Until the Debt Is Paid (3 page)

“You know I drink one too many now and then, but I’ve never blacked out.”

Bergman opened his notebook. “We tested your blood for controlled substances. Besides alcohol, large amounts of MDMA turned up.”

Jan cursed under his breath. MDMA. Methylenedioxy-something-or-other. What the hell had happened to him yesterday? He didn’t take hard drugs. He’d seen enough people ruined by the shit. He never would have gotten drunk enough to want to swallow ecstasy.

“Maybe someone put something in my drink.”

“Sure. And on top of that, he took your blood and spread it around the crime scene. After that, he took the victim’s blood, went back into the bar, and squirted that onto your shirt, all while he was parking your car over at Holoch’s neighbor’s.”

“We have to call my girlfriend,” Jan pleaded. “I spent the whole weekend at her place.”

“And what good would that do us?”

“She can tell me what I was doing yesterday evening.”

“I don’t think
you’re getting it, Jan. Even if your girlfriend herself swears on her life that you were at her place the whole day yesterday, it changes nothing. The evidence is conclusive.”

Jan buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t committed the act. He didn’t like the judge, but even loaded and high he would never be driven to murder someone. Never.

“Just for one minute? She’ll fill in this blank I got in my head.”

“Jan,” Bergman said slowly, as if explaining to a four-year-old. “Your girlfriend is a witness. I let you talk to her, the state prosecutor will give me hell. I can’t.” He rubbed at his eyes. “You know that.”

“There has to be something I can do.”

“You can help me a lot by remembering Saturday.”

“I’ve been trying all day long. I’m guessing the ecstasy’s to blame.”

“I’m no doctor, but you’ll have to come up with a better answer than that for the state prosecutor.”

A gloomy silence arose. The sort of stillness that happens when two people know a painful reality is bearing down but don’t want talk about it out loud.

“What happens now?” Jan said.

Bergman raised his head, looking frustrated, as if he’d had enough of all the questions.

“You guys will have to take me into custody,” Jan said, beating Bergman to it.

Bergman nodded.

“I didn’t murder the judge. On all that’s holy.”

“I would like to believe you. Really.”

“Someone wants to pin it on me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Jan said. “But I’m no murderer. If my blood’s at the crime scene, it only means someone’s trying to drag me into this.”

“Jan,” Bergman said, sounding gentler for once. “I promise you, we’re putting all our weight behind working this case and looking for any evidence that will clear you. But you’re right. I can’t let you go home. You have to remain in custody, at least for now. Later, I’ll talk to the state prosecutor and try to get you free until the trial. If you agree to stay put.”

Bergman paged through his notes. “You have a ton of vacation time. I’ll try to keep this news contained. I’ll only let people in on the DNA evidence who absolutely have to know. I’ll stall any disciplinary action as long as I can. This could all be cleared up in a few days. Please, Jan, don’t screw this up. Rein in that temper of yours, talk to no one, and do not tamper with the case.”

Jan closed his eyes. “All right. Promise.”

Bergman relaxed a bit and shut his notebook. “You’ll have to turn in your badge and your duty weapon to me for the moment.”

Jan nodded grimly and handed them over.

Bergman swept the items into his desk drawer. “I’ll call Stein. He’ll take you to Moabit. The guards know the score. None of the prisoners will know you’re a detective.”

“Give me five minutes, to hit the restroom. This whole deal is getting to my stomach and I got no desire to use a jail can.”

“Stein,” Bergman yelled into the hallway. A second later, Jan’s fellow detective came into the room.

“Hi again, Pat,” Jan said, trying to keep his expression neutral. He couldn’t help but think that the guy might derive some minor pleasure out of bringing him to jail.

“Escort him to the restroom and keep him from doing anything stupid. Then take him over to Moabit.”

“Thanks,” Jan said, standing. Patrick followed one step behind him all the way down the hall and into the bathroom. Jan opened the stall door, locked it shut, dropped his pants, and sat down on the toilet.

“Won’t take long,” he shouted. He drew his cell from his pocket and switched the setting to silent. He’d quietly text his friend Chandu. His African friend was in the Berlin underworld. But ever since Jan had saved his ass in a shootout, Chandu was indebted to Jan. Chandu would do anything for him, and today Jan needed a favor like never before.

Jan’s fingers flew across the keys, and he fired off the text before standing to flush. Hopefully, Patrick wouldn’t put cuffs on him next, because now it was time, Jan knew, for doing something stupid.

Chapter 2

Jan tried to look defeated as he left the building with Patrick, but all his senses were keyed up. His eyes darted around, and he eyed his colleague’s every step.

