Where the Bones are Buried (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

Dinah put Jack to bed on the sofa, dimmed the lights, and after trying twice more without success to reach K.D., she went across the hall and caught Geert just as he was leaving for the club.

“I'm worried about K.D., Geert. Do you know where she is or who she might be with?”

“
Nein
. Before she went to sit with that tiger Lena, she danced with a regular at the Noise, a boy named Dolf. If they come tonight, I will knock heads and send her home.”

“Thanks, Geert.”

Feeling inadequate on a dozen different levels, she meandered through the apartment and back to the refrigerator. The
Kummerspeck
had zapped her again. Someone had wedged a new tub of chocolate ice cream in the freezer next to the icemaker. She scooped out a dishful and ate it standing up, elbows propped on the counter.

If Viktor had found documents that incriminated Farber, then Farber had as much motive to kill him as he had to kill Pohl. Baer said Viktor found the documents after her visit. Did he remove them from the files in Farber's desk? Oh, God. What if her snooping had gotten Viktor killed? Florian could have noticed them missing the night she broke in. Maybe he assumed Viktor had taken them and staged a break-in to cover his tracks. Hess said, “I'll take care of it,” and a few hours later Viktor was dead.

A discrepancy in one of the slides Farber had shown her grated on her. Something had registered subliminally, but what was it? Something out of place or incongruous. She flogged her memory. Maybe if she saw the pictures again, with all she had learned in the interim, the significance would sink in. Those photos had been made immediately before, or just after, Pohl's murder. Lohendorf had made copies and maybe Thor could finagle a way for her to look at them again.

Stuck here with a head full of guilt and unanswered questions was almost like being in prison. She couldn't stand it. She had to do something or she'd go stir crazy.

She went into the bedroom, switched on the overhead light, and pushed Margaret's eye mask off her face. “Margaret, wake up.”

She emitted a disgruntled snort and resumed snoring.

Dinah went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. When it had brewed, she poured a mugful and went back to the bedroom. “Margaret, wake up and drink this. I have to go out and I need you sober in case Jack wakes up and needs something.” She shook her shoulder and patted her cheeks.

One bloodshot eye bobbed open like a red jellyfish. She lifted the other eyelid with one finger. She seemed to be goggling at Dinah from twenty leagues under. Gradually, she focused. “What time is it?”

“Elevenish.”

“Where's Thor?”

“At the Embassy. Working.”

“While you stay home with his kid?” She blew a raspberry. “If this is how it's going to be, I'd make damn sure I got a marriage license and a joint bank account out of the deal.”

“Come on, Margaret. Jack's asleep on the sofa. He won't be any trouble.”

She pushed herself into a sitting position. “The last time Jack and I talked, he asked me what it felt like to shoot a man.”

“What did you say?”

“If you shoot the
right
man, it's very satisfying.”

“Margaret, please tell me you're joking.”

“I'm joking.”

Dinah handed her the mug of coffee and went to see if she could find Farber's home phone number. Calling him at this hour was a little over-the-top, but maybe he was a night owl. A lot of thieves and smugglers were. And if he'd heard that his partner Hess had been nabbed, he'd be wide awake and worrying. They were equally strong candidates for the murder, or murders. She didn't intend to accuse either one of them or mention Viktor's letter. But if she could persuade Farber to meet her in a public place and show her those photos again, she felt sure she would have her answer.

She needed a decoy. Somebody who was at the powwow. Somebody whose picture was in the slideshow, but that Farber didn't care about. The schnapps guy. What was his name? It would come to her. She fished out a business card for the gallery with three contact numbers. She dialed the last one first, assuming it was the number of last resort.

A hoarse voice growled in her ear.

“Is this Florian Farber?”

“Who is this?”

“It's Dinah Pelerin, Herr Farber. I apologize for calling so late, but I've figured out who murdered Alwin Pohl.”

“Amsel told me the police believe it was Viktor. He killed Alwin, then himself.”

“The police are wrong.”

“Viktor is dead and the business is over.”

He sounded as if he were about to hang up. She revised her plan. “The murderer is a member of
der Indianer
club. Show me those pictures again and I can prove it.”

There was a sharp intake of breath followed by dead silence.

“Herr Farber?”

“Who? Who did it?”

“Burning Torch.”

“Luther?”

“That's him. Luther Wurttemberg.”

“But why? How do you know this?”

“I'll have to show you. I have to see the pictures. I'm sure you want to put this nightmare behind you as quickly as possible. Can you meet me tonight?”

