The Ice Queen: A Novel (36 page)

*   *   *

Bodenstein stood at his desk, looking at the daily newspapers spread out in front of him. He had the first unpleasant encounter of the day, a meeting with Chief Commissioner Nierhoff, behind him. The chief had threatened to set up a special commission if Bodenstein didn’t deliver some tangible results soon. The police spokesman was being bombarded with calls, and not only from the press. The Interior Ministry had also lodged an official inquiry, wanting to know how the investigations were progressing. The whole team was feeling irritable. They weren’t even close to a breakthrough in any of the five homicides. The fact that Goldberg, Schneider, Anita Frings, and Vera Kaltensee had been friends since their youth didn’t really help. The murderer had not left any identifiable traces at the three crime scenes, so it was impossible to construct a perp profile. For the time being, the Kaltensee siblings had the best motive, but Bodenstein was reluctant to endorse Ostermann’s theories.

He folded up the newspapers and sat down, resting his forehead in his hand. Something was going on right before their eyes that they weren’t seeing. He just couldn’t figure out any way to connect the murders to the Kaltensee family and their circle that made sense. If there was, in fact, any sort of connection. Had he lost his ability to ask the right questions? There was a knock on the door, and Pia Kirchhoff came in.

“What’s up?” he asked, hoping that his colleague wouldn’t notice how insecure and helpless he was feeling.

“Behnke went over to see Frenzel, Watkowiak’s pal, the guy whose DNA we found at Schneider’s house,” she said. “He brought Frenzel’s cell phone back with him. Watkowiak had left him a voice mail on Thursday.”

“And?”

“We wanted to listen to it now. By the way, we saw Ritter go inside a building on Siesmayerstrasse. A woman named Marleen Kaltensee lives there.” She gave him a quizzical look. “What’s the matter with you, boss?”

Once more, Bodenstein had the feeling that she was able to read his mind.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” he said. “Too many riddles, too many unknown individuals, too many useless leads.”

“That’s how it always is.” Pia sat down on the chair facing him. “We’ve asked a lot of people a lot of questions and that has stirred things up. The case is now developing its own dynamic; we may not have any influence on it at the moment, but it’s working for us. I have a strong feeling that something is going to happen very soon—something that’ll put us back on the right track.”

“You really are an optimist. What if your famous dynamic provides us with another corpse? Nierhoff and the Interior Ministry are putting enormous pressure on me.”

“What do they expect from us?” Pia shook her head. “We aren’t TV detectives. So stop looking so discouraged. Let’s drive to Frankfurt and see Ritter and Elard Kaltensee. We’ll ask them about the missing trunk.”

She stood up and looked at him impatiently. Her energy was infectious. Bodenstein realized how indispensable Pia Kirchhoff had become in the past two years. Together, they made a perfect team. She was the one who occasionally offered bold conjectures and energetically drove things forward. He was the one who did everything by the book and reined her in when she got too emotional.

“Come on, boss,” she said. “Forget the self-doubt. We have to show our new boss what we’re made of!”

Bodenstein couldn’t help smiling.

“Right,” he said, and stood up.

*   *   *

“—call me back, man!”
came the voice of Robert Watkowiak from the loudspeaker. He sounded frantic.
“They’re after me. The cops think I bumped somebody off, and my stepmother’s gorillas have been laying in wait for me at Moni’s place. I gotta get out of here for a while. I’ll call you again.”

There was a click. Ostermann rewound the tape.

“When did Watkowiak leave this on the voice mail?” asked Bodenstein, who had recovered from his dejected mood.

“Last Thursday afternoon, at two thirty-five,” said Ostermann. “The call came from a public phone in Kelkheim. A day later, he was dead.”

“… my stepmother’s gorillas have been laying in wait for me at Moni’s place…”
Robert Watkowiak’s voice repeated. Ostermann worked the controls and let the message run again.

“All right, that’s enough,” said Bodenstein. “What’s the news on Nowak?”

“Still lying in bed,” replied Ostermann. “This morning from eight until a little after ten, his Oma and Papa were there.”

“Nowak’s father was visiting his son at the hospital?” Pia asked in amazement. “For two hours?”

“Yes.” Ostermann nodded. “That’s what a colleague told me.”

