The Ice Queen: A Novel (15 page)

Suddenly, the door opened, and a man of about forty in a suit and tie came out of the room that Moormann had entered. The man did not appear to be in a good mood, but he nodded politely to Pia and Bodenstein before leaving through the front door. It was about another three minutes before two more men came out, one of whom Pia recognized. Dr. Manuel Rosenblatt was a noted Frankfurt attorney who was often engaged by big-time industrial bosses when they got into difficulties. Moormann appeared in the open doorway. Bodenstein stood up.

“Dr. Kaltensee will see you now,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Pia, following her boss into a large room with oppressive dark wood paneling that extended nearly fifteen feet to the plaster decorations on the ceiling. At the rear of the room was a marble fireplace as big as a garage door; in the center stood a massive table of the same dark wood as the wainscoting, with ten uncomfortable-looking chairs. Vera Kaltensee was sitting ramrod-straight at the head of the table, which was covered with documents and open file folders. Although pale and visibly distraught, she managed to preserve her dignity.

“Ms. Kirchhoff. My dear Mr. Bodenstein. What can I do for you?”

Bodenstein behaved courteously and decorously, like very old-school aristocracy. All that was missing was for him to kiss her hand.

“Mr. Moormann just told us that there was an attempted break-in here yesterday.” His voice sounded concerned. “Why didn’t you call me, Mrs. Kaltensee?”

“Oh, I didn’t want to bother you with such a petty matter.” Vera Kaltensee shook her head. Her voice sounded uncertain. “You must have enough to do already.”

“What, exactly, happened?”

“It’s not worth mentioning. My son has sent over some people from his company’s security team.” She gave a shaky smile. “Now I’m feeling a bit safer.”

A stocky man who looked to be in his sixties entered the room. Vera Kaltensee introduced him as her younger son, Siegbert, the managing director of KMF. Siegbert Kaltensee, with his pink piglet face, flabby cheeks, and bald pate, seemed friendly and affable compared to his gaunt and aristocratic brother, Elard. Smiling, he shook hands, first with Kirchhoff, then Bodenstein, before taking up a position behind his mother’s chair. His gray suit and snow-white shirt with the conservative patterned tie fit him so well that they must have been custom-tailored. Siegbert Kaltensee seemed to place great value on making an understated impression, in his behavior as well as his attire.

“We won’t take up much of your time,” said Bodenstein. “But we’re on the hunt for Robert Watkowiak. There are indications that he was at both crime scenes.”

“Robert?” Vera Kaltensee opened her eyes wide in consternation. “You can’t think he had anything to do with …
that
?”

“We don’t really know,” Bodenstein admitted. “It’s an early lead. But we’d like to talk with him. Earlier today, my colleagues went to the apartment where he’s staying at present, and he fled before they could speak to him.”

“He’s still registered with the police as residing here at Mühlenhof,” Pia added.

“I didn’t want to slam the last door in his face,” said Vera Kaltensee. “The boy has caused me no end of trouble ever since he first set foot in this house.”

Bodenstein nodded. “I know all about his arrest record.” Siegbert Kaltensee said nothing. His alert gaze shifted back and forth between Bodenstein and Kirchhoff.

“You know,” said Vera Kaltensee with a deep sigh, “for years Eugen, my late husband, never told me about Robert’s existence. The poor boy grew up in his mother’s care in the most impoverished conditions, until she finally drank herself to death. He was already twelve when Eugen came out with the truth about his illegitimate son. After I recovered from the shock of his infidelity, I insisted that Robert come to live with us. It wasn’t his fault, after all. But I’m afraid that by then it was too late for him.”

Siegbert Kaltensee put his hand on his mother’s shoulder, and she clasped it. A gesture of intimacy and affection.

“Robert was obstinate even as a child,” she went on. “I never succeeded in getting close to him, though I tried everything. When he was fourteen, he was caught shoplifting for the first time. And that was the start of his ignominious career.”

She looked up with a sad expression.

“My children say that I was too protective of him, and maybe it would have set him straight if he’d landed in jail earlier. But I felt such sympathy for that boy.”

“Do you think he’s capable of killing someone?” Pia asked.

Vera Kaltensee thought it over for a moment as her son remained silent in a show of polite restraint.