He was hoping Chandu had gotten his text and had headed out right away. By hitting the toilet and asking to drink one more coffee, Jan had been able to gain twenty minutes. More would have been suspect. Jan was stronger than Patrick, but he wanted to avoid a brawl.

The street had a lot of traffic for a Sunday. A large SUV rolled slowly by them. The woman at the wheel could barely handle her big vehicle. She kept jerking her head around as if scared she was going to hit something. Following behind that was a black Mercedes sports car with blacked-out windows, chrome wheels, an aggressive rear spoiler, and headlights shaped like demonic eyes. The muscular arm of a black man was propped up in the driver’s-side window, with thumb and little finger splayed out. Hang loose, the Hawaiian surfer salute. The car slowed down, and Jan watched as the passenger door was pushed open a crack. From the corner of his eye, Jan glanced at Patrick, who was just then pulling his ringing cell phone from his pocket. Jan thanked the God of Mobile Phones, waiting till the Mercedes was even with him.

Most problems in Jan’s life were caused by his impulsive reactions. As early as kindergarten he’d been getting in trouble for it. The chickens had really come home to roost, though, when George Holoch had ruled against him for assault in that one unforgettable court hearing. And still he couldn’t kick the habit of acting rashly. Because what he had planned now would put everything he’d done in the past to shame.

“I’m going to regret this,” he muttered, grabbing Patrick by the collar of his coat and pulling him down backward. Jan’s colleague screamed, fell on his butt, and dropped his cell phone. Jan sprinted away. He ran to the Mercedes, ripped open the door, jumped into the passenger seat.

“Having a good Sunday, Jan?” the driver joked.

Before Jan could manage a greeting, Chandu stomped on the gas. Jan clawed at the middle console of the Mercedes as the engine’s sudden acceleration nearly tossed him from his seat.

The telephone flew off the desk again. “Am I surrounded only by amateurs?” Bergman roared. “What’s so hard about delivering a suspect to Moabit?”

“He had help,” Patrick declared, as if that justified it.

“From who?”

“An unknown driver in a black Mercedes.”

“You get the plate?”

Patrick nodded.

“So why are you still standing here? Put out a search and get Jan back here.”

Patrick hurried to get out of the room.

Bergman suppressed a scream. He wasn’t just dealing with a judge beaten to death anymore; now one of his own men was the prime suspect. And instead of sitting in custody, that man was on the run. And Bergman was going to have to explain why he hadn’t ordered handcuffs for Jan. He didn’t even want to think about the stories in the media. The police chief and the mayor were really going to lose it.

He found his desk again and sat down. He had known Jan for so long. The man was a good detective. A little quick-tempered and undiplomatic, sure, but he’d had a future in the homicide squad.

“Goddamn idiot,” Bergman muttered, picking up the telephone. He’d have to let a few people know about this, and it wasn’t going to be fun. How could he have been fooled like that?

If he had looked into the hallway at that very moment, he would have seen Patrick Stein there, grinning, a cup of coffee in one hand as he set out to launch the manhunt.

“What kind of trouble you get yourself in now?” Chandu asked. He wore big sunglasses and a grin. Two distinctive tribal tattoos were inked on his forehead. Broad shoulders and bodybuilder muscles showed under his blue shirt. At nearly six foot six, Chandu made an impressive figure, one well known in the Berlin underworld. He mainly worked as a bouncer and a debt collector. Not illegal in itself, though most of his customers were on wanted lists. But Chandu didn’t talk about his jobs much, and Jan was grateful for it. That way he didn’t run into conflicts with work and could enjoy his time with his crazy friend.

“I’m suspected of killing someone,” Jan told him, trying to get comfortable in the seat.

Chandu let out a whistle. “So you thought it was a good idea to hightail it?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Jan argued. “They were taking me into custody.”

“Suspected isn’t the right word, then,” Chandu said.

Jan scowled. “True. The evidence against me is watertight.”

“So? You do it?”

“Of course not,” Jan shot back. “Someone wants to pin it on me, though. And the way he did it points to some real good planning.”

Chandu sped through a curve. Once again, Jan had trouble staying in the seat.

“Where we going, anyway?”

“You can lay low at my place.” He tossed Jan a key. “My apartment on Oranienburger. You know the one. I’ll let you off on the corner. Keep your head down so no one sees you.”

“And you do what?”

“I have to lose this car. They got to be searching for us in it now.”

“Shame,” Jan said and ran his fingers along the dash. “Nice ride.”

“It’
s . . .
borrowed,” Chandu replied. “I’ll park it in the Spree.”

