Private Berlin (18 page)

ABOARD PRIVATE’S CORPORATE jet, returning to Berlin two hours later, Mattie finally got up the nerve to call Katharina Doruk.

She answered in an infuriated rave: “You hung up on me?”

“Calm down,” Mattie said. “We’ve made a break. A big one.”

“I don’t care!” Katharina shouted. “Where are you?”

“On the jet. We’ll land in half an hour.”

Katharina fumed, “You didn’t talk to Frankfurt Kripo?”

“We’ll do it by phone,” Mattie said. “We—uh, Burkhart and I—felt like we needed to get back to Berlin ASAP.”

“That makes you a fugitive!”

Mattie had had enough. “Only if we don’t catch the bastard who killed Chris and Ilse Frei and Artur Jaeger and who knows how
many others!”

That silenced Private Berlin’s managing investigator for several moments before she said in a hoarse, barely controlled voice,
“What did you find?”

Mattie gave Katharina a wrap-up of their trips to Ilse Frei’s home and the Paradise FKK, including the vague description she’d
gotten of the Mask man.

“Did you show them pictures of Hermann Krüger or Maxim Pavel?” she demanded.

“Both,” Mattie said. “They said they couldn’t be sure in either case because the only reason they know it’s one guy coming
back is the fact that he always shows up with a new mask.”

“So, what, he’s an art collector like Krüger?” Katharina asked.

“They didn’t know, but one of the women said he knew everything about the mask he wore while they had sex. It’s called a Chokwe
tribal mask. She says it was leather and ebony and ivory and depicts a monster.”

“My money’s on Krüger,” Katharina said. “High Commissar Dietrich thinks it’s him as well. He called here looking for you about
an hour ago. Berlin Kripo found a gun in the trunk of one of Krüger’s cars this morning. Ballistics tests show it’s the same
.40 caliber that killed Agnes. They’re preparing an arrest warrant, but I’ll call Rudy Krüger, see if his stepfather collected
masks.”

“Good idea,” Mattie replied, then asked Katharina to tell Dr. Gabriel that Ilona Frei had been in and out of mental facilities
and was a methadone addict. She also told Katharina about their suspicions regarding the son of the man named Falk who’d run
the slaughterhouse.

After Katharina promised to start running those leads down, Mattie called her aunt Cäcilia to warn her that it was going to
be another late night. Mattie felt a few moments of guilt at not spending time with Niklas. But she told herself that it was
justified. Niklas wanted to know who killed Chris as much as she did.

Mattie hung up just as the pilot came on over the intercom to tell them they were in their initial approach to Berlin and
to turn off all electronic devices.

She looked over at Burkhart, who turned off his iPad.

“Any luck?” she asked.

Burkhart nodded as he slid it into a neoprene sleeve. “There’s a professor at Potsdam I found, an expert on masks and primitive
art. He’s roughly the right age. And there are several galleries in the city that specialize in primitive art. I’m thinking
that if our boy is a serious collector, they just might know him.”

THEY LANDED DURING a sunset that made the skies over Berlin look bruised.

At least to Mattie, who immediately began making calls on her cell phone while Burkhart went to retrieve the car.

The line of Franz Hellermann, the art professor at Potsdam University, went directly to a voice mail prompt. She hesitated
and then decided not to leave him a message. It would be better to talk with him face-to-face in the morning.

She called two of the art galleries Burkhart had found and got recordings that listed their addresses and hours of operation.
She looked at the third number and address and realized that the I. M. Ehrlichmann Gallery was just south of Savignyplatz
on Schlüterstrasse, not far from where Agnes Krüger had died.

“Let’s swing by this place on the way to the office,” she told Burkhart.

They were outside the I. M. Ehrlichmann Gallery in less than ten minutes, only to find a man lowering metal-grate security
gates on the establishment.

“Hello,” Mattie called.

“I’m closed,” he said and turned, revealing a trim, academic-looking man with black-framed glasses, close-cropped salt and
pepper hair, and a tweed jacket and tie.

He blinked at Mattie, and then glanced up at Burkhart. “You’re a big fellow.”

Burkhart nodded. He showed the man his badge, identified himself, and said, “This is Mattie Engel. We work for Private Berlin.”

“Isaac Ehrlichmann,” the man said agreeably. “But my gallery is closed.”

“We were hoping you could help us,” Mattie said.

“Tomorrow, I would be glad to,” the gallery owner said. “But I have a dinner engagement to attend, a birthday dinner actually.
My lady friend’s.”

“Just one question,” Mattie insisted.

Ehrlichmann sighed. “One question.”

“Is Hermann Krüger a collector of masks? Have you sold any to him?”

“That falls under client privilege, I’m afraid. And that’s two questions.”

“You know he’s under suspicion in his wife’s murder?” Burkhart asked.

“That’s your third question, and I did read about that in the paper. Yes.”

