Grave Intent (31 page)

She reflected on those long evenings with Jan and Max in Chandu’s apartment, his cooking skills and booming laugh that could make the walls quake.

She made her decision and stepped inside.

She was greeted by lilting Italian music. The tables were covered with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths adorned with candles and napkins folded into stars. Two couples and a man who looked to be deeply absorbed in his newspaper occupied the main dining room. Zoe went past the bar and down the hall. A man of Chandu’s stature stood in front of an elaborately carved wooden door. He wasn’t quite so muscular as Chandu, but his chest did strain against his dark jacket. Chandu could win anyone over with his broad grin, but this man’s mug was that of a thug who took pleasure in carrying out his job. When he saw Zoe, he pulled off his sunglasses.

“Wasn’t expecting you here,” he said in his raspy voice.

“Morning, Maurice. Is he here?”

“Where else would he be?”

“No clue. Bordello, jail, in Hell.”

Maurice laughed. “Just like her mom.”

Zoe slapped him hard across the cheek. It made a loud clap. “Never mention my mother again, you filthy bastard.”

Maurice’s eyes smoldered with rage for a moment, reminding Zoe just what sort of violence he was capable of. But his anger subsided, and a smile returned to his face.

“He’ll be glad to see you.” Maurice opened the door and let Zoe in.

The adjoining room looked just like the main dining room—same decor, same tablecloth and candle—but there was only one table in this room. A man sat there digging into a plate of spaghetti. He coiled the noodles with the fork in his right hand while reading a notepad he held in his left. A layer of styling gel ran through his black hair—just enough so that it didn’t look greasy. His tailored suit fit perfectly, and his browned skin gave him that Mediterranean look. With his wealth and his ostensibly fine manners, he could have passed for a successful businessman anywhere. But Zoe knew better.

She sat down across from him, grabbed the wine bottle that was on the table, and poured herself a glass. The man set his work aside and raised his head.

“What a surprise,” he said, smiling.

“Hi, Tony.” Zoe took a sip of wine. It smelled of currants, and she could taste the oak barrel the wine had aged in. She nodded in appreciation.

“I’d prefer it if you called me Dad.”

Zoe set down her glass. “You might have made your sperm available, but you weren’t much of a father otherwise. Tony’s good.”

“It wasn’t my idea to write ‘unknown’ for father on your birth certificate.”

“What choice did Mom have? There were all those people looking for ways to put pressure on up-and-coming Tony. If the cops had found out, we’d have been under constant surveillance.”

“Your mother knew who I was.”

“That was her biggest mistake. Believing you would give anything up for her.”

“There’s only one way of dropping out of this life—as a corpse.” He bristled. “You might have despised what I do, but you two sure have enjoyed the quality of life my money has brought you.”

“I didn’t want a
quality of life
. I wanted a father. Someone who took me to school and put presents under the Christmas tree for me.”

“You think I didn’t want to?”

“No. Your career was more important.”

“In my field there is only up. Down below there’s a black plastic bag waiting.”

“Which is about what you’re worth.”

Tony contorted his mouth in anger and balled up his napkin. Then he laughed gently. “I’ve missed you.”

“Can’t say I feel the same way.”

He let go of the napkin and crossed his arms over his chest. “You definitely didn’t come here to voice your complaints about your screwed-up childhood. So what do you want? You need money?”

“If I needed money I wouldn’t be asking you. What I need is information.”

“Information?”

“You know a gunrunner named Linus Keller?”

Tony hesitated. “Possibly.”

“The shitbag sold weapons to some nutcase who then went and abducted a friend of mine. Linus is refusing to talk, so I need to ask you to have a chat with him.”

Tony picked up his glass of red and took a gulp without taking his eyes off Zoe. “I’m surprised. I thought you hated my business.”

“I do.”

“But you want me to rough someone up for you?”

“The motherfucker earned it. No room for scruples.”

“You seem attached to this friend of yours.”

“Doesn’t concern you.”

“Let’s say I do it,” Tony said. “Our noble Linus is a small fish, but he has influential customers. If I go interrogate him, it could cause me trouble.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I will, but my business would suffer. All that for your friend I don’t even know?” He shrugged.

