The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  Had he missed an alarm system somewhere?

  Of course he had. There were cameras everywhere, all over the globe. Certainly a company like Kleinmann Holdings could afford a little protection. Kittredge realized with a sickening surge of adrenaline that the Polizei party was for him. He retrieved the pages from the copier, stuffed them in his pocket, and made haste to the exit.

  He hid in the handicapped stall in the men’s room, seated on the toilet with his feet tucked up around his chin, breathing as quietly as he could, hoping the motion-sensitive light switch would hurry up and time out before the cops showed up.

  How do I keep winding up in these situations? Perhaps a change in his habits was overdue.

  20

  Viktor Kohlhaas stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors that formed a loggia off of his inordinately large study. It opened to a generously apportioned deck that ran nearly the entire width of the building, and afforded a view of the Paris skyline that made the flat worth every penny he paid for it. At least, that was what his wife liked to say. He was certain she had no idea how many pennies they paid for the flat. As for the view, Kohlhaas didn’t spend enough time at home to notice one way or another, really, and much of that time he spent working at his desk.

  But not today. He stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet, wondering about the implications of the conversation he’d just had with his wife.

  Mariete blamed him for their son’s murder. That wasn’t unexpected. But the rancor, the hatred, the absolute evisceration he’d endured… He knew they came straight from her heart. It had obviously built up over years, and she unloaded on him. She hadn’t just expressed her feelings. She had gone for his jugular.

  She didn’t know how Viktor was responsible for her precious Mathias’ brutal killing, she had screeched at him through her tears, but she knew that he was responsible. If Mathias had somehow become a victim of his lifestyle, it was because Viktor’s ice-cold heart had driven him to it. And if there were some direct way in which Viktor’s incessant scheming, his innately tainted business dealings, had brought about Mathias’ death, then she would hate Viktor all the more.

  And she did hate him. She told him in as many words. Calmly, after the hysterics had passed, after her tears had dried, in a quiet voice, her eyes never wavering from his. “I hate who and what you are, Viktor Kohlhaas,” she had said. “And I will never forgive you.”

  And she left alone to claim the body of their son from the morgue in Cologne.

  Kohlhaas let her go. Because he couldn’t stand the thought of going, of seeing his son’s mangled body, and because he sure as hell couldn’t stand two full days of Mariete’s wrath. She was a valkyrie, a wraith, and he lacked the constitution to withstand her continuous onslaught.

  He knew that sending her by herself to bring their son’s body home was akin to crossing the Rubicon. There would be no turning back from the implications. It was either a declaration of war or an admission of defeat.

  But there was also no turning back from what Mariete had told him, either, so Kohlhaas didn’t see the point in pretending any longer. He would suffer for the remainder of his days. It was a gift that Mathias had. He always knew how to break his father’s heart, and he did it often during his horribly shortened life.

  It wasn’t just the avoidance of pain that motivated Kohlhaas’ decision to stay in Paris. There was just too much to get done. His thoughts returned to Synergique’s breakthrough, how best to shepherd it to market, how to achieve maximum impact from what would otherwise be a sleepy little back-page announcement in the trade journals.

  The risks he had taken thus far, which were considerable and, by any measure, nothing short of ballsy, absolutely withered in comparison to the risk he was about to take. He was about to do something which, if traced back to him, would surely mean prison. Or worse.

  He shook his head, felt his chest tighten, and asked himself again whether it was worth it, whether he could pull it off.

  Not without a human trial. It simply had to be done. Animal testing just wasn’t reliable enough, and it sure as hell wouldn’t provide enough certainty, enough proof of the drug’s efficacy, to warrant the mammoth risk he was about to take.

  There was no alternative. They had to find human subjects.

  He turned on his heel, picked up his telephone, and called Jim Firth.

  21

  Kittredge hesitated at the door. Did he have the right number? Of course he did. He’d checked it four times. And he’d stopped along the way to fortify his courage with more alcohol, that magic potion that made everything, even himself, seem just a little bit better. There was nothing left to do but knock.

  He took a breath, steeled himself, and rapped three times on the apartment door. He heard stocking feet pad to the door, saw the light change through the peephole, and heard the latch retreat.

  Nora opened the door. “I’m so glad you found me,” she said, stepping aside to let Kittredge in. “I didn’t know how to get ahold of you, and I was afraid to go back to your apartment.”

  “That makes two of us,” Kittredge said. “I think they still have it sealed off, but I haven’t been there since yesterday.”

  His eyes took her in as she shut and locked the door behind them. She wore yoga pants, which showed off incredible legs and an ass that stirred his loins. Her fitted tee showcased her full, pert breasts. Her dark hair was pulled back in a pony tail, showing off her athletic but feminine neck and jaw line. The smaller of Kittredge’s two brains instantly demanded to time-share the thinking. He felt a tingle in his trousers.

  She caught his look and flashed that devastating, coy smile of hers. He suddenly didn’t care what her involvement in the mess might be. He wanted to devour her.

  “The police were pricks,” she said, steering the conversation in a less lascivious direction while she steered their corporal selves in the direction of her sofa.

