Until the Debt Is Paid (13 page)

Chandu sipped at his coffee. “In that case, it’s clear what we do now.”

“We have to find this Horst Esel,” Jan said. “He’s our man.” He turned to Max. “They have a manhunt for him?”

“Not an intense one, but all patrols have been informed.”

“We start with his last known address?” Chandu asked.

“That won’t help us,” Jan replied. “My colleagues will already have been there and followed up on any workable leads. They questioned the neighbors for sure.”

“You know another way to get at him?”

“We have to go about it differently. We search out friends who did the crooked jobs with him. I won’t find out much if I show up at some job site waving my cop badge. Half the workers will take off because they’re illegal, and the rest will be reluctant to give answers. In my situation, it’s not like I can go applying a lot of pressure. Did Esel have any known associates?”

“Yes. A man named Manuel Floer. He was given a suspended sentence. He sounds like Esel’s gofer.”

“Can you find out his address?”

“I’ll try.”

“The other thing is,” Jan said, “I’ll need an overview of Josseck’s company’s current job sites. Maybe Esel’s hiding away at one.”

“Will do, but it’s not going to work here with the laptop, not with this lame-ass connection. I’ll go home real quick and call you.”

Max waved at them and left the apartment.

“Some personal hygiene would make meeting with him more pleasant,” Zoe remarked.

“He doesn’t reek any more than your cigarettes,” Chandu said.

“Tobacco smells comforting. No reek. And a man whose kitchen stinks like an otter died in there should be careful what he’s talking about.”

“That’s the scent of tamarind, coriander, and cassava. Why am I not surprised that someone who probably considers fish sticks a culinary delight would have no clue?”

Zoe lowered her cigarette. “Listen here, Mr. T. You might have arms like elephant legs, but that wide nose of yours will break just the same when I go bashing it in.”

Jan groaned. Zoe was back in top form. He dropped down on the couch between the two contenders. “Listen, you two, I got enough problems.” He turned to Zoe. “You, why don’t you head over to Forensics and ask around? Maybe there’s something new that’s not in a report yet. And you,” he said to Chandu, “can go get a car. Max will call soon with a few job-site addresses. We’ll drive to some tomorrow morning.”

A tense silence persisted a moment. Jan just hoped the two of them weren’t about to gang up on him. It was a disturbing thought, to be sitting between a six-foot-six mountain of muscle and a bad-tempered coroner who liked to give her scalpels pet names.

A minute later, Zoe stood up. “Keep me updated, you wussies.” And she left the apartment.

“Such a charming assistant you’ve picked up for yourself there,” Chandu said.

“Don’t be fooled. She’s always in a nasty mood, but she’s an ace technician.”

“Huh,” Chandu grunted, not too convinced. “If you say so.”

Jan, meanwhile, let out a deep sigh of relief. He finally had a new lead.

Patrick contemplated the photo in his hand. Jan had an arm around a tall, muscular black man and was toasting the photo taker with a beer bottle. A colleague from Vice had identified Jan’s friend as one Chandu Bitangaro, a known bouncer and debt collector. He was assumed responsible for several auto thefts, but no one could ever prove it was he. His record was clean.

Patrick had someone retrieve the man’s address, and he drove over right away to take a look. The apartment house was a washed-out gray darkened by years of exhaust fumes. The plaster was flaking off and the windows were dingy. It was a clearly a crumbling neighborhood with plenty of the usual problems.

The doorbell panel names didn’t get Patrick very far. Names were either wiped out or not there at all. He was about to just try all the bells when a teen boy came running out, his cap pulled down low on his face. He turned away from Patrick, rushing in for the back courtyard.

Patrick held the door open and went in. The stairway smelled musty and was in worse shape than the exterior. According to his records, Chandu lived on the fourth floor. Patrick went up the stairs and came to a stop before a scuffed wooden door. He adjusted his tie and knocked.

A moment later, a dark-skinned woman opened up. Her long hair was knotted in pigtails running down her shoulders. She had an athletic figure and garishly painted red fingernails. She was wearing a white bathrobe and was clearly irritated by the nuisance.

“What?” she barked at Patrick.

He held up his badge. “My name is Patrick Stein, from Berlin Detective Division. Could I please speak to Herr Chandu Bitangaro?”

“Ain’t here.”

“Where would I find him?”

“I’m not his fucking babysitter. No clue.”

“Are you married to him?”

The woman chuckled. “Listen here. I ain’t seen Chandu for a long time now. Leave me your number. He comes around, I’ll call ya.”

She went to shut the door in his face, but Patrick held it open with a hand.

She went off on him: “I got no time, man. If you got no search warrant, then go fuck off.”

Patrick grabbed at her arm and twisted it behind her back until she screeched in pain. He kicked the door open all the way, shoved her inside, and pushed her to the floor.