Zoe leaned forward. “I’ll make you the following proposal, Pops.” She spat out the last word with contempt. “If you get the information I need out of Linus, to save my friend, I’ll come with you. That’s what you’ve always wanted, right? To spend more time with your daughter? For years you’ve been crying your eyes out about it. Now you have your chance.”

“You know what I do. I’m hardly ever in Berlin. You’d have to leave everything behind—your work, your place, even your friend, whoever he is. Your life as you know it would be over.”

“Just save his ass, and we have a deal.”

Zoe’s father stared into his wine. It shone bloodred in the candlelight. He drained it in one slug.

“So. Where do I find this Linus?”

Chapter Fourteen

Jan sat alone in his office. The dull red light of daybreak suited the photos of murder victims, suspects, the bizarre-looking autopsy close-ups. The grave murderer had sent him to the brink, but Chandu’s abduction had driven him beyond that.

He had read files all night, speculated on possible hideouts with Patrick, and weighed the accounts from witnesses who’d called in, but Jan nonetheless sensed that Elias Dietrich was going to outsmart them yet again. He would fall into their net eventually, but time was working against them. If they didn’t get that decisive lead soon, his friend was going to die tonight.

Jan fought the urge to push over the table. Every second he wasted on rage or sorrow was one less they had to help Chandu. He felt like a total failure, because he was the one who had let the grave murderer get away. He’d been so close to him. But Dietrich had instead made a mockery of him by diverting officers from Yuri Petrov’s grave with his own cell phone. He sighed audibly. There was no time to wallow in sentimentality or self-pity. His friend was counting on him.

He drew his weapon from his holster. He eyed the cold steel that he had despised for so long. And he made his decision.

Max had four monitors set up before him and the surveillance-camera tapes all running at the same time. He rubbed his aching eyes, but he didn’t avert his gaze, not for one second. It was eight in the morning. The sun was shining through the windows of police headquarters. Sixteen hours to go.

He’d been watching these goddamn films all night but had seen no trace of the minivan. They still had no clue where Elias Dietrich had taken Chandu. The APB on the vehicle was still going full bore, but if the grave murderer had parked the minivan inside a garage or warehouse? They would never find him.

Max edged closer to the monitors. Time was running out, so he sped up the recordings to double speed. People walked faster, autos whizzed through the frames like in some old black-and-white movie when cameras still had hand cranks. Max’s head hurt and his neck was stiff. All of a sudden he saw a dark VW Sharan. He slapped at the keyboard and the images stopped. He played back the recording in slow motion. It was a camera along the Tiergarten, not high res but good enough to make out plate numbers. The camera angle wasn’t great, and a car passing the VW hid any view of the driver, but for a single moment he could make out the license plate.

Max almost knocked over the chair with joy. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he loaded all the video footage around the Tiergarten onto his hard drive.

They had their first clue.

Klaus Bergman sat in his office with the door closed. He was drinking his eighth cup of black tea, which was doing little to stave off his exhaustion. The TV was turned on. It was eight a.m. and the local news was starting. He turned up the volume.

“The Berlin Police are asking citizens for assistance in the grave murderer case,” the female news anchor said. An image of Dietrich appeared.

“The prime suspect is Elias Dietrich. He is five foot eight, of slight build, with dark hair. He’s driving a dark-colored VW Sharan minivan. He is armed and dangerous. If you know anything about his current whereabouts, please report to the nearest police station. A reward of ten thousand euros has been set aside for any information leading to the suspect’s arrest . . .”

Bergman turned off the TV. He had done everything he could. He’d pulled all officers back from their vacations, extended patrol officers’ shifts, and drummed it into each of his cops that they were to squeeze everything they could out of every informant who had ever worked for the police. He’d played his last trump card with the public manhunt. There was nothing more he could do, but he still felt horrible.

In a few hours he’d have to release Linus Keller, probably the only person who knew anything about Chandu’s whereabouts. Keller would strut off with a big grin on his face, knowing they had no leverage on him. He could charge Keller for the HK in his possession but not hold him.

Bergman set down his cup. Though time was running short for Chandu, he’d built up a hard-hitting troop these last few years. This was, without a doubt, their toughest test. He’d have to trust that they’d prevail.

He didn’t want to imagine the alternatives.

The operations room was buzzing with activity. The investigators sat at their computers, talked loudly into their phones, or huddled in small groups comparing their findings. The air reeked of stale sweat, old coffee, and half-eaten street kebabs.

