Until the Debt Is Paid (15 page)

On the drive to Marzahn, they had to pull over to the side of the road twice. The night before was still exacting its toll. After yet another coffee from a snack stand, Jan’s headache began shrinking to a bearable degree.

When they arrived, Chandu parked the car in front of an industrial building that was clearly under construction. A huge tarp covered the framework of the main building, and the other structures around the site looked abandoned.

“No one’s here,” Chandu said. “There’s not even a concrete mixer or a crane. Maybe we head back to Friedrichsfelde, break some bones.”

“Let’s go on in first,” Jan proposed. “I want to take a little tour.”

The industrial building appeared empty. Dust covered the floor, and it smelled moldy. The tarp barely let any light through.

“You looking for someone?” a voice echoed through the space.

Four husky men came up to them. They wore work clothes and big safety boots.

“Are you Manuel Floer?”

“Tell me who you are,” the strongest-looking one demanded. He had on white overalls splattered with fading paint. His nose was crooked, and he was missing several teeth. His unshaven face and shifty expression made Jan dislike him instantly. Types like this got their fun bullying others. Normally Jan would take this as a challenge, but he needed information.

“A friend tells me you’d like to take on a little side job.”

“You a fucking pig, what?” He pushed at Jan.

“No,” Jan said calmly. “A builder looking to work around the taxman.”

“I know that face you got,” the man continued. He shoved Jan backward. “You’re a filthy pig.”

Jan fought his urge to slam this guy down with a head butt.

“So who’s this supposed friend anyway?”

“Peter,” Jan said without pause. He’d thought about putting Horst Esel into play, but decided to wait.

“Who in the hell is Peter?”

The guy never got an answer, because a hard blow from Chandu knocked him off his feet. His fist made a loud crack as it connected with the man’s face.

“Enough chatting,” Chandu said, ripping off his jacket.

“What the hell you—” Jan began to say when one of the men jumped him. His head hit the concrete, hard. For a moment he saw stars, was disoriented. A punch to the stomach brought him back. His attacker was on top of him, working him over with punches. Jan grabbed hold of the man’s head, jerked him toward himself and hammered an elbow into his back. That earned him a loud groan.

Jan thrust the man’s head to the right and twisted free of his grasp. Then he grabbed the punching arm, swung his leg over it, and stretched himself backward. An arm lock. Jan applied pressure on the man’s shoulder. Two seconds later, the thug was pleading for mercy.

Jan released his grip and stood up. The man rolled to the side, holding his shoulder. Chandu stood next to Jan, massaging his knuckles. Their three opponents lay on the floor.

“You already done too?” the big man said, grinning.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Start a brawl.”

“These boys weren’t nice,” Chandu said with a shrug. “Plus, they were going to attack us anyway. I just beat them to it.”

Jan sighed. Diplomacy was never Chandu’s strength.

“I never know what you want,” the big man protested. “Now they’ll be nice and cooperative.”

Manuel Floer held a dirty rag to his nose, his head back slightly. The bleeding was slow to stop. Jan would rather have gotten by without a brawl, but Chandu was probably right.

“Why were you looking for trouble?” Jan asked.

“Because I don’t fucking like pigs.”

“Maybe I’m not one.”

Manual snorted a laugh. “You stink like a whole room of them.”

Jan fought an urge to sniff at his clothes. He waved away the thought. “Screw it. Just answer my questions, and we’re gone.”

The man nodded, scowling.

“Where is Horst Esel?”

“No fucking clue.”

“You should be more cooperative,” Chandu threatened, “otherwise there’s seconds.”

Manuel was clearly intimidated by Chandu. “I really don’t know,” he said feebly. “I saw Horst a few days ago. He visited me at a job site and started telling me all about his time in the big house. I asked him if he was gonna work construction again, but he just laughed. He was ‘sitting pretty,’ that’s what he said. Then he grinned all stupid.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“How should I know, man? Horst always skimmed off the top by moving this or that building material, but he didn’t get rich off it. Don’t ask me where he got the dough.”

“You have an idea where he is?”

“Not a one, man. I’m telling you. Apparently he and his wife moved out of his old place.”

“Why did he come to the job site?”

Manuel shrugged. “For old time’s sake, maybe. Didn’t give me a number or any kind of clue where I could find him.”

Jan had done enough questioning to see Manuel knew nothing. Another dead end. He pulled a pen from his jacket and took Manuel’s hand.

“Here’s my number.” He wrote the number on the man’s palm. “Something comes to you or you see Horst, call me.”

