Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Fichte stepped again to the tank. There was really nothing to examine: Rosa was pale and slick and seemed peaceful enough. Fichte closed the lid and resealed the valves. He then took one final look at the room and realized that the label on the jar that he had taken was out of line with the rest. He stepped over and adjusted it. Another nice touch, he thought. Half a minute later he was pulling the door shut as he checked the area around the latch: only someone looking for them would have noticed the hairline scratches. Even so, Fichte licked his thumb-the faint stink of the grease on it-and rubbed a bit of saliva over the wood.

He was feeling quite good about himself as he headed down the corridor: no heroics or missteps, and he had uncovered the name of the grease along with a connection to the army corps. Maybe there was a way out of this, after all?

Any sense of redemption, however, was short-lived, as Herr Oberkommissar Braun appeared at the top of the stairs, coming up from the third floor. Fichte did what he could with a casual nod.

“Herr Bezirkssekretr, ” said Braun, with a tight-lipped smile. “Were you looking for me?”

Fichte waited a moment too long to sound convincing. “Yes. . Yes, I was, Herr Oberkommissar. ” Braun waited for more. Fichte said, “I was hoping to go over the second-carver theory again-”

Braun cut him off with a frustrated hand. “We’ve been through all of this, Herr Bezirkssekretr. As I said, when that information is necessary you will be told.”

Fichte had no interest in lingering. “Certainly, Herr Oberkommissar, ” he said. “I won’t trouble you with it again.”

“And this was the only reason you came up to see me?”

“Yes, Herr Oberkommissar. ”

Braun was about to answer when it seemed as if something had just occurred to him-a wince for something he couldn’t quite place-but he dismissed it quickly. “Fine. Any word from Herr Hoffner?”

“No, Herr Oberkommissar. Nothing.”

“And you’ll tell me when he contacts you?”

“Of course, Herr Oberkommissar. ”

“Good.” Braun nodded. Fichte offered a clipped bow and headed down the stairs.

It was only when Braun was halfway down the corridor that he realized what it was that had struck him: he had recognized the smell.

At just after eleven, Lina stepped onto the platform. She had done as Hoffner had asked: the train was due to leave in another eight minutes.

Hoffner had been standing in shadow for the past twenty-five-the corridor to the men’s toilet offering an ideal vantage point-when he saw her. She was holding two small valises and was again wearing the blue hat. A porter took her bags and then helped her up. At the top step, she glanced around once, perhaps hoping to see him, and then stepped into the car.

Safe, he thought: he had needed to see it.

Hoffner began to move off when he saw another familiar figure on the platform. Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland had been trailing after her and was now making his way to the train.

Hoffner’s first reaction was to run out and stop him, but Weigland seemed less interested in Lina than in the surrounding crowds. Hoffner pressed farther back into the shadow as Weigland glanced nervously along the platform. It was obvious whom he was looking for; what was less clear was why he had come alone: Hoffner could see no one who looked even remotely like a Polpo detective anywhere on the platform.

Weigland now entered the front car of the train. Again, Hoffner stayed where he was: if Weigland had been interested in taking her, he would have done so already. More likely he was scanning the seats to see if Hoffner had been waiting for her on board. Weigland made quick work of it and emerged from the last of the cars just as the stationmaster was signaling the train’s departure. Weigland looked disappointed. It was an odd reaction, thought Hoffner. Frustration, perhaps, but why disappointment? The train began to make its way out of the station and both men stared after it.

For nearly a minute, neither moved. Finally, Weigland made one more sweep of the platform and then began to head off. Hoffner followed.

One behind the other, they moved through to the main atrium and over to the station entrance. The place was thick with people, and Hoffner had to struggle to narrow the gap between them. When Weigland was almost to the doors, Hoffner drew to within half a meter of him and, pressing up to his side, discreetly took his arm and twisted it back. It was a pleasure to see the momentary wince in the old, bearded face.

Hoffner continued to propel them forward. “Hello, Kriminal-direktor. ”

Remarkably, Weigland showed no surprise: in fact, he seemed only too happy to submit. “I was hoping you’d put in an appearance, Nikolai,” he said calmly as he let himself be moved along. “You know this is really quite unnecessary.”

“No one outside these doors, is there, Herr Kriminaldirektor ?”

“I came alone, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good.” Hoffner took them out into the morning sun. He needed an isolated spot. Most everyone was heading across the plaza and away from the river. Hoffner instead moved Weigland along the side of the station and toward the water. There were a few odd looks from passersby, but everyone was in too much of a hurry to take more than a cursory interest. Thirty meters on, Hoffner directed Weigland off the pavement and into the snow: they headed for the embankment. Weigland slipped once or twice for lack of balance, but Hoffner kept him upright as they moved down the slope. At the bottom, and with no one else in sight, Hoffner tossed the contents of Weigland’s pockets and released him. He had expected to find a pistol. There was none.

The air was much colder here, directly off the water: Hoffner felt it at once on his face. A low wall stood as a barrier against the current, but it was little obstacle for anyone interested in throwing someone in. Both men kept well back of it. Weigland was stretching out his shoulder when he said, “You enjoyed that, did you?”

“How did you find her?”

“A man at her flat.”

“She wasn’t at her flat.”

“Not for the last week, no, but she was there this morning. Six a.m.”

Hoffner recalled the money he had given her: rent for Elise. Lina had been foolish. “Why?” he said.

Weigland looked momentarily puzzled. “So we could have this little chat. Why do you think?”

“The head of the Polpo trails a girl to find a Kripo detective? Why not just have one of your thugs pick me up?”

Again, Weigland seemed surprised by the question. “Because, a, I didn’t know where you were, and b, I don’t trust many of them. Is that the answer you were looking for?” Hoffner said nothing; he had never heard this tone from Weigland. “Now give me a cigarette. It’s damned cold out here.” Hoffner picked up Weigland’s pack and flung it over. “And a light,” said Weigland. Hoffner dug out his own matches and tossed the box over. “I told you to let this go,” said Weigland as he lit up. He shook his head in frustration. “I told you to solve the case and move on. Why couldn’t you do that?”

“Because the case wasn’t over.”

“Yes, yes it was,” said Weigland more emphatically. “Your case was over the moment that little Belgian got shot. Why is it that you always have to know better?”

“The little Belgian wasn’t working alone and we both know that. He was brought here for a reason. He also killed only six women. Someone else killed Luxemburg and the prostitute at the zoo. The same someone who’s killed two more women in the last week.” Hoffner paused. “The same person who killed my wife.” Hoffner waited for Weigland to look directly at him. “The case wasn’t over.”