Dead Woods (9 page)

Max thought he must not have heard her right, which didn’t happen often. “Excuse me?”

“Yep. I became a cop on a bet.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Lina shook her head and took another sip of beer. “I know, no one ever freaking buys it, but it’s true.” And she told Max about that evening eight, almost nine, years ago. It was after her kickboxing class. She’d gone to a bar with some others from her group. “We were all in our twenties,” Lina explained. “A few of us were unemployed, a few studied at the university without much enthusiasm, some had jobs, and one was doing an apprenticeship as a printer. I’d been enrolled at the university the past two years—ethnology—but I had expected more and was bored. The lectures only cursorily covered questions about how people in different cultures deal with life, how they shape it, even though it should have been the very core of the field. Or maybe I always chose the wrong seminars.”

That evening at the bar, the discussion had turned to occupations and career prospects. Someone mentioned that the job security offered to civil servants was totally cool, eliciting a “yuck” from someone else, and others chimed in with descriptions of civil servants, leaving out not a single stereotype: lazy, slow, stuffy, reactionary, without imagination, and dead set against any change. And cops—they were the worst. “Actually, I’d really like to find out whether that’s true,” Lina had thought out loud. “I mean, I only know cops from demonstrations and traffic stops. Hard to believe they’re all idiots.”

“Why don’t you try it out?” one of the gang, Lutz, had said. “Then you’ll know.”

“Hm, not a bad idea.”

All the others had laughed their heads off. Lina, a cop? Lina who had been at demonstrations with her mother ever since she was a toddler and who got sick at the mere sight of someone in uniform? “You wouldn’t dare,” Lutz had said.

“Just watch me,” she replied.

“Never.”

“I’ll do it.”

That was that. She couldn’t back down. They decided that she would apply for police training and, if accepted, stay with it for four weeks. She had to swear she wouldn’t intentionally flunk the entrance exam. If she lasted the four weeks, her friends around the table would throw a super party for her. If she gave up before the four weeks were over, she’d have to clean the toilet at the dojo for a month.

“In the beginning, I didn’t take the whole thing seriously,” Lina explained to Max. “I mean, I never thought they’d take me. My mother used to occupy empty houses—she was a squatter. She’s still active. You know, St. Pauli, the coalition against gentrification, and so on. But despite all that, I passed the test for the criminal division.” With a wry smile, she added, “I’m a little too small for the uniformed police, but in Major Crimes even a little person has a chance. So I started the training.”

“And when your four weeks were over?” Max asked and ordered another orange juice and another beer.

“We had a huge party. My buddies rented an entire bar. Everyone knew about me, my new name was Miss Piggy, and they laughed their heads off that we, of all people, had managed to place a mole with the cops.”

Max tilted his head, as he always did when he was stunned by something somebody said. “Sounds like your group saw the police as the enemy.”

Lina gave him an astonished look. “Of course we did! What did you think? Otherwise, the bet would have been a joke. The club sits smack in the middle of St. Pauli, right in the red-light district. Half those people I was with were politically active.” She shrugged. “Cops were public enemy number one. That’s how I grew up, and that’s how a few in the club still think today.” She took a sip of her beer, put her elbows on the counter, and stopped talking.

“So why did you stay?” Max asked after a while.

Lina remained silent. She wondered for a moment how she could sit in a bar with Max and tell him what she hadn’t told any other colleague, things she could only talk about with very few people. After a long time she said, “I found the training surprisingly interesting, and so I just stayed on for a while after the first four weeks. On one of the first operations during my training, we raided a brothel. We found three girls from Sri Lanka, none of them older than their midteens. They were here illegally, of course, and they didn’t know one word of German . . . except some pertinent jargon.” She laughed bitterly. “I saw the fear in their eyes. I heard what my colleagues came up with, not even under their breath, along the lines of ‘Pity we’re on call.’ I tried to calm the three girls the best I could. I tried to speak English with them, which they understood a little, well, better than many of my colleagues. But in the end they were still led away in handcuffs.” She shrugged. “Afterward I was singled out by our trainer. He claimed I had interfered with the investigation, done things on my own, without permission. I said that I simply felt sorry for the girls. ‘If you plan on staying with the police,’ I was told, ‘you’ll have to learn quickly that that’s exactly what such people want you to feel.’” Lina inhaled deeply. “I think that was the moment I realized that I was going to stay on. I saw the girls. I saw their fear. They didn’t want to play me—I’m sure of that. To help such girls, I could achieve much more if I was with the police than if I were working for some initiative or nonprofit against forced prostitution and human trafficking.” She grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “And so I stayed . . . much to the chagrin of some of my colleagues.”