Patrick came running up to Jan with a stack of files under his arm. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. His hair was a mess by his standards, and he’d taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves.

“We know how he obtained the vehicle.” Patrick handed Jan a copy of a rental agreement. “He rented it.”

“In his own name?”

Patrick nodded. “He paid for three weeks, in advance, cash.”

“What about the plate number?”

“It’s gone out to all officers. But we’re stopping every VW Sharan just in case he swapped plates.”

“Does the vehicle have GPS?”

“Struck out on that, unfortunately. The rental doesn’t come with any bells and whistles. So we won’t get him that way.”

“Any progress on the manhunt?”

“Not yet. It’s like the earth swallowed the car whole.”

“What else can we be doing?”

“Not much. All officers are on the case. I put a few people on Chandu’s background. If we find any connection between him and the grave murderer, we might get to him that way.” Patrick placed a hand on Jan’s shoulder. “I know how much your friend means to you,” he said kindly. “We’re searching for him like he’s one of us. There’s still time. Don’t give up hope.”

Jan returned the gesture. “Thanks. You and your troops have been a huge help. We’re going to find him.” He tried to sound optimistic.

The door flung open. Max came bounding up to them, holding a few color printouts he almost dropped in his hurry. “I can narrow it down!”

His voice was nearly breaking. He stood in front of the map of Berlin. All eyes turned to him.

“I located the Sharan twice. Once here . . .” He circled the Tiergarten with a pen. “And a second time here in Friedrichshain.” Another circle. “The first hit was on the Strasse des 17. Juni. The second was on Karl-Marx-Allee. If we connect these two points, as seen from Oranienburger Strasse, then we significantly narrow down our search area.”

“Well done.” Jan patted his friend on the shoulder. “That eliminates two-thirds of Berlin.”

“It’s still a huge area, I’m afraid.” Max shrugged in apology.

“If we assume from this that Dietrich remained in Berlin,” Patrick said, “then his likely destinations are either Lichtenberg or Marzahn-Hellersdorf.”

“He could, of course, have driven to the left, into Petersburger Strasse, or right into Warschauer Strasse,” Jan added. “In which case we’ll have to figure in Prenzlauer Berg and Treptow.”

“I’m ordering all units off the west-side neighborhoods and over there.” Patrick ran to a phone and frantically tapped in a number.

“I haven’t gone through it all yet,” Max said. “I’ll keep searching. If I see the Sharan again, I’ll be in touch.” The young intern gave a little salute and left the ops room.

Jan grabbed his car keys. “Reach me on my cell,” he shouted as he left the room and ran out to the parking lot. He wasn’t going to just sit on his butt while his friend was waiting to die.

He looked at his watch. Fifteen hours left.

Bergman watched from his office as Linus Keller was released from custody. They couldn’t hold him any longer. This thug was their key to the grave murderer, and yet here he was leaving the station with a big fat smile on his face. Linus seemed to savor every step. He pivoted around and clapped his hands in a poor imitation of a show dancer.

“Had a lovely time with you all,” he shouted into the lobby. All heads turned to him. “But I have to go prepare for a little party I’m throwing.” Another pivot on the balls of his feet. “My good old friend Chandu will be killed by the grave murderer soon, so I need to make sure I have enough champagne in the house.”

Linus raised a hand and waved at the officers present. “Have fun, you guys,” he said. Then he left the station.

Bergman slammed the door to his office. On days like this, he hated his job.

Jan peered at the cars parked along the side of the street. His car smelled of French fries and a slowly fermenting milkshake that had spilled all over the floor when he’d had to slam on the brakes earlier. He hadn’t allowed himself anything more than a brief detour to a drive-in window—and even that made him feel guilty, as though he were somehow betraying his friend by eating.

His phone rang, startling him.

“What have you got?” he barked, hoping it was Max calling, that he’d been able to further narrow down the search radius.

“It’s Tim Ratinger.”

“Did you find the informer?” Jan asked, suddenly hopeful.

“I did, but he’s gone underground.”

“Who is it?”

“Name of Jordan, last name unknown. A small-time fence working out of the Wedding district who must have been doing some big business these last few weeks. He’s closed up shop and disappeared without a trace.”