The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set

by Michele E. Gwynn

  The mention of his beloved’s name never failed to make him smile. He let her have her secret, then launched into a list of places the happy couple had discussed visiting. For the moment, all was right in their world.

  Book III

  The Redemption of Joseph Heinz

  Prologue

  LENINGRAD, USSR

  July 8, 1970

  The ice cream cone melted, running down his small hand, and dripping onto his best shoes. The leather was scuffed, and the brown laces were becoming tattered at the ends, but they were still considered new despite the wear. It was summertime in Leningrad, and the day was hot and humid. The breeze coming in off the Baltic did little to cool the stifling heat, and the clouds gathering overhead were a clear indication that rain was imminent. He looked up. It’s going to rain on my presents if they don’t let me open them soon.”

  “Vladi, come! It’s time.” The towheaded boy turned away from staring off at the clouds and ran back to his mother’s arms. She stood by a table set up on the front lawn of the tenement building where they shared a flat with his Uncle Pavo’s family. Kommunalkas were common in the distressed neighborhoods throughout this major port city of the USSR. The Soviets called it good economic policy. All low income families had a free apartment, but the people knew what it was really all about, keeping the poor corralled so that the aristocratic and privileged military families that ran the government and the major businesses could snatch up prime real estate for luxury condominiums. The market for property was booming in the northern region while the urban ghettos were ripe with poverty, crime, and suffering. But at the tender age of six, young Vladimir Alexei Brezhnev knew only that he had a table full of brightly wrapped presents to open. His friends were herded in from their playtime to come and watch him. He was about to rip the paper off the first one when his father noticed his shoe.

  He grabbed the boy’s arm. “What’s this?” His finger pointed down.

  Vladimir looked, noticing for the first time the mess on his foot. He shrugged. “I don’t know, papa.”

  “You don’t know!” His father’s anger, always lurking beneath the surface, exploded. “This is how you care for the nice things I buy you with the money I work so hard for?” He shook the boy.

  “Kirill, please!” His mother, Olga, pleaded as she ran over, and bent down quickly wiping the sticky sweet cream from the shoe. “There, see? It’s all fine. No harm.” She remained on her knees trying to gently pry her husband’s fingers from Vladimir’s arm.

  “Of course there is harm, woman!” He slapped her; his expression fierce. “Do not defy me in front of our friends and family! The boy must learn to respect me, and to respect the things I provide for him. You cannot baby him anymore. He’s six years old. Unless he is retarded, he understands that he is to take care of his belongings.” Kirill turned his attention back to his son leaving Olga red-faced and embarrassed, avoiding the shock of bystanders. “Are you retarded, Vladimir?”

  The boy looked around at his cousins, his uncle who stood with his eyes averted, his Aunt Ava who gathered her youngest to her side, and his friends from the apartment building, some of whom were laughing at his predicament. He looked back at his father keeping his eyes lowered while staring at the whiskers on his scarred chin. “No, sir.”

  “You like your shoes?” The tone in his father’s voice was deceptively soft.

  “Yes, papa. I like my shoes very much.” Vladimir’s lip began to quiver, knowing his father’s outbursts never ended well.

  “You want to keep your shoes?”

  “Yes, papa.”

  “Kirill, please, it’s his birthday—” Olga began.

  “Shut up!” He looked back at the boy. “I think you need to learn a lesson, a man’s lesson. You wish to be a man, yes, Vladimir?”

  Tears ran down the boy’s cheeks now. He sniffled. “Yes, papa.”

  “Good. This is good. I’m going to teach you to respect me, and to respect what you own. You know how I am going to do this?” His son shook his head in the negative. “You are six now. Six is an age where you must start becoming a man. No more clinging to your mother’s apron. So, Vladimir,” his father put his arm around his small shoulders and turned him toward the crowd of children watching. “You’re going to give away all of your presents to these children.”

  “But papa—” Vladimir gasped.

  “No ‘but papa’, Vladimir! You will stand here, and pass these gifts out to your friends, and then you will thank them for coming to your party. When you are finished, you will go to your room and clean it. I expect it to be spotless when I come up and inspect.” The look in his dark, brown eyes said, ‘or else’.

