by Nele Neuhaus
“And?”
“We wanted to listen to it now. By the way, we saw Ritter go inside a building on Siesmayerstrasse. A woman named Marleen Kaltensee lives there.” She gave him a quizzical look. “What’s the matter with you, boss?”
Once more, Bodenstein had the feeling that she was able to read his mind.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” he said. “Too many riddles, too many unknown individuals, too many useless leads.”
“That’s how it always is.” Pia sat down on the chair facing him. “We’ve asked a lot of people a lot of questions and that has stirred things up. The case is now developing its own dynamic; we may not have any influence on it at the moment, but it’s working for us. I have a strong feeling that something is going to happen very soon—something that’ll put us back on the right track.”
“You really are an optimist. What if your famous dynamic provides us with another corpse? Nierhoff and the Interior Ministry are putting enormous pressure on me.”
“What do they expect from us?” Pia shook her head. “We aren’t TV detectives. So stop looking so discouraged. Let’s drive to Frankfurt and see Ritter and Elard Kaltensee. We’ll ask them about the missing trunk.”
She stood up and looked at him impatiently. Her energy was infectious. Bodenstein realized how indispensable Pia Kirchhoff had become in the past two years. Together, they made a perfect team. She was the one who occasionally offered bold conjectures and energetically drove things forward. He was the one who did everything by the book and reined her in when she got too emotional.
“Come on, boss,” she said. “Forget the self-doubt. We have to show our new boss what we’re made of!”
Bodenstein couldn’t help smiling.
“Right,” he said, and stood up.
* * *
“—call me back, man!” came the voice of Robert Watkowiak from the loudspeaker. He sounded frantic. “They’re after me. The cops think I bumped somebody off, and my stepmother’s gorillas have been laying in wait for me at Moni’s place. I gotta get out of here for a while. I’ll call you again.”
There was a click. Ostermann rewound the tape.
“When did Watkowiak leave this on the voice mail?” asked Bodenstein, who had recovered from his dejected mood.
“Last Thursday afternoon, at two thirty-five,” said Ostermann. “The call came from a public phone in Kelkheim. A day later, he was dead.”
“… my stepmother’s gorillas have been laying in wait for me at Moni’s place…” Robert Watkowiak’s voice repeated. Ostermann worked the controls and let the message run again.
“All right, that’s enough,” said Bodenstein. “What’s the news on Nowak?”
“Still lying in bed,” replied Ostermann. “This morning from eight until a little after ten, his Oma and Papa were there.”
“Nowak’s father was visiting his son at the hospital?” Pia asked in amazement. “For two hours?”
“Yes.” Ostermann nodded. “That’s what a colleague told me.”
“Okay.” Bodenstein cleared his throat and looked around the table. Nicola Engel was absent today. “We’re going to have another talk with Vera Kaltensee and her son Siegbert. I also want saliva samples from Marcus Nowak, Elard Kaltensee, and Thomas Ritter. We’ll also pay another visit to Ritter today. And I want to talk to Katharina Ehrmann. Frank, find out where we can meet the lady.”
Behnke nodded but made no comment.
“Hasse, get the lab moving on the paint traces from the car that rammed the concrete planter in front of Nowak’s company. Ostermann, I want more information on Thomas Ritter.”
“All that today?” asked Ostermann.
“By this afternoon, if you can.” Bodenstein got up. “We’ll meet here again at five to hear what you’ve found out.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Pia rang Marleen Kaltensee’s doorbell on Siesmayerstrasse, and after she held her ID up to the camera above the intercom, the door buzzed open. A few moments later, she and Bodenstein entered the apartment belonging to a woman in her mid-thirties with an unremarkable, somewhat puffy-looking face with bluish circles under her eyes. Her stocky figure, short legs, and a broad backside made her seem fatter than she actually was.
“I thought you’d be here much sooner,” she began the conversation.
“Why?” asked Pia.
