“And how do you expect that to happen?” Zoe said. “Go right in, crack open the computer, and solder the thing on?”
“I’ll tweak the board so any amateur can hook it up, of course,” Max said. “It’ll connect through a USB port. You do know what that is, right?”
“I’m about to smack you upside your noodle, Zit-Face.”
Jan raised his hands, planting himself before pissed-off Zoe. “Easy, easy. How long do you need to convert it or whatever?”
“Twenty minutes,” Max said.
“We’ll wait that long.”
Max rolled over to a workbench, grabbed a little screwdriver, and got down to work.
Jan turned to Zoe. “Can you find a spot to hook up that thing?”
“No problem,” Zoe said, taking another cigarette from her case. “I hooked up my iPod to my computer in forensics and no one’s ever noticed. The machine is back in a corner, under an old table. And my coworkers are pretty much dead themselves. They couldn’t tell a pocket calculator from a DVD player. Even if they found Genius Boy’s little invention, they wouldn’t know what to make of it.”
Jan smiled. Tomorrow evening, at the latest, he would have all the files he needed. But first, he was really going to need some fresh air.
Patrick chewed nervously at his fingernails. His hair hung over his forehead. His dark-blue suit was wrinkled, and his tie hung loose at his neck. The collar of his white shirt was greasy. Under his desk lay a sleeping bag and an old jacket that served as a pillow.
He stood before three monitors connected to various computers. As he clicked through surveillance videos on the screen in the middle, the one to the right showed the autopsy photos of Michael Josseck in all their revolting detail. The man lay on a metal autopsy table with his upper body opened up. His organs had been removed and the concrete from his stomach and esophagus cleared out.
Patrick glanced at the computer on his left. He called it his “alarm detector” because it was the place he’d gathered together all the details that related to Jan. If someone drew money from Jan’s account, called from Jan’s landline, or used Jan’s credit card, it would show up on the screen.
Next to the computers sat a telephone with a number that was known to all police stations in Berlin. Every tip as to Jan’s whereabouts would come straight to it.
Patrick took a sip of his strong coffee. But not even that could make him ignore his lack of sleep. His three hours’ rest under the desk had given him no comfort. He’d started whenever the computer had made a noise. Once he’d even dreamed the phone was ringing. In a panic he’d picked up, but he only heard the dial tone.
Patrick continued looking at the surveillance videos at the main train station. The first feed showed the atrium with its brightly lit glass facades and walkways hovering above the escalators. Around this time, the stream of commuters was waning, although the station had not yet completely settled down. Patrick let his eyes wander, watching anyone who seemed to want their face concealed. Plenty of young people roamed around, the hoods of their jackets pulled over their heads. None resembled Jan.
Patrick switched views to the platforms. On track three, an older couple stood at a vending machine getting drinks. A preteen leaned against an ad board, gesturing wildly while holding his cell to his ear. Next to him, an elderly lady in fur showed clear annoyance with the phone call. Then an ICE train rolled in and spit out a handful of passengers, only to take in a few new ones again.
Patrick shoved the mouse across the desk in frustration and knocked back all his coffee in one gulp.
He opened the word processor and started a new document. Whenever he didn’t know how to proceed on a case, he wrote down whatever thoughts came to him under the header “Brainstorming.”
Surveilling prominent destinations like the main train station would get them nowhere. Jan wasn’t stupid enough to show himself there.
Capture at camera-surveilled targets unlikely, Patrick typed.
It was the third day since Jan had fled. Even with cash he wouldn’t be able to survive for long, unless he was living on the streets. Therefore, that unknown man or woman in the black Mercedes was not only helping him escape, but also providing him with a hideout.
Escaping Berlin? he wrote. That would be Jan’s safest bet. In the country, out in Brandenburg, he could go underground quite easily. But the man had few friends out there.
Unlikely, he added.
He could try all he wanted to put himself in Jan’s shoes, but the only way of apprehending him for sure would be by finding his abettor. Whoever had been driving that Mercedes.
Driver? Patrick typed. The getaway car had still not been found. Its owner was a dead end, as was the location of the cell phone Jan had used to write his final text.
Patrick pounded on the desk. Three days of manhunt and they still had nothing to show for it. His head felt like a balloon filled with syrup. He was getting nowhere this way. He kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his jacket, and crawled under his desk. Inside his sleeping bag he could smell his own sweat, but he had to forget about personal hygiene for now. Only when Jan was in handcuffs could he spend time on himself again.
“I’ll find you,” he murmured, half-asleep. “You’re not going to spoil my plans.”
Light from fluorescent tubes reflected off the dull chrome autopsy tables. The tile floor was freshly scrubbed, the grout still wet. It smelled of chlorine. The room was filled with cabinets where scalpels, saws, and pliers waited for their next assignment, as well as computers and all kinds of other tools used in forensic analysis.
Normally, Zoe was the last one to make it to work. She hated having to get up early. Today, though, she had to be there before anyone. She turned on the computer and waited till the log-in screen appeared. Then she got down on one knee and connected the cable for the little gray case into the USB port. She hid the slim box behind the plug strip. As long as no IT tech was checking out the computer setup, no one would notice a thing.
