Snow White Must Die (7 page)

The neighbor knew Rita Cramer and had a key to her apartment, which she got out without any fuss after the detectives had identified themselves and told her about the accident. Unfortunately the neighbor didn’t know whether Cramer had any relatives. She never had visitors, at any rate.

The apartment was certainly depressing. Spotlessly clean and recently tidied up, but only sparsely furnished. Nowhere was there any indication of Rita Cramer’s personality, no photos of loved ones, and the walls were decorated with pictures that you could buy for a couple of euros in home remodeling stores. Bodenstein and Kirchhoff went through the apartment, opening cabinet doors and drawers in the hope of finding a relative’s name or some reason for the assault. Nothing.

“As anonymous as a hotel room,” was Bodenstein’s assessment. “There’s not a thing to go on.”

Pia went into the kitchen. Her eyes fell on the blinking answering machine. She pressed the
REWIND
button. Unfortunately the caller had not left a message on the tape but simply hung up. Pia jotted down the number displayed on the phone. A prefix in Königstein. She took out her cell phone and punched in the number. After the third ring an answering machine picked up.

“A doctor’s office,” she said. “They’re closed.”

“Are there any other messages?” Bodenstein asked. Kirchhoff pressed
REWIND
again, then shook her head.

“Odd that somebody can live like this.” She replaced the phone and looked through the kitchen calendar, which was still showing the month of May. There was not a single thing written on it. On a corkboard hung a flyer from a pizza delivery service and the faded blue copy of a parking ticket from April. None of it signified a happy, contented life.

“Tomorrow we’ll call this doctor’s office,” Bodenstein decided. “There’s nothing else we can do today. I’ll drive by the hospital and check on Rita Cramer’s condition.”

They left the apartment and returned the key to the neighbor.

“Could you drop me at Christoph’s before you go to the hospital?” Pia asked as they took the elevator down. “It’s on the way.”

“Oh, right, the party.”

“How do you know about that?” She shoved open the glass door so vigorously that she almost struck a man in the back as he bent over to study the name labels.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t see you.”

Pia caught a fleeting glimpse of his face as she smiled her apology.

“No harm done,” said the man, and they went on.

Bodenstein turned up the collar of his coat. “I like to be well informed about my colleagues. But you know that.”

Pia remembered her conversation with Kathrin Fachinger that morning. This seemed the ideal opportunity.

“Well, then you also must know that our colleague Behnke is doing some moonlighting that would definitely not meet with official approval.”

Oliver frowned and gave her a quick look.

“No, until this morning I wasn’t aware of that,” he admitted. “Were you?”

“I’m probably the last person Behnke would confide in,” Pia replied with a snort of contempt. “He always makes such a secret of his private life, as if he were still in the Special Assignment Unit.”

Oliver studied Pia in the pallid glow of the streetlight.

“He has some fairly major problems,” he said. “His wife left him a year ago. He couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments and ended up losing the house.”

Pia stopped and stared at him speechless for a moment. So that was the reason for Behnke’s behavior, for his constant irritability, his foul moods, his aggressiveness. And yet she felt no sympathy for him, only annoyance.

“You’re going to take his side again, aren’t you? What is it between you two? Why do you always make allowances for him?”

“I’m not making allowances for him,” Oliver countered.

“And how come he gets to keep making mistakes and neglect his job without suffering any consequences?”

“I suppose I hoped he’d manage to straighten out his life somehow if I didn’t pressure him too much.” Bodenstein shrugged. “But if he really is moonlighting in an unauthorized job, then I can’t do anything more for him.”

“So you’re going to report it to Dr. Engel?”

“I’m afraid I have to.” He sighed and started walking again. “But I’ll have a talk with Frank first.”

Saturday, November 8, 2008

“Oh my God.” Dr. Daniela Lauterbach reacted with genuine horror when Bodenstein told her how he happened to get her telephone number. She turned pale beneath her suntan. “Rita is a good friend of mine. We were neighbors until she got divorced last year.”

“A witness said he saw someone push Mrs. Cramer over the railing of the pedestrian bridge,” said Bodenstein. “That’s why we’re investigating the case as a possible attempted murder.”

