The Ice Queen: A Novel (13 page)

“Would you really? That would be great.”

Miriam grinned but then turned serious.

“I’ll do it to prove that Goldberg was never a Nazi,” she said, taking Pia’s hand.

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s fine.” Pia smiled. “The main thing is to find out what this date could signify. I’ll run your theory past my boss.”

Wednesday, May 2

Detective Frank Behnke was in a bad mood. The euphoria of the day before, when he’d achieved an excellent eleventh-place finish in the “Round the Henninger Tower” bicycle race, had long since dissipated. The grayness of everyday life had reclaimed him, and it coincided with a new homicide investigation. He had been hoping this lull in activity would last a little longer so that he could knock off work on time. His colleagues had thrown themselves into the case with zeal, as if they were glad finally to put in some overtime hours and work straight through the weekends. Fachinger and Ostermann had no family, while the boss had a wife who took care of everything. Hasse’s wife was happy when her husband was out of the house, and Kirchhoff seemed to be past the first phase of ardent infatuation with her new guy and once again keen to make a name for herself. None of them had the slightest inkling of what sort of problems hounded him. Whenever he left the office on time in the evening, he had to put up with people looking askance at him.

Behnke got behind the wheel of the shabby patrol car and waited with the motor running until Kirchhoff finally showed up and climbed in. He could have taken care of the matter himself, but the boss had insisted that she come along. Robert Watkowiak’s fingerprints had been found on a glass in the basement of the murdered Herrmann Schneider, and his cell phone had been found lying next to Goldberg’s front door. It couldn’t be a coincidence, and that’s why Bodenstein wanted to talk to the guy. Ostermann had asked around and found out that for the past few months Watkowiak had been living with a woman in an apartment in Niederhöchstadt.

Behnke hid behind his sunglasses, not saying a word as they drove through Bad Soden and Schwalbach toward Rotdornweg in Niederhöchstadt. Pia also made no attempt to start a conversation. The ugly high rises seemed like foreign bodies in the midst of all the single-family dwellings and row houses with manicured lawns. At this time of day, most of the parking spots were vacant, with the residents of the houses at work. Or at the welfare office, Behnke thought bitterly. No doubt the majority of these people lived off the government, especially those who were immigrants. They made up an overwhelming share of the renters, as it was easy to see from the nameplates next to the doorbells.

“M. Krämer,” said Pia, pointing at one of the labels, “this is where he supposedly lives.”

*   *   *

Robert Watkowiak was dozing. Last night had gone pretty well. Moni hadn’t been mad at him, and around 1:30 they’d staggered back to her place. He’d spent all his cash, of course, and the guy hadn’t contacted him about the pistol, but he would run right out and cash the three checks from Uncle Herrmann.

“Hey, take a look at this.” Moni came into the bedroom and held out her cell phone. “Yesterday, I got a really crazy text. Any idea what it means?”

Robert blinked, still not fully awake, and tried to make out what it said on the display: SWEETHEART, WE’RE RICH! GOT RID OF THE OTHER OLD GUY, TOO. LET’S HEAD SOUTH!

He couldn’t make head nor tail of the message, either. He shrugged and closed his eyes again while Moni wondered out loud who could have sent her such a message and why. His temples were throbbing and he had a nasty taste in his mouth, and her shrill voice was getting on his last nerve.

“Then call the fuck back if you want to know who wrote it,” he muttered. “I need to snooze awhile.”

“No way.” She tugged on his blanket. “You’ve got to be out of here by ten.”

“Got another visitor coming, eh?” He really didn’t give a shit how she made her money, but it pissed him off that he had to sit around somewhere waiting until the “visitor” left. This morning, he didn’t feel like getting up at all.

“I need the bread,” she said. “And I’m not getting anything out of you.”

The doorbell rang and the dogs started barking. Moni mercilessly pulled up the shades.

“Now get your ass out of that bed,” she hissed, and left the room.

*   *   *

Behnke pressed the doorbell again and was surprised when a voice said hello from the scratchy speaker. Dogs were barking in the background.

“This is the police,” said Behnke. “We want to talk to Robert Watkowiak.”

“He’s not here,” said the woman’s voice.

“Please buzz us in anyway.”

