Grave Intent (12 page)

“Didn’t that warn him, make him all the more wary?” Max asked.

“It did, actually. But now for the freaky part. Inside? He didn’t encounter the murderer, but rather Moritz Quast.
He
put David down with the stun gun.”

“The victim himself?” Zoe asked. “Was he crazy, or maybe in cahoots with the killer?”

“I’m guessing the killer forced him to do it. According to David, Quast was near tears.”

“But if Quast knew that he was going to die,” Max said, “why didn’t he defend himself?”

“If someone has a gun in your back, you do anything,” Chandu replied.

“Even attack the very people protecting me?”

“Anything. Believe me.”

“Clever,” Zoe said. “No one’s counting on the victim attacking.”

“That neutralized Quast’s guards,” Jan continued. “The killer tied both up and then had enough time to do the deed.”

“Moritz Quast was beaten to death at the cemetery,” Zoe remarked. “How did he get him out of there?”

“On foot. We found footprints in one of the neighbors’ yards matching Moritz Quast. Then, on a side street, they got in a vehicle and drove to the cemetery. By the time Fabian and David freed themselves? It was too late.”

“Speaking of cemeteries,” Zoe said, pulling out her cell phone. “I want to check in with evidence analysis, get the latest results.”

She dialed a number, switched the phone to speaker, and set it on the table. On the third ring, a woman answered: “Berlin Police, Evidence Analysis, Franziska Niklas.”

“Aloha,” Zoe said. “Dr. Diek here from the medical examiner’s. I need the results on the Moritz Quast case.”

“Other team did that one. Who you want to speak to?”

“Any of them will do,” Zoe grumbled.

“Who exactly?”

“That Robert one.”

“There’s no Robert here.”

Zoe moaned. “That young whippersnapper. Black hair, little tummy going, smells like Clearasil and has never had to shave.”

“Ah, you mean Romir?”

“Like I was saying.”

“Just a sec.”

The phone was set down. A moment later, footsteps could be heard approaching.

“Romir Hannim,” the young man answered.

“Well, finally,” Zoe said. “It’s Dr. Diek from the medical examiner’s. Remember me?”

“Sure. You’re the bossy chain-smoker with the charm of a power saw.”

“How about I come right over there and—”

Jan yanked the phone off the table and turned to the side. He needed those results from the cemetery and didn’t want to go spoiling things with the crime-scene techs. “Hi, Robert, it’s Detective Tommen here from Homicide.”

“Romir.”

“I’m running the investigation on the Valburg and Quast cases. You secure any evidence from the cemetery?”

“We’re still analyzing, but we have most of it.” Romir cleared his throat. “So. The cemetery was the crime scene for this case. The murderer had Moritz Quast kneel down at the grave and killed him with a blow from behind. Quast had pajamas on and was barefoot.”

Jan turned to Zoe. “You confirm the blow to the back of his head was the cause of death?”

“I did,” she replied grumpily. She was leaning back on the couch and blowing streams of smoke up toward the ceiling.

“So was it the same murder weapon used on Bernhard Valburg?”

“Most likely.”

“Most likely?”

“Ninety-nine-percent match.”

“Which is nearly a hundred percent,” Max remarked.

“You don’t say, Maximum Wiseass,” Zoe snapped.

Jan turned back to the phone. “You find any other clues?”

“We found footprints and boot prints. They match the ones from the yard of Simon Illgen, that neighbor of Moritz Quast.”

“And the DNA sample from the blood on that pebble?”

“We compared it to Moritz Quast’s DNA. The match is ninety-nine point nine percent.”

“Which is nearly a hundred percent,” Zoe remarked.

“Thanks for the pro tip,” Romir added over the phone.

Chandu whispered to Zoe, “I think he likes you.”

“Shut it, Mr. T. Why don’t you go make me some coffee.”

Chandu grinned and saluted her, then went into the kitchen.

“Any fingerprints or DNA from the murderer?”

“We combed the area around the grave millimeter by millimeter. The rain didn’t wash anything away this time, but we still found nothing.”

“And the cross?”

“Identical material as Bernhard Valburg’s. Same wood, same nails, same paint. Mass goods, get ’em at any home-improvement store. Can’t be traced back.”

“How could he make that cross without leaving any fingerprints? He wearing gloves?”

“Didn’t have to,” Romir explained. “He nailed the cross together and smeared a thick coat of paint on it. That will cover any fingerprint. We also found traces of bleach. The murderer thought of everything.”

Jan sighed. “I guess it would’ve been too easy, finding something.”

“Searching for clues is a dead end,” Romir said. “You’ll have to get the murderer some other way.”