For most members of the police force Max knew, Lina was something exotic, something to be approached with curiosity, mistrust, or even open dislike, especially since she wasn’t one to keep her opinions to herself. He still remembered her first day with the homicide squad. She wore black jeans, heavy boots, and a hoodie. Her spiked hair was streaked with neongreen. Hanno’s eyes almost popped out. Alex just silently shook his head. Sebastian thought at first she was a perp who had escaped somehow from one of the interrogation rooms.

Max knew it wasn’t easy for her and was about to say something, when a woman bent over the bar from the other side and said, “Hey, Andre said you wanted to ask me something.”

Max looked up. The woman in front of them wore her hair in a ponytail. Her small, strong hands rested on the counter. This must be Michele, the woman who worked on Thursday and might remember Frank Jensen. Lina was lost in thought, so Max nodded and slid the photo toward the woman. “Have you ever seen this man?”

Michele just glanced at the picture and nodded. “Sure, that’s Frank. He’s been here a lot lately. Always drinks more than is good for him.” She looked up. “Has he done something wrong?”

“No. My sister’s looking for him,” Max said, smiling. Lina raised her head and looked at him. “Was he also here the day before yesterday?”

“Day before . . . Thursday. Yes, I think so. Yes, for sure. He was talking with one of our other regulars. The two have become friends, I think. At least they’re always talking when they meet here, even though Frank otherwise likes to be left alone. Dirk, the other one, was here, too, on Thursday. He bought me a drink to celebrate that he’s off for a week.”

Lina cleared her throat. “That means he’s out of town?”

Michele nodded. “He was going to go to Freiburg, to visit family, or something.” She eyed them warily.

“Do you have any idea how we could reach Dirk? Or what his last name is?” Lina asked.

Michele picked up a rag and started to wipe the counter, though it wasn’t dirty. “Why do you want to know that? Are you from the police?”

“Man, I suck at undercover work.” Lina winked at the woman. “Yes, we’re from the police. We’re investigating a murder. A man lost his life and left a woman and her little son behind. All we want to know is whether this man,” she pointed at the photo, “was here on Thursday and when he left. Do you know anything about him? You know his name, after all.”

Michele slowly looked from Lina to Max. “I’ve talked with him a few times when we weren’t busy. He told me he’s doing something with computers and that someone conned him—if I got it right.” She shrugged. “He drinks a lot. I always tell him to be careful, but he just gestures and tells me that nothing matters anymore. It’s been really bad these past few weeks; he’s letting himself go more and more. On Thursday he said his wife walked out on him.”

“He told you that?”

“No, he told Dirk. I overheard him when I brought them another beer.” She hesitated for a moment and then continued. “At first, Frank ordered a cocktail every now and then or a grappa, but lately, he mostly has beer. It’s cheaper.”

“Do you remember when Frank came in and when he left? Also, did he leave alone?” Lina asked.

“When he came . . . I don’t remember. Maybe half past seven, or eight. Dirk left at some point, and Frank had another beer or two at the bar. He was pretty smashed when he finally left . . . around eleven or eleven thirty, I think.”

“Did he walk or did he call a cab?”

Michele shook her head. “He walked. At least, we didn’t order a cab for him. Of course, he could’ve hailed one outside or he could have ordered one on his phone.”

“But was Frank capable of walking home on his own?”

