The Nearest Exit (53 page)

“Where were the paintings?”

Berndt opened his mouth, then closed it, as if his next words couldn’t be believed. “Under his
bed
. Theodor says he’s never seen them before in his life.”

She exhaled loudly. “The real question is who contacted the press.”

He shrugged.

She found Theodor in the guest bedroom—the master bedroom had been taped off for forensics to go over—guarded by two policemen. She didn’t bother asking them to leave, because they wouldn’t anyway. The bedroom, like all the rooms, had a huge window through which he could easily escape—and through which anyone who knew the alarm code could easily get in.

He was sitting at the bottom of the bed, feet on the floor and elbows on his knees, staring at a large, very dark photograph. It was too dark to make out the subject, and she wondered if it was one of those postmodern works, called something like
Blackness #23
.

He finally raised his eyes to look at her; they were full of red veins. He’d been crying. He knew, just as she knew, that his career was over. Maybe he could get himself out of this, maybe not. The
rumors were enough. His face on international television; his biography suddenly of public interest. He would have to start again. The knowledge of this was all over his face, and she was impressed that he had put it together so quickly.

She considered things to say. She could play so many different roles. She could tell from his eyes that he knew, though, and there was no point going through the motions. She was too tired for that, and so was he.

So without a word passing between them, she returned to the living room and joined various conversations about how to control the damage. Even out here, no one was wondering if Theodor had stolen those paintings. No one cared, not even Franz and Birgit. He’d been abandoned so quickly that even as someone—Claudia, perhaps?—suggested that Erika take over the department for a while, she could only feel a dull, quiet sympathy for the lonely man in the other room.

Her phone rang. It was Oskar. He was breaking the rules, and she almost didn’t answer. She carried the phone to the doorway, where another policeman was standing with an unlit cigarette, wondering if he could smoke in the stairwell. “Oskar. It’s a surprise to hear from you so late. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s Milo Weaver. He’s been shot. Alan Drummond claims Andrei Stanescu did it.”

“Andrei? The father—not the uncle?”

“They’re sending over CCTV footage from JFK Airport. He’s on a plane now, headed back to Berlin.”

“The father,” she said again. “That’s a surprise.”

She fell silent, watching the policeman finally give up and slip the cigarette into a box and put the box into his pocket. She wondered if violence lived in the blood, passed from mother to son, dooming both to abrupt, early deaths.

Oskar said, “What’s your order? Drummond wants him arrested when he lands.”

She’d stopped thinking of Milo Weaver, languishing in some American hospital, and had moved on to Andrei Stanescu, and the fact that he would risk everything for a single shot at the man who had taken his daughter.
There’s violence in us all
, she thought, but only said, “Can you blame him?”