Grave Intent (8 page)

Jan bounded into the apartment. He was at least twenty minutes late, and he hated not being punctual. Chandu waved him in. Judging from the strong smell of smoke, Zoe had already been here a while. Max was sitting in an armchair working his phone, his body tensed up and his forehead furrowed in concentration. He was probably busy with his favorite game—something to do with zombies and plants.

“Sorry,” Jan told them. “I had to help our potential victim calm down a bit—he’s out of his mind with fear that he’s going to end up a dead man tomorrow.”

“How did you do that?” Zoe asked. “Stroke his head, feed him a little bedtime snack?”

“I secured his house and put a patrol car out front.”

“Good people?”

“You know Fabian Gisker?”

“The fat one? Threw up on the buffet at the mayor’s reception?”

“The very one.”

“That’s just great,” Zoe grumbled. “I’d better be ready to work tomorrow.”

“He’s an experienced police officer,” Jan shot back, defending his call.

Zoe sucked on her cigarette and exhaled, on edge. “We going to get started or just keep yapping all night for no reason?”

“I like yapping for no reason,” Max remarked without looking up from his phone.

“Can it, Maximum Moron. Start up that projector.”

Max put down his phone and turned to Chandu, standing over in the kitchen. “Would you, please?”

The light went out. With the shades pulled down it was pitch-black.

Zoe’s voice rang out in the darkness. “Look here. Whatever you guys got planned, I have a scalpel in my pocket and no scruples about using it.”

Flickers of light came from the kitchen. Chandu carried in a cake with candles. Jan, Max, and Chandu sang “Happy Birthday.” And Chandu set down the cake at Zoe’s place. The light came on again.

“How did you . . .” Zoe was clearly speechless.

“Our good man Maximum here just happened to be in the staff database and stumbled upon your birthdate,” Jan explained. “So we thought you’d like a little something.”

“Cherry cheesecake.” Chandu gestured to it. “I overheard that you liked the combo.”

“Is that thirty-two candles?” Max whispered in Jan’s ear.

“Are you insane? I told Chandu to do twenty-seven. She realizes you know how old she is? She’ll perform a dissection on you right here. Alive.”

Chandu leaned down to Zoe and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “With love, my little charmer. You can blow out the candles now.”

Zoe shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew out the flames. Her eyes sparkled with childlike excitement. It was the first time that Jan had ever seen Zoe smile. For a brief moment her armor had weakened, and she seemed something like happy.

Chandu handed her a cake knife. “Here. Since you do know a thing or two about cutting things into pieces.”

Zoe raised her head, looking into Chandu’s eyes. Her smile had vanished, but she didn’t look grim. She acted as if she were seeing them all for the first time.

She jerked up, standing. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said and pushed past Jan. Surprised by her urgency, he took a step back and almost fell onto the coffee table.

“Cut the cake,” she shouted at Chandu. “Be right back.”

Jan thought he spied tears in her eyes as he watched her rush down the hallway in her high-heeled boots.

Then she disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Several minutes later, Zoe, Chandu, and Jan were sitting on the couch holding plates of cake. Jan was stealing glances at Zoe, who appeared to have recovered from her outbreak of actual emotion. Her expressionless mask was firmly back in place. Max stood next to the couch, adjusting the projector beam. His hands were stained with remnants of cherry. Two images appeared on the wall.

Max pushed a key on his laptop, and a little
ta-da
fanfare sounded.

“Allow me to introduce . . .” He made a sweeping gesture toward the wall. “Bernhard Valburg and Moritz Quast.”

Both photos were formal. Each man was peering earnestly into the camera. Bernhard Valburg was wearing a doctor’s coat and had a stethoscope hanging around his neck. Moritz Quast was dressed in a dark suit, looking like a serious car salesman with his red tie.

“A grave was dug for both men,” Max continued. “Bernhard Valburg was murdered and dumped into his. Moritz Quast is still alive and is locked up in his home.”

“This the same perpetrator?” Chandu asked, chewing.

“Officially, we’re not certain,” Jan said, “but internally we’re going with the same perp.”

“How come?”

“The crosses,” Zoe said. “The type of wood is identical, as is the paint.”

“Are there connections between the two men?”

“We haven’t found any yet,” Jan said.

“The first thing I did was compare the patient list with the car salesman’s customer list, but I got no hits,” Max added. “Moritz Quast was not a patient of Bernhard Valburg, nor did the doctor buy a car from Quast.”

“Did the two know each other personally?”

“Not according to Quast,” Jan said. “But our car salesman was quite rattled. It took him five minutes to tell us his address. We’re not going to get anything significant out of him before tomorrow.”

“If he’s still alive tomorrow,” Zoe said.

“We have a car outside his house; the doors are locked up and the shades down. I checked the rooms twice.”

“It’s still not impossible.”

“He’ll survive tonight, but I have no idea how we’re going to keep watching over Moritz Quast indefinitely. We can’t keep him locked up in his place forever.”

“Then we’ll have to find the killer.” Chandu beamed, ever the optimist.

“I’m not seeing much progress as of now.” Jan turned to Max. “Did you find any offenders among the doctor’s patients?”

“Sort of,” Max answered after hesitating a moment.

“So, no,” Zoe said.

“I got one hundred and four hits. Most were petty offenses. There was one man in jail for aggravated assault, but he died of lung cancer five years ago.”

“Like I said,” Zoe added.

Max pursed his lips in anger. He was clearly frustrated not to have come up with better results.