Chandu slowed down. He put out a hand.

“What do you want?” Jan said.

“Your SIM card?”

“What’s it to you?”

Chandu looked as if Jan had just told him the earth was flat.

“Any amateur detective can track you down with that. Give it here. I’ll stick it in an old phone, turn it on, chuck it on a freight train. That’s sure to get us a few hours.”

Jan pulled his cell phone from his pocket and tried to pry out the little chip, but his hands were shaking too much.

“Easy now, Jan,” his friend said. “We’ll get there.”

While Chandu held the steering wheel with his left little finger, he took the phone in his right hand and extracted the SIM card.

Jan pounded on the dash. He wasn’t the type to cry, but being suspected of murder had really hit him hard. He was slowly becoming aware of the consequences. He couldn’t go back home anymore, had to shut off his phone, and couldn’t call any friends. Betty’s apartment would be staked out. He couldn’t even write a simple e-mail. Detectives would question all his friends and relatives. By this evening, they would all know that he was wanted for murder.

Jan wiped at his face. “You have to yank your card too.”

“How come mine?” Chandu said.

“Detectives will trace my text to you. I take it your phone’s not in your name.”

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t mention your name in my text. The trace will lead nowhere, as long as you get rid of that SIM card.”

“You got it all thought out,” Chandu said, grinning.

He braked with a jerk and rolled to the curb.

“I restocked the beer. Make yourself cozy. Flip through the sports channels, but don’t go looking outside. I have to go take care of a few things. I’ll be back soon. I’ll get us new SIM cards, then you can make calls again. You can tell me all about it later tonight.”

Jan gave Chandu a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Thanks, my friend.”

“Nothing to thank.”

Jan climbed out, closed the door, and crossed the street. The Mercedes drove on, tires squealing. Jan fought an urge to run. He didn’t want to draw any attention. It was all he could do not to look around, keeping an eye out for police cars. It seemed like an eternity before he reached the building’s dim inner courtyard. The walls were covered with graffiti. It stank of urine and mold. No point checking mailboxes here. The stairway steps were worn down and lopsided. The elevator was kaput. A perfect hideout.

Once Jan got the heavy steel door closed behind him, the contrast with the stairway could not have been greater. Chandu’s apartment was impeccably furnished. A tart aroma of incense permeated the air. A designer leather couch was situated in front of a wide flat-screen on the wall. On the floor was a tan woven rug, making the room nice and homey.

The furnishings mixed Western lifestyle with African tradition. Chandu had fled Rwanda as a child, with his mother. He didn’t like to talk about that period, but shelves lined with countless statues and masks expressed his longing for the old homeland.

Jan went into the spacious kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He drank it slowly, thinking about the first time he’d visited this place.

It had been just days after his first encounter with Chandu—when he’d saved the man’s life. Back then, Jan had still been doing patrol. He’d gotten a call to deal with an altercation at a nightclub. As the bouncer, Chandu had already been sorting things out when Jan had pulled up. Just as he stepped out of his car, some nut job drew a piece. The guy’s first bullet hit Chandu in the shoulder. He’d rolled away, but the shooter had gone after him. He’d stood over Chandu, barrel pointing at Chandu’s head, grinning wide. It had been an easy job for Jan. He’d taken the man down with two shots.

The inquest had taken a long time. A man shot dead was no small deal, even when he’d had a blood-alcohol level of .12 and a ton of cocaine in his system. Thanks to Chandu’s testimony, of course, they couldn’t find any wrongdoing on Jan’s part. Still, the episode cemented Jan’s rep as a trigger-happy cop. It hounded him even now, years later.

After he was released from the hospital, Chandu had looked up Jan to say thanks. Jan had liked the big guy from the first moment on. So he had accepted Chandu’s invitation to come down to his local bar and give banana wine a try. Over the years, the African had become his good friend.

Jan sat on the couch, picked up the remote, and found the sports channel. Over the last few hours, he had been trying so hard to remember yesterday—Saturday—but the effort had only given him a headache. Maybe a distraction would help. He took a sip of beer and put his feet up on the coffee table.

He lasted for about five minutes in that position. Then, unable to stop his mind and pulse from racing, he jumped up and went to Chandu’s computer.

For Andreas Emmert, it was the toughest assignment of his career. He and Jan had worked together often. Jan’s grit, combined with that incurable obstinacy of his, had always inspired Andreas. The guy stuck with a case, no matter if it hit a dead end. Andreas had always worried, though, that Jan would end up in hot water. He lacked tact at times and never seemed to grasp that cops weren’t supposed go around giving the bad guys a taste of their own medicine.