“I wish I could say no with complete confidence,” she responded at last. “Robert has disappointed us so often. He was last here about two years ago. He wanted money, as usual. Siegbert had to throw him out.”

Pia saw that Vera Kaltensee had tears in her eyes, but this time she was prepared and able to observe the old lady with dispassionate interest.

Siegbert Kaltensee now spoke up. His high-pitched voice contrasted oddly with his powerful aura. “We really did give Robert every opportunity, but he was never interested. He was always begging Mother for money, and he kept stealing like a raven. Mother was too good-natured to put him in his place, but eventually I’d had enough. I threatened to report him for trespassing if he ever dared set foot in this house again.”

“Did he know Mr. Goldberg and Mr. Schneider?” Pia asked.

Siegbert Kaltensee nodded. “Of course. He knew them both well.”

“Do you think it’s possible that he asked them for money?”

Vera Kaltensee grimaced, as if she found the thought highly unpleasant.

“I know that he used to put the touch on them both regularly.” Siegbert Kaltensee laughed, a curt snort with no humor. “He really has no scruples.”

“Oh, Siegbert, you’re so unfair.” Vera Kaltensee shook her head. “I blame myself for listening to you. I should have taken responsibility and kept Robert within reach. Then he wouldn’t have come up with all these stupid ideas.”

“We’ve been over this a thousand times, Mother,” Siegbert Kaltensee replied patiently. “Robert is forty-four years old. How long do you think you could have protected him from himself? And he never wanted your help; he just wanted your money.”

“What stupid ideas did Robert come up with?” Bodenstein asked before Siegbert Kaltensee and his mother became sidetracked further by the discussion they’d obviously had many times before.

Vera Kaltensee gave a stiff smile. “You know his record,” she said. “Robert isn’t vicious by nature. He’s simply too gullible and always gets mixed up with the wrong people.”

Pia observed how Siegbert Kaltensee raised his eyebrows in mute resignation at these words. He was probably thinking the same thing she was. She’d heard this very same statement from relatives so many times. Other people were always to blame when a son, daughter, husband, or partner became a criminal. It was so easy to palm off the responsibility on bad influences in order to justify one’s own failure. Vera Kaltensee was no exception. Bodenstein asked her to call him if Robert Watkowiak got in touch with her.

*   *   *

Robert Watkowiak was marching along the paved footpath from Kelkheim to Fischbach in a foul mood. He was grumbling and cursing Herrmann Schneider with every swearword he knew. Most of all, it made him furious that he’d let that old shithead trick him. The checks were as good as cash, he’d said, regretfully showing him his empty wallet. No way! The uptight bastard at the bank had made a gigantic fuss about it, phoning around, probably to the cops. So he decided he’d better split. But now he didn’t have a cell phone or enough dough for the bus and had to hoof it. A few hours ago, he’d just taken off, without thinking about where he was going. The scare this morning when the cops showed up at Moni’s place had sobered him up quick, and the walk in the fresh air made him realize the seriousness of his position: He’d reached the end of the line. He was hungry, thirsty, and had no roof over his head. He couldn’t show up at Kurti’s, since his grandmother had already called him names and thrown him out, and he no longer had any other friends. The only possibility he still had was Vera. He had to wait for a chance to talk to her alone. He knew how he could get into Mühlenhof unnoticed, and he was familiar with every inch of that house. Once he was face-to-face with her, he would calmly explain what kind of dilemma he was in financially. Maybe she would give him something voluntarily. If not, he’d pull out his gun and hold it to her head. But it wouldn’t go that far.

Actually, it wasn’t Vera who had told him he was forbidden to enter the house. It had been Siegbert, that fat, arrogant pig. Siegbert had never been able to stand him, especially not after the accident, when he was blamed for the whole thing. Marleen had actually been behind the wheel, but nobody would believe him, because she was only fourteen at the time and such a sweet, well-behaved girl. It had been her idea to take Uncle Elard’s Porsche on a joyride. She’d stolen the key and taken off. He had only gotten in the car to keep her from doing anything stupid. But of course the family assumed he’d been driving in order to impress the girl.

Robert Watkowiak trotted past the Aral gas station and crossed the street. If he got a move on, he could be at Mühlenhof in an hour. Suddenly, a loud honk from a car horn shook him out of his dismal thoughts. A black Mercedes pulled up next to him. The driver lowered the window on the passenger side and leaned over.