  Vladimir wiped the tears blinding his blue eyes. Sobs wracked his small body as one by one, he handed out all seven of his gifts to the children who lived in the building. His uncle would not let any of his own children step forward. The look of shame in Pavo’s eyes, and the tears escaping from his aunt and mother were too much to bear. Finally, the last package left his hands.

  “Tha-thank you for coming to my pa-party,” he hiccupped. With that, he ran inside, and up the four flights of stairs to the small flat with three rooms. No one else was inside, and young Vladimir Alexei Brezhnev slammed the door of the tiny space he shared with his older brother, Nikolay, and cousin, Oleg. He wanted to throw himself down on the cot and cry, but if he did, he’d lose time. His father would be up shortly, and if the room did not pass inspection, Vladimir knew he’d be on the wrong side of his father’s belt. And even if his efforts to clean to his father’s standards were good enough, past experience told him he would still feel the sting of the leather and the bite of the buckle. He sucked in the sob threatening to burst forth, holding it in, and began picking clothes up off the floor. The clock was ticking.

  SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA (Modern day Leningrad)

  July 8, 2016

  “Happy birthday, my son.” The tiny gray-haired woman placed a small pineapple cake on the table in front of the well-dressed gentleman sporting a short salt and pepper beard. With shaky hands, she lit the single red candle that stood up from the fruit ring in the center.

  “Mama, you don’t have to...” Vladimir began.

  “Shush. I am but an old woman, yet I can still bake a cake for my baby boy.” She set the lighter down and cupped his face, smiling as she peered at him through rheumy eyes. “Fifty-one today, and still my baby.” She kissed his cheek.

  Vladimir smiled as he patted her hands. Olga Brezhnev was seventy-six now, and her back hunched over with osteoporosis. “Bal'shoye spasiba, mama.” Inside the small but well-appointed flat decorated with the best furniture money could buy, his mother lived with his Aunt Ava. His Uncle Pavo passed on the year before, and his own father met with the wrong end of a butcher’s knife thirty-three years earlier.

  “Ya tibya l’ublyu, Vladi.” Olga pinched his bearded cheeks.

  “I love you, too, mama.”

  “Now, make a wish quickly before the wax drips onto the cake.” She stood behind his chair with her hands on his shoulders.

  Vladimir closed his eyes and pretended to make a wish to please his mother. He didn’t believe in wishes, not since his sixth birthday. That was the day everything changed. No longer could his mother protect him from his father’s wrath although she never stopped trying. The drinking Kirill indulged in sporadically became a daily occupation as lack of work drove Vladimir’s father to the streets. It was there he started peddling drugs for a local boss. Kirill was at first disgusted with this turn in his life, and then began to embrace it. He worked hard, selling the poisonous product to the poor who could little afford such a habit. He helped contribute to the vicious cycle of poverty and suffering in the ghettos with no empathy whatsoever. If someone overdosed, it was an opportunity to sell to the deceased’s friends so they could numb themselves to their grief.

  Kirill trained his oldest son, Nicolay, in the art of the deal when he turned thirteen. At first, he succeeded with passin
g the cocaine to his friends in the neighborhood. Kirill was proud of his oldest son until Nicolay, becoming too cocky, and trying to impress a young lady, took his first hit of the drug. Before long, he was hooked, and getting high on the inventory he was expected to sell. When he couldn’t pay for the powder he’d blown through, Kirill had to step in and pay the boss out of his own pocket. Angry at the loss and the embarrassment, his father focused his rage like a laser by beating Nicolay to within an inch of his life. The beating was so severe, it broke Nicolay’s leg costing Kirill even more in medical treatment. Nicolay eased the pain with more drugs, and when he couldn’t afford more, he started to steal from his papa’s stash. Two weeks before his fifteenth birthday, Nicolay was found dead, a needle hanging out of his arm.

