat there digging into a plate of spaghetti. He coiled the noodles with the fork in his right hand while reading a notepad he held in his left. A layer of styling gel ran through his black hair—just enough so that it didn’t look greasy. His tailored suit fit perfectly, and his browned skin gave him that Mediterranean look. With his wealth and his ostensibly fine manners, he could have passed for a successful businessman anywhere. But Zoe knew better.
Grave Intent Page 24