Grave Intent (19 page)

“He exploited a weak point,” said Max, who now commanded their respectful attention.

“Which is?”

“The hearse.”

Jan slapped his forehead. “Of course.”

“Care to fill us in?” Chandu said. “I’m not following.”

“So as not to arouse suspicion, regular cemetery business was allowed to continue as normal,” Max explained. “The patrols recorded the hearse’s plate and registration numbers and let it pass through.”

“So he steals a hearse,” Jan said.

Max pressed another key on the computer. The aerial shot zoomed in on the main entrance.

“According to the log, the front gate opened at one fourteen a.m., at which point a registered hearse left the premises. There’s no surveillance video that makes out the driver. The hearse turned onto Trakehner Allee heading northwest and then took a left at Olympischer Platz. Thirty-one minutes later it returned the same way, passing the plainclothes officers near the admin building, and drove into the cemetery.”

“With Robin Cordes’s corpse aboard,” Chandu added.

“It fits the time of death,” Zoe said. “Around midnight.”

“Did he break into the car?” Chandu asked. “Or did he get his hands on it some other way?”

“He broke into the key cabinet in the admin building. Then he could choose whatever. On top of that, the hearses have a gate opener inside for the driver. So he didn’t have to get out when he came back with Robin’s body. He left the car back in its spot, brought the body into the mortuary, and then disappeared.”

Jan turned to Zoe. “Any evidence on the car?”

“Coworkers are still on it. Considering how meticulous the grave murderer’s been up till now, I wouldn’t be too hopeful.”

“What about on the body?”

“Nothing. Robin Cordes was killed with the same hammer as his predecessors. No drugs, poison, or narcotics. He was fully conscious.”

“His fingers?”

“Cut with garden or poultry shears, like I thought.”

“This is starting to creep me out,” Chandu said. “First it’s eyes, then the tongue, now fingers. And you don’t think that this person is insane?”

“Oh, he’s definitely insane,” Jan replied. “But he’s no sadist. Otherwise he would’ve cut Robin’s fingers off beforehand.”

“So what does it mean?” Max asked.

“Cordes probably had his fingers in something that he shouldn’t have,” Zoe said. “So it was snip-snip.”

“Any sign he was tied up?” Jan asked.

“Nope.”

“Self-defense wounds?”

“Struck out again.”

“I just can’t believe this.” Jan fought the urge to hurl his bottle against the wall. “Robin Cordes was underground and alert, cautious. How did the murderer know where he was?”

“Where was he killed?” Chandu asked.

“Not at home. I was there this afternoon,” Jan said, sounding downcast, “and had to deliver the sad news to Friederike Roth.”

“The crime techs are still dismantling the hearse,” Max said. “Maybe they’ll find a clue as to where the car went. The killer didn’t use the navigation system.”

Jan leaned back in his chair. “Me, I’m all out of ideas. I’ll go talk to Friederike Roth again in the morning and ask her more about her boyfriend’s illegal activities before he went to prison.”

“I’ll see what the city’s speed cameras and surveillance cams have,” Max said. “Maybe our hearse is in the footage.”

“I’m toast, actually,” Zoe said. “There are no more analyses to do, but I’ll send any results coming in to a coworker who’s nearly as good as me. Maybe he’s got some idea.”

“Hey, didn’t you tell me that Robin Cordes organized poker games?” Chandu said to Jan.

Jan nodded.

“I have an old acquaintance who’s a hard-core player.”

“Who?”

“Becks.”

“Becks?” Zoe raised her eyebrows. “Like the beer?”

“No idea how he arrived at that name.”

“What kind of guy is he?”

“A pimp, and an aficionado of fine things. Drives a Maserati with a champagne cooler in it instead of a glove box.”

“How modest,” Zoe said.

“Not really my deal either.”

“The Maserati?”

“The champagne cooler.”

“Ah. Do you sock him in the face too, when you meet with him?”

Chandu eyed Zoe in disapproval. “That would not be good for my health. But whenever there’s a big game going in Berlin, Becks is there. So if anyone knows poker king Robin Cordes, it’s him.”

Chapter Nine

The neighborhood had a bad rep, no doubt about it, but if a person didn’t know what was going on behind the dark-red doors of the inconspicuous apartment building, they would just walk on by without giving it a second thought. The muscular man at the door might have been taking a smoke break, the cam over the entrance was well hidden, and drawing the curtains at such an hour was normal.

But there was a bordello behind those doors. Not the shabby, seedy kind for quick sex, but rather an exquisite establishment with exquisite rooms and just as exquisite prices.

Chandu had never worked for Becks. The loan business was not the pimp’s game; his customers paid in advance. Still, they knew each other. New players came every year, but the core team stayed the same. You crossed paths at some point.