The nerd had said that she only had to log in to get him into the system. After that, she could log herself out again. He told her something about it making a permanent connection too, but at that point she had already stopped listening. She had just wanted to escape his horrible place and that mixture of stale air, lack of personal hygiene, and pizza smell.
“Good morning,” said a voice behind her.
Zoe started but kept typing like normal. “Morning, Walter,” she replied without turning around. Walter was that classic divorced man in his midforties who imagined himself hotter than he really was. He liked to wear cardigans and sweater vests over his washed-out T-shirts. He combed his hair to the side, to cover up his receding hairline. Oral hygiene had always been an alien concept to him, and his crude jokes were older than the Old Testament. He was always trying to chat her up. Apart from that disheveled preppy look he had going, he had all the charm of a diesel locomotive.
“What are you doing here already?” He was trying to start a conversation.
Zoe closed her eyes and exhaled, remaining calm. She hated conversations like this. She just wanted to do her work and not chat about trivial crap.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. She logged herself out again.
“We’re getting new work in any second now,” Walter said. “Some case from the Wedding District.”
“Huh,” Zoe replied. The info wasn’t worth any more than that.
“Snazzy shoes,” Walter said, winking at her.
She moved away from the computer. Coffee time.
“Snazzy sandals,” she responded with a glance at his feet. “Rivet them yourself?”
Walter’s hateful look was reward enough for her. Maybe it would be a good morning after all.
She just had to get her caffeine level up. Then she’d lose the need to stab Walter’s eye with a scalpel. But since the machine in the next ro
om wasn’t working, she had to head up to the third floor.
On the way up, she ignored the “No Smoking” sign and lit up a cigarette. Maximum Nerd now had all he needed to make himself real happy. Her job here was done.
The sunny day did not match Jan’s mood. He had to find peace somehow, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t been to church for a long time. Yes, he felt a little seedy only seeking out God’s help in times of need. But he didn’t know where else to go. Besides, he felt indebted to Father Anberger.
As he opened the door to St. Sophia Church, he was received by a room bathed in light. Rows of dark pews extended to the altar, divided down the middle by a long red carpet. The green of the walls harmonized with the stucco ornamentation on the ceiling.
On another day, Jan might have taken his time checking out such beauty. Today, though, he just ducked into the last row, bowing his head. He caught the scent of incense mingling with the smell of cleaning agents. He lowered to his knees and folded his hands.
“I haven’t prayed to you for a long time,” he whispered. “Maybe because things were going too well and I didn’t need your help, or because I still do believe that evil will lose out in the end. But the last few days have made me doubt.
“I did not tamper with the gas line, but I do feel guilty for Betty’s death, like I killed her with my own hands. She always seemed so happy and content. Maybe I was only telling myself that—and stayed blind to her problems on purpose, out of wishful thinking. How could I have ever known that she’d want to kill herself?”
Jan cleared his throat.
“I’m not asking for you to forgive me. I’ll have to spend my whole life living with this guilt. But I am asking for leniency for Betty. She was depending on me, and I let her down. A less selfish friend maybe could have saved her.
“I know that suicide is a cardinal sin, but Betty was a good girl who earned her place in paradise. If you are the Lord that Father Anberger always tells me about, then you’ve forgiven her already and she is with you now.”
He wiped at the tears on his face.
“Let her know that I miss her, and that I’m sorry I never told her how much I love her.”
Jan crossed himself and sat back up on the pew. He shut his eyes, grateful for the silence. The weight on his conscience, it seemed a little bit lighter.
When the connecting signal turned green, Max leapt from his chair.
“Direct hit!” he yelled, balling his fists. He mimicked a sequence of punches and kicks that looked exactly like a computer geek imitating a ninja. Then he sat back down on the wobbly office chair and let his fingers fly across the keyboard.
“You are good for something, Hottie,” he muttered. He hadn’t believed that Zoe would pull it off. He’d made the box idiotproof, sure, but with chicks like that, you never knew. She looked like a model, but she clearly had no clue about computers.
Two input fields appeared, labeled “User” and “Password.”
“That all you got?” he roared at the monitor. “I am Maximum. King of Hackers! I’ll take on ten of you amateurs.”
He pressed keys and a program with the name “Maximum Password-Killer” appeared. He clicked the “Let Me In” button and jumped back a step. His chair had clattered to the floor, but Max kept his eyes steady on the long, wide loading bar as it changed from red to green. He paused, motionless. Only his foot tapping nervously on the laminate floor disturbed the total calm.
After a minute, his computer speaker emitted the devilish laugh he’d built in to signify the program’s success. He watched the bar. Before his eyes, the whole thing turned green. Max turned and slid down the hall on his knees, hands above his head like a prize boxer who’d just killed his opponent.
“Yet another win for the hacker—over the system of oppression!” he shouted.
“Shut your face, asshole,” came a voice from the other side of the wall. “Trying to crash.”
Ignoring his neighbor, Max went back to the computer and clicked around the Homicide server. And he found just what he needed.