Michele shrugged. “He was really drunk, true, and could hardly walk straight, but he still knew who he was and where he was.” Almost imperceptibly, she squared her shoulders. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have let him leave alone. After all, we’re responsible for our guests.”

Lina and Max exchanged a quick glance and then Max nodded. “Good, Frau . . . sorry, I only know your first name, Michele. You’ve helped us a lot.” He was his usual polite self and Michele’s expression softened. “If you can think of anything else, please call us.” He slid his business card toward her.

She looked at it quickly and put it in her pocket. Leaning over the counter, hesitantly, she asked in a low voice, “Frank isn’t in trouble, is he?”

Chapter 8

Rays of sunshine fell through the window directly onto Lina’s face. She blinked lazily and contentedly inhaled the tangy male scent, this mixture of perspiration, beer, and lust. She lay on her side and could see the strong arms and bristly chin of the man next to her through half-closed eyes. Sleepily, she rubbed her nose against his warm skin, caressed his firm biceps with her lips and bent forward until she reached the thin, sensitive skin of the crook of his arm. From farther up, she heard a slight grunt, half panting and half groaning. She dove underneath his elbow, pushed her head between his arm and his chest, and cuddled against his naked torso.

“Still asleep?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

An arm covered her shoulder and pulled her closer to the warm body. Contentedly, she closed her eyes and sighed. His head was bending toward her, and she felt the hot breath as his dry lips touched her forehead. A tongue outlined her eyebrows. She tilted her head backward and a rough chin scratched along her cheek until lips found her mouth. The dry, tentative kiss—sleepy and badly aimed—tasted of garlic and cigarettes. Lina put a hand on his chest, searched for tiny nipples, scratched them lightly, tugged and twisted.

At first she didn’t even register the ringing of the phone. Lutz’s kisses became more insistent, and he moved around as if he wanted to create a noise that would drown the digital ringing. Lina didn’t want to hear it, either, but finally could no longer ignore it.

“I’ve got to take it,” she said and wriggled out of the embrace that she herself had sought.

“Come on! You’re not on duty.”

“In a way I am, though.” She got up and could hear Lutz suck in air.

She didn’t know the number on the display and hesitated. It could be important, or not. Finally her curiosity got the better of her and she answered.

“Hello, Lina. It’s me.”

Lina rolled her eyes. “What do you want?” she asked instead of saying hello.

“Oh . . . Lina, dear, don’t sulk again right away.”

She rolled her eyes once more.

The man on the phone cleared his throat. “I’ve heard that Katja Ansmann’s partner was murdered and that you are part of the investigative team.”

Lina needed a moment to connect the dots. Katja Ansmann? She knew no Katja Ansmann. Then she remembered everything and had to sit down. “Why are you interested in this?”

He coughed slightly. “Katja’s father is a good friend of mine. He was very upset because the police interrogated his daughter, and not very sensitively, to hear him tell it.”

Lina thought of Max—his gentle look, his soft voice—and knew this wasn’t true. “So?” she said, grabbing the blanket from the couch and wrapping herself in it.

“That’s when your name was mentioned . . . Johannes doesn’t know that you’re my daughter . . .”
Of course not
, Lina thought. “But I’d like to ask you to be careful. This man has connections in the highest circles.”

“And you think this threat intimidates me?”

“Lina, dear, I’m not threatening at all. I’m just worried about you. After all, I know how easily you get carried away.”

You know nothing
, thought Lina. She felt like flinging the phone against the wall. She hated it when her father called her
dear
, but his call made her curious. After all, they had only sporadic contact. Suppressing a yawn, she looked at her watch. It was a little after eight thirty.

“I’m just saying,” her father continued, “Johannes is simply worried about his daughter. She told him that two officers came by and interrogated her, as if she were one of the suspects. I’d just like to know whether the police really think his daughter might have anything to do with this man’s death.”

“Has nobody ever told you the police don’t give out such information, especially not to relatives of those involved? Or are you just used to always getting what you want?”

“I have no idea what you’re alluding to, Lina. I just want to do you and my friend a favor. If I knew the woman wasn’t a suspect, I could give him a little hint, so he calms down.” He paused. “And doesn’t pull strings. He’s been very discreet so far.”