“Well”—Marleen Kaltensee shrugged—“the murders of my grandmother’s friends and Robert…”
“That’s not why we’re here.” Pia let her gaze wander over the tastefully furnished apartment. “Yesterday, we spoke with Dr. Ritter. You do know him, don’t you?”
To her surprise, the woman giggled like a teenager and actually blushed.
“We saw him enter this building. All we want to know from you is what he wanted,” Pia went on, a bit irritated.
“He lives here.” Marleen Kaltensee leaned against the door frame. “We’re married. I’m not Kaltensee anymore, but Ritter.”
Bodenstein and Pia exchanged an amazed glance. It was true that yesterday Ritter had spoken of his wife in connection with the convertible, but he hadn’t mentioned that she was the granddaughter of his former boss.
“We’re newlyweds,” she explained. “I haven’t quite gotten used to my new name. But my family also doesn’t know about our marriage yet. My husband wants to wait until a suitable moment, after all the uproar has died down.”
“You mean the uproar about the murders of your … grandmother’s friends?”
“Yes, exactly. Vera Kaltensee is my Oma.”
“And you are whose daughter?” Pia wanted to know.
“My father is Siegbert Kaltensee.”
At that moment, Pia’s gaze fell on the tight-fitting T-shirt of the young woman, and she deduced correctly.
“Do your parents know that you’re expecting?”
Marleen Ritter first turned red, then beamed with pride. She stuck out her clearly swelling stomach and placed both hands on it. Pia managed a smile in spite of herself. After all these years, she still felt a pang in the presence of a happily pregnant woman.
“No,” said Marleen Ritter. “As I said, my father has a lot on his mind right now.”
Only now did she seem to remember her good manners. “May I offer you something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Bodenstein said politely. “We really wanted to speak with … your husband. Do you know where he is at the moment?”
“I can give you his cell number and the address of the editorial office.”
“That would be very kind.” Pia pulled out her notebook.
“Your husband told us yesterday that your grandmother had let him go because of a disagreement,” said Bodenstein. “After eighteen years.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Marleen Ritter nodded with concern. “I don’t know exactly what happened. Thomas never says a bad word about Oma. I’m quite sure that everything will sort itself out once she hears that we’re married and expecting a baby.”
Pia was astounded at the naïve optimism of this woman. She doubted very much that Vera Kaltensee would ever take in the man whom she had chased from the estate in disgrace just because he had married her granddaughter. On the contrary.
* * *
Elard Kaltensee’s whole body was shaking as he drove his car toward Frankfurt. Could what he had just learned really be true? If so—what did they expect from him? What should he do? He kept having to wipe his sweaty hands on his pants because it was hard to hold on to the wheel. For a moment, he was tempted to ram the car straight into a concrete pillar and simply end it all. But the thought that he might survive as a cripple kept him from doing that. He felt in the center console for the little tin box, then recalled that two days ago, full of euphoria and good intentions, he had tossed it out the window. How could he have assumed that he’d suddenly be able to get along without lorazepam? His mental equilibrium had been shaky for months, but now he felt as if someone had pulled the ground out from under his feet. He didn
’t know what he had hoped to learn in all those years of searching, but it certainly wasn’t this.
“Good God in heaven,” he gasped with alarm as he fought against the conflicting emotions that, without the drug, were raging inside him. Everything was suddenly unbearably clear and painful to see. This was real life, and he didn’t know whether he could or even wanted to confront it. His body and his mind emphatically demanded the relaxing effect of the benzodiazepine. When he had promised himself to give it up, he hadn’t known what he knew now. His whole life, his whole existence, his identity were all a gigantic lie! But why? That was the question that kept hammering painfully in his head. Elard Kaltensee wished in despair that he had the courage to ask the right person about this. But the very thought of doing so filled him with a deep longing to run far away. For now, he could at least act as if he knew nothing.
