“We’ll get Tannhäuser on it. I’m guessing Berger was recently transferred to the Trave from Kiel.”
“Kiel LKA?” Sandra asked.
“Yes. But before we waste the rest of the day on conjecture, we should get going. Should we drop you off at Pat’s place or at that photographer’s?”
“Just a second,” Daniel said and read a text from Alex. “No, thank you. It’ll be faster for us to walk. Alex’s right—he lives about two hundred yards from Pat. When are we going to meet?”
“We’ll talk on the phone. Sometime tonight at Dirk’s place.”
It was tempting to switch the assignments in order to keep Dirk from driving to Fehmarn, as Daniel didn’t want to think about what the encounter with the dead boy’s parents would cost him, but he remained silent. Ultimately, it was Dirk’s decision.
The sun had finally chased away the clouds and shone brightly. Within a very short time the temperature had risen about twenty degrees. The weather in Northern Germany was really never boring, and particularly in May the difference between cold spells and the highest temperatures took some getting used to, if one was accustomed to the mild weather of San Diego or Norfolk, Virginia.
Although the path along the branch of the Trave was idyllic, and the sight of the yachts and houseboats that lay at anchor on the bank could have been in a vacation brochure, Sandra had hardly said anything up to now.
Daniel could think of no reason for her silence, and guessing for a long time didn’t appeal to him. “What’s up with you? Are you still mad because of my comment earlier? Smashing my foot more than made up for that, and I couldn’t think of anything else.”
“No, it’s not that. But I understand Röhrich’s question about why you’ve gotten so involved in this case. A pretty strange way to spend your vacation.”
Daniel preferred to ignore the unspoken question. Since they had known each other for hardly a day, he could only make himself look ridiculous by repeating, this time in all seriousness, that he was cooperating with the LKA for her sake. Perhaps she would figure this out for herself. His friends and even his team leader had easily perceived his motive.
To his relief she didn’t insist on an answer. “How do you know your way around here, by the way? I just know the Lübeck pedestrian area fairly well.”
“Because I’ve gone jogging with Pat here a number of times. After a few more yards you’ll be able to see the Wallbühne, but don’t ask me about which churches the towers back there belong to. The cathedral and Saint Something.”
“Then you’re fired from your tourist guide job, unfortunately. Too bad the path isn’t taking us along the water anymore; I liked the way the sun glittered on the surface.”
“There are just a few trees between us and the water now. Afterward we walk directly along the Upper Trave. Are you going to tell me what’s up with you?”
“Do you know the books by Fitzek? Sebastian Fitzek?”
Why was it that women almost never responded to a clear question with an equally clear answer? This had already caused him frustration when dealing with his sister. “No. I just know the name and know from Dirk that he started a book late in the evening and didn’t put it down until the next morning. They’re about psychological things, right?”
“You could put it that way. Very excitingly written—I’ve stayed up all night reading one, too. But that’s not what I was thinking about now. It’s like a calling card for the author that his hero doesn’t actually experience the last hundred pages himself but was dreaming or in a coma or there’s some other explanation. It sounds complicated but is damned well done. I feel like one of those guys and am afraid that there will suddenly be a click, and I’ll be at the station and have to send forms regarding bicycle theft on to the public prosecutor. It’s incomprehensible that our colleagues in Hamburg were too overworked and our colleagues in Lübeck were too stupid to pursue the issue of the children. But instead of them doing their job, I’m suddenly working with Dirk and Sven and have a member of the American special forces as a partner. How crazy does that sound? My brother wouldn’t believe a word of it. By the way, I should at least send him an e-mail later—he’ll already be worrying because he didn’t hear from me yesterday.”
“Call him.”
“I can’t. I don’t know his number; it’s stored in my phone, but unfortunately the battery’s dead and the charger’s in my apartment. And he hates it when I call him at work. I’ve done it twice, and both times it was really complicated to get him on the line. Besides we talk on the phone mostly on weekends; during the week we send each other e-mails.”
