Time Heals No Wounds (15 page)

“Are . . . are you saying that your daughter was being harassed by Nazis? Has . . . was she threatened?”

Merlin watched him intently.

“You know, this is . . . well, hard to understand. You have to tell me. I know nothing about art and don’t know how to interpret this. Who threatened or harassed your daughter?”

Merlin waved him off. Then he walked over to a table and picked up a sketchbook, like the one Hannes had had in school. He drew a face in pencil and held the pad up for Hannes to see. Again Hannes was overwhelmed by the man’s skill. In just a minute, he had created an instantly recognizable portrait.

“That’s your son! What about him? Talk to me! What are you trying to tell me?”

Merlin shrugged and started drawing again. When he was done, he laid the pad and pencil down on the table and turned to face Hannes. He stood so close that Hannes detected a sour smell in addition to a whiff of vodka. Merlin looked him straight in the eye and nodded without breaking eye contact. Then he turned and left the room. Hannes heard his footsteps in the hall, then the sound of a door, and finally the turning of a key. Apparently, the visit was over.

Hannes looked at the sketchbook and recoiled. Christian Ternheim had been transformed into an angel of death swinging his scythe at him with a diabolical grin.

He was surprised that he had not thought of it sooner. He had already encountered pictures of forearms tattooed with numbers in his history classes. But it was Merlin’s portrait of Helene Ternheim surrounded by Nazis that awoke this memory in him.

He was so lost in thought that he nearly collided with an oncoming vehicle just as he was about to turn back onto the main road. After some frantic braking and turning, the car came to a stop only inches from the lighthouse.

After two deep breaths, Hannes glanced at the frightened driver, then got out of his car and walked over to the metallic-green vehicle. He signaled the driver to roll down the window.

“We were lucky,” the man said and looked over at the police car.

“May I ask where you’re headed?” Hannes said as he leaned on the door frame.

“Certainly,” the man said in a falsetto voice. “I’m on my way to my best horse in the stable, so to speak. My cash cow.” He chuckled, opened the door, and got out. He was short and only came up to Hannes’s chest. He had thinning black hair and a scraggly ponytail. “Louis Laval,” he said in a pompous French accent. “I’m an art agent and represent that veritable genius who’s retreated into this desert.”

“If by ‘genius,’ you mean the old man who manages to make hell look like paradise compared to his paintings, then you’re right,” said Hannes.

Laval laughed. “Yes, his pictures are certainly one of a kind, no? But I’ll tell you what: Merlin’s hugely sought after by collectors. He has a real fan base that eagerly awaits his new work. I just came back from the US and the Americans are crazy about him. Unfortunately, he’s so shy I can’t take him to exhibitions. That’s too bad! It would double the price of admission.”

“So there are actually people who hang his pictures in their homes?” Hannes asked.

“You better believe it! Let me tell you, there’s never been anything like his style of painting. Try to describe it. Expressionist? Maybe in part! But you can also find features of naturalism and realism—that is to say, the total opposite of expressionism. You will also find sporadic elements of impressionism and other styles. He cannot be lumped into any one category and has his own inimitable style.”

“I see. Do you have a few of his masterpieces?”

“That would be a tremendous waste. All of his paintings have gone for tons of money!”

“You wouldn’t know it by the way he lives,” Hannes said.

“Don’t be fooled. His eremitic lifestyle is self-imposed. Money’s not important to him, especially since he was financially secure before his time as an artist. He used to lead a pharmaceutical company and—”

“So a little money comes your way since it isn’t important to him?”

“I’m not driven by the money! I discovered Merlin years ago by accident. And it wasn’t easy to get him to share his paintings with the world. It would have been a crime against art to keep these masterpieces hidden. I saw his first paintings in a newspaper column entitled ‘What’s So-and-So Up to These Days.’ There were only two fuzzy black-and-white images, but I knew right away I had a mission to fulfill. And it was not easy. Since he doesn’t talk, I had to negotiate with his two children. They wanted to keep his paintings from going public. But I prevailed! His son was furious. Since then, Merlin has been a fixture in the art world.”

