The Rendition (13 page)

By the time I returned to the living room, she was seated on the sofa, her briefcase open, her laptop on the coffee table, and papers spread out on the sofa and on the floor. She had a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She was wearing a white blouse and gray slacks and some kind of house slippers with fur on them. Colonel Frost had trim, nice looking ankles. She looked up from what she was reading and indicated I should sit down.

“We're going to be working together, Alex.”

“Couldn't you have mentioned that back in the States?”

“I thought you'd assume that. You didn't think you'd be totally on your own, did you?”

“I kind of thought Jerry Shenlee might be showing up at some point.” I recalled Jerry's and my last conversation. When I explicitly asked about control and contacts, he left the question unanswered.

“Jerry isn't perfect for this job,” Colonel Frost said.

“Why not? He's worked in Germany before. He knows his way around. I knew him in Berlin back in the eighties. We worked the La Belle disco investigation together.”

“Jerry doesn't like Germany. He doesn't get along with German people. He doesn't have your contacts.”

“And he doesn't like sauerkraut.”

“No, it's red cabbage he doesn't like.”

“I can see where that might be a problem.”

“Besides, he doesn't know the language.”

I knew Shenlee had been at the army language school in Monterey. “Sure he does. He just won't admit it.”

“Well, all right, but he's not as fluent as you are.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“We recognize your capabilities, Alex.”

“I'm glad to hear that too.”

She gazed up at me, her expression betraying nothing. “That's why we're going with you, not Jerry.”

“I still think I could have been more thoroughly briefed, ma'am.”

“Please, call me Sylvia. Like I said, we'll be working together. Is there anything else on your mind?”

I said, “I'm not sure about the living arrangements.”

She frowned. “What's wrong?”

“Maybe I should move into a hotel.” I didn't say that maybe Colonel Frost should move into a hotel. I was here first.

“There's room enough for us both. There are two bedrooms, two baths. I don't see where there's any kind of problem. Does having a female in your living space make you uncomfortable?”

I could have said that it depends on the female, but I had an idea she wouldn't take kindly to that answer either. Seeing her again, though, I couldn't help being impressed by her sexy good looks—particularly by her smooth pale skin and her wide round eyes. I made an effort not to steal a glance at her legs or to imagine moving my hand along the smoothness of her thighs. When I didn't respond, she said, “Or are you one of those delicate people who has to have their own undisturbed personal space?”

“I'm thinking of you. I snore.”

“I'll keep my door closed.”

“Very loudly, from what I've been told.”

“Who told you?”

“Quite a large number of people, now that I think of it.”

“I'm assuming they were female people. How many?”

“I don't keep track of those kinds of numbers.”

“Well, I'm glad of that. But I have to go back to my original statement. I think the living quarters are adequate, more than adequate. And because we'll be working together in this investigation, I think there's a decided advantage in our remaining together.” She paused. “I hope that settles that matter.” She paused again. “Where were you before?”

“I was on the job.”

“What were you doing?”

I told Sylvia about my meeting with Max Peters. I also mentioned the fact that Max, one of my best contacts in this country, didn't seem too eager to be of help.

“Why is that, do you think?”

“Offhand, I can think of three reasons. Germany and the United States aren't as friendly as they once were. This case is politically sensitive. Or maybe he's mad at me.”

“Does he have any reason to be mad at you?”

“Everyone seems to have a reason to be mad at me.”

“I wonder why.”

I figured that Max might be remembering Irmie, but I wasn't going to mention Irmie to Colonel Frost—or should I say Sylvia. I was still having difficulty calling my new roommate by her first name.

“Okay. Whatever problems develop, we'll try to work around them. Anything else?”

I said, “I'd like to have a look around inside Miss Vogt's place.” I told Sylvia how, when I made the suggestion, Max had vetoed the idea.

“Is it important?”

“It could be. I'll only know when I'm inside.”

“What would you expect to find?”

“Maybe some proof that Brinkman is innocent of the murder—that is, assuming he is innocent.”

Sylvia looked thoughtful. “Could we go in on our own? And if so, how would we do it?”

I paused, recalling the house and its layout. “It's an interesting challenge.”

“You don't sound all that confident.”

After a second, I said, “There are two glass doors leading off a veranda in the rear. The house is enclosed by hedges, so going in at the rear should mean we'll be out of sight of the neighbors' prying eyes. That's a plus.”

“But can you get over the hedges?”

Recalling the stretch of low fence between the two houses, I said, “I think so.”

“Alarm system?”

“Always a possibility.”

“There could be some very unpleasant consequences if this doesn't work out.”

“In that case, we'll have to make sure that it does work out.”

“I don't think that—”

“Are you always so negative?”

Having read through my file, Sylvia was no doubt familiar with the numerous black bag operations I'd carried out over the years. She gave me a searching look. “I'm assuming you're still good at this sort of stuff.”

“Isn't that why you got me over here? Because I'm good at this sort of stuff?”

Sylvia hesitated, then nodded. “That's one of the reasons.”

“What are the other reasons?”

Ignoring my question, she said, “If you think you can handle it, I'll take your word for it.”

“There's only one way to find out.”

She nodded, then checked her watch. “We go at eleven o'clock. People will be falling asleep by then.”

I reached for my jacket. When she asked where I was going, I told her the local hardware store. I had my lock picks in my luggage. But I was going to need a glasscutter, rubber gloves, a jimmy and some rope. And some plastic bags.

Dressed in black and wearing running shoes, I was standing in the pitch-dark garden behind the home of the late Ursula Vogt. I'd been able to get this far by entering onto the property of the next-door neighbor, the loquacious Herr Thiemann. Going over the five-foot-high metal fence had required about twenty seconds. The problem now was to gain entry to the house itself. I had a number of choices, all of which looked extremely uninviting. I had already decided against going in through the glass doors. Whispering, I got Sylvia on my cell phone. “All systems go.”

