Until the Debt Is Paid (8 page)

“You were fourteen back then?”

Sarah nodded. “I wanted to go to the pigs, but my pimp, he threatened to beat me if I opened my mouth.”

“You never encountered Holoch after that?”

“I was too old for him, actually.”

“At fourteen?”

“I told you, he was one sick asshole.”

“You know other women he beat up?”

“Two.”

“How old were they?”

“Both no older than fourteen. Probably younger.”

“My God,” Jan whispered.

“Welcome to my twisted world,” Sarah said, wiping a tear from her eye.

Back at Chandu’s place, Jan grabbed a beer from the fridge and drank down the bottle in one long swig. Whenever he thought of girls worked over like that, he felt ill. Every one of those images in the judge’s picture album was a life destroyed.

In the bedroom, Chandu was comparing the descriptions and names they got from Sarah with the photos in the book.

“Nobody she identified is in here. It’s a dead end.”

“We’ll have to keep looking,” Jan insisted.

“That won’t be easy,” Chandu told him. “I’ll have to go around, see what I can hear, find out if they’re still in Berlin and where I can find them. For that I’ll have to call in a few favors.”

“Maybe the judge didn’t keep photos of each and every victim,” said Jan. “I’ll come with you.”

Chandu shook his head. “Way too dicey. Some folks wouldn’t be too happy about me having a cop along. I have to do it alone.”

Jan wanted to object, but Chandu held up a hand.

“I can watch out for myself. If there’s trouble? I’ll call you.”

Jan gave in. “Okay. I’ll stay home if it means getting a new lead.”

“I wouldn’t be too optimistic.”

“How come?”

“Finding these girls won’t help you,” Chandu said. “I could find plenty of women who would’ve liked to see the judge dead, but there will be no link to prove you innocent. You don’t know a single girl in those photos, and the descriptions Sarah gave us don’t ring a bell with you, either.”

Jan sighed. “Maybe something in all this will jog my memory.”

“I just don’t want you to get up your hopes. Whoever murdered Holoch knew about you having trouble with him, and seems to have easily gotten hold of your fingerprints. The hookers might supply us with more twisted details about Holoch’s kinks. But they aren’t going to get us closer to finding the murderer, or explaining why the crime was pinned on you.”

“You’re right, but it’s all we have.”

Chandu placed a hand on Jan’s shoulder. “I’ll find more of the women. You should get some rest. You’ve gone through a lot.”

“I’m meeting Father Anberger later today. He was going to get me a few things from my apartment that I’m hoping will be useful.”

“Don’t forget, they’re out searching for you,” Chandu warned. “Avoid staying outside too long.” He grabbed the car key and left the apartment.

Jan got another beer from the fridge and dialed Father Anberger’s number.

For Chandu it was like old times. He strolled by the bars and bordellos, said hey to a few of the girls waiting for takers along the street, waved at the bouncers, and chatted a little with club owners. Most were happy to see him—he was still a known face in the scene. But the reality was that he hated this area. The hookers’ empty faces, the rooms smelling like quickie sex, the criminal minds at work trying to find new victims to rip off or blackmail. From his very first day it had been tough for him to work here—but in the beginning, he’d had nowhere else to turn. So he had conformed and played along, following the underworld’s rules to survive. He would’ve rather become a car mechanic or a race-car driver, but life had other plans for him.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that searching for the girls would prove tricky. No one could get wise that his strolling around was really investigating, or he was going to end up with real big problems, real fast. Even after canvassing the whole street, he still hadn’t seen any of the girls he was after.

“Chandu.” A Russian accent made him spin around.

“Andrei,” Chandu said. He hugged the powerfully built Russian as if they were old friends, but there was no one Chandu wanted to see less. The man was as big as he was. His tattoos included a star over his left eyebrow and Cyrillic script on his hands. The flashy rings on his meaty fingers had been sharpened to points to cause more damage when he hit someone.

Andrei was one of the meanest bastards in Berlin. In Russia, he had been sentenced to death for murder. Somehow he’d fled to Germany. Now he worked as a fixer for a ring that smuggled girls. His nickname, the Russian Bear, was far too nice for him. They should’ve called him the Russian Ripper. No one enjoyed violence more.

“What you doing here?” Andrei asked him. “You collecting dough again?”

“Things are quiet at the moment. No jobs going. I was just bored, so I’m strolling through the neighborhood.”

“Stroll through the neighborhood.” Andrei laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “You look more like stinking pig who looks for something.”