“How’s the search in the underworld?” Jan asked Chandu.

“I’ve persuaded my contact to cooperate, put the police sketch in his hand. He’s keeping his ears open.”

“Persuaded?” Zoe asked.

“I clocked him right on the nose.”

“Oh, how creative.”

Chandu shrugged. “It’s a kind of a greeting ritual among us thugs. You don’t get far by being polite.”

“That might be a good way to motivate some of my lame-ass coworkers,” Zoe said.

“I’m meeting up with him again tomorrow night. Maybe he’ll have found out something by then,” Chandu said.

“Can I come?” Zoe blurted.

“Where?”

“To meet the guy.”

“Why would you want to?”

“To learn more about investigative work.”

“It doesn’t have much to do with investigating. Either the little rat has info or I bash him in the snout again.”

“Sounds kind of fun, though.”

“Fine by me. I’ll call you with the when and where.”

“I’m glad you two are having such a good time,” Jan said. “But maybe we should be thinking more about our potential victim? The murderer didn’t just pick these two out randomly.”

Max’s laptop let out a
ping
. The hacker pressed a few keys and stared at the screen, transfixed. Then a grin appeared on his face.

“I have something on our car salesman,” Max said, wiping his sticky fingers on his pants. “Not exactly something a person can be proud of. But maybe it’s the connection we’re looking for.”

Fabian rubbed wearily at his eyes. He had drunk three cups of coffee and still felt sleepy. It was barely past midnight. He turned to his young partner, who didn’t look the least bit tired.

“Freshman, how do you do it?”

“What? Look so good?”

“Don’t get cocky. All I mean is, how are you able to stay awake on the night shift?”

“Caffeine powder.”

“Huh?”

“While you’re chugging down one coffee after another, I go for a little caffeine powder.” David raised a baggie containing what looked like a portion of sugar. “Got a half gram of caffeine in here. It’s the equivalent of five liters of soda.”

“I wouldn’t be able to keep up with all the pissing.”

“Thus the powder.”

“Huh,” Fabian said. The little dude was cleverer than he deserved to be. A boost of caffeine would fix Fabian right up—but then he’d have to admit that David was the smarter one. And that would endanger the hierarchy in the car. So coffee it was.

“What was that?” David asked with a start, pointing at the house.

“Where?” Fabian turned his head but couldn’t make out anything unusual. The house was half in shadow. The porch light was on, illuminating the little front yard. Shrubs grew on the other side of the metal fencing, barely waist-high and too far apart for anyone to be able to hide behind. The path coming around from the little backyard door was laid out with stone pavers. The house itself was just as boring as the neighborhood it was in. Only the knee-high red garden gnome looked out of place at first glance. But if you got a little closer, you spotted its raised middle finger. Fabian saw no suspicious figures, no one lurking around or trying to mess with the premises.

“That a light that went on there?”

“Outside the house?”

“No, in it.” David leaned toward the driver’s-side window so that he was practically lying across Fabian’s stomach.”

“Easy, young ’un.” Fabian pushed him back to the passenger’s seat. “Our Moritz Quast was probably just going to the can.”

“The last time, he reported it in over radio.”

“True.” Fabian looked annoyed. “And when he made a sandwich, and brushed his teeth, and went to bed. So nice of him not to be a pain in our balls.” He raised his coffee cup to his ear and did a slick-talking car-salesman voice:
“Hey there. Going to fart any second. Just wanted you to know
.
”
The cop lowered his window and spat on the sidewalk. “Pussy.”

“It wasn’t the can, it was the kitchen.”

“Good God, David. Haven’t you ever hit the fridge during the night, eaten up yesterday’s leftovers?”

David frowned. “No.”

“Which is why I’m asking,” Fabian muttered and took a gulp of coffee. “Little proposal for you: we take that portable radio there and ask the owner of this house if he’s doing okay or if maybe the killer’s hiding in the fridge and just slaughtered him.”

“But if he’s just been slaughtered, he can’t exactly answer—”

“Shut it!” Fabian interrupted. “Don’t always take me so literally.” He picked up the portable radio and pressed the “Talk” button.

“Herr Quast, Fabian Gisker here. You receiving me?”

Static.

“Herr Quast? You awake?”

“But if he’s asleep, then—”

Fabian’s irritated glance, with its unspoken threat of violence, silenced the younger man.

“Herr Quast?”

Static.

“Something’s not right,” David whispered. He stared at the portable radio, tensing up. His eyes widened as if he’d just seen Martians landing.

“Batteries could be dead.”

“These ones hold for twenty-four hours. Even with constant use.”

“Then it’s a bad battery.”

“Not likely. That portable radio is brand-new. I tested it out myself.”

Fabian held up his hands to pacify David. “Okay, okay. We’ll call in over the phone network.” He pointed at David’s cell phone on the dash. “Call.”

The young cop grabbed his cell, pressed a couple of keys, and turned on speaker mode.

It rang. Once, twice. Then came a brief pause. The voice-mail message started in, and they heard the car salesman:
“You’ve reached the number for Moritz. Leave a message.”
He sounded happy, relaxed, completely unlike the man they’d been guarding for hours.

“Huh,” Fabian said. It was weird that the Nervous Nellie hadn’t reported in. Twice he had emphasized to Quast that he should keep his portable radio as well as his phone next to his bed. He should even take the radio in the can with him. And if he was sound asleep, there was no explanation for why the light had gone on in the kitchen.