Seeing no need to worry, Sarah made her way across the street safely and entered the establishment. Inside, the décor was rustic and quaint. The food smelled good. The wooden tables reminded her of western-styled country stores back home in Texas. Red checkered tablecloths covered those tables. There wasn’t a lot of seating. It was quite small inside, but a waiter with long hair tied back in a ponytail greeted her.
“Just one, Signorina?”
“Yes. You’re Italian?” Sarah was surprised.
“Sì,” he said, smiling. “This way.” He led her over to a table for two by the window.
“Thank you,” she said. Sarah sat down and he handed her a menu.
“Our special today is mushroom lasagna with a salad or shrimp scampi over angel hair pasta.”
“Mushroom lasagna sounds wonderful. I’ll try it.” She didn’t bother to look at the menu. Her stomach growled.
“Very good. What kind of dressing you want on your salad?” His English was decent, but not perfect.
“Do you have Thousand Island,” Sarah asked hopefully.
“Eh, no, ma’am. We have House Italiano, Red Wine Vinaigrette, Creamy Italiano, and American Ranch.”
“Oh. Creamy Italian then.”
“Very good. And what would you like to drink?”
“A Coke would be fine.”
“Sì, sì.”
He walked away with her order and returned with a small bottle of Coke and two glasses. One glass was empty for her Coke and the other was filled with cold water. The tiny Coke bottle amused her. She was used to unlimited fountain drinks. This, however, didn’t scream unlimited.
He left again, returning with some breadsticks and herb dipping oil. “I’ll have your order out soon.” He smiled and walked away, leaving her to savor the breadsticks.
Sarah watched people walk by the window. It seemed more people were on foot or on a bike than in cars. The vehicles she saw were mostly parked, and parking was packed up and down the street. A red-haired woman walked by wearing jeans, knee-high brown leather boots, and a brown leather jacket over a green shirt. Her face was exquisite with light-colored eyes and red lips. She looked like a model. Most people walking around Germany—and even in Barcelona—looked like they consulted Vogue before leaving their homes. Not at all like the Walmart couture she was used to back home. The woman walked into Diomira and approached the saloon-style bar.
She spoke in rapid German. Sarah didn’t understand what she said, but the woman behind the counter reached down to pick up a brown paper bag that contained an order. The beautiful woman paid for her meal and then turned to leave. She caught Sarah’s eye and smiled, nodding. Sarah smiled back. The woman left.
Her food arrived and she dove in. The greens were crisp, but the tomatoes were a little mushy. Still, it tasted good. Soon after, the waiter brought her lasagna. It was all perfectly portioned. The cheese, noodles, and mushrooms melted on her tongue in complete harmony with each other. Delicious. The portion may be on the small side, but it was packed with lots of calories. She could taste each one.
As she finished her meal, her thoughts strayed to Anthony de Luca. She wondered where he was now and imagined how different this meal might’ve been if shared with her lover rather than all alone. Shaking off her melancholy, Sarah paid the bill intent of enjoying herself. It was time to explore, not dwell on things she couldn’t change.
Chapter Nine
ANTHONY SCROLLED THROUGH the thousands of pictures he’d taken on his trip through Brussels, Belgium, all across Germany, and through southern Spain and Barcelona. He needed to separate them out, choose the best, and catalogue the rest for possible use in future books or articles.
Brussels was great. The food he found in that city ranged across every culture. He’d made a few side trips to other smaller cities including Bruges where he’d hired a guide to take him by boat down all the canals and waterways. He planned a special guidebook for best places to travel near water, and nothing beat the beauty of Bruges except maybe Venice, but Venice was far more crowded, and he liked the places off the beaten path.
