Until the Debt Is Paid (9 page)

The house fit in well among the old prewar buildings surrounding it, and yet, at a second glance, it differed from the others. Two cameras were mounted at the entrance. There was no bell or name plaque, just a bronze knocker mounted on the door.

Chandu knocked twice. He knew this door didn’t open for just anyone. All he could hope was that the proprietor had not forgotten him. The woman who owned this place was his final hope for finding out more about the girls.

As the door gently clicked, he sighed in relief. A man in a dark suit opened up.

“She’s expecting you upstairs.” He motioned for Chandu to step inside.

The home’s interior was as elegant as its facade. The floor was white marble. Dark-red columns nestled up against gold-trimmed walls. The stucco ceiling was embellished with a mural of a naked woman lounging lasciviously with a silk sheet. A corridor to the right was concealed by a curtain and guarded by a gorgeous blonde in a silk negligee. She had a model’s looks and a slender, curving body that promised unimaginable delights, but Chandu didn’t pause. He continued up the wide staircase, not stopping until he reached a white wooden door on the second floor.

He knocked.

“Come in,” said a woman’s warm voice.

A moment later, he was inside a small library with bookshelves to the ceiling and a cozy fire. In the middle of the room stood a heavy oak desk, its polished wood mirroring the flames. The woman who sat behind it still possessed the beauty that had enthralled him when they’d first met. Her black hair was combed back severely into an elegant violet head wrap. Her face had a perfect symmetry, barely any makeup, and an immaculate clarity. Her intelligent gaze and confident manner made her beauty even more extraordinary. As Chandu entered, she set aside her golden fountain pen and closed a leather folder.

“Chandu,” she said graciously. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Lady Samira.” He gave a little bow. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The woman gestured to a leather chair. Chandu settled into it, grateful to be sitting.

“What can I do for you? I assume you’d like an appointment with one of the girls. I’m guessing that your sexual inclinations haven’t changed.”

The big man smiled. “Thanks for the offer, but whips and chains still scare me.”

Lady Samira returned the smile.

“A friend is in trouble. I want to lend him a hand, and I need your help.”

“An unusual request, after all these years.”

“Apologies. If it wasn’t important, I would never bother you.”

Lady Samira leaned back, weighing her options.

“He has a name, your friend?”

“Jan.”

“The policeman who saved your life?”

Chandu nodded.

“You do know I don’t exactly have a friendly relationship with the police.”

“It would kill me to ever get you into trouble. Jan doesn’t know I’m here, and he won’t ever know. The only reason I’m sitting here is because I see no other way.”

Lady Samira steepled her hands below her chin, studying Chandu from over her finely manicured fingers.

“I’ll listen to what you have to say. Then I’ll decide if and how I can help you.”

“Thank you,” Chandu said, relieved. He pulled the photo album from his pocket. “It’s about the murder of Judge George Holoch.”

“No loss there,” Lady Samira said. “He was a nasty sadist, with poor manners.”

“He was a client of yours?”

“He wanted to book one of my girls, but I could tell at once he would only cause trouble. His ego couldn’t handle me rejecting him. He threatened me and told me that I’d regret the decision, but after I showed him the door, I never heard from him again. What did this policeman have to do with it?”

“He’s suspected of murdering the judge.”

“That does make me like him.”

“But Jan is innocent. I’m helping him find the actual murderer.”

Chandu set the album on the desk and pushed it over to Lady Samira.

“What is it?” She opened it.

“This shows Judge Holoch deserved to die. It’s his trophy collection. Nothing but girls all beat up. I know three of them, and I wanted to see if any of the faces looks familiar.”

Lady Samira paged through the photos, impassive.

“I have little to do with these types of prostitutes,” she said. “Why come to me?”

“I was hoping that Judge Holoch had been one of your clients. Since you rejected him, though, you can’t tell me much. Do you know where he might have gone?”

“George Holoch was a pathetic creature,” Lady Samira said without raising her voice. “Some women do offer services to sadists like him, but none would willingly endure his level of cruelty. Few procurers would seek him out, either. They don’t view it too kindly when someone breaks their girl’s nose or brings her back with a black eye. It’s bad for business.”

“Where did he get the girls, then? He can’t have kidnapped them.”