Jan strolled closer to the location of Michael Josseck’s construction company. While many detectives focused on the perpetrator, Jan wanted to know all about the victim. Every detail, no matter how trivial. If he could find out the motive for murder, the number of possible perpetrators would shrink significantly. The contractor had been dead two days now. And unfortunately, Jan’s colleagues had already wrapped up the questioning of Josseck’s employees, so it would have looked suspicious if Jan had tried to interrogate them. Luckily Max would secure the interview files so he could look them over later.
Today, he wanted to survey the bigger picture around the contractor. Maybe there were neighbors or workmen who knew him, but who hadn’t been questioned. Something like that often got overlooked in the course of the investigation.
The noise of the industrial neighborhood around him drowned out the rush-hour traffic. Thick smoke billowed from the chimney of a factory building. Beyond it he saw an auto-repair shop, a paint facility, a motorcycle store, and a pipe distributor. Some buildings didn’t even have a sign out front on the fence, so Jan didn’t know if they were empty or not. At the end of the road stood Josseck’s construction business, a one-story building with three garages of corrugated metal. Jan suppressed the urge to head inside and ask questions directly. Instead, he turned around and walked back using the path along the other side of the road, past a tire dealer, a fleet of mobile homes, and a small Italian restaurant.
He stood before the restaurant. The Italian joint was the only spot in the industrial zone that offered anything to eat. Since Michael Josseck apparently spent more time at his office than out on job sites, he might have eaten lunch here. His physique did indicate a major passion for food.
Filippo’s Place had a small, plain-looking exterior. Inside, the interior was similar, with brown carpet, cheap wood furniture, and low-hanging lamps that took Jan straight back to the 1970s. Only the wall of souvenirs from Italy broke up the dated decor.
An elderly man was wiping a table. He had graying dark hair and wore a dapper vest over his white shirt. When he saw Jan coming in, he set down his rag.
“The kitchen doesn’t open for fifteen minutes,” he said, smiling, “but if you like, you could wait till then.” He gestured to a little bar overloaded with wine and grappa.
“Thanks, but I’m not here to eat,” Jan said and showed his badge.
The man stiffened up.
“My name is Jan . . . Schmitt. I’m with Berlin Detectives, and I have a few questions about a case. Are you the owner of this restaurant?”
“Filippo Rotolo,” the man said, shaking Jan’s hand. “I’ve owned this restaurant for eleven years. How can I help you?”
“Did you know a Herr Michael Josseck? He owned a construction business here.”
“Naturally I knew him. Is it true he was murdered?”
Jan nodded.
“How terrible. It’s hard to imagine that he’s dead now. I’ll miss his visits.”
“So he was a guest?”
“Regularly.”
“How often?”
“At least three times a week.”
“So what was he like, then?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, was he friendly? Did he give good tips or complain about the food?”
“Herr Josseck was never a problem.”
“Herr Rotolo,” Jan sighed. “I know one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but in a murder investigation we do require the truth, even when it’s none too pleasant.”
Filippo’s face lost the friendly expression. “I hated him from the first moment on,” he said. “He wore suits that sat all wrong, showing off his belly. He reeked of sweat, and whenever I took his order I had to stand on the other side of the table because his breath was insufferable.”
&nb
sp; Jan smiled. He loved this Filippo’s honesty.
“The other thing is, he had no culture for eating. Always demanding ice cubes for his red wine, rarely giving a tip.”
“Why did you let him in your restaurant?”
Filippo shrugged. “A customer is a customer. As long as he doesn’t disturb other guests, his money is good. Me, I’ll run this restaurant for a few years more. Then I’ll buy a little home in Tuscany and leave all this behind. No more working in a drab industrial neighborhood with depressing views. No more guests smelling like torn-down buildings and trash, and no more people like Michael Josseck to cook for.” He sniffed in disgust. “People who can’t tell the difference between plastic wrap and pasta.”
“Do you think he had enemies?”
“Certainly. People like him are the kind who will walk over a cold corpse or sell their own grandmothers.”
“Nasty enough enemies that someone would want to kill him?”
“You know, Herr Schmitt, an industrial zone is basically a village. Everyone knows everyone. At some point, you learn everything. Who’s mixing bad concrete, not repairing cars right, getting around paying taxes. This is a nice thing about my job. To the guests, I’m invisible. No one changes the subject just because I come to the table.”
“So what did people say about Herr Josseck?”
“He was a cheat—used shoddy materials and invoiced the high-end stuff. No one wanted a thing to do with him, but somehow he kept getting new jobs. His business got bigger, and in court he always escaped the noose.”
“Didn’t that seem strange to you?”
“Naturally. But I don’t ask. The less I have to do with such things, the better. You see where that leads.”
“Is there someone in particular who might have had it in for Herr Josseck?”
Filippo thought about it a moment. “No one comes to mind. There were always disagreements, again and again, but if word had made it around that Herr Josseck wasn’t trustworthy, he would have stopped getting clients. Yet he always got more business.”
Until the Debt Is Paid Page 10