  Kittredge followed her lead on both counts. As he sat down, he tried to pick a distance from her that wasn’t too presumptuously personal, but that still communicated his strong desire to have her at some point in the evening. Was there something wrong with him for thinking about sex while they were talking about a murder? Probably. But he was just as much a human animal as the next alcoholic sexual omnivore. Only maybe more so.

  His big brain took over again. “They interrogated me again today. Strauss, that little fascist.”

  Nora’s face showed concern, worry even. “What did they ask you?”

  “Everything, all over again. Only they were even less polite, because they found the murder weapon.”

  Nora’s eyebrows arched. “There was a murder weapon?”

  “You didn’t think somebody could do that to a person’s head with their bare hands, did you?”

  “I figured it would have to be somebody very strong,” Nora said.

  “With fists made of iron,” Kittredge added with a sardonic chuckle.

  “I guess a murder weapon does make more sense. So they have a lead on the killer, then?”

  “That’s the thing,” Kittredge said, shaking his head. “They didn’t find any fingerprints on it. Except for mine.”

  Nora’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Your fingerprints were on the murder weapon?”

  Kittredge nodded. “It was my umbrella stand. Well, really, a World War Two artillery shell that I was using as an umbrella stand. I got it at one of those flea markets in the old section of town.”

  “My God, Peter,” Nora said. “And there weren’t any other fingerprints on it?”

  “Not even smudges, like there would be if the killer had used gloves. Strauss said my prints were damn near perfect.”

  Nora looked thoughtful. “And the police are sure that Sergio was killed with the umbrella stand?”

  Kittredge shrugged. “Strauss said they found it underneath the bed, covered in blood.”

  Nora thought more. “Your fingerprints weren’t made in
Sergio’s blood. They were just on the artillery shell itself. Right? I mean, they couldn’t have seriously thought that you’d have caused that much damage without getting some blood on your hands, and that would have left bloody prints.”

  “Dammit, you’re right.” Kittredge shook his head. “I wish I had thought of that while Strauss was giving me the business.”

  Nora smiled. “Honestly, it’s probably why they haven’t arrested you. They’re not idiots. Your prints were on your umbrella stand, but that doesn’t mean you killed him with it. They probably just wanted to squeeze you a bit, to see if you had any connection to the whole thing.”

  Kittredge’s lips arced in a sardonic half-smile. “You mean other than having a ménage with the decedent moments before his demise?”

  Nora laughed. “Yeah. I mean other than that.” She rose, padded to the kitchen, and opened a bottle of wine. “Want a glass?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Kittredge said. He watched her in the kitchen for a while. She looked up at him once while she got their wine, and caught him staring. She smiled. He saw warmth, and got the idea that his overtures were welcomed.

  And why shouldn’t they be? They’d already spent the night together. But circumstances had changed since then, so the acknowledgement felt good.

  But there was a nagging question rattling around his northern head, even while his southern head advocated full steam ahead. Polizeikommissar Strauss had implied that perhaps Nora might have had some relationship to the killer, and might even have played a role in Sergio’s murder. The subject probably deserved some air time.

  “So, I recalled during Strauss’ wire-brushing that you had left your purse in my apartment when we went to breakfast,” Kittredge probed.

  “Yeah, I told them that, too. They asked me if I had seen anyone else along the way to or from, or if I had maybe forgotten to lock the door on my way out.”

  Kittredge nodded. “They asked me all of that too. Course, I had no way of knowing what happened.” He looked expectantly at Nora.

  She answered the unasked question. “I probably passed a dozen people on the street on the way back to your building, and there were two people in the elevator with me, but they got off at the third floor. There was nobody on your floor at all.”

  “What about the lock? It can be a little tricky sometimes.”

  Nora nodded. “I noticed that. But I used the key to lock the door from the outside when I left, and I tried the knob just to be sure. It was definitely locked.”

  “Did you happen to check in on Sergio while you were there?”

  She shook her head. “My purse was on your kitchen counter.” That coy smile came back. “We used my condoms for our first little session in your living room, remember?”

  Kittredge smiled meaningfully at her. “Vividly.” He stroked her hair. Her eyes closed briefly, a look of pleasure on her face. It was a good sign, Kittredge noted.

  The moment passed, Nora sipped her wine, and a reflective look settled in her eyes. “I wish I’d seen something, you know?”

  Kittredge nodded. He had the same sentiment.

  “I mean, the Polizei could have been nicer about the whole thing, but I can see it from their perspective,” Nora said. “We’re the only witnesses, and we don’t have anything other than our word and a breakfast receipt to suggest that we didn’t do it. Everything else kind of stacks up against us, doesn’t it?”

  “My good friend Jürgen Strauss made the very same observation,” Kittredge said with a wry smile. His smile faded. “But it wasn’t us.” It was a statement, but really, it was a trial balloon. Kittredge wanted to see how Nora reacted.

  “Of course it wasn’t,” she said. “I mean, right? You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

  Kittredge shook his head.

  “So I guess we just wait it out? See what the police uncover?”

  Kittredge nodded. Her response seemed believable, genuine. He drank more wine, noticed that his glass was nearly empty while hers was nearly full, and felt a little bashful.