“And why did he tell you about it?”

“Because I’m his friend.”

She got nauseous from the way her father pronounced
friend
. She grimaced but pulled herself together and asked in the most matter-of-fact voice she could muster, “So how does your friend make his money?”

Her father paused, then said, “He owns a long-established private Hamburg bank. Fifth generation.” He fell silent again. “Only a handful of people know what I’m telling you now. I hope you realize how much I trust you.” Lina heard him draw a deep breath. “The Ansmann & Son Bank is on the brink of insolvency—though nothing’s final yet. They suffered tremendous losses during the financial crisis and haven’t managed to recover so far. You understand, Johannes needs all his strength right now to save the family business. I’d like to take off a little pressure by telling him that he doesn’t have to worry about Katja.”

Lina’s thoughts were racing. Why had her father told her this explosive piece of information? His claim that it was a sign he trusted her was a joke. She almost felt insulted that he thought she might fall for it. Maybe it wasn’t such confidential information; or possibly it wasn’t even true. But her father seemed to think that in exchange for it she would give him what he wanted: eliminating Katja Ansmann from her list of suspects. It proved how little he knew his daughter because from now on, the dead man’s partner would be on top of that list, in red letters. Lina realized that her father was waiting for an answer.

“If Katja Ansmann is innocent, she has nothing to fear,” she said. “That much you can tell your friend, in case he hasn’t figured it out on his own.”

“Oh, Lina, I really wish we could—”

“I don’t care what you wish.” She ended the call. It was quiet in the apartment and even the noises from outside were those of a tranquil Sunday morning: the occasional car; soft music from the house next door, the one in which a notorious early riser lived; a child’s chatter here and there; laughter. Lina got up and, naked, went into the bedroom. Lutz had turned to his side and was snoring quietly. For a moment she considered slipping back into bed with him, but then decided against it. Her father’s call had been a mood killer. She was wide-awake now, and her thoughts were on the case.

So she took a long shower in her little bathroom next to the kitchen. While warm water poured down on her body, she mulled over the visit to Katja Ansmann’s apartment in Rothenbaum. Had they been impolite? Absolutely not. At least Max wasn’t. And she herself had hardly said a word to the woman. In her present mellow, Sunday-morning mood, Lina was ready to admit that she might not have viewed Frau Ansmann the way a detached investigator should from the very start, but her father’s call had fueled her suspicion. She noticed that she was eager to go. After drying herself, she put on fresh clothes—three-quarter jeans and a T-shirt. She brewed coffee, heated milk for foaming, and finally went to the bedroom with two cups. She put them on the old suitcase that served as her nightstand, sat down on the edge of the bed, and stroked Lutz’s straggly hair. A thin layer of sweat covered his forehead and, now that she was freshly showered, she was disagreeably affected by his smell, which told of a long evening in a bar, of sex and lust, and of falafel at one thirty in the morning. She couldn’t help but think of Max, who always looked as if he just came out of the shower, with clothes right from the cleaner—somewhat sterile and distant, but he still touched her sometimes in a way nobody else ever had, with his voice, his gaze, and the way he tilted his head. She quickly pushed the thought away.

Lutz squinted when the scent of coffee reached his nose. He turned on his back and stuffed a pillow under his neck. Lina handed him one of the cups.

“Was that your boss?” he asked.

Lina took a sip. “More or less. Either way, I’ve got to be on my way again.”

Lutz didn’t say anything, but his expression spoke loud enough, and Lina couldn’t blame him. She had also imagined a leisurely day. Maybe a walk to the Elbe, where they could watch large container ships creating huge waves, run into old acquaintances, have a coffee—or two, or three—at one of the beach bars and then . . . just while the day away, watch time stand still.

But now she couldn’t get Katja Ansmann out of her mind.

She left the house at a quarter to ten. The subway was pleasantly empty and cool, and police headquarters on Bruno-Georges-Platz also gave the impression that half of the people who usually worked there had been swallowed by the big hole that was summer.