It took a while before the door buzzed and they could enter the building. Each floor had a different smell, none of them particularly pleasant. Monika Krämer’s apartment was on the sixth floor, at the end of a dark hallway. The ceiling light was evidently out. Behnke rang the bell, and the flimsy, scratched door opened. A dark-haired woman gave them a suspicious look. She was holding two tiny dogs in one arm; her other hand held a cigarette. Behind her, the TV was blaring.

“Robert isn’t here,” she said after looking at Behnke’s ID. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”

Behnke pushed past her and took a look around. The two-room apartment was cheaply but tastefully furnished. A nice-looking white couch, and an Indian wooden chest that served as a coffee table. On the walls were pictures with Mediterranean motifs, the kind you could buy for a couple of euros at a discount store, and in one corner stood a big potted palm. A colorful rug was on the laminate-wood floor.

“Are you Mr. Watkowiak’s girlfriend?” Pia asked the woman, who was in her late twenties at most. She had used a dark eyebrow pencil to draw exaggerated arches over her excessively plucked eyebrows, which gave her face a skeptical look. Her arms and legs were hardly thicker than a twelve-year-old’s, but she had remarkably large breasts, which she displayed in a low-cut blouse, with no sign of false modesty.

“Girlfriend? No,” replied the woman. “He crashes here once in a while, that’s all.”

“And where is he now?”

She shrugged and lit another menthol cigarette. She put the trembling dogs down on the snow-white couch. Behnke went into the next room. A double bed, a wardrobe with mirrored doors, and a dresser with lots of drawers. Both sides of the bed had been slept in. Behnke put his hand on the sheet. It was still warm.

“What time did you get up?” he asked, turning to Monika Krämer, who was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, not taking her eyes off him.

“What’s all this about?” She reacted with the aggressiveness of someone caught in the act.

“Just answer my question.” Behnke could feel himself about to lose his temper. The woman was pissing him off.

“An hour or so ago. How do I know?”

“And who slept on the other side of the bed? The sheets are still warm.”

Pia put on latex gloves and opened one door of the wardrobe.

“Hey!” Ms. Krämer yelled. “You can’t do that without a search warrant!”

“So, you have experience with this sort of thing.” Behnke looked her up and down. With her tight jeans skirt and the cheap patent-leather boots with the run-over heels, she would have fit in on any street corner around the train station.

“Keep your mitts off my dresser!” Monika Krämer hollered at Pia, blocking her way. At that moment, Behnke noticed a movement in the front room. For a fraction of a second, he glimpsed the profile of a man; then the front door slammed.

“Shit!” he said, wanting to run after the man, but Monika Krämer put a leg out and tripped him. He stumbled, slammed his head against the door frame, and crashed into a bunch of empty bottles standing by the door. One bottle broke, and a shard pierced his forearm. With a bound, he was back on his feet, but the slut attacked him like a fury. All the anger that had been building up inside him since early morning finally exploded. The force of the slap flung the skinny girl against the wall. He slapped her again, then grabbed her and twisted her arm behind her back. She resisted with astounding strength, kicked him in the shin and spat in his face. The whole time, she was cussing him out in obscene language he hadn’t heard since he used to be on the vice squad in the Frankfurt red-light district.

He would have beaten the shit out of her if Pia hadn’t intervened and torn him away from her. The whole commotion was accompanied by hysterical barking from the two little mutts. Breathing hard, Behnke straightened up and looked at the gash on his right forearm, which was bleeding profusely.

“Who was the man that just ran out of here?” Pia asked the woman, who had sat down with her back to the wall. Blood was running out of her nose. “Was that Robert Watkowiak?”

“I’m not telling you fucking pigs a thing!” she snarled, fending off the panic-stricken little dogs, which were trying to climb into her lap. “I’m going to report you! I know a few lawyers!”

“Listen here, Ms. Krämer,” said Pia in a surprisingly calm voice. “We’re looking for Robert Watkowiak in connection with a homicide. You’re not doing him or yourself any favors if you keep on lying. Not to mention that you attacked my colleague, which will look very bad to a judge. Your lawyers would tell you the same thing.”

The woman thought it over for a moment. She seemed to comprehend the seriousness of her situation and finally admitted that it was Watkowiak who had run out of the apartment.

“He was on the balcony. He’s got nothing to do with any murder.”

“Aha. So why did he run away?”

“Because he doesn’t like cops.”