There was a pause during which she could almost hear the cogs in his brain spin and whir.

She threw in a sweetener. “And if you will show me the certificate of authenticity and the price, I know a collector who may be interested in the
katsinam
mask.”

“All right. I will meet you in the gallery in a half-hour.”

“The FBI Bar on Augsburger Strasse would be more convenient.”

“Very well. I will see you there.”

The FBI bar would be packed on a Saturday night, but in an excess of caution, she tucked the Smith & Wesson into her purse on the way out the door.

The sunny afternoon had turned into a cool, drizzly night. The humid cold seeped through her raincoat and raised goose bumps on her skin. She opened the garage and hoped that the Golf would start. It hadn't been driven since Pohl rammed it into the bridge. She needn't have worried. The engine started without a hitch. While it warmed up, she reevaluated her plan. The worst thing would be a failure to see the photos again and leave without a clue. She didn't think that would happen. She buckled up, backed out into the street, and got rolling.

The car pulled stubbornly to the right as she tooled along Lietzenburger Strasse. The crash had obviously buggered the alignment. The rational, cautious part of her brain also pulled slightly to the right. At every cross street, a still small voice told her to turn right, back off, go home and wait. But curiosity trumped caution and she had too much momentum to stop.

She parked in an alley three blocks from the FBI bar and walked. There were lots of people milling about, lots of potential rescuers should the need arise. Yellow crime tape decorated the window of the FBI, whose logo featured the barrel of a gun extending from the top of the letter “I.” She opened the door and looked around for Farber. All of the tables were full and a double row of people clustered around the bar, but she spotted a free stool at the far end facing the door and claimed it.

Everybody was laughing and talking and the noise made it hard to hear.

A busy bartender leaned across the bar and placed a napkin in front of her. “
Was haben sie
?”

She ordered a vodka martini with a twist and checked her watch. Waiting brought out the bugaboos in her imagination. Had Farber agreed too easily to this get-together? Would he come alone? Had he sent someone ahead to watch her? Every minute that passed amped up the tension. Maybe this was God's way of telling her to get while the getting was good. She stripped off her raincoat and pulled out her mobile to see if Thor had called. He hadn't.

She munched a handful of salted peanuts and sized up the other patrons. Most were male-female couples. There were two tables with only men, but she was pretty sure that one pair was gay. Two plausibly straight guys in business suits sat across from one another in the corner. One of them looked up and caught her staring. He gave a little nod of invitation and she turned away, embarrassed.

The martini came, but she was afraid to drink it. She needed her wits about her. Well, one sip to wash down the peanuts.

And then he walked in the door. He wore a fedora and carried a small briefcase. His eyes didn't so much survey the room as strafe it. She took another sip of the martini and held up a hand. He saw her and threaded his way through the crowd to the end of the bar.

He said, “This place is too crowded. There are no tables and no room to open the laptop on the bar. We must go to another place. My car is outside.”

She jerked her head toward the table in the corner and improvised. “My boyfriend came with me. He's having a drink with a friend while we talk. Here, you sit and I'll look over your shoulder.”

He shot a suspicious glance at the alleged boyfriend.

“Let me hold your hat,” she said.

He took it off and handed it to her, then took the computer out of the case and sat down. The case was in the way and Dinah stuck it under her arm. Farber moved her drink out of the way and opened the laptop on the bar. “This is preposterous.”

She smiled. “It won't take long.”

He waved off the bartender, moved her martini still farther out of his way, and started the show. “Ask what you will.”

The first picture was of Viktor. It was hard to look at his earnest face as he stood beside the bonfire, hard to look at Lena, too. She wore a cheeky smile, unaware in that frame that her life was about to change, or already had.

Farber clicked on the next picture. “There is Hans Oostrum and Luther. What has made you suspect Luther?”

“Hang on. Tell me again the items he brought to the powwow.”

“The grill and the lanterns.”

“It's a large grill. How did he get it up the hill?”

“Hans has a
transportwagen
.”

“A dolly?”

“Yes. It rolls. He also rolled the keg up.”

Next up was a picture of Stefan Amsel in his porcupine roach.

“What was Herr Amsel doing in this picture?”

“He is trying to set up a folding table for the food, but he is already drunk.”

Or pretending to be, she thought. She took another sip of her martini. None of this paraphernalia rang any bells or suggested any bright new ideas.