“Quiet on this end.” Sylvia was in the BMW, parked on the next street. In this area of the city, we figured the police, if they showed, would most likely have to approach from the Verdistrasse, which was the neighborhood's main drag, and would have to go by the point where Sylvia was parked.

Although the two glass doors on the veranda looked easiest, I couldn't see beyond the heavy curtains drawn across them, and decided they might be alarmed. A better choice would be an upstairs window. I tossed the rope over the branch of an oak tree adjacent to the house, used it to haul myself up the trunk, which brought me within precarious reach of a second-story dormer window. Unfastening the rope from the tree branch, I looped it around the chimney, then wound it around my waist and drew it tight. With the rope secure, I was able to balance myself on angled eaves on the side wall. I needed to cut a hole through two panes of window glass, not an easy feat. Aware that a false move here could lead to a severed vein or artery, I again tested the
rope and made sure of my footing. Looking around, I decided no one could see me. The loudest sound was my own breathing.

Holding tight to the rope, I began to cut the glass very, very slowly, making sure, as I worked, that the opening was wide enough for my arm. When I'd traced a sufficiently large circle, I had no choice but to punch the glass inward and let it fall between the two windowpanes. Cutting the second pane was trickier. When I pushed it, I did so very gently, hoping that it wouldn't break. The sound of breaking glass is something that we second-story men take great pains to avoid. Fortunately, it fell with a soft thud against the windowsill. It was the kind of tilt window common in Europe. Reaching inside, I eased the handle up to horizontal and very carefully withdrew my arm, first through the inner and then the outer pane. The window swung outward. I didn't like the idea of leaving the rope, but there was no way to get it down from around the chimney without climbing onto the roof, and I couldn't see myself doing that at this moment. Maybe later. I swung myself over the window ledge and dropped silently inside.

After a brief look around and making sure no one was in the house, I called Sylvia. “I'm inside.”

“Very good. No problems?”

“I didn't realize I was so good at this stuff. I may have missed my calling.”

“What do you see?”

“A corridor. Bedrooms. It's a nice place she had. Looks like an antique mahogany chest on the landing. Persian rugs. I'd like to have this rug in my own place.”

“Stop admiring the furniture.”

“I didn't know newspaper reporters were so well paid.”

“They're not. Pay attention. Do you see anything that looks like an office?”

After opening some doors, I said, “Negative.”

“Still quiet out here. Keep looking.”

“Yes, dear.”

I peeked into the bedroom where Ursula Vogt's body had been found. The bed was a mess, although someone seemed to have changed
the sheets. There was some blood on the rug. The Munich police needed a lesson in neatness.

Using my pencil flash, I went down the staircase. When you're in, the next thing to figure is how you'll get out. On the ground floor, I carefully examined the doors to the veranda looking for an alarm and saw an unobtrusive electrical contact. I opened the lock, but kept the door closed. Looking around, I found the living room, dining room, kitchen—but nothing that looked like an office. Leading from the kitchen was a stairway to the basement.

Downstairs, just beyond the gas furnace, I found a room with a desk, a computer, a bed, and some metal filing cabinets. More mess.

The cops, or someone, had been through the files. Papers were strewn all over, on the desktop, on the chair, on the floor. Old copies of
Welt-Bericht
were piled on the floor. On the wall was a map—Uzbekistan, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran. In the drawers of the room's one desk were some folders jammed with paper, old newspaper and magazine clippings mostly, but nothing that looked too interesting. I tossed a few of them into the black plastic bag anyway. Otherwise, there didn't seem to be anything that would be very helpful, certainly not the kind of thing I was hoping to find.

I was beginning to think that this expedition was turning out to be one large waste of time.

It's always darkest before the dawn. I decided to keep looking.

I went through the closet but couldn't find anything but clothes. There were two banks of filing cabinets. Both were heavy, but I moved them anyway, thinking they might be concealing a compartment in the floor. They weren't.

Flat on my stomach, I crawled under the bed, ran my hand across the dusty floor but didn't feel anything. Pushing my way farther under, I could feel the molding at the base of the wall. There was a break in the molding, and when I got my fingers into the break, a two-foot long piece of the molding swung open. That was interesting. I shone the flash at the wall and saw a section of the paneling that was separate from the rest of the wall.

Getting back to my feet and brushing off the dust, I moved the bed.
It was a simple arrangement. I only had to slide the wall panel upward. A small compartment was situated inside the space in the wall. It was filled with all kinds of stuff that I assumed Ursula Vogt preferred the world, without her permission, didn't see.

There were neatly tied together notebooks, folders full of typed sheets. I jammed them into the plastic bag. Some boxes full of photographs looked interesting. I took them too. I found some folders full of computer disks, put them in.

Telephone!

“Alex! A police car just went by, moving fast, no lights. Get out. Move.”

I grabbed a last batch of papers, tossed in another folder, then went out of the office and up the stairs and through the dining room. It was good that I'd thought to unlock the veranda door. I dodged the veranda furniture and ran forty feet across the lawn and a flower bed to the six-foot fence. I'd just made it over when I heard voices from the street, no doubt the arriving cops. With my one escape route cut off, I moved farther back into the garden.

I recognized one voice—Thiemann, the neighbor, again being helpful. Now he was telling the cops he'd been on his back porch having a smoke when, through the basement window of the Vogt house, he saw a flashlight moving around in the Vogt place.

“My wife doesn't like it when I smoke in the house. She says I—”

“You sure it was a flashlight?” one of the policemen asked.

“At first I wasn't sure, so I waited. When I didn't see it anymore, I thought it must be my imagination. But then I saw it again.”