Good As Gone (7 page)

“He’s still in Paris,” I said. “Your men can pick him up if they want. Or not. Doesn’t matter. I got everything there was to get from the guy. Fleischer thought he was setting the Sorkins up to lose some jewelry, not their daughter.”

“But the timing of all this tells us that the Germans were here specifically for Lindsay Sorkin.”

“That it does.”

“Then why no ransom demand? Why no demand for information? What in the hell is their endgame?”

“We can’t rule out the possibility that something went wrong,” I said. “That the girl is dead.”

“Merde,”
he mumbled.

“Either way,” I said, “my guess is that our answers are in Berlin, and that’s where I’m going.”

“Very well. Let’s move to the back room and speak with the Sorkins.”

*

Lori Sorkin was almost unrecognizable. Her eyes remained vacant, her neck hung loosely at an odd angle, her jaw had gone slack. She appeared heavily medicated. She had the same stare Tasha had when I returned home from Romania to find that Hailey had gone missing. Tasha had blamed me, of course. For being in Bucharest hunting a fugitive when Hailey was taken. In time, Tasha would come to blame herself a whole hell of a lot more. Enough to take her own life with prescription pills.

The coroner had ruled Tasha’s death accidental. But I knew otherwise.

“It’ll be seventy-two hours tonight,” Vince said.

“If we’re dealing with professionals, as the evidence now seems to suggest, then we may have a wider window than we originally thought,” I said. “That doesn’t mean we can slow down, but it does give us reason to maintain hope.”

Vince nodded. “Lieutenant Davignon says you’re leaving for Berlin. I want to come with you.”

I shook my head. “That wouldn’t be wise. First, you’d be bringing the media along with you, and that puts Lindsay at risk. It destroys the element of surprise. Secondly, I’m a professional, and I work alone. No offense, Vince, but you’ll only get in the way.”

Lori said softly, “What will you do if you find these two men?”

“
When
I find them, I will do whatever is necessary to make them lead me to Lindsay. Let’s leave it at that.”

Vince reached into his jacket and removed a thick envelope. “You’ll need money,” he said, holding the envelope out to me. “I’ve withdrawn ten thousand euros from my bank. If you need more, please call me.”

I took the envelope. “All right.”

“You will also require some new clothes,” Davignon said. “I have taken the liberty of calling Francesco Smalto’s. They have prepared several suits using the measurements they took yesterday. Bertrand is picking them up now.”

From the corner of my eye I caught Lori dabbing at fresh tears with a ball of tissues. It reminded me of what our home looked like in the days following Hailey’s disappearance. Tissues everywhere. On tables and counters, on carpets and hardwood floors. Tasha had carried a box of tissues around as though it were a life preserver. Carried the box around even more often than the phone. A couple of nights after Hailey went missing, she’d placed the box of tissues in the middle of our bed. At first I was angry that she wouldn’t let me comfort her anymore. Then I realized how much I needed
her
to comfort me. That night I experienced a second loss and it continued to eat at me even now. All it had taken was a box of tissues to keep me and my wife from holding each other while we waited out life’s most brutal storm.

“You’ll need each other to get through this,” I said to the Sorkins. “At times you’ll want to pull away. After you get tired of blaming yourself, you’ll want to blame each other and that’s fine. Have it out. Fight like hell, but never stop loving each other. Never think that it would be better if you were each on your own. Until we bring Lindsay home, there’s no one in the world who will fully understand what you’re going through except the two of you. Your shared history, your shared love of Lindsay, that’s what will get you through. It may sound trite, but it’s true.”

Although the words were unsolicited, Vince wrapped a long arm around Lori and pulled her to him. She set the ball of tissues down on her lap and nestled her head on his chest while stroking his arm. Silently, she mouthed the words
thank you.

I turned back to Davignon. “I’ll also need transportation when I arrive in Berlin.”

Davignon nodded. “An automobile?”

“No, something I can really maneuver. A motorcycle. And since I’m heading to Germany, best make it a BMW.”

“It will be arranged,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I’ll need a gun.”

