Where the Bones are Buried (16 page)

As she walked out into Behrenstrasse, the sun was making a feeble effort to burn off the fog. She wondered what repository of the German bureaucracy maintained records of
Totschlag
. That was a question for Mr. Winheller. In the meantime, she could do some research on her own. She headed toward Unter den Linden and the nearest branch of the Berlin State Library.

Chapter Twenty-two

After two hours of searching through the digitalized archives of the
International Herald Tribune,
Dinah knew more than she ever wanted to know about the German crackdown on business moguls and banking bigwigs who sheltered their money in the tiny tax haven of Liechtenstein; and about the new international standards that forced Swiss banks to ask their clients if they had declared their assets on deposit; and about the harsh penalties imposed by both the U.S. and German governments on individuals who ignored reporting requirements. The afternoon's reading magnified her fears about the account in Panama, but she remained none the wiser regarding the personal history or local connections of Reiner Hess.

Her phone detonated inside her purse. Feeling the heat of a dozen withering stares, she silenced the plinking and fled, answering only after she had reached the exit.

“This had better be important, K.D.”

“There's been an explosion.”

“Jerusalem! Where? Are you okay? Jack?”

“We're fine, but somebody tried to blow up Margaret's hotel. I'm looking out our bedroom window at a fire truck and a row of cop cars.”

“Can you see if anyone's injured?”

“There's a crowd in the street. I'm getting ready to go down and see what I can see.”

“No! No, K.D. Lock the door and stay with Jack. I'm on my way.”

She charged across Unter den Linden, inciting a cacophony of horns and angry shouts. Traffic had started to build and there were no taxis in sight. It was a straight shot back to the Gendarmenmarkt and she was a fast runner, but her Italian boots weren't designed for racing. Her heart beat against her chest as if it were trying to break out and run on ahead.

What conceivable reason would anyone have to blow up a little pension called Wunderbar? Maybe it was an accident—an unexploded World War II bomb unearthed by new construction. The country was peppered with buried ordnance. But there were no current excavations on Niederwallstrasse and the Wunderbar was at least twenty years old. Was it possible that the person who forced the Golf off the road and shot at them that first night was not Pohl? Did somebody else have a reason, not just to scare, but to kill?

Her lungs burned and she could feel the beginnings of a blister on her left heel. When she reached Französische Strasse, she stopped for breath and looked around for a taxi. No such luck. She pulled off the boots and cut across the square behind the Konzerthaus.

With Pohl dead, the only person who knew that Swan and Margaret were in Berlin was Hess. Was he afraid they'd lead the police to him? Swan had showed up at his daughter's house asking for him, and Margaret might have phoned him this morning after Dinah confronted her and demanded to meet with him.

She could smell the fire now. She ran through Hausvogteipl Platz and when she rounded the corner, she saw the fire truck. Black smoke wisped out of the second story—Margaret's window—and a helmeted fireman wearing a face mask and oxygen tank toted a fire hose into the building. Her chest tightened at the sight of Inspector Jens Lohendorf standing at the back of the truck. He was talking to the receptionist, who was crying. The other evacuees stood around drinking bottled water and looking dazed. Margaret wasn't there.

Dinah gravitated to Lohendorf. When he saw her, he stepped away from the truck and handed her a bottle of water. “She is receiving oxygen, but she is otherwise unhurt. She was in the
Toiletten
when the grenade exploded.”

“Grenade?”

“That is a guess. The preliminary findings of the fire squad suggest a fragmentation device, most likely thrown from the street into Mrs. Dobbs' window, which appears to have been broken from the outside. The drapes and bed linens were set ablaze and when she opened the door to escape, the fire spread into the hallway.”

“It had to be Reiner Hess,” said Dinah.

“We are taking all reasonable measures to trace him. In cases where explosives are used, the federal police must investigate to determine if there is a link to any terrorist group. My officers will interview all of the potential witnesses.”

“May I speak with Margaret?”

He conducted her to the rear of the fire truck and gave her a boost inside. Margaret lay on a stretcher with a mask on her face while an EMT monitored her vital signs.

“Margaret?”

Her eyes slotted open. She pulled the nose mask down and tried to sit up.