“Why does he call himself Merlin?”

“That was my idea!” said the little man, who was becoming more and more unlikable. “Great, no? I thought the artist who painted these extraordinary pictures needed a mystical name. His son didn’t like that, but our contract expressly acknowledged my right to choose an artist’s name for his father. Ultimately, his son was probably glad the images were not sold under his real name.”

“So what do you want from your cash cow today?” Hannes asked. He could not share the man’s enthusiasm; Merlin was hardly a fitting name for the old artist. Sure, his paintings were special and mysterious, but Hannes had always associated the legendary Merlin with a bright, cheerful figure and not a creator of hellish agony. Whatever the outcome of the investigation, one thing was already clear: the positive image of the magician Merlin had lost its innocence for him, and this strange excuse for an agent was the one to blame.

“What do I want with him? Well, to pick up the goods! I’ve already sold six paintings, and the buyer hasn’t even seen them.”

Hannes shook his head in disbelief. The world was certainly a colorful place. “You should be careful. He’s a little upset.”

Laval chuckled. “Don’t worry, I can handle him. I’ve been dealing with him for years.”

“Well, that may be so. But now the circumstances are a little different.”

“How so? Did something happen to him? Tell me!”

“Haven’t you checked the paper today or listened to the radio?”

“No! I came straight from the airport. What’s wrong?”

“Mr. Ternheim, or Merlin, found his daughter dead on the beach last Sunday.”

Laval froze. He stared at Hannes, his mouth open. “That . . . that can’t be!” He shook his head.

“When did you last see his daughter?”

“Nine years ago on the day the contract was signed. That was also the last time I met her brother. I have regularly heard from him in the meantime, only because he has done everything possible to void the contract. But our exclusive deal is valid for another six months. After that I’ll probably have to deal with his son somehow. My God, his daughter, how awful! I hope it has not upset Merlin so much that he can no longer paint?”

“Don’t worry, I have a feeling his talent hasn’t suffered. I’ve got to go now. Do you have a business card in the event that I need to contact you?”

Laval took a gold-colored card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Hannes. It had an ornate “L” to the left of his first name that extended downward to incorporate his last name. His address and phone number were diagonally opposite his name.

“Tell me something, is that your real name or have you also adopted an artist’s name?”

“In the art world, you need a name that has a ring to it, even better if it has a French touch. My actual name is Ludwig Lachmann. I kept my initials.”

Hannes smiled. “Do you know why Mr. Ternheim doesn’t speak?”

Laval shrugged. “No idea. Ever since I’ve known him, he hasn’t said a word. But every artist has some kind of quirk. Whenever I come here, he leaves me the finished paintings and disappears into the forest. I once asked his children about his silence, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“How long were you in the US?”

“Two weeks. I organized an exhibition tour in ten cities. It was hard work!”

Hannes quickly said good-bye and waited until Laval had turned off the main road. He glanced at his cell phone and discovered that he’d missed five calls from Fritz in the past few minutes.

T
HURSDAY
A
FTERNOON

Fritz was back on the case. He limped to his car after leaving the doctor’s office with painkillers. He took a water bottle from his glove compartment and washed down two small pills. While waiting for the pain in his back to die down, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to a melody from the radio, lost in thought.

So there actually was a connection between Schneider and Ms. Ternheim. It was his only viable lead, but how was he supposed to track Schneider down in this sprawling city if he hadn’t already taken off? When Fritz’s back pain had finally grown tolerable, he decided to head to the outskirts of town. He had to pick up Schneider’s trail somewhere, maybe starting with his home.