Neither Hanno nor any of her other colleagues were in their offices. She remembered that Hanno had mentioned a family celebration yesterday, a mother-in-law’s birthday or something similar. Sebastian might be watching the security videos, or not. And Max? All she knew about Max was that he lived somewhere in Winterhude and that he was single. So why the hell wasn’t he working today?

She turned on her computer with a sigh. While the system came to life and connected her to the server, she got herself some coffee from the vending machine in the hall. After checking her e-mail, she logged into the police database and typed “Ansmann, Johannes.” She got the information that was on file at the residents’ registration office: Johannes Ansmann, fifty-nine years old, married, two daughters, one son. Occupation: banker. Johannes Ansmann lived in Blankenese. Lina was familiar with his street there, quiet, with huge, partly visible lots where large mansions hid from view. Those homes looked out on the Elbe. Other than a few recent speeding tickets, there was nothing in the police computer about her father’s friend. She tried “Ansmann, Katja,” but found nothing more than she already knew. She entered both names in various search engines and networks. Near the top of the results, she saw Katja’s name on the homepage of Hamburg’s Chamber of Commerce, IHK Hamburg. Lina clicked on the link and found out that Katja had given a lecture at the IHK at the beginning of the year. “Personnel Management and Social Networking.” It started at 7:00 p.m.

Hadn’t Katja claimed she was at an IHK lecture on Thursday evening? But she came home around half past twelve in the morning. To Lina it seemed quite a long time for a midweek talk. She clicked on the program page and looked for Thursday evening. “Corporate Culture and Social Media” with Sonja Richter. Lina frowned. Above the announcement, there was a comment in red: “Lecture Postponed,” and also, “We apologize for any inconvenience the short notice causes. If you subscribe to our newsletter, you will be informed as soon as a replacement date is set.”
Well, well!
Lina thought. So, good old Frau Ansmann lied. And if she only came home at half past twelve, as her babysitter confirmed, she’d have had time to kill her partner in the woods.

Lina leaned back in her chair, swayed left and right, and further developed her thought. Philip Birkner had a date with his lover on Thursday, Katja suspected that much, and spied on him. To us she used the IHK lecture to explain why Philip had to attend the concert alone. She sees him with the other woman, follows them, and in the heat of passion kills the father of her child. But what does the unknown woman do in the meantime? Does she just stand there and watch? And who created the other footsteps at the scene of the crime?

No matter how she twisted and turned the evidence, something didn’t add up. It could be that Katja killed her partner in a fit of jealousy, even though Lina didn’t get the impression that Katja had very strong feelings for Philip Birkner, positive or negative. She didn’t even seem to realize that he never came home on Thursday. Did that happen often? Was it because they had separate sleeping arrangements, with her in the bedroom and him in the study? But Lina was mainly stumped by the two tickets that Philip had reserved for the concert. Did he originally plan to attend with his domestic partner or with his lover? But if his lover Tanja and the unknown woman were the same person, why did he then order two tickets and only get one, while she came with a girlfriend?

She picked up the phone and dialed Tanja Fischer’s number, but, like Max before, she only reached the mailbox.

Lina turned to the computer again, deep in thought. She found the homepage of the Ansmann & Son Bank—simple but elegant, revealing very little. Then she checked out the page of the management consulting firm where Katja Ansmann worked. The style was very similar—no wonder, since both firms used the same web designer. When Lina accessed the site of the Registry of Companies to learn more about the bank and the consulting firm, she found out that the latter was a daughter company of the former and that Katja Ansmann was listed as chief executive. There was no evidence at all of the imminent bankruptcy of Ansmann & Son, which did not surprise her. After some thought, she typed “European Justice Portal” and clicked on the link to insolvency announcements. No response came when she typed the name of the bank. Lina gnawed on her lower lip. The fact that the name of the bank didn’t show up here meant nothing. After all, her father had said that the insolvency was imminent. If it was not official yet, it would be difficult to find out anything quickly about the financial situation of the family enterprise.