“This could be part of it, Herr Ehrlichmann,” Mattie said. “Please, off the record, does Krüger collect masks? If he doesn’t,
we’re on our way.”

The gallery owner checked his watch, going through some inner struggle before replying: “Herr Krüger has bought many masks
from me over the years.”

“Any recently?” Burkhart asked.

Ehrlichmann paused and then nodded. “As a matter of fact, early last week he bought a valuable Chokwe tribal mask.”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, the Chokwe mask showed on the big screen in the amphitheater at Private Berlin.

Before hurrying off to his dinner engagement, Isaac Ehrlichmann had told them where to find a digital photo of the mask in
his online catalogue and promised to make himself available to them in the morning.

Jack Morgan had ordered take-out food and the entire Private Berlin staff and Daniel Brecht were in the amphitheater eating.
Morgan sat next to Mattie and studied the mask skeptically.

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “Hermann Krüger goes to brothels in disguise and then wears these masks while having
sex?”

“That’s evidently the long, strange journey he’s on,” Mattie replied.

“And I thought LA was the world capital of twisted.”

Mattie laughed. “Berlin will definitely give LA a run for its money. What about Pavel? Does he have any interest in masks?”

“No idea,” Brecht answered. “He hasn’t surfaced in more than two days now. But I’m predicting he makes an appearance about
an hour or two after Berlin’s game tomorrow night.”

“Why?”

“We’re setting up a little surprise for him,” said Morgan cryptically.

Staring once again at the Chokwe mask, Mattie felt lingering doubt. Did Hermann Krüger kill Chris, his wife, and the others?
Or could Pavel be somehow involved? Were they in on it together? And where were they?

Mattie said, “I can’t believe Interpol can’t find Krüger.”

“They’ll find him,” Katharina Doruk said. “You can’t hide a billionaire for long, especially when his stock’s taking such
a beating. In the meantime, call Frankfurt Kripo and give them a statement.”

Dr. Gabriel’s phone rang. He answered it.

“So, Burkhart,” Brecht said. “Explain again how he got away from you.”

Mattie laughed and said, “The story of the skimpy towel he had to wear at the FKK club is better.”

Burkhart frowned at her. “I thought we had an understanding about that.”

Mattie tried to swallow her grin. “I couldn’t resist. It was just so classic.”

“Mattie,” Katharina said. “Frankfurt Kripo?”

Mattie sighed and nodded.

But then Dr. Gabriel hung up his phone and said, “I’ve got the sister. Ilona Frei. She
is
a registered methadone addict, and she lives in Wedding.”

THE AIR HAD warmed during the break in the storm, and a mix of recent immigrants and low-income workers was out strolling the streets
of Wedding—northeast of the Berlin Technical University—when Burkhart turned onto Amsterdamer Strasse, where Ilona Frei lived
in a government-subsidized apartment on the second floor of a shambles of a building.

They parked, climbed a front stoop blackened with grime, and found the front door unlocked. Rap dueled with Middle Eastern
music as they ascended a bare wooden staircase to a second floor that smelled of jasmine and curry.

Mattie heard an infant squalling with the distinctive rattle of colic and her mind flashed back to Niklas as a five-month-old
racked with the affliction. She felt instant pity for the poor woman who must care for the child. Mattie had had no husband
while raising Niklas as a baby, but she’d had Aunt C and her mother, and that had saved her.

“Mattie?” Burkhart said, startling her from her thoughts.

Mattie blinked, surprised to find herself stopped in the hallway, looking at the door to the apartment where the infant was
crying and coughing.

“Sorry,” Mattie said, feeling slightly bewildered and suddenly more tired than she thought possible. “What number is she?”
she asked, yawning.

Burkhart gestured toward the far end of the hall. “Twenty-seven.”

They’d no sooner passed apartment twenty-five—a mere ten feet from Ilona Frei’s door—than they heard a woman shrieking in
abject terror.

AT THE FIRST scream, I spin and leap down the fire escape and reach the ladder just as the screeching turns hysterical. I hear pounding
and yelling mixed with the screaming as I swing off the ladder and then land in the alley behind the apartment building where
Ilona Frei lives.

I sprint away. People are yelling from windows above me. But I’m wearing a simple black ski mask. No one has seen me, the
real me, I’m sure.

Approaching the mouth of the alley where it gives way to Turiner Strasse, I tear the mask off, stick it in my back pocket,
and force myself to step out slowly and deliberately, and I continue down the sidewalk.

From there, with all the traffic, I can’t hear the screaming at all. I tear off the dark anorak as I move, revealing a bright
yellow jogging coat with reflectors.

My heart is racing and I’m berating myself for being so bold, so cocky after so many years of careful movement. I never should
have attempted to use the fire escape to reach her apartment.

I should have slowed down, watched her, and patterned her movements.

But I no longer have the luxury of time.

