The Ice Queen: A Novel (40 page)

“Got it; I will,” said Miriam. “Talk to you later.”

“So?” Bodenstein asked as she flipped her cell phone shut. “What do you think of Siegbert Kaltensee and this Améry?”

“Siegbert hates both his brother and Ritter,” Pia replied. “In his eyes, they were competitors for the favor of his mother. Didn’t your mother-in-law say that Vera had almost idolized her assistant? And Elard not only lives at Mühlenhof, he’s way better-looking than Siegbert. And in the past, at least, he had one amorous adventure after another.”

“Hmm.” Bodenstein nodded pensively. “And this Améry?”

“Cute guy, a little too slick for my taste,” Pia pronounced. “A bit too helpful, as well. Probably the vehicle his men took to Nowak’s place isn’t even on the list. I think we can spare the taxpayers the cost of the inspection.”

Back at the station, Ostermann was waiting to share the latest news: Vera Kaltensee wasn’t in the hospitals in either Hofheim or Bad Soden. There was no trace of Nowak, but at least the search warrant had finally arrived. Patrol cars were posted in front of Nowak’s company and at the gate of Mühlenhof. The shirts that Behnke had shown him, bought by Mrs. Moormann, belonged to Elard Kaltensee. In the meantime, Behnke was in Frankfurt, searching for the professor, but the Kunsthaus was still closed. By checking with the tax office, the residents’ registration office, and the police information database of the NCP, Ostermann had found out that Katharina Ehrmann, née Schmunck, had been born on July 19, 1964, in Königstein. She was a German citizen with permanent residence in Zürich, Switzerland, and had given an address in Königstein as her second residence. She was an independent publisher, subject to tax in Switzerland, and had no previous police record.

Bodenstein had listened to Ostermann without comment. He glanced at the clock. Quarter past six. At 7:30, Jutta Kaltensee would be waiting for him at the Gasthaus Rote Mühle, near Kelkheim.

“Publisher,” he mused. “Could she be the one who commissioned Ritter to write the biography?”

“I’ll check it out.” Ostermann made a note.

“And send out an APB,” Bodenstein added, “for Professor Elard Kaltensee and his car.”

He noticed Pia’s satisfied expression. Apparently, her hunch had been right.

“Tomorrow morning at six, we’re going to search Nowak’s business and home. I want you to organize it, Ms. Kirchhoff. With at least twenty people, the usual team.”

Pia nodded. The phone rang and Bodenstein took the call. Behnke had located the caretaker of the Kunsthaus. Around noon, the man had helped Elard Kaltensee load a trunk and two suitcases into his car.

“I also found out that the professor still has an office at the university,” Behnke said in conclusion. “On the Westend campus. I’m on my way over there now.”

“What kind of car does he drive?” Bodenstein put the phone on speaker so Ostermann could listen in.

“Just a moment.” Behnke talked to somebody, then came back to the phone. “A black Mercedes S-Class, license plate MTK-EK two two two.”

“Thanks. Keep Ostermann and Ms. Kirchhoff informed. If you run into Kaltensee, arrest him and bring him here,” Bodenstein said. “I want to talk to him today.”

“But you still want to put out an APB on him?” Ostermann asked after Bodenstein hung up.

“Of course,” he replied, and turned to go. “And don’t let anyone go home today without calling me first.”

*   *   *

Exhausted, Thomas Ritter looked over the finished first draft of the manuscript. After fourteen hours and two packs of Marlboros, interrupted only by the Kripo people and Katharina, he’d done it. Three hundred and ninety pages of dirty facts about the Kaltensee family and their hushed-up crimes. This book was going to shake things up for sure; it would break Vera’s neck and might even send her to prison. He felt completely worn-out and at the same time as wired as if he’d snorted cocaine. After he saved the file, on impulse he also burned it onto a CD-ROM. He rummaged in his briefcase for a mini audio cassette and stuck both into a padded mailer, which he addressed with an indelible marker—a safety precaution in case they wanted to threaten him again. Thomas Ritter switched off his laptop, stuck it under his arm, and stood up.

