Lee Goldberg: McGrave

"What does that mean?"

"You said something that wasn't acerbic, xenophobic, or puerile."

"I forgot to pack my thesaurus, so I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It wasn't a comment like that," she says. "You said something that showed some genuine concern for me and revealed a little of the sadness in you. There may actually be a caring human being behind that tough-cop act."

"Don't count on it." He steps past her and continues walking.

Many of the nineteenth-century apartment blocks of Prenzlauer Berg are covered with graffiti as a design choice and painted in vibrant pastel colors, all part of the latest evolution of the neighborhood, which over the last hundred or so years has gone from working-class tenements to neglected Cold War slum to bohemian artist colony and now to a gentrified bedroom community for educated, well-off, and very horny young couples.

That horny part is fact, not snark.

More children are born in Prenzlauer Berg than anywhere else in Berlin.

That means everyone who lives here needs a car to ferry around all those kids and groceries.

And that means parking is a bitch. So if you find a spot, no matter how small, you make it work.

Maria has discovered a space between a Mercedes-Benz and an Audi and is determined to fit her car into it.

She bumps the cars in front and in back of her as she tries to parallel park between them.

"We're nowhere near my hotel, are we?" McGrave says.

"This is where I live," she says, trying to make her car fit with precise, incremental adjustments.

"What are we doing here?"

"You need a safe place to stay tonight and I need to keep an eye on you."

"So stake out my hotel."

Maria gives him a look. "Believe it or not, McGrave, I have a life."

She finally parks, her car wedged in so tight that she may not be able to get it out again without a blowtorch and the Jaws of Life.

Maria is very pleased with herself.

"No wonder they don't let you drive the BMWs," McGrave says.

They take the stairs up two flights to Maria's apartment. She unlocks the door and beckons McGrave inside, into the small living room, which is homey but overstuffed with a couch, easy chair, dining table, stacks of books, and a large TV, the kind with a picture tube, which McGrave didn't know they still made. There's a galley kitchen off the living area and a short hallway that leads to two bedrooms and a bath.

A twelve-year-old boy gets up from the couch, where he has been doing homework, and comes over to greet them. He's a gangly kid, already starting to enter that awkward phase of adolescence where his arms, legs, and neck seem to be growing at separate rates. His hair is thick and overgrown and hides his ears, but not the yellowing skin from a fading bruise around his right eye. He regards McGrave warily, and judging by how the cop looks and smells, it makes sense.

Maria closes the door and makes the introductions.

"I know it looks like I brought home a homeless guy, but this is actually a colleague, Detective John McGrave, on assignment from Los Angeles. He's been working undercover. He'll be sleeping on our couch tonight." She looks at McGrave. "This is my son, Erich."

The boy shakes McGrave's hand. "Do you know the Kardashians?"

"Who doesn't?"

"I've got some Kohlrouladen I can heat up," Maria says. "Set the table, Erich, and I'll bring it out in a few minutes. Make yourself at home, McGrave."

Maria and her son go into the kitchen, leaving McGrave alone. He's glancing at the books, but the titles on the spines are in German and mean nothing to him.

Erich comes out of the kitchen with the silverware and plates and starts laying it all out on the table.

"How did you get the shiner?" McGrave asks, but Erich doesn't get it. "Your swollen eye."

"Axel Sand."

"Is this the first time he's given you one of those?

Erich shakes his head sadly. "He's older, bigger, and tougher than I am."

"Then he'll never know what hit him." McGrave waves Erich away from the table. "Let me show you a couple of tricks."

Maria is grating horseradish and is about to tend to the boiled potatoes when she hears a grunt and crash from the living room. She rushes out into the living room to see the coffee table tipped over and McGrave facedown on the floor, Erich standing over him, his foot firmly planted between McGrave's shoulder blades, and twisting the cop's arm behind his back.

Erich is grinning. So is McGrave.

"McGrave calls this the crippler," Erich says.

"How nice," Maria says. "The Kohlrouladen is ready. I've boiled some potatoes, too."

Erich releases McGrave, who sits up and says, "What's kohl-roo-what's-it?"

"Cabbage stuffed with minced meat."

"Yum," he says. "Are there any Pizza Huts nearby?"

It's after dinner. The dirty dishes and the Pizza Hut box are still on the table. Erich has gone to bed. McGrave is sitting on the couch, having a Coke, which he drinks out of the bottle. Maria brings out some bedding and some men's clothes and sets them on the coffee table.

"I'm sorry you didn't like dinner."

"I loved it."

"I meant the Kohlrouladen," she says.

"I'm not big on foreign foods."

"Your pizza was made here with local ingredients."

"But it tastes just like home," he says.

She motions to the clothes. "Those are clean clothes. They should be about your size. You can keep them."

"Isn't your husband going to miss them?"

"If he did, he would have picked them up months ago," she says. "We're divorcing."

"Any particular reason why?"

She sits down next to him and sighs. "Over the years, we became very different people. I became a police detective and Karl became a homeopathic doctor."

McGrave snorts. "You mean he tells people they'll get better if they eat herbs and roots and stuff."

"More or less."

"So he's not a doctor," McGrave says. "He's a salad chef."

Maria tries to stifle a smile and fails. McGrave smiles, too.

"So where does the kid fit into this?" he asks.

"In the middle, unfortunately. My ex-husband and I are fighting for custody. Karl says my job 'creates an unstable and violent living environment that's unsuitable for raising children.'"

McGrave nods. "I didn't fight my ex for custody of my daughter. I knew Maddie would be better off with her. And I was right."

"How old is your daughter?"

"Seventeen." McGrave reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and shows her a picture.

"She's beautiful," Maria says. "What's the real reason you chased Richter all the way over here?"

"It's my job."

She shakes her head. "Try again."

"He threatened to kill my family," he says. "And the bastard executed my bulldog."

"Richter killed your dog?"

"He was my partner, too."

McGrave's wallet is still open in his hand. Maria tugs out the photo that's behind the one of his daughter. It's a creased, yellowed picture of McGrave when he was a young uniformed officer astride his police-issue Harley-Davidson.

"What's this?"

"A picture from my days as a patrolman before I made detective. Sometimes I really miss them," he says. "How about you?"

"Miss what?"

"Don't you ever wish you were back in uniform again, rolling on calls, working the streets?"

"I was never a patrol officer."

McGrave stares at her in disbelief. "Then how did you become a detective?"

"The usual way," she says. "I studied for two years at the Akademie fьr Verwaltung und Rechtspflege and was hired as a Kriminalkommissar upon graduation."

She gets up and starts clearing the dishes from the table. McGrave gets up and helps her.

"You didn't spend any time in uniform?"

"In Germany, the uniformed officers, the Schutzpolizei, are a separate force from the investigators, the Kriminalpolizei. You don't serve as a Schutzpolizei in order to become a Kriminalpolizei."