Just as he was about to squeeze his Jeep into a parking space along the wall surrounding the mansion, the driveway gate slid open. A red Mini waited to pull out. Fritz shifted forward. The driver waved for him to move over as he stationed his Jeep in front of the driveway. Fritz shut off the engine and awkwardly got out of the car. As he approached the Mini, a window came down and a perfumed cloud of smoke blew in his direction.

“Can’t you see that I’m trying to leave?” an outraged Mrs. Schneider screamed. “Who do you think you . . . Oh.”

“Hello, Mrs. Schneider. Sorry to keep you. May I have a word with you?”

Mrs. Schneider glanced at her gold watch. “Is this going to take long? I have a tennis lesson in twenty minutes.”

“We’re still looking for your husband. Has he been home since we last met? Why hasn’t he contacted us?”

“No, he hasn’t been home,” she said and took a nervous puff of her cigarette.

“Oh? He was away last night? Where is he now?”

“I have no idea.”

“So he wasn’t at your party last night?”

“No, and I haven’t heard from him either. Why don’t you call him if you want to speak to him so badly?”

“I’d love to, but unfortunately his office is still closed, and I forgot to ask you for his cell phone number yesterday.”

“Let me give it to you. Hold on.”

She wrote the number down, and Fritz cleared his throat. “You know, I’m a little surprised. Your husband hasn’t been home for more than a day, his business is closed, and you haven’t heard from him, yet you’re headed to your tennis lesson rather than reporting him missing?”

Mrs. Schneider held out the piece of paper; her hand trembled a little. “My husband and I have a modern relationship. It’s not unusual for him to have some important business matter he has to attend to and be unreachable for a while. The police would have their work cut out for them if I got worried every time this happened.”

Fritz recognized the nervousness in her eyes, a look that did not match the sharp tone of her voice. A clear sign of a lie. He had seen this look hundreds of times.

“Well, that’s the downside to modern relationships,” he said, pretending to be sympathetic. He stuffed the paper with the phone number in his pocket. “Should you see your husband again soon, please remember to tell him he should contact us. But I don’t want to keep you any longer from your tennis lesson. Have fun and enjoy the rest of your day!”

With that, he went back to his car and reversed a few feet into a parking spot. The red Mini turned onto the empty street and disappeared behind a curve. Fritz pulled out the piece of paper with Schneider’s number and typed it into his phone. Moments later, Schneider answered.

“Thanks for calling Schneider Real Estate. Unfortunately I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave me a message after the tone . . .”

Fritz considered leaving a message but hung up and called an old colleague at the station instead.

“Marko, it’s Fritz. I just got the cell phone number for the only suspect we have in the Helene Ternheim case. Could you get a court order to tap his line? It’s very urgent.”

After providing the details, Fritz pushed his seat back as far as it would go. With a sigh of relief, he reclined and waited for his colleague to get back to him. He couldn’t do much more at the moment. He tried to reach Mr. Schneider every few minutes, but all he got was his voice mail.

Fritz was startled by the sound of B
eethoven’s Ninth Symphony. His phone was ringing. He slapped his cheek and looked at the dashboard clock. Almost an hour had passed! Although he had not seen his colleagues responsible for monitoring the house, he doubted they had missed his nap. There was a good chance there would be a new story about Old Fritz making the rounds at the station.

“Fritz Janssen,” he said into the phone.

“It’s Marko. We got the judge’s permission. But between you and me, since we knew the judge would grant us permission anyway, we got started a little early.”

Fritz hummed in satisfaction. He could always rely on Marko.

“Unfortunately, the phone’s turned off, so we couldn’t listen in or locate its position.”

“Okay. Just keep at it and let me know as soon as you have something.”

Fritz sank back into the seat and wondered if there was anything useful he could be doing. But his doctor had failed to inform him of the painkiller’s drowsy effect. Half an hour later, another phone call woke him.

“Marko again. Mr. Schneider’s phone has just been switched on. He called a landline belonging to a Leonie Kustermann.”

“That’s his assistant! What did he say?”