“Okay, now let’s talk,” he told her. “And by the time I leave, I expect to know where he is. Anything less? Would not be good.” Then he closed the door.

Chandu got to the disco’s vast parking lot around 9:30 p.m. He lurked in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity. Luckily the place was underneath a bridge and the lighting was sparse. With no video surveillance and several hard-to-see spots, he felt confident he’d be able to work unnoticed.

Chandu waited a half hour without seeing any car pull in that was worth stealing. Irritated, he checked his watch. When a silver-gray Toyota Auris compact came around the corner a minute later, Chandu sighed with relief. Finally, a ride he wouldn’t have trouble with.

From his pants pocket he took a black box that was barely bigger than a cell phone, and he pulled back deeper into the shadows.

The car zipped into a parking space. The headlights went off, and a young guy in a suit stepped out. He was wearing dark sunglasses and had a flashy watch on his wrist. His hair was combed severely to the side, and a gold chain glittered on his white shirt. As he went to slam the car door, Chandu activated his jammer to interrupt the key’s signal to the car. Walking away, the driver pressed his remote to lock the car. He didn’t notice when the usual flash failed to happen. He was singing some song or other and doing a few dance steps as he headed for the disco. Chandu waited until he was out of sight, emerged from his hiding spot, and opened the driver’s door. Inside he found the right lever and popped the hood. A minute later, he had hooked up his laptop to the engine’s distributor box. Then he started a program called “Toyota Auris” and waited. After a moment, the engine fired up.

Satisfied, Chandu packed away the laptop and shut the hood. He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and swapped the Toyota’s plates with those of the car next to it. Even if they did start searching for the Auris, the fake plate would keep him safe for a few days. He just needed to make sure he didn’t get stopped at some police checkpoint.

His job done, he tossed laptop and screwdriver on the passenger seat and drove off the premises, grinning.

While Chandu was out getting a car, Jan was watching a boring reality show. He hated these crappy talent competitions, but it was the best thing on at the moment. His cell phone rang. The screen showed a picture of his kooky computer buddy.

“What’s new, Max?”

“I found something,” the hacker said. “Michael Josseck’s construction company is building a row-house development in Friedrichsfelde.”

“How did you find that out so easily?”

“I called their office earlier—said I was an investor and asked if I could have a look at a building project before I put in a bid.”

“And they gave you the job site’s address?”

“Yup.”

“They mention that the company’s owner was just murdered?”

“No. You’d think nothing had happened. I wonder if the people there refuse to believe that their boss is dead.”

“Weird,” Jan said. “But, okay, give me the address.”

Max described how to get there. He hung up.

Jan was jotting down a note when Chandu came in the door.

“Was that Max?”

Jan nodded.

“We know where we’re going?”

“To Friedrichsfelde. Some dinky row-house development. We’ll head out tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t know why you’re so worked up,” Chandu said, handing Jan a cap. “We’re just going out for a quick drink.”

“Maybe you forgot, there’s a manhunt on for me? Going for a little stroll? Maybe. But staying a long time in one place, it’s stupid. Anyone could drop in on us.”

“You don’t need to worry. It’s my local bar. I know everyone personally, and newcomers rarely come in.”

Jan pulled on the hat and looked at himself in the mirror. “This is supposed to keep anyone from recognizing me?”

“With this it will.” He gave Jan a pair of eyeglasses. Their angular frame was basic, almost cheaply so. The lenses were tinted.

“Reading glasses?” Jan said. “Really?”

“The lenses aren’t prescription,” Chandu explained. “I got them for a costume ball.”

“You go to costume balls?”

“Long story. Put ’em on.”

Jan looked in the mirror, the glasses resting on his nose. “I look worse than Max.”

“Precisely.” Chandu grinned. “It’s not like we’re out on the prowl—we’re just getting a drink, so you can relax a little. Anyone there will only remember some unshaven freak with a stupid hat and even stupider glasses.”

“Sounds killer.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. Used to be a phone call was all it took and we were on our way out.”

“I wasn’t the main suspect in a murder case back then.”

“Tonight, we’re going to block out that little detail,” Chandu said, smiling. “Two beers and we come home.”

Jan sighed. “All right, fine.”

Chandu grabbed his jacket. He was glad to be providing his friend with a little diversion. Zoe and Max didn’t know Jan well enough to see the weight on his shoulders. Jan was barely sleeping, and if it weren’t for the light sleeping pill he was swallowing down with his beer, he wouldn’t be getting any shut-eye at all. Chandu knew it was tough for him to be off the detective squad, not to mention being a murder suspect. Then there was Betty’s suicide. It had almost shattered him, partly because he seemed to feel responsible for her death.