“Okay. Thank you very much.”

“Anytime. If we do find anything else, I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Max said. He turned the projector on, and a photo of Moritz Quast appeared on the wall.

“To recap,” he said, pointing at the picture with the last slice of pizza. “Moritz Quast worked for a big health insurer and helped doctors fake bills for expensive meds. He got a suspended sentence and became a car salesman.”

Max pressed some keys, and a photo of Bernhard Valburg appeared next to Moritz Quast. “Dr. Valburg was suspected of conspiring to commit insurance fraud but was acquitted of all charges.”

“We know this,” Zoe said. “This undermines our one possible link between the two victims.”

“What if the charges against Dr. Valburg were justified, though?”

“Huh?”

“Did you find evidence?” Jan asked.

“The records don’t tell the whole story,” Max said. “But maybe the cops didn’t find out everything.”

“Not a bad thought,” Chandu said. “Say Dr. Valburg was more clever than his colleagues. He profits just like they do, but he doesn’t get caught.”

“It might connect the two men,” Jan said, “but it’s too weak for me. Which brings me back to my original take. A few thousand euros in damages doesn’t turn you into a double murderer.”

“You had me convinced of that too,” Max interjected. “So I got in touch with an official in CID Three, crime analysis. A Bettina Arns, with Department Thirty-Two, responsible for white-collar crime. She worked the case back then and was happy to give me some details.

“She couldn’t tell me much, but one thing she said really got me listening. Moritz Quast was the puppet master in the whole operation. He actually should’ve landed in prison, but he engaged in a little horse trading and provided the police with evidence on a man they’d been after for quite some time, a man who’d made a tidy sum importing meds not approved in Germany. This deal spared Moritz Quast a prison sentence.”

“So he narked and sold out to save his ass,” Chandu said. “Which would explain the cut-out tongue.”

Max tapped around on his keyboard, and a third picture appeared on the wall, accompanied by the
ta-da
sound. “Allow me to introduce . . .” He made a sweeping gesture toward the wall. “Robin Cordes. The man Moritz Quast sent to prison. Herr Cordes just happens to have been set free from prison six weeks ago.”

“Well, fuck me,” Zoe said, standing up from the couch.

Chandu came running out of the kitchen as Jan stared at the photo, his eyes widening. The hair, that crooked nose, and the scar above his eyebrows. It all looked familiar.

They had found the man in the police sketch.

Chapter Six

Jan pounded on the door, waited a moment, then pounded again with a flat hand.

“Robin Cordes!” he shouted. “Berlin Police. Open the door.”

Jan preferred to make a dramatic entrance in such situations. Anyone with enough marks against them panicked when the cops hammered on the door. Some tried stupid moves or got violent, but the chances of catching a criminal were still better than with the polite approach. Politeness was generally just a waste of time.

Jan kicked at the door. He unclasped his holster and stood to the side of the doorway.

“All right!” a woman roared back. “I’m coming!”

The lock turned. The door opened, and a young woman stared at him with sleepy eyes. She held her bathrobe closed over her chest; she had only a black slip on underneath.

“Detective Tommen.” Jan showed his badge. “Can I come in?” He pushed the door open and headed for the hallway. “Thanks.”

“Are you crazy? I didn’t say you could—”

“Is Robin here?” Jan bounded down the hallway. To the left was a dimly lit bathroom. Empty.

“I’m filing a complaint,” the woman snapped.

“No problem. My name is Tommen with two
m’
s.” Jan shoved the next door open. The bedroom had two mattresses and a large wardrobe. Jan lifted the bedcovers and opened the wardrobe. A mess of clothes and shoes, but no one was hiding there.

“Robin’s not here.” She grabbed Jan’s arm.

Jan shook himself free. “Best not interfere with a police investigation. And you should put something on. You’re going down to the station with me. We’ll see how you like the cells there.”

The woman jerked back as if Jan had just hit her. She’d leave him alone now.

“I didn’t do anything . . .”

Jan exited the bedroom, crossed through the hallway, and entered a small kitchen. Barely bigger than a rabbit hutch.

“We’ll see about that.” Intimidation was part of the game.

He followed the hallway down to the end. The living room. A blue couch in front of a large TV. Case of beer on the floor. A cheesy picture of a naked woman on a Harley. But no Robin Cordes.

Jan looked out the window. No balcony. They were on the fifth floor. He whipped around to face the woman.

“Where’s Robin?” He took a step closer.

She shrunk back. “He’s not here.”

“I can see that. I want to know where he is.”

“I don’t know.” She was close to tears.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Robin’s girlfriend.”

“So you have a name?”

“Friederike Roth.”