Suddenly red brake lights went on in front of him, and he stomped so hard on the brake that the antilock braking system of his heavy Mercedes juddered. The driver behind him was honking wildly and veered off onto the shoulder just in time to avoid smashing into the trunk of his car. The fright snapped Elard Kaltensee out of it. No, he couldn’t live like this. Nor did he care if the whole world knew what a pathetic coward was hiding behind the smooth facade of the worldly-wise professor. He still had a prescription in his suitcase. One or two tablets with a couple of glasses of wine would make everything more bearable. After all, he hadn’t committed himself to taking any specific action. The best thing would be to pack a few things, drive straight to the airport, and fly to America. For a few days—no, even better, for a few weeks. Maybe even for good.
* * *
“Editor of a lifestyle magazine,” Pia repeated mockingly in the face of the ugly flat-roofed building in back of a furniture warehouse in the Fechenheim industrial area. She and Bodenstein climbed up the dirty stairs to the top floor, where Thomas Ritter had his office. It was clear that Marleen Ritter had never visited her husband here, because even at the door of what he’d euphemistically called the “editorial office,” she would have had her doubts. Emblazoned on the cheap glass door covered with greasy fingerprints was a trendy multicolored sign that said WEEKEND. The reception area consisted of a desk mostly taken up by a telephone system and a huge old-fashioned computer monitor.
“May I help you?” The receptionist of Weekend looked like she’d once posed for the cover of the magazine. But even her makeup couldn’t hide the fact that it must have been quite a while ago. About thirty years.
“Criminal Police,” said Pia. “Where can we find Thomas Ritter?”
“Last office on the left. Shall I tell him you’re here?”
“Not necessary.” Bodenstein gave the woman a friendly smile. The walls of the corridor were plastered with framed covers of Weekend. The bare facts were presented by various girls who all had one thing in common: cup size at least double D. The last door on the left was closed. Pia knocked and went in. Ritter obviously found it embarrassing to have Bodenstein and Kirchhoff encounter him in this setting. His classic luxury apartment building in the Westend was worlds apart from this cramped, stuffy office with porno photos on the walls. And there were also worlds between the ordinary-looking wife who was expecting his child and the woman standing next to him who had left her bloodred lipstick all over his mouth. Everything about her was stylish and expensive-looking, from her clothes to her jewelry and shoes to her hairdo.
“Call me,” she said, grabbing her purse. She gave Bodenstein and Kirchhoff a brief, disinterested look, then rushed out.
“Your boss?” Pia asked. Ritter leaned his elbows on the desk and ran all ten fingers through his hair. He seemed exhausted and years older, matching the dreary appearance of his surroundings.
“No. What do you want now? And how did you know that I was here?” He reached for his cigarettes and lit one.
“Your wife was kind enough to give us the address of the editorial office.” Ritter didn’t react to Pia’s sarcasm.
“You’ve got lipstick on your face,” she added. “If your wife ever sees you like that, she might draw the wrong conclusions.”
Ritter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He hesitated a moment with his reply, but then he made a resigned gesture.
“She’s an acquaintance,” he said. “I still owe her money.”
“Does your wife know about her?” Pia asked.
Ritter stared at her, almost defiant. “No. And she never will.” He took a drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out through his nose. “I’ve got a lot to do. What do you want? I’ve already told you everything.”
“Quite the contrary,” replied Pia. “You’ve kept most of it secret from us.”
Bodenstein kept silent in the background. Ritter’s eyes shifted back and forth between him and Pia. Yesterday, he’d made the mistake of underestimating her. That wasn’t going to happen today.
“Oh, really?” He was trying to act nonchalant, but the nervous flickering in his eyes betrayed his true state of mind. “Like what, for instance?”
“Why were you at Mr. Goldberg’s house on the evening of April twenty-six, one day before he was murdered?” Pia asked. “What did you discuss with Robert Watkowiak in the ice-cream parlor? And why did Vera Kaltensee really fire you?”
With an abrupt movement, Ritter stubbed out his cigarette. The cell phone lying next to his computer keyboard warbled the first chords of Beethoven’s Ninth, but he didn’t even glance at the display.