“Hey, Robert! Can I take you somewhere?” he asked. “Come on, hop in.”

Robert hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. Anything was better than walking.

*   *   *

“Those damn dogs have been barking all day. I’ve had a million complaints,” moaned the super of the apartment building on Rotdornweg as he rode the tiny elevator up to the top floor with Bodenstein and Kirchhoff. “But often they’re not home all day long and just let the dogs bark and shit all over the apartment.”

Ostermann had convinced the judge in charge that it was a dangerous situation and in no time he had a search warrant for Monika Krämer’s apartment.

The elevator stopped with a lurch. The super opened the scratched and filthy door and kept on blathering. “Hardly any decent people living in this building. Most of them can’t even speak German, but the welfare office pays their rent. On top of that, they’re snotty. I should really be making twice as much for all the hassle I have to put up with.”

Pia rolled her eyes. In front of the door at the end of the dim hall waited two uniforms, three evidence techs, and a man from a locksmith shop. Bodenstein knocked loudly on the apartment door.

“Police!” he yelled. “Open up!”

No reaction. The super pushed his way forward and hammered on the wood panel.

“Open the door, and quick!” he shouted. “I know you’re in there, you deadbeats!”

“Okay, just take it easy,” said Bodenstein, planting his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“That’s the only language they understand,” the super grumbled. The door of the apartment across the hall opened a crack and closed again. The police were obviously not unexpected visitors in this building.

“Open the door,” said Bodenstein to the super, who nodded eagerly. He tried the pass key, but with no luck.

The locksmith had the cylinder lock out in a few seconds, but the door still wouldn’t budge. “They probably blocked the door with something,” he said, stepping back. Two uniformed officers put all their weight against the plywood door and finally got it to open. The dogs were barking like crazy.

“Shit,” muttered one of the uniforms when he saw what had been blocking the door. On the floor lay the lifeless and blood-smeared body of the tenant, Monika Krämer.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” the officer gasped, and shoved past Pia into the corridor. Without a word, Pia pulled on latex gloves and bent over the body of the young woman, who lay with her knees pulled up, facing the door. Rigor mortis had not yet set in. Pia grabbed the woman by the shoulder and turned her over on her back. In all her years of service with the Kripo, she’d seen plenty of horrible sights, but the brutality with which someone had mutilated the young woman’s body truly shocked her. Someone had slit Monika Krämer open from throat to pubis, right through her panties. Her entrails had poured out of her open belly.

“Oh God,” Pia heard her boss say in a choked voice behind her. She gave him a quick look. Bodenstein could stand most things, but right now he was as white as a sheet. She turned back to the corpse and saw what had shaken Bodenstein so much. Her stomach clenched and she fought against the rising nausea. The killer hadn’t been content to kill the woman; he had also gouged out her eyes.

*   *   *

“Let me drive, boss.” Pia held out her hand, and Bodenstein gave her the car keys without argument. They had finished their work in the apartment and spoken with all the neighbors on that floor and on the floor below. Several had heard a violent argument and dull thuds around ten o’clock that morning, but they all agreed that loud physical fights in Monika Krämer’s apartment were an almost daily occurrence. Had Watkowiak returned to the apartment after Pia and Behnke had left? Had he murdered the young woman in this bestial manner? She hadn’t died instantly; despite her terrible wounds, she had managed to crawl to the door and tried to make it out to the corridor. Bodenstein rubbed his face with both hands. He looked worse than Pia had ever seen him.

“Sometimes I wish I’d become a forest ranger or a vacuum cleaner salesman,” he said gloomily after they’d been driving for a while. “That girl was hardly older than Rosalie. I’m never going to get used to things like this.”

Pia glanced over at him. She was tempted to pat her boss’s hand or make some other consoling gesture, but she didn’t. Although they’d been working together almost every day for the past two years, there was still a distance between them that held her back. Bodenstein was anything but a chummy guy, and he normally hid his emotions well. Sometimes Pia asked herself how he could stand it—the horrific images, the constant pressure, which he never seemed to need to vent by cursing or exploding in rage. She guessed that this superhuman self-control was the result of his strict upbringing. It was probably what people called “composure.” Maintaining control at all costs and in any situation.