“I’m out of here, you shitty office,” he mumbled, and didn’t look back as he left the place for good. Nothing like going home and taking a shower. Katharina was probably expecting to see him tonight, too, but maybe he could postpone that. He didn’t feel like talking about the manuscript, sales prospects, marketing strategies, and his debts. He had even less desire to have sex with her. To his own surprise, he was honestly looking forward to seeing Marleen. He’d promised weeks ago to spend a quiet evening alone with her, a cozy dinner at a nice restaurant, then a nightcap at a bar and a long night of love.

“You’ve got such a satisfied look on your face,” remarked his receptionist, Sina, as he passed her desk. “What’s up?”

“I’m looking forward to a night off,” replied Ritter. Suddenly, he had an idea. He handed her the padded mailer. “Be a dear and keep this for me, would you?”

“Okay, no problem.” Sina stuck the envelope in her fake Louis Vuitton bag and winked at him conspiratorially. “Have fun on your night off.”

The doorbell rang.

“Finally.” She pressed the door buzzer. “That’s probably the courier with the proofs. He sure took his time today.”

Ritter winked back and stepped aside to let the bicycle messenger pass. But instead of the courier they were expecting, a bearded man in a dark suit entered. He stopped in front of Ritter and gave him a brief look.

“Are you Dr. Thomas Ritter?” he asked.

“Who wants to know?” Ritter replied suspiciously.

“If you are, I’ve got a package for you,” the bearded man said. “From a Ms. Ehrmann. I’m supposed to deliver it to you personally.”

“I see.” Ritter was skeptical, although Katharina was always good for a surprise. He wouldn’t have put it past her to send him some sort of sex toy, to get him in the mood for the evening she’d planned. “So where’s the package?”

“If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll go get it. It’s still in the car.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m on my way out anyway.” Ritter waved good-bye to Sina and followed the man down the stairs. He was happy to be leaving the office in the daytime. Even though it was hard to admit, the panel truck in the parking lot and the crazy remarks by that disagreeable blond Kripo woman had given him a scare. But now he would turn over responsibility for the manuscript to the publishing house, and once it was printed, they could shove all their threats up their ass. Ritter nodded to the man as he politely held the front door open for him. Suddenly, he felt a stab in the side of his neck.

“Ow!” he yelled, and dropped the briefcase holding his laptop. Ritter felt his legs give way under him, as if they were made of rubber. A black van stopped right in front of him, and two men jumped out the side door and grabbed his arms. He was shoved roughly into the vehicle, the side door slammed shut, and it was pitch-dark. Then the interior lights came on, but he couldn’t seem to raise his head. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and everything went fuzzy before his eyes. Fear flooded through him. Then he blacked out.

Thursday, May 10

Pia stood shivering next to the evidence team’s van and yawned so widely that her jaw cracked. It was cold and unpleasant; the May morning felt like a November day. Last night, she hadn’t left the office until 11:30. One after the other, Behnke, Fachinger, and Hasse now showed up and poured themselves cups of raven black coffee from the team leader’s thermos. It was 6:15 when Bodenstein finally arrived, unshaven and obviously bleary-eyed. The plainclothes officers crowded around him for a last-minute rundown of the situation. They had all participated in enough house searches to know what mattered. Cigarettes were put out and coffee dregs were poured into the bushes next to the Aral gas station, where they had assembled. Pia left her car and got in Bodenstein’s. He was pale and seemed tense. In convoy, the officers followed Bodenstein’s BMW down the street to Nowak’s company.

“The receptionist from Ritter’s office left me a voice mail last night,” said Bodenstein. “I just listened to it a little while ago. Ritter left the office at around six-thirty last night; she stayed behind to wait for a courier delivery. He was accompanied downstairs by a man who was supposed to give him a package from Ms. Ehrmann. When she left the office at seven-thirty, Ritter’s car was still in the parking lot.”

“Down that way.” Pia pointed to the right. “That sounds strange.”

“It sure does.”

“By the way, how did it go yesterday with Jutta Kaltensee? Did you learn anything interesting?” She was surprised to see Bodenstein clench his jaw.

“No. Nothing special. Waste of time,” he replied laconically.

“You’re not telling me something,” Pia said.

Bodenstein sighed and pulled the car over to the side of the road a few yards from Nowak’s building.

“God help me if there ever comes a day when you’re on my tail,” he said grimly. “I made a gigantic, stupid mistake. I don’t really know how it got to that point, but on the way to the car she suddenly … well … touched me inappropriately.”