“You live here?”

“Most of the time. I still have a place over in Wedding. We want to move in together soon.”

“Robin is your boyfriend, you want to move in together, and yet you don’t know where he is?”

She sank to the floor. “He’s gone underground. Ever since that murder.”

“What murder?”

“Of that car salesman.”

“Moritz Quast?”

“Yes. That’s his name.”

“Could you be more specific? Did he pack a bag and book a flight to Australia, what?”

“I came back from my morning shift and he was gone.”

“How could you tell he was gone and not just out for a stroll?”

“Because of his father’s picture.”

“What?”

Friederike pointed at the TV. “His father and mother left him when he was two years old, so he has no family pictures. He has just one single photo of his father, from a park. He framed it, put it on top of the TV, dusted it every day. He even took the stupid thing along with him when we went on vacation.” She shrugged. “No idea what the deal was with him and his old man, but that photo was everything to him.”

“And that’s how you’re sure that he’s bolted?”

“Not bolted. Gone underground,” Friederike corrected him.

“Is there a difference?”

“He likes this apartment. Most of his things are still here. He’ll come back. He packed a duffel bag, stuffed some clothes in, went underground. Even his weird cable box for receiving Bundesliga games is still here.

She wiped at her runny nose.

“Maybe he wanted away from you?”

“If he wasn’t into me anymore he would just throw me out. Robin’s enough of an asshole for that.”

Jan sat down on the couch. “What did Moritz Quast dying have to do with his disappearing?”

“No idea. I didn’t know who Moritz Quast was until today.”

“Did he mention it?”

“He was completely freaking out at breakfast. Kept pacing around the living room like some crazy dude and babbling something about a Moritz. ‘Him too,’ he kept saying. I didn’t know what was wrong. I’ve never seen him so worked up, but I was running late and had to get to work. When I heard the news about that murdered car salesman, I knew for sure.”

“And then?”

“There was no ‘then.’ When I came back home, he was gone.”

“Did he mention a Dr. Bernhard Valburg?”

“No.”

Jan leaned back on the couch, observing Friederike. She was staring hard at the floor and clutching the bathrobe as if it was the only thing she had left in her whole bleak life. The woman didn’t seem to have anything to do with any of it.

“Put something on, please,” Jan said gently. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

Friederike nodded and shuffled into the bedroom.

Robin Cordes knew both victims. No surprise there. Dr. Valburg’s receptionist had identified him, and Moritz Quast had sent him to prison. Robin was obviously the perfect suspect, but his girlfriend’s story was making Jan doubt it. Either she was a great liar and Robin was the perpetrator, or she was telling the truth—in which case Robin got spooked and headed underground.

One thing seemed clear: if Robin wasn’t the killer, he knew the killer.

“The work hours used to be better,” Zoe grumbled as she stepped out of the car. “I didn’t have to hang around cemeteries in the middle of the night or drive to Berlin at all hours just to question some mouse.”

“Quit your whining, Princess,” Chandu said. “You were the one who wanted to come with me. Plus, his nickname is
Rat
. Not
Mouse
. Has to do with his looks—that and his last name is Ratinger.”

“Couldn’t we have done this tomorrow at lunchtime?”

“Nine thirty p.m. is early. Most people in this world have just eaten breakfast.”

Zoe took a look around. “What’s so special about this place? The buildings all look like a thousand others. Shops, a few pubs, no flashy cars on the street. Not even any hookers or drug dealers. It all looks pretty boring.”

“That’s exactly why we’re meeting here. A boring neighborhood with boring residents.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Tim is paranoid. Which is precisely why he’s survived as long as he has. Meeting with me in public is not without its dangers. I associate with people who don’t get along with certain other people. Someone sees us, he’ll be associated with my people, something that could cause problems for his business.”

“God, so complicated. Why not just send you an e-mail?”

Chandu laughed. “I suppose it would spare me some bumps and bruises, but sometimes the old tried-and-true methods are still the best.”

“You mean slugging a guy in the nose, stuff like that?”

“Exactly.”

Zoe looked at her watch. “Being punctual is evidently not a strength of this Rat of yours.”

“Oh, he’s been here a while now. He likes to probe his surroundings and study who he’s going to be talking to. If you weren’t here, he’d already have surfaced.”

“I look that dangerous?”

“In the age of automatic firearms, everyone is dangerous.”

“I prefer a knife. Firearms are too vulgar for me.”

“Here he comes,” Chandu said, gesturing toward the other side of the street.

A short, skinny man was moving along the parked cars. His head darted from side to side as if he expected an attack from every angle. Every few steps, he pivoted as if he were being followed. He looked down the street, waited until a car went by, and ran across. He slowed his steps as he approached them.