“Then we’ll get it later, or we’ll buy an appropriate charger, or you’ll send him an e-mail from my computer.”
“I have to move back into my apartment again at some point. Do you think they’re still after me?”
Daniel stopped and let a bicyclist pass who had apparently confused the narrow sandy path with a racetrack. Then he gently took hold of Sandra’s shoulders. “You cannot mean that seriously. Has it occurred to you to think about what that strange detective charges per day? Somebody is damned serious, and as long as we haven’t put every one of the people behind this out of action, we’ll only enter your apartment the same way as last night.” Sandra’s mouth opened; he laid a gentle finger on her lips. “Don’t argue about this. I’m not kidding around, and you’re intelligent enough to realize I’m right.”
Various feelings were reflected in Sandra’s expression before she reluctantly nodded. “I just don’t want to be a burden.”
“Nonsense. You’re not. If you were, I’d tell you. But I can understand your feeling of dreaming. I felt the same way when I joined the team.” He summarized the events that had led to his move to the East Coast, not leaving out his failed attempt to arrest Jake and Mark as arms dealers, before telling her of his last visit to the West Coast. “In my case, of course, other reasons are behind it, not a misogynistic, macho wannabe, but the effects were very similar. So I understand you. Really,” he said.
“I believe you, and I’m sorry about the business with your father.” They walked next to each other in silence. After cautiously looking to the side, Sandra said, “I’m unbelievably happy you snatched the pepperoni pizza away from me yesterday, and thank you for being so open. I wouldn’t have expected—” She broke off in embarrassment, but Daniel sensed what she wanted to say.
He rolled his eyes. “You mean, you wouldn’t have expected that from a SEAL? What do you think we are? You have no idea how tedious it can be when everyone attacks you with questions you’re not allowed to answer. I just had that problem in Coronado again. They’re nice people there, but they ruin everything with all their questions. That’s why we usually spend our time among ourselves and keep our mouths shut otherwise.”
Sandra chewed on her lower lip. “And how does it work with Dirk, Sven, and Stephan?”
“With them it’s never been a problem. In the first place, they’d never ask questions we can’t answer, and second, we trust them, so they find out most things anyway.”
“I never saw it like that. Damn.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just said good-bye to about ninety-nine questions I was actually planning to ask you.”
The immediate understanding and simultaneous regret were typical of Sandra. He smiled and nudged her. “Go ahead and try it. If I don’t want to answer, you’ll know. And think about whether you can live with there always being some things I can never talk to you about.” His brow furrowed, Daniel corrected himself. “Well, maybe when I’m seventy-five and our great-grandchildren are running around.”
“Our great-grandchildren? You nut!”
That sounded more amused than outraged, and he could live with that.
In the meantime they had reached Wallstraße, and Daniel grimaced. “Do you like it comfortable or quick and exciting?”
He didn’t realize the question was ambiguous until he noticed Sandra’s outraged look. He smiled
and raised his hands. “Sorry, I mean, I’d rather find that out for myself. I mean the route. We can walk along the street up ahead or take a shortcut past a water mill.”
“Water mill?” Her shining eyes gave Daniel the answer he had hoped for.
“Come on.” He took her hand and drew her toward him. After a few paces, they heard the loud rushing of the foaming water making its way through a dam. They crossed over the water on a wooden walkway with a wobbly railing, but not without taking some time for the view of the whirling white-green mass under them.
“I’m sure that would be nice and refreshing,” Sandra shouted into his ear over the noise.
“Go ahead—if you go under, I’ll save you and give mouth-to-mouth a try,” Daniel said and avoided a mock kick, laughing. “Well, come on. On we go. By the way, this used to be unbelievably important, and five mills were going at once. You have to ask Pat about the rest; he knows it all inside and out.”
Sandra looked at the cobblestones a few feet under them, but then she declined Daniel’s help and jumped. “You don’t seem to listen to him especially well,” she said.
