Jan tapped his pen on his notebook, thinking this over. “Thank you for being so open about this, Herr Rotolo,” he said, shaking the man’s hand again.
“If you’re looking for someone who could have murdered Herr Josseck, you won’t have to dig too far. I do know a nasty human being when I see one, and Michael Josseck was one of the worst kind.”
Chapter 8
Chandu schlepped bags full of groceries up the stairs. He’d actually only wanted to buy a few small things, but on the way to the supermarket Jan had called him and told him he had invited Father Anberger over for lunch on the spur of the moment. The priest wanted to bring the mail by and, as thanks for his unshakable trust, Jan had promised him Chandu’s outstanding isombe.
Like I have nothing better to do, Chandu thought, testy about it. The thing was, his apartment was supposed to have been a hideout. First, that weird chain-smoker came over. Then they visited that high-tech freak with no personal hygiene, so that was one more person in the know about their connection. Now Jan’s neighbor was about to show up. Only thing missing was a high-school reunion hosted at his place. As he opened the door to his apartment, fully loaded down, Chandu wondered if maybe he shouldn’t go buy a cap that said “Doorman” on it.
“You were gone shopping a long time,” Jan said.
“That’s because cassava isn’t exactly widespread in Germany,” Chandu snapped. “Fortunately for us I have this friend from back home who always has some on hand.”
“Want me to help you cook?”
Chandu wrinkled his forehead at him. “How well you know your way around Rwandan cuisine?”
“Not very.”
“Then it’s better I cook and you go gather up those clothes of yours that are spread all over the living room.”
“Okay,” Jan said.
“And your shoes,” Chandu went on. “Then hang your bathrobe back up and clear the beer bottles off the table.”
Jan saluted.
Chandu sighed, put on a pot of water, and unwrapped the cassava. He took two knives from the block and got to work.
The time flew by. Chandu was barely finished when Jan came through the door with the priest.
Father Anberger was exactly how Chandu had imagined a man with such a name might look. Pale, haggard, with a sunken face and an unreadable expression. His gray hair was combed over his balding head. With longer hair and a dark beard, he could pass as the suffering Jesus. Chandu didn’t much like priests or any other agents of the church. Too earnest, too dogged, and not very tolerant of those of other religions.
“This is my friend Chandu,” Jan said. Father Anberger nodded pleasantly enough but couldn’t conceal his mistrust. Chandu smiled as he imagined the man’s thoughts: that big, dark-skinned men with tattoos on their faces probably didn’t come to Mass very often.
Chandu raised a hand. “Just about done. Have a seat.”
The priest didn’t take his eyes off Chandu, as if expecting he might come after him with a machete at any moment.
“Going to be a real pleasant afternoon,” Chandu muttered under his breath. Still, he would try to be patient. Jan needed every friend he could get, and if Chandu’s cooking skills helped the man get his clothes and mail, it was all good with him. He would just keep on cooking and keep his mouth shut.
When they’d finished eating, Father Anberger leaned back and sighed with delight.
“I’ve never eaten anything that exotic. That was outstanding.”
Chandu accepted the compliment with a nod. He might just get to like this starched, stiff priest.
“What kind of dish was that again?”
“Isombe with ubugali,” Chandu explained. “Isombe is a fish dish seasoned with leaves from the cassava root. The gray porridge was the ubugali. The cassava root gets shredded and cooked into it. You have to be real careful cooking it, since cassava is poisonous in its raw state and only becomes edible after heating.”
The priest nodded approvingly.
“You’re still looking quite depressed, Herr Tommen,” he said, turning to Jan. “You know, you should consider yourself lucky to have such a friend.”
Jan got carried away and actually smiled. “Without Chandu here, I would’ve put a bullet in my brain a long time ago.”
“Suicide is no path any man should take,” Father Anberger said solemnly.
“I know,” Jan said, his tone apologetic. “But I’m feeling a lot of doubt. I used to see myself as one of the good guys. Now there’s a lunatic running around out there who doesn’t just think it’s fun to kill, but enjoys taking revenge on me in a most malicious way.”
“Perhaps it’s simply a former criminal, seeking gratification after a prison stay?”
“I keep saying that to myself too,” said Jan. “But what if I put someone in prison wrongfully, or harmed someone in a manner they could not forgive? That would make me to blame for the judge’s death and for Michael Josseck’s.”
“You didn’t kill the men, Herr Tommen.”
“If it were only that simple,” Jan said, despondent. He turned the fork in his hand, deep in thought. “I respect you, Father Anberger, but I doubt you’ve ever loaded so much guilt on yourself that you just about fall apart because of it.”
The priest looked away. “You think that I’m infallible, just because I’m a man of God,” he muttered. “But don’t fool yourself. I have done things that robbed me of sleep, and I asked myself whether I was possessed by some kind of demon. I’m just a human too.”
“So what’s a person do?” Jan asked. “When you know you’re to blame and you know you can’t ever make up for it?”
“A person should never stop believing in atonement. At some point, the Lord shows the path. It may be painful and unbearable, but at the end there waits salvation. I firmly believe in this.”