On what was supposed to be a scouting mission, I spotted the fire escape leading up past an open window of what had to be
her apartment. I’d glanced around, seen no one in the alley, and opted for a quick, improvised plan.

I pulled the mask on.

I started climbing.

When I reached the landing, I squatted there a moment and then slipped to the window. My old and dear friend Ilona had been
right there, right in the hallway of her apartment with her back to me.

I couldn’t help it. My throat clicked in that way it does when I’m pleased.

She must have heard it because she twisted, saw me, and screamed.

Now I start to jog toward Schiller Park. When I reach it, I dump the anorak in the first trashcan. Then I keep jogging, figuring
that I’ll go thirty minutes or so before looping back to the Mercedes.

Stay calm, I tell myself. You know where she lives. And she’s an addict. My friends, we know exactly where she’ll be come
morning, don’t we? Hmmm?

AS THE SHRIEKING intensified, Mattie pounded on Ilona Frei’s door and shouted, “Frau Frei? Ilona Frei?”

“That one,” said a woman’s voice. “She crazy.”

She stood in the doorway of apartment twenty-five, a disgusted old Vietnamese woman wearing a maroon scarf on her head. “She
always screaming and crying ’bout ghosts and something. Crazy.”

The screaming inside had turned into hysterical sobs.

“Stand back, Mattie,” Burkhart ordered.

Mattie got out of his way. Pistol drawn, Burkhart hurled his weight against the door. The jamb splintered and the door blew
open.

They followed the sound of the woman sobbing, “No! No! God, no! Please, Falk! Please!”

At the mention of Falk, Mattie ran past Burkhart into a bedroom that featured a mattress, a few blankets, and a lamp burning
a naked bulb.

The same disheveled woman Mattie had seen on video embracing Chris in Private Berlin’s lobby the week before he died was now
rammed into the deepest corner of the room. Ilona Frei’s hands were wrapped tightly around her head as if to protect it from
a beating.

“No,” she moaned. “No, Falk. No.”

“We’re not here to hurt you, Ilona,” Mattie said softly, walking to her slowly. “We’re here to help you.”

Ilona Frei blinked through her tears and began to whimper, “No. Please. I want to stay here. I’m taking my meds. I promise
you. There
was
someone at the hallway window. He wore a mask. I promise you. Don’t take me away again.”

“We won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go,” Mattie soothed.

Ilona Frei panted and sweated like a wild woman, but Mattie’s tone of assurance caused her to lower her arms. She spotted
Burkhart and pressed backward in fear.

In her mind, Mattie heard Frau Ledwig telling her that all of the children who arrived at Waisenhaus 44 on the night of February
12, 1980, feared men.

She looked at Burkhart. “Do me a favor? Check the hallway window and that fire escape. And then hang outside.”

Burkhart squinted, but then he nodded.

When he’d gone, Mattie turned back and said: “We’re friends of Chris Schneider’s, Ilona. We worked with him at Private Berlin.”

Something unknotted in Ilona Frei at that point and she peered at Mattie as if she were a distant light in a fog. “Christoph?”

Mattie sat on the bare floor next to her. “The man you went to see at Private Berlin a couple weeks ago. The boy you lived
with at Waisenhaus 44.”

Ilona Frei wiped her tear-streaked face and choked: “Where is he? He was supposed to come see me and tell me he’d found my
sister.”

Mattie sighed and said, “Chris is dead, Ilona.”

At that Ilona Frei began to hyperventilate. She began scratching at her wrists, whining, “No. No. Please tell me that’s not
true.”

“I’m sorry. But it is true. He died last week.”

Ilona Frei lowered her head and began to weep. “How?”

“Chris was murdered, Ilona. I found his body in a slaughterhouse in—”

“No!” Ilona gasped before her entire body went seizure-stiff and trembling. Her lips rippled with terror as she said: “Not
there. Not the slaughterhouse. Oh, God, not there.”

She tried to get up but then doubled over on her knees, and retched.

Mattie was completely upended by Ilona Frei’s reaction. But while the poor woman dry heaved and choked, Mattie got to her
feet, and in the bathroom she found a threadbare towel that she wetted in the sink.

She returned to the bedroom to find Ilona Frei slumped against the wall looking like she’d been punched and kicked into dumbness.

Mattie wiped at the sweat on Ilona’s brow and daubed away the mucus lingering at the corners of her mouth, saying: “What do
you know about the slaughterhouse, Ilona?”

But Ilona Frei said nothing as she stared off into space, her mouth first loose and agape and then tightening as she began
to weep. “He said he’d kill us if we talked, and here he’s killed Chris and he was here to kill me.”

She hunched over and sobbed.

Mattie reached out and brought Ilona into her arms, feeling her agony pulse through her. When her crying slowed, Mattie asked
again, “What do you know about the slaughterhouse, Ilona?”

At last, shuddering at the burden, Ilona Frei whispered, “I know everything about the slaughterhouse in Ahrensfelde. Everything.”