“How could I? The Irishman talks almost nonstop. I actually prefer to jog without long conversation. Jake almost shot Pat at one point when they had to run ten kilometers together because he hates talking when he runs.”
“You’re quite a bunch.” Sandra looked at the tables and chairs pushed together next to the mill. “It’s too bad this place is closed. I’m starting to get hungry.”
“So am I. Right next to Pat’s building there’s an Italian restaurant—their pizza’s famous.”
“You’re a pepperoni pizza junkie, Lieutenant. It’s terrible that a doctor stuffs himself with such unhealthy garbage. First pizza or first the photographer?”
“First work, then pleasure, of course. Otherwise you’ll give me a lecture or some such crap.”
CHAPTER 15
Twenty minutes later, nothing remained of their relaxed mood. Sandra’s suspicious gaze wandered over the facade of the old-town building. “The house Pat lives in seems like a mansion in comparison to this.” She studied the names next to the doorbell buttons and snorted. “Fourth floor. Had to be. Narrow, stuffy stairwell and no elevator.”
She stepped back and shook her head. “Take a look at this. On the ground floor someone’s made an effort—perhaps a bit poor, but caring and orderly, probably Turks or Eastern Europeans. On the second floor there are elderly people who’ve probably lived here their entire lives and carried their own coal upstairs from the basement long ago. Above them students—you can see that easily from the racing bike and the empty case of beer on the balcony—and then the photographer. If you ask me, his apartment seems the strangest. Everything taped up and the windows not cleaned. And he takes the photos for the day care center? I don’t believe it.”
Daniel looked over the windows and balconies in disbelief. “How do you see all that?”
“Oh, that’s easy: the pots of herbs, the children’s toys, the type of curtains, and so on and so on and so on. Something else angers me much more: nothing’s changed since the time of the Hanseatic League.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, earlier, merchants erected huge facades behind which much smaller houses were hidden. Outward appearances were what was important. And nothing has changed about this. At the Malerwinkel, where Pat lives, everything’s supernice, pricey, modern, and expensively renovated. Everything shines and looks fantastic. Of course that’s what the tourists go past. They don’t often wander into this hole. I bet the owner of the building is making all kinds of money on the rent but hardly does anything to maintain the building. And the authorities don’t care, as long as things look all right elsewhere. Oh, man, I could just . . . Let’s visit this photographer. I’m in just the right mood to ask him who he sold Tim’s picture and name to.”
The building’s front door was ajar, and on their way to the fourth floor, Daniel looked for clues that would confirm or refute Sandra’s appraisal of the inhabitants. He grinned when the curtain behind the door of an apartment moved and a white-haired, elderly lady looked curiously out at them. “Not bad, Sherlock,” he said.
On the next floor, Sandra pointed to a poster on the apartment door. “I didn’t know Che Guevara was still in fashion, but I’m betting students are sharing this apartment.”
“Right again,” he said. “Wait a second.” Daniel stopped on the stairs and squinted.
“What is it?”
Their steps on the worn wooden stairs would have been easy to hear, not to mention their conversation. Though he had no specific reason, all of his instincts warned him that something was wrong. He put a finger to his lips and was already feeling for his gun as he analyzed the situation. From the apartment on the ground floor he smelled garlic and onions that made his stomach grumble. Now, his subconscious had perceived something that didn’t belong here. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a slight smell of gun oil. He mouthed the words Cover me and waited for Sandra’s nod before he put his back against the wall and slowly pushed forward. Whoever was waiting for them upstairs was armed and already knew they had become suspicious, thanks to the sudden absence of their steps, which up to that point had echoed through the stairwell. If the uppermost floor was constructed like the others, then beyond the next tight turn of the stairs would be a landing with access to the apartment. The photographer probably expected them to look around the corner slowly and with caution.