Germany had been traveled by both train and boat. Starting on the western side near Dusseldorf, down to Trier, and over through Frankfort, down to Munich, and up through Bavaria before hitting the Eastern Bloc in Berlin. Berlin was more modern and had a lot to offer both in and outside the metropolitan center. A traveler could find just about anything in Berlin including, as he accidentally stumbled upon, prostitution. He found those images of the man beating the young blond male and thought to himself, again, that he should’ve reported it. But he hadn’t. Instead, he finished his own tour of the city in photos, thinking that what he’d witnessed probably happened all the time and the street walkers most likely didn’t want the police involved. The pictures caught the moment of brutality in vivid color. The cane, which upon closer inspection seemed to have a metal animal head, struck the young blond hustler across his temple. Blood spatter was forever suspended midair in the images. Menace raged on the older man’s face as dark brows were pulled down over fierce eyes. The goatee only added to the demonic visage. The young man’s eyes screamed fear and outrage as his body language clearly indicated self-preservation. The digital display was disturbing to behold. Anthony quickly separated those out of the mix and into a folder marked “random.”
Spain was productive up until Barcelona. Barcelona was something different altogether. Sarah. Barcelona was all about Sarah. Her face came into focus on his nineteen-inch HD monitor. Beautiful, sexy, soft, natural, and provocative in an innocent way. Her brown eyes framed by dark lashes looked at him with promise. Her smile hinted at a secret, and her lips, as always, begged for a kiss without even asking.
He had a lot of pictures of her; walking ahead of him as they explored the shops and tourist destinations, at the beach with her toes in the sand laughing, sampling new recipes at a food truck, and even sleeping after he’d made love to her for hours. She didn’t know about those pictures. He’d taken them while she dreamed, while he thought about why he liked her so much more than other women he’d passed time with on previous trips. He thought then that it must’ve been because she was a virgin, and had chosen him as her first, but after a while, he couldn’t justify that as his excuse. Sure, it was part of it. Every man liked knowing that he was the first; that he’s been where no other man had been before, but somehow, she wiggled her adorable ass right under his skin. He liked talking to her afterward, after the sexual adventures and great orgasms. She was smart and well-read. She was funny. She seemed genuinely interested in his work, and not in that fake way of other women who simply asked the expected questions, passing the time until they could get him up to their rooms. She cared. And he liked that she cared. And then he’d up and left her without a word.
Anthony paused, acknowledging that asshole move. He looked over at his mug of coffee sitting on the desk and picked it up, taking a sip. “Ugh!” He wrinkled his nose. “Fucking cold coffee.” He put it down and reached for his backpack, digging inside for his notebook. The blue spiral contained all the information from his various shoots including business cards, brochures, pamphlets, and personal notes. He opened the book and leafed through. Seville, Valencia, Madrid, Barcelona, and found Sarah’s information.
He looked at the address. He’d asked her for her email address after exploring the shops along the beach. He wanted to send her the pictures, he’d told her. She seemed giddy and high on all the fun from their afternoon of stolen kisses and illicit touching they’d engaged in whenever they thought no one was looking. She’d readily agreed and rattled off her information, including her cell number, “just in case.”
He thought about calling her, but then changed his mind. He thought about texting her, but again, what would I say? Sorry I just up and left without saying goodbye. I’m a big dick that way. I didn’t want you to get attached. I didn’t want to get attached. I’m an asshole... I was scared.
“Shit.” He closed the notebook. Pick
ing up the cold cup of coffee, he got up and went to the kitchen where he dumped it into the sink and ran the mug under the tap to rinse it out.
He looked around for something a little stronger and found nothing. He’d already killed his bottle of Wild Turkey and had yet to hit the liquor store to replace it. Making a quick decision, Anthony grabbed his jacket and picked up his wallet off the desk, slipping it into his back pocket. Keys in hand, he left, heading down to his favorite pub. He’d finish up going through the pictures later after a few drinks. He began texting Derek, his best friend.
Hey, fucknuts. O’Brien’s?
His cell vibrated as he reached the stairs.
Fucknuts? Fuck You! That better be some autocorrect shit where you meant Handsome, Awesome, Best Buddy. Yeah, Twenty minutes? I’m just leaving the office.