“Do you know where Mr. Watkowiak was on Monday evening?”

“No idea. He just showed up here late last night.”

“And last Friday night? Where was he then?”

“Dunno. I’m not his baby-sitter.”

“Good.” Pia nodded. “Thanks for your help. In your own interest, it would be best if you called us if he shows up here again.”

She handed Ms. Krämer her business card, which the woman tucked into her bra without looking at it.

*   *   *

Pia drove Behnke to the hospital and waited by the emergency room while they sewed up the deep gash in his arm and the cut on his forehead with a few stitches. She was leaning on the fender of the unmarked police car and smoking a cigarette when her colleague came out of the revolving door with a gloomy expression, a Band-Aid on his forehead and a dazzling white bandage around his right arm.

“Well?” she asked.

“They put me on sick leave,” he replied without looking at her. He got into the passenger seat and put on his sunglasses. Pia rolled her eyes as she ground out her cigarette with her foot. For the past couple of weeks, Behnke had once again been completely unbearable. During the short drive to the station, he didn’t say a word, and Pia wondered whether she should tell Bodenstein about his blowup. She didn’t want to be a snitch, but even though Behnke was known for his irascible temperament, losing it in Monika Krämer’s apartment had surprised her. A police officer needed to be able to tolerate provocations and control himself. When they reached the parking lot at the station, Behnke got out without a word of thanks.

“I’m going home” was all he said, gathering his service weapon, shoulder holster, and leather jacket from the backseat. He pulled the medical release from the hospital out of the back pocket of his jeans and held it out to Pia. “Could you give this to Bodenstein?”

“If I were you, I’d go in and tell him what happened in person.” Pia took the piece of paper. “And it would probably be better if you wrote up the report yourself.”

“You do it,” he grumbled. “You were there, too.”

He turned and went to his car, which was parked in the public lot. Pia was fuming as she watched him go. What Behnke did really shouldn’t bother her, but she was fed up with his grumpy behavior and the nonchalant way he had of getting his colleagues to do his work lately. Still, she didn’t want any bad blood in the team. Bodenstein was an easygoing boss who seldom wielded his authority with an iron hand, but she was sure he would have wanted to hear from Behnke himself how he’d sustained his injuries.

“Frank!” Pia called out, getting out of the car. “Wait up!”

He turned around reluctantly and stopped.

“What’s the matter with you?” Pia asked her colleague.

“You were there,” he replied.

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Pia shook her head. “Something is going on with you. You’ve been in such a bad mood lately. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nothing’s going on with me,” he snapped. “Everything’s fine.”

“I don’t believe you. Is it something with your family?”

Inside him, an iron shutter seemed to roll down. His expression said, That’s enough, no further.

“My private life is nobody’s business,” he shot back.

Pia felt she’d done her duty as a good colleague, and she shrugged. Behnke had always been a stubborn guy. Nothing had changed on that score.

“If you ever want to talk, you know how to get hold of me,” she called after him. Then he tore off his sunglasses and came storming toward her. For a moment, Pia thought he was going to give her the same treatment he’d given Monika Krämer.

“Why the hell do you women always have to play Mother Teresa and butt in where you’re not wanted? Does it make you feel better, or what?” he berated her.

“Are you kidding?” Pia was mad. “I want to help you because you’re my colleague and because I can tell something is wrong. But if you don’t need my help, then do whatever you want!”

She slammed the car door and left him standing there. She and Frank Behnke were never going to be friends.

*   *   *

Thomas Ritter lay in the hot bathwater with his eyes closed, feeling his aching muscles slowly relax. He wasn’t used to this sort of exertion anymore, and to be honest, he no longer cared much for it. Katharina’s aggressive sexuality, which used to drive him crazy with desire, had lost its allure. And he was surprised at how guilty he’d felt when he’d gone over to Marleen’s place later in the evening. He was deeply ashamed of his afternoon activities when faced with her innocent warmth. At the same time, he’d been furious. She was a Kaltensee, an enemy. He’d come on to her specifically to get back at Vera and humiliate her; his affection was merely feigned and part of the plan. Once he achieved his goal, he would kick both Vera and Marleen in the ass. That was what he’d imagined during those many sleepless nights on the rickety sofa bed in the shabby apartment. But suddenly emotions had become involved, emotions that he hadn’t anticipated.