“Okay.” Bodenstein cleared his throat and looked around the table. Nicola Engel was absent today. “We’re going to have another talk with Vera Kaltensee and her son Siegbert. I also want saliva samples from Marcus Nowak, Elard Kaltensee, and Thomas Ritter. We’ll also pay another visit to Ritter today. And I want to talk to Katharina Ehrmann. Frank, find out where we can meet the lady.”

Behnke nodded but made no comment.

“Hasse, get the lab moving on the paint traces from the car that rammed the concrete planter in front of Nowak’s company. Ostermann, I want more information on Thomas Ritter.”

“All that today?” asked Ostermann.

“By this afternoon, if you can.” Bodenstein got up. “We’ll meet here again at five to hear what you’ve found out.”

*   *   *

Half an hour later, Pia rang Marleen Kaltensee’s doorbell on Siesmayerstrasse, and after she held her ID up to the camera above the intercom, the door buzzed open. A few moments later, she and Bodenstein entered the apartment belonging to a woman in her mid-thirties with an unremarkable, somewhat puffy-looking face with bluish circles under her eyes. Her stocky figure, short legs, and a broad backside made her seem fatter than she actually was.

“I thought you’d be here much sooner,” she began the conversation.

“Why?” asked Pia.

“Well”—Marleen Kaltensee shrugged—“the murders of my grandmother’s friends and Robert…”

“That’s not why we’re here.” Pia let her gaze wander over the tastefully furnished apartment. “Yesterday, we spoke with Dr. Ritter. You do know him, don’t you?”

To her surprise, the woman giggled like a teenager and actually blushed.

“We saw him enter this building. All we want to know from you is what he wanted,” Pia went on, a bit irritated.

“He lives here.” Marleen Kaltensee leaned against the door frame. “We’re married. I’m not Kaltensee anymore, but Ritter.”

Bodenstein and Pia exchanged an amazed glance. It was true that yesterday Ritter had spoken of his wife in connection with the convertible, but he hadn’t mentioned that she was the granddaughter of his former boss.

“We’re newlyweds,” she explained. “I haven’t quite gotten used to my new name. But my family also doesn’t know about our marriage yet. My husband wants to wait until a suitable moment, after all the uproar has died down.”

“You mean the uproar about the murders of your … grandmother’s friends?”

“Yes, exactly. Vera Kaltensee is my Oma.”

“And you are whose daughter?” Pia wanted to know.

“My father is Siegbert Kaltensee.”

At that moment, Pia’s gaze fell on the tight-fitting T-shirt of the young woman, and she deduced correctly.

“Do your parents know that you’re expecting?”

Marleen Ritter first turned red, then beamed with pride. She stuck out her clearly swelling stomach and placed both hands on it. Pia managed a smile in spite of herself. After all these years, she still felt a pang in the presence of a happily pregnant woman.

“No,” said Marleen Ritter. “As I said, my father has a lot on his mind right now.”

Only now did she seem to remember her good manners. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“No thanks,” Bodenstein said politely. “We really wanted to speak with … your husband. Do you know where he is at the moment?”

“I can give you his cell number and the address of the editorial office.”

“That would be very kind.” Pia pulled out her notebook.

“Your husband told us yesterday that your grandmother had let him go because of a disagreement,” said Bodenstein. “After eighteen years.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Marleen Ritter nodded with concern. “I don’t know exactly what happened. Thomas never says a bad word about Oma. I’m quite sure that everything will sort itself out once she hears that we’re married and expecting a baby.”

Pia was astounded at the naïve optimism of this woman. She doubted very much that Vera Kaltensee would ever take in the man whom she had chased from the estate in disgrace just because he had married her granddaughter. On the contrary.