“And a person should take this path? No matter what happens?”
Father Anberger nodded. “Without hesitation.”
Zoe had refused to ever enter Max’s apartment again, so they met at Chandu’s. The big man fumed at having to host another gathering inside his personal space as he handled the coffeemaker. Zoe smoked her second cigarette while Max hooked up a mini projector to his laptop.
Jan could not hide a grin. Here sat the world’s strangest detective team. He had a bouncer and debt collector with numerous connections to the underworld, a nicotine-addicted medical examiner who looked incredible in stiletto heels and was bored to death with her job, and a childlike hacker who took great delight in cracking the Homicide server, even though the stunt could get him decades in the pen.
Chandu came out of the kitchen with four cups of coffee and took a spot next to Zoe. He saw her lit cigarette and frowned. Zoe returned the look, unperturbed, and blew smoke past his ear.
Max spoke up. “Allow me to introduce—George Holoch.” All eyes turned to the wall, where the hacker was projecting a picture of the judge. Jan recognized the photo as one he’d already seen online.
Max turned to Jan. “Your fellow officers were busy. They went through his verdicts looking for any irregularities. They focused on who benefited and who was aggrieved.”
“That’s logical,” Jan said. “The murder has a personal component. With the judge, the murderer was probably someone he’d convicted who felt they hadn’t been treated fairly.”
“In fact, Judge Holoch was quite controversial. His sentences varied wildly between very mild and exceedingly tough. He never crossed the line into obvious corruption, but even a legal layman like me has to shake his head at some of his decisions.”
“Why?” Jan said.
Max pressed on the mini remote in his hand, replacing the judge’s picture with a photo of a house.
“This is a single-family home in Karlshorst. At first glance everything looks good, but the builder did shoddy work on the foundation. Even befo
re the family was all moved in, the walls had become damp and mold was starting to form. It wasn’t livable after a few weeks. The family went to court and got Judge Holoch. He did rule for the plaintiffs, but he only sentenced the builder to a laughable fine of ten thousand euros.”
Chandu let out a whistle. “Ten thousand euros for a total restoration? You’re better off leaving it there, buying a tent.”
Max nodded. “The family was heavily in debt, had to move out.”
“But is that enough to motivate a murder?”
“I know people who’ve killed for less,” Chandu remarked.
“Maybe in your circles,” Zoe said. “But that homeowner was a family man, not a pimp or a drug dealer. This murderer is a sadistic bastard. It doesn’t make sense.”
“The case is a good example of the judge’s dubious verdicts.”
“In other words, there are more than enough suspects who could have wanted revenge on George Holoch,” Jan said.
“Actually, yes, but now comes the most interesting part.” Max pressed on his remote again. A picture of Michael Josseck appeared. “The guy who botched the single-family home in Karlshorst was one Michael Josseck, our recently murdered builder. So with that in mind, I checked all of Holoch’s verdicts—and found fourteen intersecting with Michael Josseck.”
“Let me guess,” Jan interrupted. “All these verdicts were just as favorable as the one for that family from Karlshorst.”
Max pointed at him. “Bingo.”
“Hmm,” Jan said. “That leaves only two conclusions. Either Holoch and Josseck were in cahoots to make money, or the builder was blackmailing the judge.”
“Your fellow detectives were thinking that too,” Max said. “They checked the judge’s bank-account transactions over the last five years, but they didn’t find any transfers between the two men.”
“Then Josseck was blackmailing the judge,” Chandu remarked. “One favorable verdict might be a coincidence, but fourteen?”
“Where’s the investigation going with it?”
“All your colleagues’ records and e-mails indicate they’re trying to find out more about the connection between the two.”
“That’s it?” Zoe asked. “They’re looking for connections and hoping to stumble on the murderer?”
“It’s a lot of work,” Jan said. “They have to review all fourteen judgments and talk to each person involved. That will take a while. So. Am I still the main suspect in the Holoch case?”
Max nodded. “That’s why it’s progressing so slowly. In the homicide squad’s view, you’re either Holoch’s murderer or at least aware of the motive for the murder. Once they have you? Case is solved. So they’ll keep searching for you.”
Idiots, Jan thought. There was a moment when he’d considered turning himself in. Now it was becoming clear that that would have been a stupid move. He didn’t have anything to do with the crimes. Yet until he was ruled out as a suspect, he’d be taken right into custody the minute they found him. He’d have no chance to clear his name once he was in prison.
Max clicked on his remote. The document of a court decision appeared on the wall.
“What is it?” Jan asked.
“The only case where the verdict against Josseck’s company was somewhat harsh.”
“You just said that all legal decisions against him had been mild,” Zoe commented.
“True. This one too. That’s because the sentence wasn’t actually directed at him, but rather at his construction supervisor, Horst Esel.” The picture of a man popped up. He was midfifties, with a coarse face and hair shaved short. He had a three-day stubble and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
“Horst Esel worked for Josseck for twenty years. As supervisor, he was in charge of countless projects. Among those were some that had defective work. His greed eventually led to his doom.”
Esel’s picture was replaced with a factory building in dismal condition. The windows were broken out. Metal supports were scorched.