Lady Samira closed the photo album. “Don’t look for the girls, but rather the person who took them to the judge.”

“So I should blame all the local pimps?”

“Judge Holoch wouldn’t have had enough money to reimburse each procurer for such a large number of maltreated girls. That nice house he had alone was more than he could afford.”

“Who should I look for?”

“I don’t have a name for you. However, you must know that not all the girls in these photos are whores.”

“You mea
n . . .
”

“Most of those girls were procured privately. Children of fathers who don’t care if their daughters are roughed up. The main thing for them is, they earn a few euros for their next fix or that bottle of schnapps. Search for the fathers. Then you might find an avenging angel.”

Michael Josseck woke up. Sweat drenched his white shirt. His face was flushed red and he panted heavily, making his thick body shudder. The whole room spun around him. Harsh ceiling light pierced his eyes. He had no idea what had happened. He had come home, left his coat on the chair, and poured himself a cognac. With glass in hand, he’d turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. At some point he must have nodded off.

Now he lay in front of the sofa on the floor, his feet tied up, his hands bound behind his back. The TV was still on, though now the volume was unbearably loud. The bass boomed; the news anchor’s voice hurt his ears.

“What the hell?” He tried to break his restraints. The plastic ties wouldn’t give.

A military boot planted itself atop his chest. It belonged to a masked figure with mirrored sunglasses. The figure was wearing a black jumpsuit. There was a hydration pack on its back. Michael had seen those things on joggers along the Spree.

“Take your fucking boots off me,” he barked, “and cut off these straps or you’re going to get it right in the face.”

The figure shook its head a little. It appeared to be smiling under the mask.

“Let me go, you motherfucker, or—”

The attacker dropped and pressed Michael’s face between its thighs, making it impossible to move his head. He tried to twist his way out of the hold but found he couldn’t move. He strained with all his power and felt the plastic ties cut into his flesh. He couldn’t get free.

“Motherfucker,” he groaned, squeezing out the words. Something was shoved into his mouth. He tried to close his jaw tightly but some kind of metal barrier forced his mouth open.

“I thought you were into oral action,” the figure said. “Be good, hold still.”

Michael’s eyes opened wide. He knew this voice.

A sweetish liquid was sprayed into his mouth. Like the stuff he’d had to ingest for that gastroscopy.

“Wouldn’t want you to have to gag,” the figure chirped.

Michael’s thoughts raced. It couldn’t be. Not after so many years. He fought against the straps on his hands until blood dripped onto the floor. No matter how much he tried, the relentless squeezing of those thighs made it impossible to turn his head.

A plastic tube was inserted down his throat. Michael convulsed as the tube was forced into his esophagus.

“Good, swallow,” his attacker said and uncapped the hydration pack. A gritty pulp ran through the pipe and into his stomach.

“Wouldn’t want any to miss.”

Michael fought one last time, but the thighs kept him pressed to the floor as the mix kept flowing down his throat.

Chapter 6

It was only 7:00 a.m. and Jan had already been awake for two hours. His insomnia was really starting to worry him. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep, so he opened the bag from Father Anberger.

He pulled out what appeared to be a plastic toy that looked like a vanilla ice-cream cone. Then he uncapped the end of the cone to reveal a USB flash drive. It contained files from most of the cases Jan had worked on. It had been handy for his investigations because it was a way to reference old details at home, without needing to drive into the office and look them up. Taking out records was strictly forbidden, of course, but the fact was the flash drive had helped him solve several cases. Sometimes he had his best ideas for breaking a case on the weekend or at night.

It was a stroke of luck that the data hadn’t been discovered by his coworkers when they’d searched his apartment. He had his friend Max to thank. Max had given him the fake ice-cream cone a couple years ago.

Jan connected the flash drive to Chandu’s computer. As the laptop started up, he pulled clothes from the bag and placed them in the cabinet his friend had freed up for him. Now he could finally change.

He was enjoying the scent of fresh new clothes on his body when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Zoe here. We have another dead.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m on the way to the crime scene now. But homicide squad has been knocked for a loop. Seems Holoch and dead guy knew each other.”

Jan cursed under his breath. This new murder could have been his chance to rule himself out as a suspect. If he were in custody right now, he’d have the perfect alibi. Instead, here was another crime they’d probably want to pin on him.