*   *   *

Elard Kaltensee’s whole body was shaking as he drove his car toward Frankfurt. Could what he had just learned really be true? If so—what did they expect from him? What should he do? He kept having to wipe his sweaty hands on his pants because it was hard to hold on to the wheel. For a moment, he was tempted to ram the car straight into a concrete pillar and simply end it all. But the thought that he might survive as a cripple kept him from doing that. He felt in the center console for the little tin box, then recalled that two days ago, full of euphoria and good intentions, he had tossed it out the window. How could he have assumed that he’d suddenly be able to get along without lorazepam? His mental equilibrium had been shaky for months, but now he felt as if someone had pulled the ground out from under his feet. He didn’t know what he had hoped to learn in all those years of searching, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Good God in heaven,” he gasped with alarm as he fought against the conflicting emotions that, without the drug, were raging inside him. Everything was suddenly unbearably clear and painful to see. This was real life, and he didn’t know whether he could or even wanted to confront it. His body and his mind emphatically demanded the relaxing effect of the benzodiazepine. When he had promised himself to give it up, he hadn’t known what he knew now. His whole life, his whole existence, his identity were all a gigantic lie! But why? That was the question that kept hammering painfully in his head. Elard Kaltensee wished in despair that he had the courage to ask the right person about this. But the very thought of doing so filled him with a deep longing to run far away. For now, he could at least act as if he knew nothing.

Suddenly red brake lights went on in front of him, and he stomped so hard on the brake that the antilock braking system of his heavy Mercedes juddered. The driver behind him was honking wildly and veered off onto the shoulder just in time to avoid smashing into the trunk of his car. The fright snapped Elard Kaltensee out of it. No, he couldn’t live like this. Nor did he care if the whole world knew what a pathetic coward was hiding behind the smooth facade of the worldly-wise professor. He still had a prescription in his suitcase. One or two tablets with a couple of glasses of wine would make everything more bearable. After all, he hadn’t committed himself to taking any specific action. The best thing would be to pack a few things, drive straight to the airport, and fly to America. For a few days—no, even better, for a few weeks. Maybe even for good.

*   *   *

“Editor of a lifestyle magazine,” Pia repeated mockingly in the face of the ugly flat-roofed building in back of a furniture warehouse in the Fechenheim industrial area. She and Bodenstein climbed up the dirty stairs to the top floor, where Thomas Ritter had his office. It was clear that Marleen Ritter had never visited her husband here, because even at the door of what he’d euphemistically called the “editorial office,” she would have had her doubts. Emblazoned on the cheap glass door covered with greasy fingerprints was a trendy multicolored sign that said
WEEKEND.
The reception area consisted of a desk mostly taken up by a telephone system and a huge old-fashioned computer monitor.

“May I help you?” The receptionist of
Weekend
looked like she’d once posed for the cover of the magazine. But even her makeup couldn’t hide the fact that it must have been quite a while ago. About thirty years.

“Criminal Police,” said Pia. “Where can we find Thomas Ritter?”

“Last office on the left. Shall I tell him you’re here?”

“Not necessary.” Bodenstein gave the woman a friendly smile. The walls of the corridor were plastered with framed covers of
Weekend.
The bare facts were presented by various girls who all had one thing in common: cup size at least double D. The last door on the left was closed. Pia knocked and went in. Ritter obviously found it embarrassing to have Bodenstein and Kirchhoff encounter him in this setting. His classic luxury apartment building in the Westend was worlds apart from this cramped, stuffy office with porno photos on the walls. And there were also worlds between the ordinary-looking wife who was expecting his child and the woman standing next to him who had left her bloodred lipstick all over his mouth. Everything about her was stylish and expensive-looking, from her clothes to her jewelry and shoes to her hairdo.

“Call me,” she said, grabbing her purse. She gave Bodenstein and Kirchhoff a brief, disinterested look, then rushed out.

“Your boss?” Pia asked. Ritter leaned his elbows on the desk and ran all ten fingers through his hair. He seemed exhausted and years older, matching the dreary appearance of his surroundings.

“No. What do you want now? And how did you know that I was here?” He reached for his cigarettes and lit one.

“Your wife was kind enough to give us the address of the
editorial office.
” Ritter didn’t react to Pia’s sarcasm.

“You’ve got lipstick on your face,” she added. “If your wife ever sees you like that, she might draw the wrong conclusions.”

Ritter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He hesitated a moment with his reply, but then he made a resigned gesture.

“She’s an acquaintance,” he said. “I still owe her money.”

“Does your wife know about her?” Pia asked.

Ritter stared at her, almost defiant. “No. And she never will.” He took a drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out through his nose. “I’ve got a lot to do. What do you want? I’ve already told you everything.”