The EMT pushed her back down.

“If she can speak, let her,” said Lohendorf.

Dinah took hold of her hands and raised her to a sitting position. She coughed and gathered her hair, which had straggled loose from the bun. “I feel like hammered dung.”

“You look good to me,” said Dinah. “One piece is good.”

“What did you say? My ears are ringing.”

“I was afraid I'd find you in small, unsightly chunks and we'd have to have a closed casket funeral.”

One corner of her mouth tweaked up. “I don't suppose I can blame this one on Swan?”

“Lobbing grenades isn't part of her skill set. What about your friend Reiner? He's the only one who knows you're staying at the Wunderbar.”

“You can't think he did this?”

“Let's ask him, shall we? Did you call him this morning as I asked?”

She drew a rasping breath and the EMT placed the oxygen mask back on her nose. After several chest-heaving respirations, she tugged it down again and looked out the rear door at Lohendorf, who was tuned in like a bug. “Like I told the inspector, I don't know where Reiner is.”

Lohendorf said, “Mrs. Dobbs should go to the hospital for evaluation. Will you go with her, Frau Pelerin?”

“No.” She looked at her watch. It was nearly four. “Sorry, Margaret. I have to be somewhere else. Will you be all right by yourself?”

“Par for the course. I hope they give me a gown and keep me overnight. I've got no place to sleep.”

“Here.” Dinah jotted down the code to her downstairs door and fished out her key. “If they cut you loose, come to my place. You know which house it is, the lavender with the red trim. And take this.” She handed her a fistful of Euros. “For the taxi and a bottle of…of whatever medication you may need.”

“Seems I'm beholden to you once again.” She stuffed the bills into her bra and lay back down. “Wherever it is you have to go, you'd better put on some shoes. You'll catch cold running around barefoot.”

Dinah watched the fire truck drive away with her and a geyser of aggravation shot to the surface. She ought to be grateful to Lohendorf for warning her to get an attorney for Swan, and she was. But if he hadn't listened in, she could maybe have talked Margaret into telling her where Hess was. If she knew. She said, “I thought you Germans were all in a tizzy about people who spy on private communications.”

“When private communications bear on a murder, it is the duty of the police to listen.”

He was doing his job, but she didn't have to like it. She turned and jaywalked across the street to her apartment.

She needed a shower and a Band-Aid for her blistered heel before returning to the Adlon to deliver her mother to the attorney's office. K.D. met her at the door with a barrage of questions. She answered them as economically as possible. “Margaret's room was damaged and when she's released from the hospital, she'll be bunking here with us.”

“What bunk? There's no bunk. Why can't she just get another hotel room?”

“Because she's scared. She could have been killed. Because her clothes and money and phone are either burned or unusable. The police have cordoned off the Wunderbar. And because I want to keep an eye on her.”

“Why? Did she waste somebody else?”

“I wish I had the bandwidth to cater to your feelings, K.D., but I don't. You'll have to grin and bear it. And also give her the bed. I'll share with her and you can go back to the sleeping bag. Jack can have the sofa.”

“Fine, I'll give the old cow the bed. I probably won't get home until tomorrow morning anyway.”

“You will or I'll change the lock and you can move in with Geert permanently.”

For an instant, she looked as if she were going to throw a tantrum. Instead, her face spread into a grin. “Where will you sleep when Thor comes home?”

Dinah didn't want to think about Thor's homecoming. She would burn that bridge when she got to it. She cleaned herself up, changed into fresh clothes and in a guilty afterthought, she remembered Jack. She found him on his knees butting his head against the wall beside Thor's desk.

“Jack, stop!” Sorrowing Jesus, was he autistic? “You'll give yourself a concussion.”

He angled his face and looked up at her. “I'm not hitting my head. I'm strengthening my neck muscles. Neck muscles are the most important thing for a race driver.”

“Ah.”

He bounced up and rubbed his hands on the seat of his jeans. “Did K.D. order the pizza yet?”

“I don't know. Are you hungry?”

“Yes. She scrambled eggs, but I don't like eggs and I don't like the kind of cereal you bought. I like chocolate. Mom buys me Chocapic at home.”