Chandu broke into laughter, but his eyes were taking in his surroundings, gauging his odds of survival. Beyond Andrei, inside the closest bar, sat two of the Russian’s minions, types who were real quick on the trigger. Less than twenty feet away, another of his thugs was arguing with a Russian whore. Andrei himself always carried a knife, knowing a blade was more effective than any pistol at short distances. While keeping his right hand on Chandu’s shoulder, Andrei moved his left suspiciously close to his hip. Chandu tried to recall if he’d seen a knife handle in the man’s belt.

“What, you trying to insult me, brother?” Chandu replied, playing up the outrage. He worked himself loose from Andrei’s grip, taking a step back—being that close to Andrei was never a good idea. “I’ve collected money for you, and you suspect me of being a pig?”

“You walk up street and study girls. Now you walk other side. Only pigs do this.”

“I got to keep up on the latest,” Chandu argued. “What kind of new girls are coming in, who’s not working anymore, what kind of new players are showing up. You know how important it is to know the score.”

“What do you have in your pocket?” Andrei said, unmoved.

Chandu knew that face. He had seen the Russian flip out enough times to know when he was about to lose it. The men at the bar rose from their seats. Their hands drifted under their jackets.

Chandu had only one chance. If Andrei saw the book of photos, it was over.

“You guys hear that?” He moved past the Russian, into the bar. “My old friend here, he hurts my feelings. He’s calling me some kind of snoop.”

The two thugs clearly did not like Chandu’s maneuver.

He turned to the cocktail waitress. “Give me a glass of Andrei’s best vodka. That’s the least I get for the abuse.”

Andrei was still standing at the entrance, still not moving. If the Russian went off on him now, he was as good as dead. With those two thugs at his back, he would never get out of there. He wouldn’t escape outside, either. The street was too wide for good cover. Andrei’s guys would blow him away before he’d gotten ten yards.

The put-on indignation was his only chance. Chandu kept up his insulted face, hoping Andrei was falling for it.

No one moved. The cocktail waitress was stiff with fear. Cheesy bar music clanged out of the speakers. Chandu shifted a little next to a beer bottle. He’d bring that down on the first thug’s skull. He could deal with the second one too, but the Bear was a whole different caliber.

The tension faded from Andrei’s face.

“Forgive me, my black friend,” he said, smiling, coming all the way into the bar. The two thugs relaxed, taking their hands out of their jackets.

“Give him bottle of Kauffman,” Andrei told the bartender. “This is only true vodka. Only best Russian wheat, with hint of honey.”

Chandu grabbed a glass and toasted to Andrei. “
Za vas
,” he said, and tipped back the vodka in one swig.

“
Za vas
,” the men replied, and drank.

Chandu hated vodka, but he’d have to permit himself a few. Maybe then his knees would stop shaking.

Jan’s hair was disheveled and his unshaven face looked scruffy as he walked to his meeting with Father Anberger. He kept his head down and focused on his feet, wishing he were somewhere else. A million miles away from here. Away from murder charges, child abusers, and broken dreams.

In the Tiergarten, the priest was waiting with a large sports bag. As always, when he smiled at Jan, he radiated unshakeable optimism.

“You doing well, Herr Tommen?” he asked with concern. Jan’s dark mood was not lost on the older man.

Jan waved it away. “So far, okay,” he said wearily. “This has all been a little much for me.”

Father Anberger didn’t seem satisfied with Jan’s answer, but he let it go with an understanding nod. He handed Jan the bag.

“It’s all in there,” he said. “Even that little plastic ice-cream cone thing. I hope it helps.”

Jan felt a rush of gratitude and placed his hand on Father Anberger’s shoulder. Only now did he realize how much he liked the old man. It was comforting to know some people would still stand by him in his dark hours.

“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” Jan smiled. “When this is all behind me, I’ll invite you over and we won’t just talk briefly in the stairway like we do. I’ll have a lot to tell you about.”

Father Anberger touched Jan’s hand in a friendly gesture. “There will come a time when you will make sense of all this. Then your life will be worth living again. And no matter how forsaken you feel, the Lord is with you.”

Without another word, the priest turned and walked off, heading for the subway. Jan watched him go until the man disappeared among the throng of passersby. Jan shouldered the bag and made his own way back.

Chandu’s tour through the red-light district had brought him little new besides waves of nausea from too much vodka. And he couldn’t go back to Jan empty-handed. So he got in the car and drove to a neighborhood not far from the City Palace, parking in front of a villa.

As he approached the door, it struck Chandu that he hadn’t been to the place for years. It was still a stunning home. He’d always admired its quiet elegance. Well-designed lighting illuminated the front courtyard, which was anchored by manicured shrubs. The exterior shutters were open, but curtains barred anyone from looking inside. He climbed the broad set of marble steps that led to the imposing wooden door.