“That he’s leaving in twenty minutes and they’ll meet at three o’clock as they’d agreed. He reminded her to bring the documents and to be sure no one followed her. She answered ‘Got it’ and then the call ended. After that, he immediately turned off the phone again.”

“Did he indicate where he was or where they were supposed to meet?”

“No. They probably discussed that before. But I can tell you his approximate location. Each cell phone tower represents a defined cell or area of coverage, and we determined the position of the tower he used to connect to the network. Using the signal’s strength and reception angle, we were able to limit the area even further. He’s currently in the southern outskirts of town, somewhere near the former container terminal where the new residential development is being built. Unfortunately, only a few towers have been installed there, so we’re unable to isolate his whereabouts any further.”

Fritz started the engine. “I’m headed there now. He’s leaving in twenty minutes, you said?”

“Exactly, only now he’s leaving in fifteen minutes. Should we send backup? There may be some officers already in the area who can get there quicker.”

Fritz bolted from the parking spot. “Just let me know if Schneider switches his phone back on!”

He placed his flashing police light on the roof and raced along the quiet residential street. He called Hannes and cursed when he only got his voice mail. He drove through the city at breakneck speed, trying every minute to get ahold of Hannes until he finally reached him.

“Man, Hannes!” Fritz yelled. “What are you doing?”

“I was just—”

“You can tell me later! Where are you right now?”

“At the old lighthouse near old Ternh—”

“Get back to the city as soon as possible! Drive to the home of Schneider’s assistant, Leonie Kustermann! Twenty Post Street! Understand?”

“Yes, but what—”

“Don’t ask, just drive! And hurry, damn it! She’s supposed to meet Mr. Schneider at three o’clock.”

“How do you know?”

“Quit asking questions and get moving! I’ll explain later. I have an idea where he’s been hiding, but he’s leaving in a few minutes to meet his assistant, and I have no idea if I’ll be able to catch him in time. So follow his assistant, but be careful she doesn’t notice you! Schneider warned her she might be followed. Got that?”

“Sure thing, I—”

Fritz hung up.

Hannes realized Fritz had already hung up and quickly started the patrol car. Fingers trembling, he tapped the destination address into his GPS and raced toward the city.

Since Hannes had no idea what kind of car Ms. Kustermann drove or if she would need it to get to the meeting place, he realized he would have to catch her as she left her home. He also had no idea what she looked like and hoped she would walk, because he didn’t see how he could tail her in his blue-and-white police car without being noticed. Unsure what to do, he pulled into an open parking spot, which was fortunately obscured by a van but still allowed a reasonably clear view of the front door of her building.

Hannes turned down the radio. He couldn’t just follow the first woman who left the apartment building. Since Fritz wasn’t picking up his phone anymore, he couldn’t ask him for advice either. Hannes hoped the unknown meeting place was closer to Ms. Kustermann’s apartment than Schneider’s whereabouts. Otherwise, he had already missed her.

At that moment, a large garage door creaked open to the right of the building, and a silver Peugeot slowly pulled out. He leaned forward in excitement, but just as quickly relaxed when he realized the driver had gray hair. Nevertheless, seeing the car gave him an idea. His colleague Sven, who was also a competitive boxer, worked in the traffic division. Hopefully he was on duty today!

The switchboard put through his call, and Hannes’s hope waned after the eighth ring. Just as he was about to end the call, Sven picked up.

“Sven! I’m glad I caught you! It’s Hannes. Can you do me a big favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

“I’m supposed to shadow a suspect, but I have no idea what she looks like. I was hoping she’d use her car and that I could recognize her that way. Can you give me the license plate for a Leonie Kustermann who lives at 20 Post Street?”

“Um, yeah. Hold on.”

Hannes heard Sven put the phone down and did his best to stay patient.

After several minutes Sven said, “What’s the woman’s name again?”

“First name: Leonie. Last name: Kustermann. Her address is 20 Post Street.”

