Where the Bones are Buried

by Jeanne Matthews

  “Only what Florian has told me, something to do with a business opportunity. Would you care for another Kir?”

  “No thanks.”

  “How about you, Jack? More juice?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Baer went to the bar for more Campari and she segued from Germany to Georgia. “I understand that Pohl and Reiner Hess had known each other in the U.S. before returning to Berlin.”

  “Reiner.” The name had a lead-balloon effect. It dropped without a verb and in the lengthening seconds of dead air, she turned to check on Jack. He was examining the undercarriage of a low-slung sports car as if it the secret of the universe were printed there. “Come and eat something, Jack. You said you were hungry.”

  “In a minute.”

  She looked back at Baer, who seemed to be studying her as intently as Jack was studying the model car. She said, “The name Reiner Hess seems to have a chilling effect. Do you mind telling me why?”

  “It’s difficult to speak about a friend after he has been accused of a crime.”

  She said, “He reminds me of a poem by T.S. Eliot about a mystery cat named Macavity. You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air, but when the crime’s discovered, Macavity’s not there.”

  He laughed. “Deutsche Bank has had its own problems with tax evasion investigations. Twenty-five employees were charged last year with making false tax statements, money laundering, obstruction of justice. They are also my friends. Even our CEO was charged. The storm will blow over. Bankers are in greater danger from disappointing quarterly profit reports than from federal prosecutors. One can always amend one’s tax declaration. I must therefore conclude that Reiner faces more serious charges.”

  “Is he capable of murder in your estimation?”

  “Of Alwin’s murder, you mean?”

  She didn’t think the question needed clarification.

  He sat down again. “I’ve seen nothing that would cause me to believe that he is.”

  Baer’s Sioux alias “Friend to All” was certainly apt. He seemed to count everyone he knew as a friend except Pohl. She said, “Do you know where he is?”

  “Out of the country, I think.”

  “If he were still in Berlin, where would he be?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “If he were in Berlin, it would be a great embarrassment to the police.”

  “I have reason to believe that he was at Müggelsee on the night of the murder. Do you know of any reason he might have had to kill Alwin Pohl?”

  “Now I see it! I wasn’t sure, but now I understand. You have undertaken to solve the crime, yourself.”

  He didn’t sound insulted or defensive. He sounded…amused. He might be an ally or a he might be a snake in the grass, but at this juncture, she saw no downside to acknowledging what he would soon find out anyway. “My mother was at the scene of the crime. She touched the body. The police found traces of her DNA. If they can’t come up with a more likely suspect, they’ll arrest her. I’m doing everything I can to prevent that from happening. I met Pohl. He was a rotter. I believe there may be others who wanted him dead. Viktor has the most obvious motive, but Hess might have had one, too.”

  “And so could I. Is that why you agreed to have dinner with me? To uncover my dark motives?”

  “Partly.”

  “And what is the other part?”

  “I thought you’d take me to the best restaurant in Berlin.”

  He laughed so hard his wooden glasses slid down his nose. “And so I shall.”

  Jack came over and took a piece of cheese and a cracker. “Will we be eating soon?”

  “Let’s leave now,” said Baer, tossing off his Campari. “Dinah can continue her interrogation at the restaurant. Wait for me downstairs. I will call a taxi.”

  Jack ran ahead and Dinah followed, checking her voicemail on the way. No news from Margaret was good news, no news from K.D. was at least neutral, and no news from Thor hurt less than a penknife to the heart. Or so she imagined. She put her phone back in her purse and lifted her coat off the rack. “What are you doing, Jack?”

  He had squeezed behind the rack of coats and winter paraphernalia and the whole assembly was jiggling. “There’s a big iron ring in the wall back here.”

  She pushed apart the heavy shroud of coats. “It looks like a piece of decorative hardware. Maybe it used to hold a picture.”

  “It looks like a door.” He was pulling on the ring when Baer came down the steps. “Is there a secret passage, Baer?”

  “See for yourself.” He rolled the coat rack out of the way and wrenched the ring hard to the right.

  A nearly invisible door slid open to reveal what looked like a well. A wooden ladder had been affixed to the concrete wall.

  “What’s down there?” asked Jack, peering down.

  “Nothing but darkness,” said Baer. “It’s a bunker. This area is honeycombed with them. They were built by Hitler’s army. Soldiers and thousands of civilians used them for bomb shelters during the Allied airstrikes. Hitler’s private bunker and many others have been destroyed by our modern city managers. In Berlin, we have enough reminders of the past without looking underground. This bunker would have been destroyed, but the man who built the house had the idea that one day he would offer tours like the catacombs in Paris and Rome.”

  “Were you bombed?” asked Jack.

