The Ice Queen: A Novel (20 page)

“Something’s wrong here,” she heard the housekeeper saying behind her. She was pointing at the cabinet. “There were always photos on the shelf, and the framed pictures on the wall are missing, too. And she kept her photo albums and document binders in the bookcase. They’re all gone. How could that happen? I was here just this morning, and everything was the same as usual.”

Pia remembered how fast the Goldberg case had been taken out of their hands. Was somebody trying to hush up something here, too? But who could have heard about the old lady’s death so quickly?

“Why do you think the director didn’t call the police right away after she was told that a resident was missing?” Kirchhoff asked.

The housekeeper shrugged. “I assumed that she would do it. She told me that she—” She broke off, shaking her head helplessly.

“Have you had break-ins here before?”

Kirchhoff’s question obviously made Ms. Multani uncomfortable.

“The Taunusblick is an open facility,” she replied evasively. “Residents can come and go as they like. We have nothing against visitors, and our restaurants and events are open to the public. So strict supervision is difficult.”

Pia understood. The luxury of freedom had its price. There could be no question of enforcing strict security measures, and the hotel-like character of the residence made it vulnerable to criminal elements. She resolved to make inquiries about any reported break-ins or thefts at Taunusblick.

On his cell phone, Bodenstein requested that the evidence response team come to the apartment. Then he and Kirchhoff, accompanied by Ms. Multani, took the elevator down to the ground floor. The executive housekeeper told them that Anita Frings had been a resident for fifteen years. “In the past, she sometimes visited friends and stayed with them overnight,” she said. “But she hasn’t been able to do that in a long time.”

“Did she have friends here?” Kirchhoff asked.

“No, not really,” replied Ms. Multani after thinking it over. “She was very reserved and preferred to keep to herself.”

The elevator stopped with a slight jolt. In the foyer, they found the director talking to a group of businessmen. Renate Kohlhaas seemed less than pleased by another encounter with Kripo, but she excused herself and came over to Bodenstein and Kirchhoff.

“I’m sorry, but I have very little time,” she said. “We have visitors from our external inspection team. Once a year, Taunusblick undergoes a quality assessment in order to maintain certification for the care and services that we offer here.”

“We won’t keep you long,” Kirchhoff assured her. “The body that was discovered was that of your resident Anita Frings.”

“Yes, I heard. It’s horrible.”

The director made an effort to display the appropriate sadness, but she was mostly irritated because the murder of one of her residents was going to cause so much trouble. She was probably concerned about damage to the image of their elegant retirement home if the details of the woman’s death were made public. She led Bodenstein and Kirchhoff into a small room behind the reception desk.

“Is there something else I can do for you?”

“Why did you wait so long before notifying the police?” Kirchhoff asked.

Ms. Kohlhaas gave her an angry look. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she replied. “After Ms. Multani informed me that Mrs. Frings was missing, I called the police immediately.”

“Your housekeeper told us that she reported Mrs. Frings missing between seven-thirty and eight,” Bodenstein interjected. “But we were first informed about the body around ten o’clock.”

“It was not seven-thirty or eight,” the director countered. “Ms. Multani told me about Mrs. Frings at about nine-fifteen.”

“Are you sure?” Kirchhoff was skeptical but couldn’t explain why Ms. Kohlhaas might have delayed her call to the police by nearly two hours.

“Of course I’m sure,” retorted the director.

“Have you informed Mrs. Frings’s relatives?” Bodenstein asked. Ms. Kohlhaas hesitated for a couple of seconds.

“Mrs. Frings had no relatives,” she said at last.

“No one at all?” asked Kirchhoff, digging deeper. “There must be someone you would inform in the event of her death. An attorney or an acquaintance.”

“Naturally, I asked my secretary at once to look up the relevant telephone numbers,” replied the director. “But there is no one. I’m sorry.”

Pia let the subject drop.

“According to your housekeeper, there are various objects missing from Mrs. Frings’s apartment,” she went on. “Who could have stolen them?”

“That’s impossible.” Renate Kohlhaas was indignant. “No one would steal anything here.”

“Who has a key to the residents’ apartments?” Kirchhoff asked.