On the spur of the moment, Dinah decided to take Jack with her. He could entertain himself looking at magazines or building his neck muscles while she conferred with the lawyer, and Baer Eichen impressed her as the sort of man who dined well. The kid needed at least one nutritious meal while he was in her care and he would be the perfect excuse to leave early. The stress of the last few days had taken a toll and she found herself hoping that she could stay awake long enough to discover what Eichen knew about Hess and Pohl.

Chapter Twenty-three

Tall, trim, and stately, Klaus Winheller looked the very definition of rectitude. His confident voice and firm handshake conveyed a sense that Dinah's worries were needless. The “Win” in Winheller seemed like the stamp of destiny.

Swan complimented him on his excellent English and his superbly tailored suit. He squired her into his office and instructed Dinah and Jack to sit in the waiting room while he interviewed his client in private.

Jack played Crazy Taxi and Hot Wheels Showdown on his phone while Dinah's thoughts raced in circles, getting her nowhere. She worried about Swan's confabulations. She worried about Hess' intentions. She worried about Thor's failure to communicate and K.D.'s birth control. She worried why the attorney-client meeting was taking so damned long. An hour-and-a-half later, Swan and Winheller emerged smiling.

“
Dankeschön
, Klaus. I feel ever so much better now.”

“
Bitte
, Swan. You must trust me now and let me do the worrying. When the police make their arrest, call me on my
handy
and I will come at once.”

“I have a question,” Dinah said. “Alwin Pohl was involved in a manslaughter case a few years ago before he moved to the U.S. I think you call it
Totschlag
. Could you find out if he left behind any old enemies from that event?”

“That
is
interesting. Yes, I will search the records and keep you informed.”

She didn't want to add the story of the blown-up
Gasthaus
to his client intake notes, but she asked, “Do you have any idea how we can track down Reiner Hess?”

“We must rely on the police for that.”

Or maybe Margaret, thought Dinah, if I can persuade her that he's the one who threw that grenade. She gave Winheller her phone number, made sure that she had the number of his “
handy,
” thanked him, and hustled Swan and Jack out the door. She had a date with Baer Eichen and she didn't want to show up late.

Swan decided to walk back to the Adlon. Dinah grabbed a cab. Eichen lived only ten blocks from Winheller's office, but she had done enough walking for one day and her blister hurt.

“Are you hungry, Jack?”

“A little.”

“Good. I have a feeling we're in for a very nice meal tonight.”

“Who is this guy?”

“A banker by day and a Sioux warrior named Takoda by night.”

“Does that mean we have to eat buffalo?”

“I doubt that buffalo will be on the menu.”

They crossed the Marshall Bridge and got out of the cab in the middle of the block on Schiffbauerdamm. Dinah read Eichen's note. “Look for the cleft in the hedge and follow the grass lane. The house is by the river.”

Jack frisked ahead and found the cleft. “It's here.”

Dinah turned down the lane behind him and immediately felt hemmed in. The bordering hedges were head-high and pointed some forty yards away to the only house—a tall, narrow, gray stone affair reminiscent of an Italian townhouse. The river ran right outside his door.

Jack was already on the porch throwing pebbles toward the water by the time she hobbled up the steps. The ornately carved wooden door and the sweeping view of the city in the distance made it clear that Berlin's bankers lived well. As she rang the bell, her hopes for a fine dinner spiked. She halfway expected a butler to answer the door, but Baer appeared with a welcoming smile.

“Dinah. I'm delighted to see you.” He wore an expensive suit, but the anomalous bolo tie with the turquoise clasp at his throat stood out like a blue-green goiter.

“Thank you for inviting me, Herr Eichen. I hope you don't mind. I've brought a friend, Jack Ramberg.”

“Hello, Jack.” He shook Jack's hand. “I'm Baer Eichen. Please come in and will you both please call me Baer?”

“Nice to meet you,” said Jack. “If you're an Indian, don't you have a first name, like Standing Bear or Running Bear?”

Eichen threw back his head and laughed. “Baer is a German name and it does mean bear. My Sioux name is Takoda, which means friend. If you like, I will show you a book of old photographs of the Sioux people.”