  Vladimir was devastated. As a boy, he had looked up to his big brother. He also knew that despite his coke habit, Nico had never once injected the stuff into his veins. He snorted or tasted, but he was acutely afraid of needles, a fear he never admitted to anyone except Vladimir. No one ever questioned his death, but Kirill’s demeanor grew more violent and erratic. He would come home late, and if dinner wasn’t waiting on the table or not to his liking, he would beat Olga with his belt, and more often with his fists. He didn’t seem to care if Vladimir or his cousins saw him do it, and his Uncle Pavo was too afraid of his brother-in-law to stop him. Life went on like that for a time.

  Kirill tried again bringing a son into the business. When Vladimir turned fourteen, he started running the street sales to the other kids. He kept his head down, and did what he was told, not wanting to anger his father. He also learned from Nicolay’s death to never, ever use drugs. Some of the older kids made fun of him, taunting him about being a “big pussy” too afraid to take a hit, but Vladimir knew that he would always have the last laugh. He would never overdose, and his pockets would always be filled with cash. Meanwhile, they would remain poor, and eventually die young or worse, die slowly, aging horribly while addicted to riding the white pony.

  “Blow it out already!” Olga shook him out of his reverie.

  He leaned over and blew out the flame. His Aunt Ava shuffled in leaning on her cane. “We’re having cake?” She was half blind at seventy-nine, but her appetite had yet to wane.

  “Da, Ava. It’s Vladi’s birthday. You remember. I told you just this morning, you loony old bat,” Olga chuckled. “Come, sit. It’s time to eat.” She turned to her son. “And what did you wish for?”

  Vladimir accepted the slice of cake on the porcelain plate with a grin. “You know I cannot say or else the wish won’t come true.”

  “Silly boy.” She cut another slice and placed it in front of Ava.

  “So what’s the occasion? Is it my birthday?” Ava picked up her fork, smiling through her few remaining teeth. “I do so love cake.”

  Olga looked at Vladimir who shook his head. His aunt was several marbles shy of a full bag anymore. Soon, he would have to hire a nurse to come in and help take care of them. There was nothing he wouldn’t do, no expense he would not spare for his mother. She was dearer to him than anyone in the world. The three of them sat eating cake and sipping strong coffee for the next hour. Finally, Vladimir pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “I have to go now, mama.”

  “So soon? But what about dinner later?” She got up slowly and shuffled around the table.

  “I can’t. I have a business meeting, but I’ll come tomorrow and take you both to lunch, yes?” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then, he did the same for his aunt. “I’ll call tonight to check on you both.”

  “Such a good boy. I always knew he would grow up to be so good,” Ava muttered through her second piece of cake.

  Vladimir headed out the front door to the lift. On the way down, he pulled out his cell phone hitting number two on the speed dial. It was answered immediately. “Have the car ready.” He exited the elevator and walked through the marble hallway. The concierge held the door open and waited as he walked through.

  “Have a good evening, Mr. Brezhnev.” The man kept his eyes ahead as he stood at attention. In his uniform for the condominium complex, he resembled a soldier.

  “Thank you.”

  A black limousine waited. A large, dark-haired man bulging with muscles covered in an expensive Navy-blue suit jumped out and opened the back door. Once Vladimir was inside, the man closed the door and climbed back into the front passenger seat. The driver wore an equally expensive suit, but was slightly shorter, huskier, and bald. He looked in the rearview mirror. “Where to, Gospodin?”

  “The warehouse. We have business to tie up,” he said.

  The man in the passenger seat smirked. The driver nodded, and put the car in gear steering into, and merging with the traffic.

  A thumping sound interrupted the quiet of the interior. Loud knocks were heard. The two men in the front seat exchanged a worried glance hoping their boss would not notice. Vladimir looked up from his mobile. “Is that what I think it is?”

  The man in the passenger seat fidgeted. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, take care of it! I don’t want to listen to that all the way to the warehouse.” Vladimir gave the order, anger seeping into his words.