Chapter 12

I arrived at Tegel Airport early the next morning, following a two-hour Lufthansa flight from Charles de Gaulle. I picked up the silver BMW K 1600 GTL at a rental agency and drove straight to Tiergarten, where Kurt Ostermann now maintained his office. I hadn’t seen Ostermann in ages. Eight years earlier the private investigator had aided me in tracking down a twelve-year-old girl and her father. When we found them, the father gave himself up straightaway. The girl, on the other hand, ran. Ostermann and I chased after her through the slush-covered streets of Berlin. The chase ended with the girl darting out in front of a night bus. The girl lived. But the matter nearly became an international incident. Ostermann, a former member of the parliamentary police, used his considerable influence with the Ministry of the Interior to keep the matter under wraps.

Ostermann’s new office was located in a rather utilitarian building that resembled some federal holding facilities back in the States. The building looked as though it had been carved out of a single slab of concrete. The entire structure was cold, uninviting. I had half a mind to phone Ostermann and ask him to meet me outside. But then, Ostermann didn’t know I was coming. Given our history, I thought it better that I request his assistance face-to-face.

I stepped into the building and stopped at the security desk. I was wearing one of the new suits procured for me by the French police. I hoped it was enough for me to gain entry. Only this wasn’t a nightclub; it was a place where important business was conducted.

“Identifikation,”
the guard said.

“Sorry,” I said, emphasizing my British accent. “I am afraid I’m not carrying any. I’m here to see Herr Ostermann.”

As a child I’d clung to my English accent as though it were a life preserver. Drove my father crazy, and the more it did, the thicker my accent became. It was the cause of a few ass-kickings, both at home and in the schoolyard, but by the time I reached college I’d realized it didn’t hurt with the American girls, so I did nothing to dilute it. By the time I married Tasha, it was like a stubborn rash, impossible to get rid of. Now that I spent more time in Europe and Asia than I did stateside, it served me well. Especially in countries that didn’t particularly care for American foreign policy during the W years.

“Is Herr Ostermann expecting you?”

“Of course.”

“Name?”

I couldn’t exactly throw the name Simon Fisk around Germany since the incident with the girl.

“Bateman,” I said. “Patrick Bateman.” It was the cover I had used last time Ostermann and I worked together. After he’d dubbed me an American psycho.

“One moment, Herr Bateman.” The guard called upstairs, announced me as a visitor, took some instructions, then hung up the phone. To me, he said, “Fifth floor, Herr Bateman.”

I made for the elevators. Rode one to the fifth floor. A sign indicated Ostermann’s office was at the end of the hall.

“
Guten Tag,
Magda,” I said when I entered the small reception area. I was surprised to see Magda Gerhardt still working for Ostermann. Eight years ago Ostermann had started getting it on with the fetching brunette, and he’d told me her husband was already suspicious. I checked Magda’s finger for a ring and saw none.

“Herr Fisk,” she said. Seemed she was even more surprised to see me. Not pleasantly, from the look on her face. “Excuse me. I will go and get Kurt.”

“Danke,”
I said.

Magda remained in Ostermann’s office longer than it would take to announce me. I was becoming anxious, pacing around reception, picking up and flipping through old copies of
Der Spiegel.
Finally, Ostermann showed his face. He’d aged well. In his midforties, he maintained a fit physique and his hair was every bit as blond as the day I’d met him. His ice-blue eyes bore into me like a laser. I noticed Magda had remained behind in his office.

“Simon,” he said, without extending his hand. “This is unexpected. What brings you to Berlin?”

“A missing girl.”

Ostermann smirked, regarded me silently for a few moments as though he thought I might be joking.

Finally, he said, “Yes, well. Last time did not end with champagne and balloons.”

“No, it certainly didn’t,” I said. “But this time is different.”

Ostermann took a step back and appraised me. “Why? Because you’ve learned how to dress?”

I watched for a smile but none was forthcoming. I was beginning to sense some hostility and I told him so.

“Well, at least you have
some
sense,” he said, raising his voice.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, Simon, you certainly did not show any sense by arriving in my office after eight years.”

“Are you asking me to leave?” I said.

“Asking you to leave?” he shouted. “You are lucky I do not cut off your balls,
schwanzlutscher.
”

The door to his inner office opened and Magda poked her head out. Ostermann barked a command at her in German, then turned back to me as she disappeared.