Chandu knew the rules. He stood before the door. Once his image registered on the cam, the door clicked open. Inside, Chandu gave the bouncers a friendly nod even as they were frisking him. He knew one of them—a former member of a British special unit. Worked nights as a bouncer and taught self-defense by day in a gym. A tough dog with a soft spot for knives.

“Matt,” Chandu greeted him, once the man was satisfied he was unarmed.

“Chandu.” Matt tapped his forehead.

“Is Becks around?”

“’E’s just there at the bar,” Matt replied in a strong British accent.

Chandu entered the main room, which was full of comfy sofas, armchairs, and elegant little tables where clients could set down their glasses. The dark-brown polished wooden walls set off the brightly colored furniture. The women wore tasteful black dresses that looked designed more for some society ball than for a bordello. Each and every one of them was every man’s dream in the flesh, tastefully made up and with perfect figures. They moved with a sensuous grace in their high heels, confident of their beauty. One night with one of them exceeded the monthly income of a wealthy executive, but from what Chandu had heard, it was worth every euro.

The establishment had none of the usual brothel clichés. The owner acted more like a top businessman than a pimp. His black hair was neatly trimmed. He wore a dark suit with a fashionable silk tie, and his shiny leather shoes reflected the soft glow from countless lamps. Becks could have easily passed himself off as a banker or lawyer.

When he saw Chandu, he waved and gestured to the stool next to him at the long bar.

“Chandu.” He shook the big man’s hand. His handshake was firm, assertive. “What brings you here? Work or pleasure?”

“I wish it was pleasure, but it’s work.”

Becks was drinking red wine. He signaled the barkeep, who immediately filled another glass with red and placed it before Chandu.

“I don’t recall being in debt to any of your friends.”

Chandu raised a hand to reassure him. “It’s not about you, Becks. It’s about someone you might know.” He reached for his glass, toasted his host, and took a sip. He knew nothing about wine, but it did taste excellent. Whatever this was that Becks had served up, he wouldn’t be finding it in a supermarket. Maybe the rumors were true—that he’d bought a major winery in France where he intended to spend his old age.

Chandu nodded in appreciation and set down the glass. “I’m looking for a small-time blowfly named Robin Cordes. Was dealing, then moving some goods, and ended up in the slammer for it. He’s out again and keeps a low profile.”

“I have nothing to do with small-time blowflies.”

“Supposedly our small-time dealer changed his ways in the slammer and is now doing poker games.”

“I see. Now I’m listening.”

“Which is why I’m here. Robin owes a friend of mine a heap of money. It would spare me a lot of legwork if you’d seen him around.”

“You have a photo of this Robin?”

Chandu pulled out his phone, selected a photo, and turned the screen to Becks.

“Ah, that Robin,” Becks said. “I was just playing with him yesterday.”

Chandu nearly dropped his phone. It was all he could do not to show his surprise. “Just not my lucky day, I guess.” He was hoping that word had not gotten out about Robin dying. The media were reporting that the grave killer had a new victim but weren’t releasing any names.

“It wasn’t that big of a game. Seven people total. Robin had arranged the date, got the room, set it all up, and brought in the players.”

“How did he know of you?”

“I went with a friend, on his recommendation.”

“Where did you guys play?”

“In the Ochsen, not here.”

“In a family pub?”

“In a back room. Was just a poker table in there. The owner brought the drinks. Was quaint but kind of nice.”

“A setup?”

Becks shook his head. “Only beginners fall for that. It was a clean game.”

“Who all was there?”

“My buddy Joe and I. Robin. There was a couple with too much dough, names I forget. A young snot name of Bernd, and some lawyer. Müller or something like that.” Becks sipped his wine. “Why you interested in the game? I thought you were only after Robin.”

Chandu wanted to swear out loud—the serial killer himself might have been sitting at that very table. But he couldn’t let down his cover and admit he was investigating for the cops. The consequences would be nasty. Bouncers would be the least of his problems.

“What kind of money are we talking about here? The table had something, I’m guessing.”

“I went home with five grand. It was just Bernd and I left at the end. The woman lost an all-in after a couple hours. The husband three hands later. The lawyer had played away all his cash by that point, since he was probably the worst poker player in the whole world. No idea what he was doing there. Joe’s stomach wasn’t taking the meat platter too well and he puked his guts out. That left only the young guy and me. A one-on-one is just too boring for me, so I took off.”

“When?”

“Around eleven or so.”

“What was Robin’s take?”

“Hundred per person for arranging and dealing. A bonus from the owner, maybe. How much he owe your friend?”

“Over four,” Chandu lied.

“Right. It’ll work out.”

Chandu kept up his cover. “You know when the next game is? I could go and have a talk with him.”