He didn't seem the least put off by Jack's unexpected appearance, but Dinah felt obliged to offer an explanation. “Jack's mom had an emergency and I'm looking after him for a while.”

“It will be my pleasure to look after you both tonight.” He hung their coats on a coat rack so loaded with coats it looked as if he had a whole house full of company.

“Do you have other guests?”

“Only you and Jack.” He led them up a carved wooden staircase into a huge, sumptuous room, the focal point of which was a picture window with a view of the Spree and the Berlin skyline. He crossed a half-acre of richly-hued Persian carpet to an Art Deco style wet bar. Behind the bar, three mirrored panels reflected the fireplace and built-in bookcases across the room. “What will you drink, Jack?
Apfelsaft
?
Orangensaft
?
Johannisbeeresaft
? I don't have any other juices.”

“What color is Johannisbeeresaft?” Jack asked.

“Purple, I should say. It is from the black currant.”

“I'll have that.”

“Straight, or with soda?”

“With soda.”

Dinah had to smile at the deference he paid to Jack. While he spritzed soda into the juice from an antique siphon, her eyes roved around the room, taking in the understated splendor. Across from the bar, an arrangement of comfortable-looking chairs had been grouped in front of a stone fireplace, mercifully unlit. A gilt mirror hung above the mantelpiece and on either side, bookshelves climbed floor-to-ceiling. A few exquisite wood carvings punctuated the rows of books, but there were no Indian artifacts. No photographs of family or friends, either.

He handed Jack his mocktail in an expensive cut glass tumbler. “And what is your aperitif of choice, Dinah?”

“I'll have a Kir if it's no trouble.”

“Not at all.”

She said, “You have a lovely house. Is it old?”

“Everything in this neighborhood dates only from nineteen eighty-nine when the Wall came down. It's new-fashioned, like most of the city. I am of the grandchildren generation. My contemporaries and I don't pine for the Berlin our grandfathers made.” He handed her a Kir and mixed himself a Campari and soda. “Let's sit. I prepared hors d'oeuvres. I hope you like the selection of cheeses. And if you will excuse the immodesty, my Leberwurst is the equal of any French paté.”

Dinah took a chair facing the view of the Spree. His hand grazed hers as he set the tray of appetizers on the cocktail table and took the chair facing her. His gaze was very warm. She sensed a sexual innuendo and was glad she'd brought Jack, who seemed captivated by something on the other side of the room. She sipped her Kir and started slow. “What bank do you work for, Herr…Baer?”

“I have been with Deutsche Bank for the last twenty years.”

She said, “Did I read somewhere that Deutsche Bank financed the Northern Pacific Railway in the U.S., from Minnesota to the Pacific Coast after the American Civil War?”

“That is true. You are tactful to cite one of the more commendable projects from our history. Americans tend to recall our less admirable projects. I'm sure you've also read that Deutsche Bank funded the Auschwitz concentration camp. But enough about history and banking. Nations, institutions, individuals—we all have a past to live down. Please, try the Leberwurst.”

She spread a layer of the soft schmear on a cracker and tasted. “It's luscious.” She devoured it and instantly wanted another, but restrained herself.

“
Jøss
!” exclaimed Jack.

She had heard that same “yuss” from Thor when something surprised and pleased him. Jack set his juice on the floor and squatted in front of a small étagère. He looked back at Baer, wide-eyed. “It's a Ferrari two-fifty GTO.”

“That's right. The nineteen sixty-two.”

“May I touch it?”

“Yes. Do you like cars?”

“I'm going to be a race car driver.”

“That is a model of the Ferrari made for the English Formula One driver, Stirling Moss. The real car sold recently for thirty-five million U.S. dollars.”

Jack lifted the bright red model out of the case and held it as tenderly as if it were a newborn puppy.

Baer said, “I think cars are more to your liking than photos of old Indians. Don't be shy, Jack. They are all touchable.”

“
Jøss
! It's the Pagani Zonda R that won at Nürburgring.” He picked up another sleek, steel-blue model. “Did you used to be a race driver?”

“Just a fan, although I once drove the Nürburgring as a tourist.”

“Wow.”

Baer smiled. “Once at Nürburgring was enough to get the love of speed out of my system. Today I don't drive at all. One rarely needs a personal car in Berlin and when I travel outside the country, I travel by train.”