With the Sig in his hand, Daniel ran up the last stairs and threw himself forward. A shot boomed, and the bullet lodged in the wooden banister high above him. Before the shooter could take aim again, Daniel had rolled away and recognized the man standing in the open door of the apartment. Large, gaunt, gray haired: the guy who had followed Sandra in the supermarket. Daniel’s foot shot up from his half-prone position and struck the wrist of the gray-haired man. The gun clattered to the floor. In the hall of the apartment, Daniel could make out a doubled-up body. He didn’t need a degree in medicine to interpret the pool of blood correctly. Whoever lay there was already dead.
“Stop, don’t move. Police.”
The gray-haired man was impressed neither by Sandra’s gun nor by her command; he charged at her like a soccer player.
“Shit.” Instead of firing, she tried to evade the man by moving back, missed the step, and landed hard on the next landing.
With a quick look, Daniel noted that only her pride had been injured. “There’s a dead man up there. Call your colleagues. I’ll take this one.”
Gripping the Sig, he ran down the stairs. On the ground floor, a girl of perhaps fourteen walked out of an apartment and came toward them. With wide eyes she pressed herself against the wall to let them by, but the gray-haired man had other plans. He grabbed her and held her in front of himself like a shield, his arm around her throat.
“What now, cop?” he asked and exchanged his choke hold for a switchblade he pressed so hard against the girl’s throat that drops of blood appeared on her pale skin.
The door of the apartment was jerked open, and a woman let out a shrill scream followed by a flood of Turkish words. It was clear she was the girl’s mother.
“Nice and easy. You’re not going to get anywhere this way.”
“You want me to slice her up?” The gray-haired man turned his head slightly in the direction of the ground floor. “Shut your mouth, old lady. Otherwise I’ll cut your throat, too.” He dragged the girl down the last stairs while the mother cried loudly.
“Calm down. Go back into your apartment. We’ll take care of your daughter. Police.” Sandra’s calm voice was quite close. Surprisingly, the Turk obeyed. Daniel could now hear only muffled sobbing.
Although the girl’s fearful face didn’t leave him cold, Daniel coolly calculated his chances of a clean shot. The teenager wasn’t an ideal shield for the tall bastard. But regardless of whether Daniel hit him in the shoulder or the head, the danger that the guy would cut her jugular vein
in a last reflex was too great.
“Can you shoot?” Sandra whispered.
“Negative. Too risky.” Daniel’s search for an alternate plan ended abruptly when he heard a shrill, recognizable whistle from the street, causing him to smile. “Stay back, and leave it to me,” he told Sandra.
Daniel lowered his weapon, put the safety on, and stowed the Sig in his holster. “All right. What do you want?”
“To begin with, who are you? I noticed you yesterday at the supermarket.”
Daniel stepped closer. “And how do you want to do this? By scaring the girl half to death?” Daniel told him in English what he thought of him.
“Son of a . . . ? What are you saying? Speak German, and throw your gun down. Hurry up. The same goes for her back there.”
“Daniel?” asked Sandra.
“Of course. We’re happy to do what our friend here asks. After all, we don’t want him to get nervous and hurt a child.” Casually, he drew his Sig, but kept it in his hand, deliberating, while he heard Sandra’s gun land on the ground behind him. Snorting contemptuously, he threw the Sig right at the man’s feet, trusting that the man would be unable to resist this chance. Indeed, the man’s gaze remained practically glued to Daniel’s weapon. Daniel spread his hands in invitation. “Go ahead and take it. Or should I first explain to you how it works? Aren’t your knife and the girl enough to take on me?” Daniel stepped closer and was now within reach of the knife. Behind him, Sandra gasped. An ugly grin betrayed the gray-haired man’s intentions before he drew back to attack. But he had miscalculated. Daniel effortlessly evaded the stab; then Pat was behind the guy and sent him to the floor with a blow to the neck.
The girl’s paralysis gave way to tears, and Sandra grabbed her and held her tightly. “You can come out—everything’s all right!” she shouted to the mother, who had waited behind the door and now rushed to her daughter.
Pat bound the gray-haired man with plastic handcuffs and held him down when he tried to turn over. “Nice and easy. It’s all over.”
Nemesis: Innocence Sold Page 17