“Be better for you if you did,” Chandu added.

Manuel nodded. And they left the building.

“What do we do now?” Chandu asked on the drive home.

“We have to get back to Josseck. Going after Esel’s lackey Manuel wasn’t a bad idea, but we might be looking in the wrong direction.”

“It is interesting that the murders coincide with Esel getting free.”

“But he had no real reason to kill Judge Holoch and Josseck. And he had no connection to me.”

“Connection to you?”

“I didn’t kill Judge Holoch, so we know the murderer got a hold of my fingerprints, my blood, and my car somehow. It had to be someone close to me or someone who caught me in a moment of weakness.”

“You blacked out for thirty-six hours. Could be that Esel was lying in wait and slipped you something.”

“But how and why would he have targeted me? We had nothing to do with each other.”

“You could have run him in before on some raid, or knocked up his sister, or screwed up some deal he had going.”

“I’ve put a ton of losers in the pen. If each one wanted revenge, half of Berlin would be pinning me with murder.”

“In the pen, he did have plenty of time to think it out.”

“A simple construction guy is supposed to figure out a scheme like that?”

“There’s more than enough sickos in prison. He only had to have the right cellmate, with connections to the outside.”

Jan pondered that thought, hemming about it. There could be something to what Chandu was saying. “How fast can you get me another police ID?”

“The basic kind that won’t pass a test? Three hours. If I put down two hundred it’ll go faster.”

“Can your counterfeiter make forged passport photos too?”

“You’d be surprised just how fast he can do it. He’ll turn you into a cross between a squirrel and a Martian if you want.”

“I don’t need it that hard core. Just make my hair a little longer and give me a trimmed beard. And come up with a new name for me.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I’m going inside the pen.”

“I thought prison is a place you don’t want to be.”

“I’ll explain later,” Jan said. “Let’s meet back at the apartment in three hours. Let me out at Oranienburger. They got just the shop I need there.”

Jan felt like a kid in a toy store. Latex masks hung all over the walls. A laughing pig stared at George Bush. An old man with a beard rested next to Venetian masks with gold ornaments that clashed with the zombies lurking above a doorway. A colorful clown grinned demonically at Batman, while the superhero’s indifferent gaze was set on a bimbo wearing a feather boa.

Jan wanted to roam the store and try on every mask, but time was short. He tried on a few select wigs until he found the right one. He threw in some makeup and checked out. He hadn’t worn a disguise for a long time.

Chandu, yawning, climbed the stairs to his apartment. He still felt the drinking, right down to his bones. At the counterfeiter’s place, he’d nearly fallen asleep in his chair, even though it had only taken an hour to create a cop badge for one Martin Müller. In the doctored photo, Jan had a beard that made him look ten years older and totally changed his face.

Chandu was turning the key in the lock when the door flew open, a gun aimed in his face. He cursed his slow reaction, but with that .45 barrel at his nose he didn’t exactly have time for reacting anyway.

He raised his hands. “Okay, man,” he said to the intruder. “Just don’t be getting nervous now. Who are you, what do you want?”

“Fldya,” the intruder said, waving the pistol around.

“Wh
a . . . 
?” Chandu stammered. He was obviously dealing with some kind of weirdo. He weighed his options. He’d have to move all in one motion, yanking the man’s arm to the side to take him.

The intruder stepped closer. A broad grin showed on his bearded face, and he pocketed the gun.

“Fooled ya,” Jan chirped.

“You fucker.” Chandu sighed in relief. “I just about shit my pants.”

“How you like my new disguise?”

Jan had long brown hair. The beard looked real. Put an old shirt on him and he was some lazy clerk who called it quits every day at three.

“Learn that in detectives?”

Jan shook his head. “In German class.”

“German class?” Chandu said, puzzled.

“In eighth grade our teacher made us put on a play. My role was old vagabond with beard. I had to paste on a thing like this for every show. Together with the wig, no one knew who I was.”

“Why not just keep it on all the time, then?”

“A glue-on beard is a nasty deal. It itches like hell for hours and you break out in a rash. Get my new ID?”

“Yes, Martin.” Chandu pressed the plastic in his hand.

“Martin?”

“Martin Müller. Whenever you’re sporting that sweater on your face, that’s your new name.”

“Not exactly creative.”

Chandu shrugged. “I’m guessing you plan on questioning Horst Esel’s cellmate?”

“Precisely. If the guards just look at my badge, it’ll be easier. The ID is only backup.”

“Don’t the guys know you in there?”

“I haven’t visited the pen for two years now.”