“You have
one minute,
Simon,” he said as his stern, pale cheeks turned crimson. “You have
one minute
to explain to me what the hell you are doing in Berlin.”

I narrowed my eyes, then glanced at the door to the hall. I wanted like all hell to use it. But this wasn’t about me and Kurt Ostermann and the events that had transpired nearly a decade ago. It was about a child. And I knew damn well that I needed his help to find her.

“This little girl I’m looking for, she wasn’t abducted by one of her parents,” I said evenly. “She was taken in the middle of the night from her hotel room in Paris.”

Ostermann’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “The American girl?”

“Lindsay Sorkin, yes.”

He remained silent for a moment, then stuffed his hands into his pockets and said quietly, “I stayed at home watching the coverage all of yesterday. Magda and I, we have a boy, Jakob. He’s around Lindsay’s age.” His eyes dropped to the floor, then suddenly rose to meet mine. “But I heard nothing about this girl being in Berlin.”

“The media have no idea,” I said. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

Standing in his reception area, I briefed Ostermann on the events of the previous forty-eight hours. Being pulled over by the French police, then hauled by Davignon to an empty cottage in a rural suburb forty kilometers north of Paris. Facing threats of arrest for retrieving the boy in Bordeaux. Meeting Vince and Lori Sorkin and agreeing to inspect their suite at Hotel d’Étonner. Finding the crushed tab of Ecstasy, locating the dealer Remy, and learning whom he’d sold 007s to over the past ten days. Linking the buyers to the bellhop Johan Fleischer, tracking Fleischer’s girlfriend, Sandrine, then chasing Fleischer himself through the streets of the Left Bank. Dragging him back to a pizza parlor in the Bastille after he confessed to his role with his head in a women’s toilet. The Algerian waitress’s positive identification. Eliciting the names Dietrich and Karl from the desk clerk at Hotel Lyon. Sneaking up to the kidnappers’ room and finding the piss-covered train schedule.

“Which brings me here,” I said.

“In Berlin,” Ostermann said in apparent disbelief, “searching for two blond-haired, blue-eyed men named Dietrich and Karl.”

“It’s more than I had when Davignon brought me up to the Sorkins’ hotel room in Paris,” I said.

“I suppose it is.” Ostermann paced about without looking at me. His right thumbnail found its way between his teeth and he bit into it. These nervous tics seemed entirely out of character. For as long as I’d known him, Ostermann had always been as cool as the North Sea.

“Simon,” he said finally, “we must—”

The phone on Magda’s desk began to ring. Ostermann held a finger up to me and lifted the receiver. He spoke quickly in German, hung up the phone, and turned back to me.

“That was the security desk downstairs,” he said. “The police have arrived.”

“The police?”

“I am sorry, Simon. I ordered Magda to call them a few minutes ago. Before I knew why you were here.” He shrugged and forced a smile. “You would have known if you had brushed up on your German.” He set aside the smile and raised a reassuring hand. “But it is all right. I just explained to security that the police must take the elevator and move all their men to the rear, because I do not want any media attention. We can take the stairs and exit through the front doors. You have a vehicle?”

“Yes,” I said. “But why are the police after me?”

Ostermann glared at me as though I should know.

“The twelve-year-old girl Elise Huber,” he said. “From eight years ago.”

“Eight years ago,” I said. “But surely Germany has a statute of limitations—”

“Not for murder, Simon.”

“Murder?”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “The girl died from her injuries.” Ostermann grabbed my arm and pulled me to the door. “Now hurry, Simon. We do not have much time.”

Chapter 13

The police didn’t exactly follow Ostermann’s instructions. As soon as we entered the stairwell we heard a bevy of boots tramping up the steps.

“Scheiβe,”
Ostermann said.

I stood in the stairwell, listening to the echoes of their footfalls, and suddenly found myself frozen with shock. Elise Huber was dead. I’d made plenty of mistakes in my post-marshal career but nothing on par with this. This was exactly what I had spent the past ten years of my life trying to prevent—a parent from losing her child. Elise Huber’s mother, Heidi, had been my client. She’d paid me and paid me well. I’d spoken to her just after the accident and she’d told me she would immediately fly to Berlin. Had she made it in time to see her daughter? Had she been by her daughter’s side when she died? Why hadn’t I ever heard from Heidi again?