“The residents themselves, the executive housekeeper, possibly relatives,” replied the director with obvious displeasure. “I hope you aren’t insinuating anything about Ms. Multani. After all, she was the only one who knew that Mrs. Frings was missing.”

“You knew it, too,” replied Kirchhoff, unmoved. Renate Kohlhaas turned first red, then pale.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said icily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take care of my visitors.”

*   *   *

In the apartment belonging to Mrs. Frings, there were no longer any personal items that might give some clue about the life of this woman who had spent the last fifteen years within these four walls—no photos, no letters, no diaries. Bodenstein and Kirchhoff could make no sense of it. Who would be interested in the possessions of a woman who was eighty-eight years old?

“We ought to assume that Mrs. Frings knew Goldberg and Schneider,” Bodenstein said. “This number or date means something that we don’t yet understand. And it’s probable that she also knew Vera Kaltensee.”

“So why, if Anita Frings had been missing since early morning, did the director delay her call to the police?” Pia wondered out loud. “She’s acting funny, and I don’t think it’s only because she has important visitors.”

“What could she possibly gain from the death of Mrs. Frings?”

“A generous bequest to the retirement home?” Pia conjectured. “Maybe she had the apartment cleared out so that there would be no trace of potential heirs.”

“But she couldn’t have known whether Mrs. Frings was actually dead or not,” Bodenstein countered.

They went to the director’s office. A fat little woman on the far side of fifty sat enthroned in the anteroom. With her bleached-blond hairdo plastered with hair spray, she looked like a member of the bubbly Jacob Sisters pop group, but she turned out to be a regular Cerberus.

“I’m sorry,” she intoned. “The director isn’t in, and I’m not allowed to give you any information about a resident.”

“Then call Ms. Kohlhaas and get permission,” said Pia brusquely. Her patience had run out. “We don’t have all day.”

Unimpressed, the secretary scrutinized Pia over the top of her reading glasses, which were attached to an old-fashioned gold chain.

“We’re having a visit from top management today,” she replied coolly. “Ms. Kohlhaas is occupied elsewhere in the building. I can’t reach her.”

“When will she be back?”

“At about three o’clock.” The secretary was intransigent. Bodenstein intervened with a winning smile.

“I know that we’ve come at an inconvenient time, since such important visitors are on-site,” he said, attempting to appease the outer-office dragon. “But a resident was abducted last night and brutally murdered. We need the address or phone number of a relative in order to inform them of her death. If you help us, we won’t have to bother Ms. Kohlhaas.”

Bodenstein’s courteous manner succeeded where Pia’s gruff style had not. The old warhorse turned soft as butter.

“I can look up all the necessary information in Mrs. Frings’s file,” she chirped.

“That would be an immense help to us.” Bodenstein winked at her. “And if you happen to have a recent photo of Mrs. Frings, we’ll be on our way at once.”

“You are so slimy,” Pia murmured, and Bodenstein flashed her a surreptitious grin. The secretary typed away on her keyboard, and seconds later two pages slid out of the laser printer.

“There you are.” She beamed at Bodenstein and handed him one of the sheets. “That should help you out.”

“What’s on the second page?” Kirchhoff asked.

“That’s internal information,” said the secretary regally. When Kirchhoff held out her hand, she performed a deft left-handed twist and with a smug smile fed the page into the shredder. “I have my instructions.”

“And in an hour, I’ll be back with a search warrant,” said Pia furiously. Maybe it wouldn’t be as desirable as it had first seemed to spend her golden years in this retirement home.

*   *   *

“The items are on the way,” Elard announced. “Shortly after twelve at your parents’ old house. Is that all right?”

Katharina glanced at her watch.

“Yes, perfect. Thanks a lot,” she said. “I’ll call Thomas now so that he can come over. Do you think we’ll find anything useful?”

“I’m sure you will. Among other things, there are nine of Vera’s diaries.”

“Really? Then the rumor must be true.”

“I’ll be glad when I’m out of all this. So, I hope you’ll—”

“Just a sec,” said Katharina before Elard could finish his sentence. “Who do you think shot the two old guys?”

“It’s now three,” Elard informed her.