Dinah slathered more of the Leberwurst on a fresh cracker. “You certainly have diverse interests, Baer. Native American culture, Formula One racing, paté making.”

“What else does a lonely bachelor have to do with his time?”

His self-identification as a bachelor rather than a widower put her still more on guard. She said, “I imagine some of your time has been spent answering questions from the police.”

“Yes. The murder was a great shock to everyone. Florian has suspended future meetings of the Indian club indefinitely.”

“Were you and Pohl friends?”

“No.” It was an emphatic no. “Alwin kept aloof. That is the stereotype of Germans, in general. But Alwin was especially remote. I often wondered why he joined the club. He had little interest in the romance of native cultures. He warmed up only when Lena Bischoff was around. I suppose you've heard they had a liaison.”

“That's the kind of thing that would drive a lot of husbands to murder.”

“Not Viktor. He is a passionate man, but he turns his passions inward. He has had a difficult life.”

She said, “He told me about his grandfather and his father being Nazis. He seems to have a sackcloth-and-ashes mentality. He says he was born in the wrong century.”

“Viktor was certainly born into the wrong family. His elder brother was an unofficial informant for the Stasi. Do you know about the Stasi?”

“They were the secret police in East Germany, the GDR.”

“Yes. They co-opted a vast network of citizens to spy on their neighbors and even their families in order to root out dissidents and destroy them, either physically or psychologically. After reunification and the enactment of reforms, Viktor requested his personal file and learned that his brother had waged a psychological war on him for years. He repeatedly broke into Viktor's room and disarranged his record collection or turned pictures to the wall, always leaving some sign to let Viktor know he was being watched. Viktor is a man scarred by betrayals. But as I told Inspector Lohendorf, he could never harm another human being. He has neither the heart nor the mettle.”

While Baer expressed the opinion more gently than Lena, the consensus seemed to be that Viktor wasn't man enough to kill Alwin Pohl. Having last seen Viktor half out of his mind with a butcher knife in his fist, she took this assessment with a grain of salt. “Do you know why Pohl left Germany, or why he returned?”

“Only what Florian has told me, something to do with a business opportunity. Would you care for another Kir?”

“No thanks.”

“How about you, Jack? More juice?”

“No, thank you.”

Baer went to the bar for more Campari and she segued from Germany to Georgia. “I understand that Pohl and Reiner Hess had known each other in the U.S. before returning to Berlin.”

“Reiner.” The name had a lead-balloon effect. It dropped without a verb and in the lengthening seconds of dead air, she turned to check on Jack. He was examining the undercarriage of a low-slung sports car as if it the secret of the universe were printed there. “Come and eat something, Jack. You said you were hungry.”

“In a minute.”

She looked back at Baer, who seemed to be studying her as intently as Jack was studying the model car. She said, “The name Reiner Hess seems to have a chilling effect. Do you mind telling me why?”

“It's difficult to speak about a friend after he has been accused of a crime.”

She said, “He reminds me of a poem by T.S. Eliot about a mystery cat named Macavity.
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air, but when the crime's discovered, Macavity's not there
.”

He laughed. “Deutsche Bank has had its own problems with tax evasion investigations. Twenty-five employees were charged last year with making false tax statements, money laundering, obstruction of justice. They are also my friends. Even our CEO was charged. The storm will blow over. Bankers are in greater danger from disappointing quarterly profit reports than from federal prosecutors. One can always amend one's tax declaration. I must therefore conclude that Reiner faces more serious charges.”

“Is he capable of murder in your estimation?”

“Of Alwin's murder, you mean?”

She didn't think the question needed clarification.

He sat down again. “I've seen nothing that would cause me to believe that he is.”

Baer's Sioux alias “Friend to All” was certainly apt. He seemed to count everyone he knew as a friend except Pohl. She said, “Do you know where he is?”

“Out of the country, I think.”

“If he were still in Berlin, where would he be?”

He arched an eyebrow. “If he were in Berlin, it would be a great embarrassment to the police.”

“I have reason to believe that he was at Müggelsee on the night of the murder. Do you know of any reason he might have had to kill Alwin Pohl?”