“I don’t have much time,” Zoe continued. “I’m going to take a few photos, but we should meet in person. E-mail is too risky for me.”

Jan paused. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Zoe, but she was his only link to the homicide squad. Without her, he had zilch.

“My hideout is tough to find,” Jan told her. “Send me a text if you want to do it tonight. If so, I’ll be waiting in front of the Absolut Bar on Oranienburger.”

“Okay,” Zoe said and hung up.

Jan set down his phone, his dark mood gone. He had the urge to drive over to the Homicide offices to find out more about the victim. And discover whether his own fingerprints had once again turned up at the scene.

Whoever had murdered Judge Holoch had probably preplanned this new murder the same way as before, to make him look guilty. Jan pounded on the coffee table. His inability to act was driving him nuts. There was a lunatic running around and he couldn’t do a thing about it. He turned on the TV and flipped channels, hoping to distract himself as he waited to hear from Zoe. Then he heard Chandu’s heavy steps coming up the stairs.

Once Chandu shut the door behind him, he let out an audible sigh of relief. It had been a crazy night.

“You’re home late,” Jan said.

“Early, you mean,” Chandu replied.

“You were gone a long time, either way. Did you find out anything?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Chandu went into the kitchen. “I went poking around the red-light district and hit up every contact I got, but I didn’t find any more girls.”

He pushed buttons on the coffee machine to get the brew going.

“I did learn more about Judge Holoch,” he said. “It seems the upstanding fellow didn’t have as much dough as you might think from that sweet crib of his. Apparently to procure girls that he could abuse like that meant having to shell out a hell of a lot.”

“Maybe he simply picked up girls off the street.”

“That wouldn’t have worked for long,” Chandu said. “For one thing, word would have gotten out and hookers would’ve refused to get into his car. Plus, pimps don’t like it when a john beats on their girls, because they can’t make money off damaged goods. They’d find the guy and take revenge real quick.”

“What else is there?”

“Private procurement.”

“Private?” Jan said in surprise.

“Fathers, handing over their daughters for whatever.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Addicts, drunks, and other losers who don’t give a shit. They’re happy to take the payout and let some degenerate do whatever they want with their kid. They tell Child Services the kid took a fall, and they believe it.”

“What a shitty world.”

“I’m sorry, Jan, but I just don’t know how we go about this one. I was hoping for more.”

“It’s not over. Look, somebody was dealing those girls. Judge Holoch didn’t just run ads for that in the
Tagespresse
. We find that dealer, we know who the girls were.”

“So how do we find him?”

“I got no idea, not yet, but Zoe’s coming this evening. There’s another dead man. She’s bringing crime-scene photos. Maybe they’ll get us that much closer.”

Klaus Bergman flipped through documents for the Josseck murder case. Maybe it sounded cynical, but he was glad the latest victim had not been another prominent judge. The department couldn’t take a second George Holoch case. The last few days he’d done nothing but fend off prying reporters, reassure politicians, and report their progress to the police chief.

Patrick Stein knocked on the doorframe. The lead detective looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot and his suit rumpled.

“You need to get some sleep.”

“When we have Jan.”

“It seems there’s another lunatic loose in Berlin.” Bergman held up a photo of the dead Michael Josseck.

“It was Jan.”

“What makes you think that?” Bergman shot back in surprise. Jan did have a possible motive for murdering the judge, but nothing connected him to Josseck.

“It’s only speculation, but I’ll deliver you the proof soon.”

“If you don’t have it, I suggest you start thinking more broadly.”

“I am certain that Jan is behind this. That’s why I propose to make it public.”

“A public manhunt?” Bergman blurted, startled now. “That is the last thing I will do.”

“It would make our work—”

“I don’t think you recognize the situation we’re in,” Bergman cut in. “My job is to pacify the media and what feels like five hundred political committees. I can’t even go take a piss because one of my detectives is the main suspect in a murder case. With that kind of manhunt? It would turn Jan into a serial killer, and the case would make headlines all over the country. And we might as well build a moat around the station.”

“But what if I can confirm my theory?” Patrick said.

“My God, Stein, come off it. With all due respect to your commitment. Jan is not the next generation of Red Army Faction killer.” Bergman slapped the photo of Josseck on the desk. “All right? Now get this idea of a public manhunt out of your head.”