“What about Baer Eichen?” she asked. He stood apart from the others, his avant-garde glasses at odds with his red-fringed ghost shirt and rows of beads.

“As you will see in several of the photos, Baer helped with every chore as needed. He was friendliest with Viktor, always. They arrived together. Viktor carried the glow logs, Lena carried his drum, and Baer carried the cooler with the sausages and the box with the cups and plates.”

She studied the slides one by one as they flashed by.

The door opened, letting in a surge of wet, cold air. She shivered and set the martini back on the bar.

Farber frowned and moved it safely away from the computer. “Is that all you wish to see?”

“Did no one offer to take a picture of you, Herr Farber?”

He gave her a scathing look, but called up two photos from a different file she hadn't seen before. One of them showed Farber assisting Hans Oostrum into the eagle-feather war bonnet. In the other, he was feeding chips into the grill.

“I thought it was the photos of Luther that interested you.”

“Yes. They did interest me. Thank you.” She had seen what it was that bothered her. She handed Farber back his hat and his laptop case and scrapped her previous assumptions. The pictures didn't prove anything, of course. But she knew in her heart who had killed Pohl and her instinct told her that the reasons were more convoluted than she'd thought.

The guy she'd said was her boyfriend brushed past on his way out the door. Farber gave him a quizzical look. “Your friend is leaving.”

“Me, too.” She took a last quick sip of the martini and burrowed into her coat.

“Don't you want to see the certificate of authenticity of the
katsinam
?”

“Some other time.” She didn't bother to say thanks or good-bye. She left him holding the tab for the martini and hoofed it.

Chapter Thirty-four

Could there be an alternative explanation for the change of costume on such a chilly night? If she could talk with Thor, he'd help her to work out the sense of it. Maybe what he'd learned from Lohendorf tonight would help to clarify things.

The drizzle had turned to rain. The Golf's wipers were beating like a funeral drum and condensation on the inside of the windshield made it hard to see. She futzed with the climate control and wiped the glass directly in front of her with a tissue.

At a red light, she pulled out her phone to check her voicemail, but before she could peck in her password, the light changed and the driver in the car behind laid on his horn. Why hadn't Thor called? Either he was buying Lohendorf a lot of beers or he had news that he was in no hurry to relay. News that the IRS had picked out the penitentiary where she would be doing time. News that Hess had plopped her mother back in the soup.

She tossed the phone into the passenger seat and drove on, exhausted and strangely queasy. One in the morning. Was she reading the time right? She would have to file a missing person report if K.D. hadn't skylarked home by now. More hassle. More conflict. More distraction. No wonder she couldn't penetrate the fog.

Fingers of bright light fell across the wet street like pick-up sticks. She felt dizzy. Those few sips of vodka had hit her like a bus. She slowed and moved into the right lane. Too far. The Golf's right front tire sideswiped the curb. She jerked the wheel left. Horns blared and shrieked.

Sweet Jesus!

Everything looked smeared and filmy, but she couldn't stop in the middle of the street. Traffic zoomed past on both sides. She had to stay in the flow. She was almost home. Had to turn soon. Had to get into the left lane. She strained her eyes. Was this her street? The yellow light ahead had a bleary halo. She accelerated and swerved left. Things were just coming into focus when a swell of nausea rolled over her. She clapped a hand to her mouth, lost control, and the Golf jumped the curb. The seatbelt grabbed and she barely got it off in time.

She opened the door, leaned out, and retched. She was sick for a long time. When she was done, she lay her head back against the headrest and drifted away into the darkness.

***

Somebody opened the car door and tapped her cheeks. “Dinah, are you hurt?”

“Thor.”

“Is anything broken? Can you stand up?”

“Mm. Little wobbly.”

He helped her out of the car and she realized that she had actually made it all the way to Niederwallstrasse. The car sat jacked at an angle within sight of her lavender garage, its right front tire flatted on top of the curb and its emergency lights blinking.

“Can you walk?”

“Since I was two.”

“Good. Then let's walk.” He put his arm under hers and semi-carried, semi-dragged her. “What happened?”

“Not sure.”

“Did somebody try to run you off the road again?”

“No. I felt sick and blacked out. I still feel a little woozy, but I think I'm okay.” That martini had really walloped her. Was it possible that Farber had slipped her a Mickey? Or one of those date rape drugs? She normally had a good head for spirits and she certainly hadn't drunk enough to make her sick. “What time's it?”

“A little after one.”

“Then I wasn't out long.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“Say something that persuades me not to take you straight to the hospital.”