  “Someone’s thirsty,” Nora said with that lethal smile of hers.

  She rose to refill his glass, and he watched her ass hungrily as she walked to the kitchen. What a strange combination of emotions he was experiencing. Murder on the one hand, skin games on the other. He knew it was the booze that kept allowing his focus to be diverted. But in his defense, he reasoned, Nora was pretty damned diverting, and he would’ve been lusting after her even if he was stone cold sober. At least, the new Peter Kittredge would be lusting after her. The old one wouldn’t have given her the time of day, unless he thought she was a boy in drag.

  She returned with a full glass, and brought the bottle this time. “Did you know that Delafuentes wasn’t Sergio’s real last name?” she asked as she took a seat on the couch next to him, close enough that her breast brushed against his arm.

  “Strauss told me that,” Kittredge said. “He asked me if I knew whether you knew that.” He chuckled. “Kind of a messed-up question, don’t you think?”

  Nora laughed. “I got the same thing. And what’s up with Copenhagen?”

  He shrugged, a bemused smile on his face. “Totally left field!” he said. She laughed, that smoky voice of hers causing primal reactions in his lizard brain.

  She was hitting all of the items on his unspoken agenda, he realized. But she didn’t have much to add, and the conversation hadn’t really filled in any of the details for him. He was really only learning that Nora knew as little as he did about what had happened to Sergio.

  Or, more precisely, that Nora said she knew as little as he did. People could fool you, Kittredge had learned, and so he made up his mind not to be surprised by anything, and not to be too trusting. Of anyone. Least of all himself.

  He remembered Maria, the way that she was so fully, beautifully feminine, yet, at the same time, she was absolutely lethal, feral even. Nora’s mannerisms reminded him of Maria. Could Nora have the same kind of edge to her as well? If so, he knew he would be instantly over his head.

  Not that he wasn’t already.

  “So what have you been doing since Strauss set you loose?” Nora asked, moving a little closer.

  Kittredge chuckled. “Funny you should ask. It’s been an eventful couple of days, actually.” He told her about his stay at the hotel, leaving off the part about the gay porn, but including the parts about his search for Copenhagen-born Sergios and his almost-deadly encounter with the guy in the blue raincoat.

  “Oh, my God!” Nora exclaimed, straightening up. “You have to go to the police!”

  Kittredge shook his head. “What’re they going to do? Put out an APB for blue raincoats?”

  She hit his shoulder with her palm, then left it there. “I don’t know, something, but you can’t just let it go. You have to file a complaint or something. It could be related somehow.”

  “You think they came after me because of Sergio?”

  Nora’s face was suddenly serious. “Shit, Peter, what if they were after you the whole time?”

  “Thanks for that comforting thought,” he said.

  “I’m being serious. You could be in real danger.” She picked up the phone and started dialing.

  He tried to stop her, playfully at first, then more seriously. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason, but he didn’t want any more police attention. He didn’t want Strauss thinking that he and Nora were colluding to deceive the police, working to get their stories straight. They were already fighting an uphill battle to convince Strauss of their innocence. And he definitely didn’t want to have to explain how he’d spent his afternoon, breaking into Nora’s employer’s office.

  But Nora was strong, much stronger than she looked, and a surge of anger flashed in her eyes that brought Kittredge up short. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Don’t leave yourself exposed like this. This could be very serious, and we need help.”

  An hour later, Nora opened her apartment door and admitted Polize
ikommissar Jürgen Strauss.

  22

  Gunther Fleischer inhaled deeply of the cold, damp midnight air. It energized him. He had fallen asleep early, knowing he would need no alarm to awaken him when the time came. Long years of conditioning his body and mind had paid dividends, and he was as fit to his task as anyone could be.

  He moved with a lightness of foot that wasn’t common for a man of his age. But then again, he wasn’t a common man. He was tall, powerful, athletic, strong, and swift. He moved with practiced quickness, but with a fluidity that gave his motions an elegance more common in vastly different disciplines than his own.

  Fleischer tightened the straps to his backpack, comforted by its heft. It contained the tools of his trade, or at least of this particular portion of his trade. It also contained items that very few men could possibly obtain. Such as crime scene tape, which was obviously a controlled item, its acquisition requiring more than one carefully cultivated relationship.

  Strange though it may have seemed, Fleischer’s business was ultimately, as were all human enterprises, a people business. In order to become a professional utility man, someone who performed crimes up to and including murder for hire, it was necessary to first become acquainted with people who wanted other people dead, and who were willing to pay handsomely for the service. These relationships had to be cultivated as carefully as a flower enthusiast might tend to a rare, recalcitrant orchid, and it took Zen-like patience.

  Fleischer had patience in spades. It was what allowed him to accomplish things so quickly. He was more patient than most people, could stick to a task longer than most people, could simply spend the time necessary to succeed, where other people lost interest or wandered off in search of a more “strategic” approach. Infinite patience brings instant results, Fleischer was fond of saying. Hard work and persistence were the fastest shortcuts he’d ever discovered. He applied this methodical ethos to the crimes he was hired to commit, and also to fastidiously nurturing the relationships that produced the work that paid him so handsomely.