  The driver pulled over past the bridge onto a dirt road. There, hidden from passing cars by an old, rusted-out shack, the man in the passenger seat got out and walked to the back of the limo. He popped open the trunk. The thwack of a fist cracking bone filled the air. Silence followed. The trunk slammed shut, and he walked back to the car, climbing in. Vladimir leaned forward. The man in the front seat froze, apprehension prickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

  Brezhnev spoke in a deceptively soft voice. “Make sure that doesn’t happen again, Petrovich.” He sat back slowly, focusing once again on the screen of his cellular.

  “Yes, sir,” Petrovich replied, eyes cast down. He looked down at his knuckles. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead, evidence of his inner anxiety. The knuckles were already swelling. Next to him, the driver let out the breath he’d been holding. Once again, the car weaved into traffic heading toward the docks and warehouse number 214.

  The drive felt longer than usual. The tension inside the car coupled with the silence kept the men in the front seat of the limousine on edge. In the back, the man infamously known internationally as ‘the Butcher’ sent out a text message.

  Delivery is expected within one hour. He hit SEND, then casually slid his mobile back into his inner jacket pocket.

  Chapter One

  BERLIN

  September 3rd, 2016

  “The royal purple with silver and cream is the perfect color scheme, Birgitta. I’m beginning to think you picked out these colors especially for me.” Elsa Kreiss wrapped a swath of the purple satin around her body and posed in front of the mirror.

  “Don’t be silly. The cream and silver are best for my wedding gown, and the purple makes Joseph look majestic. His vest will be royal purple. It sets off his eyes.” A dreamy smile danced on her lips.

  Elsa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. The idea of Kommissar Joseph Heinz as ‘majestic’ tickled her. She did love the cranky old bear. He’d become a pseudo-father figure to her and her little brother, Anno, since he came into their lives three years ago. He was her hero after rescuing Anno from the Dutch pedophile who’d kidnapped him. After that, Heinz took it upon himself to look out for the two orphans going so far as to take Elsa under his wing and helping her get out of her former career as Berlin’s premiere dominatrix by assisting her in gaining enrollment in the police academy. She’d become a Schutzpolizei, and now, with the mentorship of Direktor Herman Faust at the Landiskriminalamt, she was on the fast track to advancing beyond patrol officer up the ranks to detective, and maybe one day, Inspekteur der Polizei, Chief of all policemen. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  “I see you trying not to giggle, Elsa. You just wait until you’re as in love as we are. You will find yourself softening, trust m
e.” Detective Birgitta Mahler turned to the seamstress and handed over the patterns for the bridesmaids’ dresses. “I’d like the royal satin with silver piping.” She turned toward Elsa. “But her dress must be special, not exactly the same as the others.” The old seamstress nodded. Her dark-rimmed glasses sat low on her narrow nose. “The others have the bow over one shoulder, but Elsa’s should be completely strapless like the top of my gown. She’s my maid of honor, after all.”

  The woman took notes while Elsa grinned. “I’m so excited for you!” She reached out and hugged Birgitta for the millionth time.

  “Good lord, Elsa. Control yourself,” Birgitta gently admonished with a wry twist of her lips.

  “I can’t help it. I’m a fool for love.”

  “Does this mean you and Lukas...?” Birgitta raised her eyebrow.

  Elsa sighed. “I don’t know yet. Things are going well and all, and we’re taking it one day at a time. It’s difficult enough just learning to be with someone new let alone a man you now share a bathroom with.”

  “Well that was cryptic.”

  The seamstress came up behind Elsa and lifted her arms indicating how she wanted the redhead to stand. She then began taking measurements around her bust, waist, and hips.

  “I didn’t mean for it to be, but I’ve never been one to be open about what I’m feeling. It wasn’t a desirable trait in my former career.”

  Birgitta laughed. “I imagine not, but it has been three years now. There’s no need to shut off your emotions to Lukas. Scheisse, you’re always gushing around me.”

  The smile returned. “That’s because you’re going to be Joseph’s wife, which maybe sort-of makes you almost my mother.” Elsa kept her eyes cast downward, unsure how Mahler would take her statement. She did love Birgitta like a mother, and everyone already knew that Heinz had become her father figure. Still, she worried that it might all be too much for the detective who already had a son of her own.