“I think I'm okay, Thor. Really.”

“Did you have too much to drink? Are you lit?”

“If I'm lit, I didn't do the lighting. Somebody served me a bad martini.” She balked. “I forgot my phone and my purse in the car.”

“I'll get them when I go back to move the car.”

“Better do it now. The Smith & Wesson's in my purse.”

She felt the muscles in his arm knot and braced herself for a bawling out, but he curbed it and they turned back. He propped her against the street sign and reached inside the car for the phone and purse. He put the phone in his pocket, slung the purse over one shoulder, hooked one of her arms around his neck, and continued walking her toward the apartment.

He said, “Talk to me.”

“I'm too tired. You talk to me. How did you find me?”

“I was turning the corner on my way home and saw the car half-blocking the street. You scared me.”

“I scared myself. Note to self. Never drive after a martini.”

“Did anyone I know happen to share this martini with you?”

“I'll tell you the whole story in the morning. Right now, we have to find K.D. If she's not back, will you call Geert at the club to see if she's there?”

“She's probably asleep in the sleeping bag.” He opened the security door and helped her up the stairs to the apartment.

Jack hadn't budged from his berth on the sofa. Margaret sat in the armchair in the corner. She looked up from a book as they came in. “One of you will want to go get K.D. She was picked up a few hours ago along with a group of animal rights protesters and thrown in the pokey for trying to liberate a bear from a bear pit in Köllnischer Park.”

Dinah's capacity for surprises had maxed out. “A live bear?”

Thor looked as close to exasperation as Dinah had ever seen him. “I'll take care of K.D.” He went over to the cuckoo and toggled a switch on the underside of the house. “No more noise from that squawker. Drink some water and rest. Keep an eye on her, Margaret. Use your judgment. If she gets sick again or starts to sound delirious, call an ambulance.”

“Will do.” Margaret handed him a piece of paper. “Here's the address of the jail.”

“I'd better hurry before streets start being closed off for the start of the marathon.” He gave Dinah a last, concerned look, set her purse down on the foyer table, and left.

“You don't look sick to me.” Margaret felt her forehead. “You don't have a fever and your color's good.”

“I feel much better. I think the man I went to meet drugged me, but I got it out of my system. I'm going to wash my face and brush my teeth and zonk out for a few hours. I'll need all my powers to deal with K.D. in the morning.”

“You can have the bed, Dinah. I've slept on the floor before. I'll be fine.”

“Thanks, Margaret, but I'd rather be with Thor.”

“So would I, but I don't think he'd enjoy himself as much as I would.”

Dinah laughed and headed off to the bathroom. When she came out, she felt revived. Whatever Farber had put in her drink must have metabolized quickly. She couldn't think why he would have drugged her, especially if he thought that her boyfriend was only a few feet away. Had he meant to kill her, but she hadn't drunk enough of the cocktail? He surely must know that she had already shared her suspicions about his gallery with the police, so what was the point?

And bears? Bears. Weary as she was, her brain wouldn't shut down and now, incredibly, she felt ravenous. She went to the kitchen to forage for a snack.

Margaret sat at the table with her book and a bowl of leftover Stroganoff.

“You'd better not eat that, Margaret. In retrospect, maybe it was the beef that made me sick.”

“I'll chance it. It's delicious. You're a pretty good cook.”

“I like to cook when I have time.” She took a wedge of Cambozola out of the fridge and warmed it in the microwave. “Since I quit smoking, I'm hungry all the time, especially these last few days. It's the stress. Geert calls it
Kummerspeck
. The literal translation is grief bacon.”

Margaret stuck a forkful of Stroganoff into her mouth and gave her a speculative once-over. “When was the last time you had a visit from your Aunt Flo?”

“What?”

“The curse, honey. When was your last period?”

Dinah's thoughts unspooled. Dear God, had the patch failed? It was beyond comprehension. She grabbed the calendar off the wall, dropped into a chair, and did her best to deny the evidence in front of her eyes. “How could this have happened?”

“In the usual way, I suspect.” The microwave beeped and Margaret took out the Cambozola and handed Dinah a knife and a box of crackers. “Accidents happen.”

“To teenagers. Not to anyone my age. Not to anybody with half a brain.”

“Getting yourself knocked up isn't the worst thing in life. Babies can bring a lot of happiness. It's usually fifteen or twenty years before they break your heart.”

Dinah put her head down on the table and whimpered.