Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

The lock on the door had been jimmied. Hoffner wondered if Jogiches had recognized the irony in his choice of lodging; then again, maybe a man as good as dead could tempt the fates?

Hoffner stepped inside and was struck at once by the taste of raw meat in the air. The building was ice cold, but the chill had done nothing to minimize the rancid remnants of Herr Meck’s once thriving business. Hoffner realized he was standing inside an enormous hall, brick wall rising to a ceiling some twenty meters above. A grim light poured in from a series of windows that stretched around the uppermost reaches of the walls, but it did little more than cast odd shadows: at ground level, the space was a collection of amorphous shapes in black and gray. One of them began to move toward him, and Hoffner stepped over to meet it. “Herr Jogiches,” he said. The next thing he knew, Hoffner was feeling the ripping pain of a well-placed boot to his ribs.

He doubled over instantly, his nausea only slightly more acute than his surprise. Hoffner had no time to react to either as a second blow landed on the back of his neck, a gloved hand from somewhere behind making its presence known. Hoffner’s face slammed to the floor, the echo of his own stifled breath ringing in the hall. He tried to reach for his gun, but he had never been terribly good at any of this. The blows came more rapidly now, fists and boots with excruciating precision. Hoffner was doing all he could to curl into himself, but it was all too vicious and determined to permit any kind of retreat. A first taste of blood dripped to his lips as a thick set of fingers ripped into his hair and jerked his head up. Hoffner choked out a cough, only to smell the breath of an unwashed mouth a few centimeters from him.

“No more questions,” whispered the voice. “No more late-night meetings. No more visits to the file rooms at the GS. You understand? Step off, Herr Inspector.”

Hoffner did everything he could to answer: he twitched his head once.

“Good.” The man held him there for several more seconds before releasing. Hoffner’s head fell to the cobblestone with a compressed smack even as the smell of foul breath continued to linger over him. The man was hovering. Hoffner tried to open his eyes, but there was no point.

“No more,” said the voice.

There was a last kick to his kidneys, but Hoffner was too far gone to feel it. He heard the sound of receding steps, sensed a sudden shock of light, but he was out cold by the time the door slammed shut.

Half an hour later, his eyes opened.

The pain was a constant throbbing, though the stiffness in his chest was far more of a problem. He tried not to breathe too deeply: every intake was like a cracking of bone. Swallowing, too, had become impossible, no saliva to be had. It was several minutes before he found the strength to push himself up to his knees, and, at no better than a crawl, he made his way over to the near wall and began to prop himself up. At least they had left him his legs. Hunched over and holding to the wall, Hoffner forced himself to the door and out into the light.

The sudden brightness brought his hand up to his face, the reflex a mistake, and his entire back arched in pain. Stifling a groan, Hoffner spotted a series of water taps sticking out from the wall of the building, and making his way over, tried his luck with the first in line: miraculously, a stream of cold water began to flow. He gingerly placed his lips under the tap and drank. Almost at once the ache in his head lifted; it was clear that the real damage had gone on below his neck. Stretching his arm to the ground, he grabbed for a ball of sooted snow and placed it on the back of his neck. The sense of relief was instantaneous even as a pool of soiled water collected at his collar. Slowly he stood upright. The uncoiling sent a rush of pain through his ribs and lower back while he tried to assess the damage. They had broken nothing; better still, they had left no marks for anyone to see. Save for the small bump just above his temple, where his head had smacked against the stone, the bruising lay hidden below his shirt; his face had gone unscathed. Hoffner had to appreciate the professional quality of the work.

Step off, Herr Inspector. And so polite, he thought. He dropped the snow and reached into his jacket pocket for his flask. The whiskey was wonderfully warm and immediately went to work. Four or five long pulls, and he felt fit enough to push himself up from the wall. It was only then, with his head clearing, that he began to consider the note. Someone had played him, someone who had known about K. More astounding, someone who had seen him at the Office of the General Staff this morning. No more visits to the file rooms. .

He was getting close, and he was still alive. There had to be something in that.

Hoffner found a taxi and told the man to drive. In his condition, he was not that uncommon a fare for this part of town, although four o’clock might have been a bit early for it. Even so, the man showed no surprise when Hoffner went back to the whiskey-his neck had begun to tighten-and by the time they arrived in Kreuzberg, Hoffner could move through the courtyard without drawing too much attention to himself.

Mercifully, the flat was empty. Wednesdays Martha spent with Eva: Herr Doktor Keubel taught at some dental college and gave his staff the afternoon off. Hoffner slowly got undressed and ran a bath. He noticed some nice discoloring under his right arm, which extended to his lower back, where it looked as if a thousand tiny veins had exploded below the skin. He had had worse-always in the company of Knig-but never as a threat. Hoffner recalled the early days when Knig’s quick thinking had helped them run down some of the city’s more unsavory types; or, rather, when Knig had relied on his own unsavoriness to expedite matters. The two had always given as good as they got, or at least Knig had. Hoffner still had trouble with his wrist from one of those encounters. Sitting back in the steaming water, he laughed at the thought of it, and his entire left side cramped.

It was a foolishness he had long since left behind. Why, then, he thought, was he now no less intent on following the case to Munich? Why invite the chance for another beating, or worse? It wasn’t ego. He knew he had nothing to prove to men like Braun; more important, he had nothing to prove to himself on their behalf. Crime had never been a game of one-upmanship for Hoffner. It was why he had never sent in that application to the fourth floor, and why his father had never forgiven him for it. No, there was nothing to prove to those living or dead.

Nor was there anything particularly noble in it. Hoffner readily admitted that he had never gone in for abstractions such as justice. It was simpler than that: action-reaction, choice-consequence. He left the moral scales to men like Jogiches. The only deeper meaning he sought was in seeing something through to its end, and the satisfaction he found when he had moved beyond it: fresh start, new map. The rest of his world had never been as clear-cut or as accommodating, and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that Munich remained worth pursuing.

A draft of cold air blew in from the corridor, and Hoffner heard the front door closing. The water had grown tepid and he waited for Martha’s voice. “Nicki?” she shouted. “Are you home?” He had left his clothes in a line along the corridor: a direct path. The bathroom door squeaked open and she appeared. “What a lovely life you lead,” she said as she stayed by the door. She noticed the bruising on his chest, and her expression hardened. “What happened?”

Hoffner did his best to prop himself up. “Nothing,” he said. The water had done wonders, but not enough to make the movement less than strained. “I fell on some ice.”