“That’s appalling! Poor Rita! How is she doing?”

“Not well. She’s in critical condition.”

Dr. Lauterbach clasped her hands as if in prayer and shook her head in dismay. Bodenstein estimated that she was about his age, late forties or early fifties. She had a very feminine figure and her shiny dark hair was pulled back in a simple bun. With her warm brown eyes that were surrounded by laugh lines she radiated good humor and a motherly concern. She was obviously a doctor who took enough time for her patients and their troubles. Her extensive practice was located on the pedestrian street in Königstein above a jewelry store: big bright rooms with high ceilings and parquet floors.

“Let’s step into my office,” the doctor suggested. Bodenstein followed her into a very large room dominated by a massive, old-fashioned desk. On the walls were large expressionist paintings in somber colors that presented an unusual but intriguing contrast to the otherwise pleasant decor.

“May I offer you some coffee?”

“Oh yes, please,” said Bodenstein with a smile and a nod. “I haven’t had time for any today.”

“You’re certainly on the job early.” Dr. Lauterbach set a cup under the automatic espresso machine sitting on a sideboard next to all sorts of medical literature and pressed a button. The coffee grinder started up, and the appetizing aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the room.

“So are you,” Bodenstein replied. “And on a Saturday too.”

Late the night before he had left a message on the office answering machine, and she had called back at eight thirty this morning.

“I make house calls on Saturday mornings.” She handed him a cup of coffee, and he declined milk and sugar. “And then I usually try to catch up on paperwork. It just keeps piling up these days. I’d rather spend the time with my patients.”

She motioned him toward her desk, and Bodenstein sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs. The window behind her desk offered a wonderful view across the grounds of the nearby spa to the ruins of Königstein Castle on the hilltop.

“So, how can I help you?” Dr. Lauterbach asked after taking a sip of her coffee.

“In Mrs. Cramer’s apartment we found not a single reference to any relatives,” Bodenstein replied. “But there must be someone we should inform about the accident.”

“Rita still has a good relationship with her ex-husband,” said the doctor. “I’m sure that he would like to know.” Again she shook her head in concern. “Who could have done this?” She fixed her brown eyes on Bodenstein, giving him a pensive look.

“That’s what we want to know too. Does she have any enemies?”

“Rita? Good God, no! She’s such a sweet person and she’s had to put up with a lot in her life. But she has never been bitter.”

“Put up with what? What are you referring to?” Bodenstein studied the doctor attentively. Daniela Lauterbach, with her calm, steady demeanor, seemed extremely personable. His own family doctor processed his patients as if on a conveyor belt. Every time Bodenstein had to pay him a visit, the pace of the examination was so frenetic that it made him nervous.

“Her son had to go to jail,” said Dr. Lauterbach with a sigh. “That was very hard for Rita. It’s probably the reason her marriage broke up.”

Bodenstein, who had been about to take a sip of coffee, stopped short.

“Mrs. Cramer’s son is in jail? What for?”

“He
was
in jail, but he was released two days ago. Ten years ago he murdered two girls.”

Bodenstein searched his memory, but he couldn’t recall any juvenile double murderer named Cramer.

“After her divorce Rita took her maiden name again, so that she wouldn’t be instantly associated with that horrible case,” Dr. Lauterbach explained, as if reading Bodenstein’s mind. “Her married name was Sartorius.”

*   *   *

Pia could hardly believe her eyes. She scanned the document written in sober officialese and printed on gray recycled paper. Her heart had leaped when she discovered the long-awaited letter from the zoning commission for the city of Frankfurt in her mailbox. But what she now read was totally unexpected. Since she and Christoph had decided to live together at Birkenhof, they’d been planning to remodel the house, which was a bit too small for two people, not to mention having room for guests. An architect friend had drawn up plans for the remodeling and a preliminary inquiry for construction. Pia had been waiting impatiently for a reply, because she really wanted to get started on the project. She read through the letter a second and third time, then put it aside, got up from the kitchen table, and went to take a quick shower. Afterward she wrapped a towel around her and sullenly looked at herself in the mirror. It was three thirty by the time she left the party, yet Pia had gotten up at seven to let the dogs out and feed the other animals. Then she had enjoyed a brief break in the rain to exercise the two young horses and muck out their stalls. She just couldn’t cope with late-night partying anymore. At forty-one it was harder to recover from all-nighters than it had been at twenty-one. Absently she brushed her shoulder-length blond hair and plaited it into two braids. Going back to sleep was unthinkable after getting such bad news anyway. She went through the kitchen, removing the unpleasant letter from the table, and continued into the bedroom.