“What’s this all about?” he said suddenly. “I visited Goldberg, Schneider, and old lady Frings because I wanted to talk to them. Two years ago, I came up with the idea of writing a biography of Vera. At first, she was very enthusiastic and dictated to me for hours what she wanted to read about herself. After a couple of chapters, I realized that it was boring as hell. Twenty sentences about her past, that was it. What people really wanted to read about was her past, her aristocratic background, the dramatic flight with a small child, the loss of her family and the castle—not about business deals and charity crap.”
The cell phone rang again with a single beep.
“But she wouldn’t hear of it. Either I wrote the story as she wanted it or not at all. Unwilling to compromise, as always, the old vulture.” Ritter snorted with contempt. “I tried to convince her, suggested making a novel out of her life story. All the failures, victories, high points, and setbacks in the life of a woman who had personally experienced the events of world history. We ended up arguing about it. She forbade me categorically to do any research, she forbade me to write, and she became more and more suspicious. And then the incident with the trunk happened. I made the mistake of defending Nowak. That did it.” Ritter sighed.
“I was pretty well screwed,” he admitted. “I had no prospect of a decent job, a nice apartment, or any sort of future.”
“Until you married Marleen. Then you got it all back.”
“What are you trying to imply?” Ritter retorted, but his indignation didn’t seem genuine.
“That you made advances to Marleen in order to get revenge on your former boss.”
“Nonsense!” he countered. “We met each other purely by accident. I fell in love with her and she fell in love with me.”
“Why didn’t you tell us yesterday that you’d married Siegbert Kaltensee’s daughter?” Pia didn’t believe a word he was saying. Compared to the elegant brunette who was there when they came in, the mousy-looking Marleen clearly came off second best.
“Because I didn’t think it was any of your business,” replied Ritter aggressively.
Bodenstein intervened. “Your private life doesn’t interest us. What about Goldberg and Watkowiak?”
“I wanted information from them.” Ritter seemed relieved at the change of subject and gave Pia a hostile look before completely ignoring her. “A while ago, somebody asked me whether I would be interested in writing a biography—a true account of Vera Kaltensee’s life, with all the dirty details. They offered me
a lot of money, firsthand information, and the prospect of … revenge.”
“Who was it?” Bodenstein asked.
Ritter shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he replied. “But the material I received was first-class.”
“In what way?”
“Vera’s diaries from 1934 to 1943.” Ritter smiled grimly. “Detailed background information about everything that Vera absolutely wanted to keep secret. When I read the diaries, I came across quite a few inconsistencies, but one thing was clear to me: There is no way Elard can be Vera’s son. The writer of the diary had no fiancé or suitor until December 1943. And she hadn’t had sexual relations, so there was no question of her having given birth to a child. But…” He paused for effect and looked at Bodenstein. “Vera’s older brother Elard von Zeydlitz-Lauenburg was carrying on a love affair with a young woman named Vicky, the daughter of the estate steward, Endrikat. In August 1942, she gave birth to a son who was baptized Heinrich Arno Elard.”
Bodenstein received this news without comment.
“And then?” was all he said. Ritter was oddly disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm.
“The diaries were written by a left-handed girl. Vera is right-handed,” he concluded abruptly. “And that’s the proof.”
“The proof of what?” Bodenstein asked.
“The proof that Vera is not really who she pretends to be!” Ritter couldn’t sit still any longer and sprang up. “Just like Goldberg, Schneider, and Frings. Those four have shared some dark secret, and I want to find out what it is.”
“And that’s why you went to see Goldberg?” Pia asked skeptically. “Did you really think he’d be willing to tell you everything he’d kept secret for over sixty years?”
Ritter ignored her objection.
“I went to Poland to do research there. Unfortunately, there are no witnesses left to consult. Then I went to see Schneider and Anita, too, but I kept getting the same answer.”