“I gave him my number. When he calls, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.” Chandu shook Becks’s hand. “For the help and for the nice wine.” He stood. “Anything I can ever do for you, just call.”

Becks nodded. “Will do.”

Chandu waved to Matt on the way out. Once outside, he went around the block, pulled out his phone, and punched in Jan’s number. His friend picked up on the second ring.

“I think I have the crime scene,” Chandu said. “Tell our chain-smoker she should pack her bags. Looks like a late dinner.”

Jan lost no time. In a matter of minutes he had gathered a few people from Patrick’s team—including four crime-scene investigators, two uniformed cops, and Zoe with her irresistible charm—and headed over to the Ochsen. The owner paled at the sight of the group, who threatened to shut down his business if he didn’t cooperate. He gave investigators access to all the rooms, stopped all work in the kitchen, and began to confess all. He was gray-haired, with an ample belly and a red nose that suggested he liked to partake of the many varieties of schnapps lining the back wall of his bar.

“How do you know Robin Cordes?” Jan asked him.

“We have a friend in common who helped me get some kitchen equipment for cheap.” The man was rubbing his hands on his apron as if he’d just reached into a foul-smelling trash can.

“Stolen goods, you mean?”

“I didn’t say that,” the owner protested. “It was all legal. Invoiced and all that. Just a real good deal.”

Stolen ovens were of no interest to Jan. “Whose idea were these poker games?”

“Robin came to me about five weeks ago. Said he had a proposal for how I could use the old room in back. He would organize a poker game once a week for people who had dough.”

“So what did you get out of it?”

“Robin said the players would be drinking a lot more than apple juice. I got whiskey, vodka, and champagne and marked it up three times cost. No one batted an eye. They soaked it up like sponges. On a single poker night I did more drink sales than a whole month from the bar.”

“You do know that poker games like that are illegal?”

“It was all on the up and up. Robin swore to me that he wasn’t using marked cards and he was dealing them himself.”

“I don’t mean the poker. I mean playing for real money. They call it gambling.”

The owner stared at the floor in shame. “What was I supposed to do? Business was getting bad. People wanting more and more crazy things. Sushi, pizza, all that vegetarian stuff. Your standard meat platter isn’t exactly drawing crowds these days.”

“You know the people who took part in these poker games?”

“No one besides Robin. They wanted to be left alone. I took the orders, brought the drinks, cleared out again.”

“Are there surveillance cameras here?”

“You making a joke? I pour the beers and serve liver dumplings. I empty the register every night. There’s nothing to steal here. Why a camera?”

“Yeah, a camera would be way too easy,” Jan muttered under his breath. “Could you describe the players for me if I sent a professional sketch artist by here?”

“I can try.” The owner shrugged. “I do remember faces well.”

Jan closed his notepad. “All right. That’ll be it for now. Please keep yourself available for any further questions.”

The owner nodded and shuffled into the kitchen.

Jan was heading over to the back room when Zoe’s voice came echoing into the dining room. “Jan! Get your ass out here.”

He sighed. He was the lead detective, but Zoe always made him feel like the gofer boy.

He went through the kitchen and out into the back lot. The medical examiner was standing next to an investigator who was taking photos of a spot on the ground. As Jan came closer, he realized it was a bloodstain.

“Crime scene?”

“Most likely.” Zoe held up a test tube. “We found little bone splinters in the blood. They could have come from Robin’s skull. Ralf is taking a blood sample we’ll compare with the victim’s DNA. Then we’ll know more.”

“My name is Romir,” said a man down on the ground.

“What I said.”

“That would be progress,” Jan replied. “We know when the poker ended and we have the cemetery break-in time. With a crime scene, we can start building a route profile.”

“Anything new on the perp?”

“The owner will help us come up with sketches. I think our murderer was at these card games. But a little more evidence would be nice.”

“Maybe I can help,” an investigator said as he climbed out of a Dumpster. His protective coveralls had food scraps stuck to them, which didn’t seem to bother him. Jan saw fried potatoes, lettuce, liverwurst. The man was holding a cheap pocket-calendar notebook. “I believe this belongs to Robin Cordes,” he announced proudly. “And it’s full of telephone numbers.”

Jan let himself smile. The murderer had committed his first mistake.

He was back in the kitchen, saw the altar lit up with candles, smelled the incense. Father Anberger was tied to the cross and a pool of blood was forming next to him. Jan called out for Chandu, but his friend was nowhere to be seen.

Betty came out from behind a column, a smile on her face, a shotgun in her hands. Jan raised his hands and wanted to give himself up, and yet his fingers were suddenly gripping his pistol. So he shot. Once, twice, three times. And Betty collapsed. The blood flowed from her body, and her eyes closed.