In the background, he heard the faint clicks of a keyboard. As Hannes looked at his watch, he groaned to himself. The real estate agent and his assistant were due to meet each other in less than ten minutes!

“Find anything? Man, I’m running out of time here,” he prodded Sven and prayed that Ms. Kustermann actually owned a car.

“Okay, here we go. Leonie Kustermann, 20 Post Street. It’s a blue 2006 Golf.” He gave him the license plate number. “Looks like she has quite the lead foot and has received several speeding tickets. She was also recently caught running a red light.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Not only was she caught, but she was photographed. It happened just a month ago.”

“Seriously? That’s awesome! What does she look like? Young? Old? Hair color?”

“It’s only a grainy black and white. She looks somewhat young, mid- to late twenties. She has long, light-colored hair. She also wears glasses and is smoking a cigarette in the photo.”

“Sven, you’re the greatest! I owe you a beer sometime, or a protein shake, if you’d prefer.”

“Beer’s fine with me,” said Sven with a laugh. “Good luck tracking her down!”

Hannes exhaled and took another look at his watch. Seven minutes left!

Then the garage door started up again. Maybe this was it.

Fritz had managed to track down Schneider. In addition to Marko’s help, fate had also smiled on him: Schneider’s black BMW 3 Series, which Fritz had recognized from the incident at the fishing harbor, had passed him in the opposite direction. Fritz had clearly spotted it on the bridge that led to the new housing development where the former container terminal once stood. But when he used the access road to a construction site to make a U-turn after the bridge, a truck rumbled up behind him and blocked the way back to the main road.

Fritz jumped out of his car, waving. He stormed over to the truck and yanked the driver’s door open.

“Move! I have to get back on the road,” he said.

Two bearded faces turned to him. “You want to see house? House not finished yet.”

“No!” shouted Fritz. “Road! I want to get onto the road!” He shoved his badge in the two construction workers’ faces, and their eyes widened.

“We done nothing! Have papers! Everything okay!”

Fritz stamped his feet. Luckily for him, another worker from the construction site wandered over.

“What’s going on?”

Fritz held out his badge. “These two idiots are blocking me! I’m chasing a suspect!”

The man quickly addressed the two men in Czech. With a deafening roar, the truck shifted into reverse and the driver backed it out into the street. A thankful Fritz patted the man on the shoulder and ran back to the Jeep. Gravel flew everywhere as he made a quick U-turn and sped off in the right direction.

Fortunately, this stretch of road wound its way through a desolate former port area. Fritz ignored the 35 mph speed limit as the quivering needle in the speedometer approached eighty-five. He couldn’t get much more out of his old car. A light flashed, and Fritz pulled his hair. A speed trap. Damn it.

A few minutes later, he entered an industrial zone, but Fritz reduced his speed only slightly. A truck exiting a refinery was just barely able to stop in time and slammed on its horn. Fritz dropped back down to 55 mph. At the first intersection, he made the spontaneous decision to continue following the main road because the other roads dead-ended at industrial facilities. Two minutes later, his suspicions were confirmed. Directly in front of him was a moss-green Toyota, but about two hundred yards ahead, he saw the black BMW convertible.

Hannes paid close attention to the garage door as it came up. He eagerly reached for the ignition in anticipation of a blue Golf. But instead of a car, a bicycle appeared. Discouraged, he pulled his hand away from the key. But the person pushing the bicycle caught his attention.

Female, since he could easily see her large breasts, probably in her late twenties, long light-blonde hair, a cigarette in her hand, and a bag slung over her shoulder. Yet she wasn’t wearing glasses. Hannes’s doubts vanished as the woman cautiously looked around. Maybe Ms. Kustermann only wore her glasses when driving. With only two minutes left, he had very little choice. Either he had missed Ms. Kustermann or she was leaving late. He preferred risking a mistake rather than sitting around doing nothing.