“Hey, sweetie,” murmured Christoph, blinking away sleep in the bright light. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to ten.”

He sat up and massaged his temples with a groan. Contrary to habit he had heavily indulged in alcohol last night. “So when does Annika’s plane leave?”

“Around two. We still have plenty of time.”

“What’s that you have there?” he asked when he spied the letter in Pia’s hand.

“A catastrophe,” she said morosely. “The zoning office answered.”

“And?” Christoph was trying hard to wake up.

“It’s a demolition order!”

“What?”

“The previous owner built this house without a permit—imagine! And now our inquiry has awakened sleeping dogs. All that’s approved is a garden hut and a horse stall. I don’t get it.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking her head. “I’ve been registered at this address for a few years now; the garbagemen pick up the trash, I pay the water and sewer bills. Did they really think I’ve been living in a garden hut?”

“Let me see.” Christoph scratched his head as he read the official letter. “We’ll lodge a protest. It’s just not right. The next-door neighbor is building a huge house, and you can’t even remodel your little bungalow!”

The cell phone on the nightstand rang. Pia, who was on call that day, reluctantly picked it up. She listened for a few moments in silence.

“All right, I’ll be there,” she said, punched off the call, and tossed the cell on the bed. “Damn.”

“You have to go?”

“Yes, sorry. A young man in Niederhöchstadt who was on the train platform yesterday reported that he saw a man push a woman over the railing.”

Christoph put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Pia gave a deep sigh. He kissed first her cheek, then her lips. Why couldn’t this youth have waited until this afternoon to report the incident? Pia simply didn’t feel like working right now. Actually, it was Behnke’s turn to be on call this weekend. But he was “sick,” after all. And Hasse was “sick” too. To hell with those idiots! Pia leaned back and cuddled up to Christoph’s body, warm with sleep. His hand slid under the bath towel and caressed her belly.

“Now stop worrying about this piece of paper,” he whispered, kissing her again. “We’ll figure it out. They’re not going to tear the house down tomorrow.”

“Nothing but problems, day in and day out,” Pia murmured, deciding that the kid could wait a while longer at the station in Niederhöchstadt.

*   *   *

Bodenstein sat in his car across from the hospital in Bad Soden and waited for his colleague to show up. Dr. Lauterbach had given him the address of Rita Cramer’s ex-husband in Altenhain, but before he could give the man the bad news he had wanted to stop by the hospital and get an update on her condition. She had survived the first night; after an operation she now lay in an induced coma in the ICU. It was eleven thirty when Kirchhoff pulled up next to him, got out, and made her way around the puddles to his car.

“The kid gave us a pretty good description of the man.” She plopped into the passenger seat and fastened her seatbelt. “If Kai can manage to get a decent photo off the surveillance video, we’ll have a picture to give to the press.”

“Excellent.” Bodenstein started the engine. He had asked Pia to ride with him to visit Rita Cramer’s ex-husband. On the short drive to Altenhain he told her about his conversation with Dr. Daniela Lauterbach. Pia had a hard time concentrating. She was still worried about the letter from the zoning office. Demolition order! That was the last thing she had expected. What if the city was serious and forced her to have the house torn down? Where would she and Christoph live then?

“Are you listening to me at all?” asked Oliver.

“Sure,” said Pia. “Sartorius. Neighbor. Altenhain. I’m sorry, but we didn’t get home till four in the morning.”

She yawned and closed her eyes. She was dead tired. Unfortunately she didn’t possess Oliver’s iron constitution. He never seemed the least bit tired even after all-night stakeouts and exhausting investigations. Had she ever seen him yawn?