Zoe finally got a better look at the man. He had unkempt black hair streaked with gray and really needed a trip to the barber. He was unshaven and wore a faded black pullover. His front teeth protruded noticeably, but the most distinctive thing about him was his glasses, which were far too big for his haggard face, with lenses that looked about two inches thick.

Chandu shifted his weight. With his legs spread apart and shoulders flexed back, he looked like a boxer before the bell sounded. This was his stance for intimidation.

“Tim,” he said, his voice grave.

Their contact raised a hand and was about to respond when Zoe landed a powerful blow right on his nose. Glasses and man flew backward.

“What are you doing?” Chandu yelled. “You can’t hit him!”

“I thought this was our way of greeting him.”

“It’s not. Well, okay, in my case it’s different.”

“Ah, you get to give him one and I don’t?”

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

“You only slug people you’ve known a long time?”

“Normally I don’t slug anyone.”

“Apart from Tim.”

“Yes. But only sometimes.”

“Then don’t get all worked up. I just wanted to take some work off your hands.”

Chandu balled his fists and smacked at his own temples. “You’re going to drive me crazy before this is all over. I’ve knocked around with plenty of nut jobs in my time, but you? You beat them all.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.” Zoe threw her head back, running fingers through her hair. “You really know how to charm a girl.”

“What was that for?” Tim howled, holding his bleeding nose.

“A misunderstanding,” Chandu said to smooth things over.

Zoe came closer to have a look at his nose. “Not a big deal. A clean break. Won’t hurt by tomorrow.”

“Thanks!” Tim shouted at her. “Makes me feel better already.”

“Your glasses.” Chandu set the broken frame and cracked glass in Tim’s hand.

“You know what a custom-made pair like this costs?” he said, waving the remains of his spectacles in Zoe’s face.

“Two euros?”

“Ah, she’s funny too. What rock did you find her under?”

“She’s assisting with my investigation.”

“Well, maybe you should start looking for a new partner.”

“Tim, just calm down.” Chandu placed an arm around the little man. “Give me something good, and then you can head right over to the optician with your reward.”

“What about my nose?”

“That’ll need a doctor,” Zoe said.

“A doctor? You really think I have health insurance?”

“No big deal.” Zoe pushed up her sleeves. “I can set that beak of yours right here and now—”

“No!” Chandu and Tim said in unison.

“It’s fine like it is,” Chandu added.

Zoe held up her hands. “Hey, I only wanted to help.”

Chandu turned to Tim. “So. What do you have for us?”

“Your call was a little short-notice. I take it you already know who the guy is in the police sketch?”

“We do now. It’s a certain Robin Cordes.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He was caught up in a billing scandal. When it all blew up, one of the people involved sold him down the river. Robin ended up in the joint.”

“That business with the billing,” Tim said, “that was only one of his gigs. Robin did whatever shady job brought in the dough. Push drugs, sell stolen goods, break into cars. Nothing huge. He always swam clear of the big sharks.”

“You heard about any connection to a Dr. Valburg?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I haven’t had much time to ask around.”

“How did Robin do in the slammer?”

“Not too bad, the way I hear it. He’s changed, apparently.”

“Changed?”

“Broke off all his old connections. No dirty dealings anymore. No drugs, nothing. Even declined an invite on one real lucrative job.”

“How does he earn his dough? Collecting bottles?”

“Word is, it’s poker games.”

“Robin’s rigging poker games?”

“No idea. The games could be bogus, or he could just be running no-limit games, or maybe he’s just a good player. But the man’s a ghost of his former self.”

“You got any idea where he could be holing up?”

“That brings us back to the problem of his avoiding all his old contacts. He’s withdrawn. Three years ago? I could’ve told you his favorite pub. But he hasn’t shown up there in a while. He still lives at the same place, though. Try there.”

“It was a dead end. He’s apparently gone underground.”

“In that case, it’ll be tough. Robin grew up on the street, knows his way around. If I hear anything, I’ll be in touch, but if he doesn’t want to be found? He’ll stay invisible.”

Chandu reached in his pocket and pulled out two hundred-euro bills. “Consider it a down payment,” he said, pressing them into Tim’s hand. “When we nab Robin, there’ll be a bonus.”

“Well, I should hope so,” Tim muttered.

Chandu slapped him on the shoulder like a pal, which made Tim’s knees buckle. “Thanks, old buddy.” Then he grabbed Zoe by an arm and dragged her toward the car.

“What was that for?” she said, trying to shake free.

“I don’t want you kicking him in the nuts good-bye or whatever enters that mind of yours.”