BERLIN, MARRIOT HOTEL
Paul spent the afternoon catching a quick nap before his business appointment that evening. It had been difficult to arrange at first, but once he explained that he represented several clubs in Amsterdam looking for talent, the prospective employee reluctantly agreed. He was scheduled to meet her at half past ten. To seem more on the up and up, he’d asked her to include any others who might be interested in moving their business to the Netherlands where they would enjoy higher pay and better benefits. Everything was set. He lay in the queen-size bed in the Marriot silently cursing his uncle, and then himself for getting sucked into doing the prick’s bidding.
He planned on running up a tab tonight. His uncle Peter said he’d pay the expenses of the trip, so Paul didn’t plan on being frugal. It would be nightclubs, the appointment, a little fun after that, and a late dinner in the heart of downtown Berlin. Much like New York City, it didn’t close after midnight.
He would need his rest for the night’s coming attractions. He would need to be on his A-game. All he had to do was convince this woman to come work for his uncle—the shit—and when he got back home, he’d get the other half of his pay and be done with that evil monster.
He closed his eyes and tried not to let the usual nightmares in. They always came when he was alone. Maybe that was why he enjoyed being around women. They kept the bad memories at bay with their smiles, chatter, and sexy bodies. With a beautiful woman or two in his bed, he was distracted and drawn into the comfort of warm arms wrapping around him, and soft lips kissing him. Women loved him. And he loved women. The more the merrier.
Thinking about women he’d already had, some he still fooled around with on a more regular basis, and the possibility of meeting one or two tonight helped him fall asleep feeling happy. It wasn’t long, though, before the monster intruded, pulling him in, promising candy, and ordering young Paul to pretend he was just holding a cane like the one leaning against the arm of the chair. Pretend and hold it “just like this” said a familiar voice. A voice coming from the foul mouth of the devil himself. Paul tried to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, hands covered his mouth, and he couldn’t move or breathe. His suspenders were being pulled off his shoulders and down over his school uniform shirt. Hands reached, touching, grabbing. He could see his mother in the kitchen chatting away while she prepared dinner, but she never turned around, never came to his rescue. The monster had him, again, and he was abandoned, alone.
In the single occupancy hotel room, Paul tossed and turned on the bed, sweat gleamed on his forehead, and he repeatedly opened and closed his mouth, looking like a fish out of water, making small sounds that were cut off; that never quite reached a full scream. Outside, the sun began its descent toward the horizon as the day faded. His eyes opened suddenly, and he was released, finally, from the horrific grasp of the dream. He lay there in the dim light of late afternoon, tears sliding down his face. Motherfucker! Fuck him! One day I’ll kill him. One day, he promised that little boy still trapped inside the nightmares.
SARAH DIDN’T KNOW WHERE to start. She walked a few blocks, enjoying the architecture in downtown Berlin. The streets were the cleanest she’d ever seen. Throughout the more urban areas, trees and small manicured patches of grass caught her eye. The high-rise resident buildings all seemed to have miniature parks within their courtyards where many locals were walking their dogs, riding their bikes, or just strolling like she happened to be doing. With each building painted a different color—yellow, green, red, and blue, it was all quite beautiful to behold. There were bakeries and small fresh produce markets on just about every corner. The pubs were quaint and looked like what she expected in a metropolitan city like Berlin, but some were more old-fashioned, could be described better as ‘taverns.’ In all, the eastern bloc of Germany had a wonderful mix of old and new. Pre-World War II and post-modern architecture swirled together to make it unlike any city she’d ever seen—so far, that is.
She was near Potsdamerplatz when she realized it was getting late. The sun would soon set, and she had no plan on where to go or what to do. She stopped into a tourist shop near the Bahnhof and picked up a few trinkets for her co-workers—a cuckoo clock refrigerator magnate for Marge, a silver spoon with ‘Berlin’ on the handle for Terry, who collected them, and a T-shirt for Jim. Sarah paid for her items and stood, looking like the American tourist she was as she wondered why the salesclerk didn’t put them in a bag for her. She stepped back and watched as two other customers paid for their items, picked them up, and then walked out with them in bags they had carried into the store. Looking around, she found a blue tote bag with a picture of the Brandenburg Gate on the front. It cost three euros. She purchased it at the last minute and then stowed her travel treasures inside.