“Excuse me?” Pia stared at her boss in disbelief, then laughed. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

“No. It’s the truth. It was all I could do to get away from her.”

“But you succeeded, right?”

Bodenstein avoided looking at her.

“Not really,” he admitted. Pia made an effort to decide how to formulate her next question as diplomatically as possible without offending her boss.

“Did you happen to leave your DNA on her?” she asked cautiously. Bodenstein didn’t laugh and paused before he replied.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, and got out of the car.

*   *   *

Christina Nowak was already dressed when Bodenstein handed her the search warrant. She had deep circles under her red-rimmed eyes and watched apathetically as the officers entered the second-floor apartment and began their work. Her two sons looked shocked as they sat in their pajamas in the kitchen. The younger one started to cry.

“Have you heard anything from my husband?” she asked softly. Pia was having trouble concentrating on the task at hand. She was still stunned by Bodenstein’s confession. When Mrs. Nowak repeated her question, Pia pulled herself together.

“Sorry, no,” she said. “And we had no response to our request in the media for information from the public.”

Christina Nowak began to sob. Loud voices could be heard in the stairwell; Nowak senior was complaining vociferously, and Marcus Nowak’s brother was staggering down the stairs, drunk with sleep.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find your husband,” Pia said, although she wasn’t at all convinced they would. She was secretly sure that Elard Kaltensee had disposed of yet another witness. Nowak had trusted him, and in his injured condition he wouldn’t have been able to defend himself. Most likely, he was already dead.

The search of the apartment produced nothing. Christina Nowak opened the door to her husband’s office for the police. Since Pia’s last visit, it had been cleaned up. The document binders were back on the shelves, and the papers were sorted in filing trays. One officer pulled the plug of the computer; another cleaned out the shelves. The squat figure of the elder Mrs. Nowak suddenly appeared. She had no word of consolation for her grandson’s wife, who was standing petrified in the doorway; she wanted to enter the office, but two officers stopped her.

“Ms. Kirchhoff,” she called out to Pia. “I have to speak with you right away!”

“Later, Mrs. Nowak,” said Pia. “Please wait outside until we’re finished.”

“Well, what have we here?” she heard Behnke say. She turned around. Behind the document binders was a wall safe.

“So he was lying to us after all.” Too bad, she’d found Marcus Nowak so appealing. “He claimed there was no company safe.”

“Thirteen-twenty-four-oh eight,” Christina Nowak recited without being asked, and Behnke entered the combination. With a beep and a clack, the door of the safe sprang open just as Bodenstein entered the office.

“Well?” he asked. Behnke leaned over, reached inside, and turned around with a triumphant grin. In his gloved right hand, he held a pistol, in his left a box of ammunition. Christina Nowak gasped.

“I predict that here we have the murder weapon.” He sniffed at the barrel of the pistol. “It seems to have been fired fairly recently.”

Bodenstein and Pia exchanged a glance.

“The search for Nowak will be expanded,” said Bodenstein. “We’ll get the media to run a story on radio and TV.”

“What … what does all this mean?” Christina Nowak whispered. Her face was snow-white. “Why did my husband keep a pistol in his safe? I … I don’t understand anything anymore.”

“Please sit down.” Bodenstein pulled over the desk chair for her. Hesitantly, she obeyed. Pia shut the office door, despite the protests of Grandmother Nowak.

“I know that it must be hard for you to comprehend,” said Bodenstein. “But we suspect your husband of murder. This pistol is most likely the weapon used to shoot three individuals.”

“That can’t be true.…” Christina Nowak murmured in bewilderment.

“As his spouse, you don’t have to make any statement,” Bodenstein informed her. “But if you do say something, then it must be the truth, because otherwise you’ll be charged with perjury.”

They could hear the loud voice of Nowak senior talking to the officers outside.

Christina Nowak paid no attention and fixed her gaze on Bodenstein. “What do you want to know?”

“Can you remember where your husband was on the nights of April twenty-seventh, April thirtieth, and May third?”

Her eyes filled with tears and she hung her head.

“He wasn’t at home,” she said in a choked voice. “But I would never believe that he killed anyone. Why would he do that?”

“Where was he on those nights?”

She hesitated for a moment, her lips quivering. She passed the back of her hand over her eyes.

“I assume,” she stammered, “that he was with that woman I’d seen him with. I know that he’s … cheating on me.”