“Three?” Katharina straightened up.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Elard sounded almost gleeful, as if he’d been given a chance to tell a funny anecdote. “Last night, our dear Anita was murdered. Execution-style. Like the other two.”

“The news doesn’t seem to be breaking your heart,” Katharina replied.

“You’re right. I couldn’t stand any of them.”

“Me, neither. But you know that already.”

“Goldberg, Schneider, and dear Anita,” said Elard dreamily. “Now the only one left is Vera.”

His tone made Katharina sit up and take notice. Could it have been Elard who had shot his mother’s three closest and oldest friends? He certainly had the motive. He’d always been treated as an outsider in the family, more tolerated than loved by his mother.

“Do you have any idea who could have done it?” she asked again.

“I’m afraid not,” said Elard at once. “But I don’t really care. Whoever did it, he should have done it thirty years ago.”

*   *   *

By early afternoon, Pia had spoken with about twenty residents of the Taunusblick who, according to Ms. Multani, had been in close contact with Mrs. Frings, and also with some of the staff. All of it had produced less than satisfactory results, including the extract from the file that Bodenstein had begged for from the receptionist. Anita Frings had no children or grandchildren and seemed to have been torn from a life in which she had left behind no visible traces. It was depressing to think that no one would miss her and no relatives would mourn her death. A human life had simply been extinguished and was already forgotten. Her apartment at Taunusblick would be renovated and immediately rented to the next person on the waiting list. But Pia was determined to find out more about the old lady, and she wasn’t going to let a pompous secretary and an uncooperative director stop her. She planted herself in the entry hall with a direct view of the door to the director’s office, preparing to wait. After three-quarters of an hour, she was rewarded: The Cerberus apparently felt the call of nature and left the office without shutting the door.

Pia knew that the unauthorized confiscation of evidence was strictly against police regulations, but she didn’t care. Making sure that she was not observed, she crossed the hall and entered the outer office. In a few steps, she was behind the desk and opening the shredder. The old witch hadn’t destroyed very much today. Pia gathered the shredded paper from the bin and stuffed it under her T-shirt. In less than sixty seconds, she left the office, sauntered through the entry hall, and walked out the door. She proceeded along the edge of the woods to her car, which she had parked near the site where the body had been found.

When she opened the driver’s door to her car and pulled out the prickly paper shreds from under her T-shirt, she realized that Christoph’s place was just a couple of hundred yards away. He’d been gone for only twenty-four hours, but she missed him so much that it hurt. Pia was glad for the distraction that her work offered at the moment, so she didn’t have time to worry about what Christoph might be doing with his evenings in South Africa. The buzz of her cell phone startled her out of her reverie. Although Bodenstein had admonished her many times not to talk on the phone while driving, she took the call.

“Pia, it’s me, Miriam.” Her friend sounded troubled. “Have you got a minute?”

“Yes, I do. Did something happen?”

“I don’t know yet. Listen. I told Oma what I discovered at the institute and about my suspicion that Goldberg had altered his life story. She gave me a funny look; I thought at first she was mad at me, but then she asked me why I wanted to rummage around in Goldberg’s past. I hope you’re not angry that I told her.”

“If it gives us a lead, of course not.” Pia clamped the cell between her shoulder and chin so she could free her hand to shift gears.

“Well, Oma told me that she and Sarah, Goldberg’s wife, had gone to school together in Berlin. They were very good friends. Sarah’s family emigrated to the States in 1936, after Sarah had a bad experience with three drunken boys. Oma said that Sarah hadn’t looked Jewish at all; she was big and blond, and all the boys were crazy about her. One evening, they were at the movies, and on the way home the three guys were rude to her. It would have turned out badly if a young SS man hadn’t intervened. He escorted her home, and as thanks for rescuing her, Sarah gave him the medallion from her necklace. She met the man in secret a few more times, but then her family left Berlin. Eleven years later, she saw this medallion again—on a Jew named David Josua Goldberg, who was standing right in front of her in her father’s bank in New York! Sarah recognized her former rescuer at once and married him not long after. Except for Oma, she never told anybody about her husband’s true identity.”

Pia listened to the story in silence and with growing incredulity. It was final proof of the great lie about the life of David Goldberg, a lie that over the decades had taken on enormous proportions.