Outside, daylight waned. She walked faster back toward the hotel. Lights began flickering on along the brick and concrete sidewalks. Storefronts closed, and restaurants and bars glowed like welcoming beacons to those seeking dinner and after-hours fun. Passing one of the many courtyards full of people coming and going only an hour earlier, Sarah found it to be empty save for a red-haired woman leaning against a tree, talking into her mobile. She looked familiar, but since she knew no one here, the thought flew out of her head. Suddenly, Sarah tripped and fell forward onto her hands and knees.
“Shit!” She sat back on her heels and inspected her right hand, which had smacked the ground hard enough to scrape her palm.
“Bist du verletz?” The red-haired woman approached and dropped down next to Sarah.
“What? I’m sorry. I don’t speak German.”
“Ah, American. I asked are you hurt?” The red-haired woman’s green eyes were filled with concern.
Sarah held up her right hand. It was bleeding.
“Here, let me help you.” The woman grabbed a scarf stuck inside the pocket of her jacket and wrapped it around Sarah’s hand. “If you come with me inside, I can clean it up for you.” Sarah started to rise, and the woman offered a helping hand.
Sarah reached with her left hand and stood as the woman tugged gently. “That’s okay. I’m not far from my hotel. I can take care of it.”
The woman looked at her with kindness. She was stunningly gorgeous in a way that Sarah knew she never would be. Flawless skin, emerald eyes, flowing red hair, and a svelte, shapely body like a runway model.
“Oh! You’re the lady from the restaurant.” Recognition lit Sarah’s eyes.
“Excuse me?” The red-haired woman’s eyes grew larger if that was possible.
“Earlier today you picked up some food at the restaurant down the street. I saw you there.”
Red laughed. “Ah, I see. Yes, yes, that was me. Now I remember you. You were eating alone.”
Sarah’s smile fell at the reminder of dining alone. “I’m Sarah.” She started to offer her right hand, then remembered it was injured and wrapped in the woman’s green scarf.
“Elsa. Please, now we are not strangers and you must come inside and let me tend to your hand.” She took Sarah’s left hand and led her toward the faded yellow building.
“I don’t want to intrude...”
“Who’s intruding? It’
s just me and Anno, and we don’t bite.” Elsa was smiling as she opened the door and walked inside toward a small lift.
Sarah didn’t like small spaces and the cramped interior had her holding her breath.
“Who’s Anno? Is that your husband?”
“What? No! Anno is my little brother. No husband. Just us.”
“That’s an unusual name, Anno.” Sarah followed as Elsa pulled the gate open and pushed the door out onto the fourth floor.
“It’s short for Johann. Quite common, really.”
“How old is he?” The hallway stretched straight down and then dog-legged to the left. It was around that corner where they stopped in front of a door marked ‘4A.’ Elsa pulled out a key and unlocked the latch.
“He is fourteen, but he will tell you almost fifteen.” She laughed. “His birthday is coming up in just one month. He is a pain in the ass, but I love him.”
Sarah smiled and looked around the entry hall. The tall ceilings were topped with crown molding in their pre-WWII décor. At the end of the hall was a spacious living room with three high windows facing out onto another building and a partial courtyard.
Elsa continued to pull Sarah along by her good hand into a bathroom. The black and white tile on the floor was matched by a similar backsplash behind the pedestal sink. Elsa reached into the medicine cabinet above and pulled out hydrogen peroxide and some ointment. She unwrapped her hand and turned on the water.
“Stick your hand under there for a few minutes,” she instructed. Elsa threw the scarf into the waste basket.
Feeling guilty, Sarah said, “I’m so sorry. I’ll repay you for it.”
“Nonsense! It was old and I want to buy a new one anyway.” Elsa turned off the water and opened the peroxide bottle. “This might sting a little,” she cautioned, pouring it over Sarah’s hand.
The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set Page 8