“Not too pretty,” Chandu said.
“Esel built this new glass factory using low-grade materials. He only incorporated a fifth of the required metal supports and sold the rest of the steel for cash. Plus, the conduits were installed poorly, which eventually led to a short circuit and a fire. Fortunately, production in the factory hadn’t begun yet, so no one was injured. The damage amounted to two million euros.”
“Then what?” Jan asked.
“Judge Holoch sentenced Esel to one year without parole. He more or less declared Josseck free of guilt, forcing him to pay eight thousand euros in damages.”
“If that’s not a reason to be pissed at someone . . .” Chandu said.
“Now comes the best part,” Max added, grinning. “A week before Judge Holoch was murdered, Horst Esel was released from prison. No one’s seen him since.”
Chandu sipped at his coffee. “In that case, it’s clear what we do now.”
“We have to find this Horst Esel,” Jan said. “He’s our man.” He turned to Max. “They have a manhunt for him?”
“Not an intense one, but all patrols have been informed.”
“We start with his last known address?” Chandu asked.
“That won’t help us,” Jan replied. “My colleagues will already have been there and followed up on any workable leads. They questioned the neighbors for sure.”
“You know another way to get at him?”
“We have to go about it differently. We search out friends who did the crooked jobs with him. I won’t find out much if I show up at some job site waving my cop badge. Half the workers will take off because they’re illegal, and the rest will be reluctant to give answers. In my situation, it’s not like I can go applying a lot of pressure. Did Esel have any known associates?”
“Yes. A man named Manuel Floer. He was given a suspended sentence. He sounds like Esel’s gofer.”
“Can you find out his address?”
“I’ll try.”
“The other thing is,” Jan said, “I’ll need an overview of Josseck’s company’s current job sites. Maybe Esel’s hiding away at one.”
“Will do, but it’s not going to work here with the laptop, not with this lame-ass connection. I’ll go home real quick and call you.”
Max waved at them and left the apartment.
“Some personal hygiene would make meeting with him more pleasant,” Zoe remarked.
“He doesn’t reek any more than your cigarettes,” Chandu said.
“Tobacco smells comforting. No reek. And a man whose kitchen stinks like an otter died in there should be careful what he’s talking about.”
“That’s the scent of tamarind, coriander, and cassava. Why am I not surprised that someone who probably considers fish sticks a culinary delight would have no clue?”
Zoe lowered her cigarette. “Listen here, Mr. T. You might have arms like elephant legs, but that wide nose of yours will break just the same when I go bashing it in.”
Jan groaned. Zoe was back in top form. He dropped down on the couch between the two contenders. “Listen, you two, I got enough problems.” He turned to Zoe. “You, why don’t you head over to Forensics and ask around? Maybe there’s something new that’s not in a report yet. And you,” he said to Chandu, “can go get a car. Max will call soon with a few job-site addresses. We’ll drive to some tomorrow morning.”
A tense silence persisted a moment. Jan just hoped the two of them weren’t about to gang up on him. It was a disturbing thought, to be sitting between a six-foot-six mountain of muscle and a bad-tempered coroner who liked to give her scalpels pet names.
A minute later, Zoe stood up. “Keep me updated, you wussies.” And she left the apartment.
“Such a charming assistant you’ve picked up for yourself there,” Chandu said.
“Don’t be fooled. She’s alw
ays in a nasty mood, but she’s an ace technician.”
“Huh,” Chandu grunted, not too convinced. “If you say so.”
Jan, meanwhile, let out a deep sigh of relief. He finally had a new lead.
Patrick contemplated the photo in his hand. Jan had an arm around a tall, muscular black man and was toasting the photo taker with a beer bottle. A colleague from Vice had identified Jan’s friend as one Chandu Bitangaro, a known bouncer and debt collector. He was assumed responsible for several auto thefts, but no one could ever prove it was he. His record was clean.
Patrick had someone retrieve the man’s address, and he drove over right away to take a look. The apartment house was a washed-out gray darkened by years of exhaust fumes. The plaster was flaking off and the windows were dingy. It was a clearly a crumbling neighborhood with plenty of the usual problems.
The doorbell panel names didn’t get Patrick very far. Names were either wiped out or not there at all. He was about to just try all the bells when a teen boy came running out, his cap pulled down low on his face. He turned away from Patrick, rushing in for the back courtyard.
Patrick held the door open and went in. The stairway smelled musty and was in worse shape than the exterior. According to his records, Chandu lived on the fourth floor. Patrick went up the stairs and came to a stop before a scuffed wooden door. He adjusted his tie and knocked.
A moment later, a dark-skinned woman opened up. Her long hair was knotted in pigtails running down her shoulders. She had an athletic figure and garishly painted red fingernails. She was wearing a white bathrobe and was clearly irritated by the nuisance.
“What?” she barked at Patrick.
He held up his badge. “My name is Patrick Stein, from Berlin Detective Division. Could I please speak to Herr Chandu Bitangaro?”
“Ain’t here.”
“Where would I find him?”
“I’m not his fucking babysitter. No clue.”
Until the Debt Is Paid Page 11