He grabbed for the new phone. He’d had this one brought in after he’d destroyed his old phone in a fit of rage a few days before. “Right now, I get to go kiss the police chief’s ass. Concern yourself with Josseck. You have something firm, come on by, otherwise keep your wild theories to yourself.”

He waved Patrick out.

“Public manhunt,” Bergman grumbled. “Like a rabid dog.”

The table was covered with pictures and crime-scene reports. Zoe was enjoying sipping her coffee, gazing around the apartment while Jan looked at the photos. The shots showed the dead man from every possible angle. Michael Josseck had been the victim of a clearly sadistic murder. His thick body was bound up with plastic ties. His thin hair was sticky with sweat. A gray, gritty substance oozed out of his wide-open mouth.

“Is that concrete?” Chandu asked her.

“He was a building contractor,” she said. “Took a couple hours to get the stuff out of him.” Zoe pulled out her pack of cigarettes, stuck one in her mouth, and lit it with her waterproof lighter.

“I hate people smoking in my apartment,” Chandu growled.

Zoe blew smoke into the air, ignoring him. “We even found concrete in his stomach,” she went on. “The esophagus was filled with it too.”

“Was it the cause of death, or did someone pour the stuff into him afterward?”

“Michael Josseck asphyxiated. The murderer poured concrete into his mouth when he was still alive.”

“What a sick bastard,” Chandu said.

“I’ve seen worse,” Zoe said, unmoved.

“You find concrete on his clothes, in his hair, or on his face?” Jan said.

“Why do you ask?”

“I want to know exactly how the murderer did it,” Jan told her. “No one just lets himself have concrete dumped down his throat. Michael Josseck looked like a big strong guy. He would’ve defended himself no matter what. If no specks of concrete were discovered on his clothes and face, then presumably he was lying steady.”

“The toxicology analysis is ongoing,” Zoe said. “If he had any drugs or poisons in him, we’ll find them.”

She raised her coffee mug and tilted it toward Chandu, showing him it was empty. The big man waved away cigarette smoke in a huff and got up.

“He have any indentations inside his mouth or missing any teeth?”

Zoe narrowed her eyes. “We actually did find indents in his jaw, but we weren’t sure what caused them.”

“Indentations could be from a jaw spreader. The perpetrator could hold his mouth open that way, then pour in the concrete.”

“My God. Why kill a man with concrete?” Chandu asked from the kitchen. “Why not just slit his throat or put a bullet in him?”

“Gruesome murders are usually personal,” Jan explained. “The murderer spent a long time planning the act and wanted to savor Josseck dying. An atypical murder weapon often says something about the perpetrator or points to there being an unusual motive for the deed. But concrete for a building contractor? It’s hardly specific. The murderer could be any angry former customer who got cheated by Josseck.” He turned to Zoe. “Are there suspects?”

“No idea. I only have the exam results, these autopsy photos, and a few crime-scene pics I shot.”

As Chandu set down Zoe’s mug for her, Jan picked up the crime-scene photos and spread them out over the whole table, trying to piece together the facts. Michael Josseck had been killed in his living room. It was a large space with white furniture and a silvery light fixture. His head lay on a bright-white flokati rug. Only a still-life painting and a flat-screen TV stood out in the colorless landscape.

“Notice anything?” Jan said. Chandu and Zoe moved closer, scrutinizing the photos.

“He had some real bad taste in furniture,” Zoe said.

Chandu shook his head.

“It’s all neat and tidy,” Jan told them. “Michael Josseck was bound and choked in agony. But if you retouched the picture to remove the corpse, the apartment would look in perfect order. There are no bloodstains, and the furnishings are all intact. Even if the murderer was really strong, he wouldn’t have had an easy time with the likes of Josseck. How tall was he—six foot two?”

“Six three.”

“And his weight? At least three hundred pounds.”

Zoe flipped through the autopsy report. “Three fifty-nine.”

“The murderer didn’t go at Josseck head-on. No, there were drugs or narcotics at work here.” Jan leaned back on the couch. “Plus, I bet nothing was stolen.”

“How come?”

“Josseck was supposed to suffer and die. The money wasn’t important. The crime scene suggests extensive planning, not spontaneity.”