  “The war was before my time. My parents used to tell stories, but they are not the kinds of stories one tells before dinner.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The shimmering, blade-like tower of the Zoofenster skyscraper cleaved the night sky above Charlottenburg district and the city zoo. Seen from the side, the building put Dinah in mind of a guillotine, not so much because she was en route to Berlin’s most celebrated French restaurant, but because she felt she had lost her edge in this parley with Baer Eichen. Whether it was his charm or her haste to get answers, she was giving him more information than he was giving her.

  The conceit of the guillotine played on in her imagination even if the swooshing elevator up to the Waldorf Astoria was an improbable tumbrel. She’d read somewhere that by the time Hitler came to power, German engineers had so improved upon the technology and efficiency of the guillotine that the Führer was able to keep a score of them chopping busily throughout WWII. It was fatal to underestimate German ingenuity, in weaponry or in wiles.

  They stepped out of the elevator into the stylish environs of Les Solistes. Keep your head, she warned herself. Steal a page from Swan’s book. Smile, but let him do most of the talking.

  Pleading extreme hunger, she passed on a cocktail and they ordered food right away. The waiter helped Jack order, promising no broccoli, no beans, and no buffalo. Dinah ordered the langoustine to start and the pigeon entrée. Baer ordered foie gras and venison. He suggested a wine, but Dinah declined, and he ordered a bottle for himself.

  Jack kicked off the conversation. “Who got murdered?”

  “You have big ears,” said Baer. “Will you be Watson to Dinah’s Sherlock?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll be Watson.”

  Baer laughed. “Either way, you make a formidable team.”

  Dinah couldn’t tell if Jack had actually read the Sherlock Holmes stories or if he was being a wiseass. Another one not to be underestimated, she thought, and admonished him with a stern look. When Baer’s laughter subsided, she said, “I’m afraid I lack Sherlock’s deductive abilities. Please tell me about your fellow clubmen. I understand that Reiner Hess was given the boot.”

  “Reputation matters. No one wanted to see his name linked with Hess in the press. I like Reiner, but he has made a deliberate break. It is treacherous for a friend to say, and perhaps unfair, but I see Reiner as an opportunist.”

  “How so?”

  “When Reiner joined the club, he lived part o
f the year in Berlin and part in America. He attended law school there and was licensed to practice in several states. He showed less interest in native cultures than in the skyrocketing value of native art. I have never been told and never asked, but I shouldn’t be surprised if he assisted Florian in acquiring some of his more valuable pieces over the years.”

  “Acquiring them illegally?”

  “If I were to learn that he cut corners or exploited certain loopholes in the law, it wouldn’t surprise me. But that is conjecture. Nothing more.”

  “You must have some reason for the conjecture.”

  “The money, Dinah. What is the American expression? Reiner and Florian have made out like bandits.”

  The wine came, along with a plate of fancy palate teasers. While Jack sampled the goodies and Baer sniffed and swirled the wine, Dinah scripted out a massive antiquities smuggling operation in her head. She could picture Pohl and Hess casing Indian reservations and museums, acquiring the best items by hook or by crook, and funneling them to Germany for sale in Farber’s Happy Hunting Ground. Were they moonlighting from their usual jobs with Cleon, or had Cleon also dabbled in stolen art on the side?

  “Is Florian another suspect?” asked Jack.

  Dinah said, “If Florian is trading in stolen antiquities and Pohl threatened to expose him, he might have seen murder as his only recourse.”

  “There is always an alternative to murder,” said Baer. “If one chooses to look for it.”

  “And what is your character analysis of Florian?” asked Dinah. “Is he someone who would look for an alternative?”

  “Florian is an intelligent man. It would surprise me if someone as unintelligent as Pohl could force him into such straits that he would risk murder.”

  Jack picked the last morsel off the goody platter and turned his frank gaze on Baer. “What did Pohl do to make you not like him?”

  A queer expression crawled across Baer’s face. “Did I say that, Jack?”

  “Sort of. When Dinah asked if you were friends, you said ‘no,’ but you said it like he was what my Dad calls a super weasel.”

  Baer sipped his wine and looked thoughtful for a few seconds. “I disliked the man for many reasons, but I would not call him a weasel. The weasel is a greedy and ferocious hunter, but he is cunning. Alwin Pohl was an unthinking brute.”

  The first course arrived with considerable fanfare and Baer turned his attention to the food. He contrasted the chef’s Berlin restaurant with his flagship restaurant in Paris—which he had visited at the end of June, and reminisced about the cuisine at several other eateries in Paris and Berlin. If he seemed a little too eager to leave the topic of Alwin Pohl, Dinah was content to let it drop. Her suspicions about Farber had been furthered substantially and she knew what the next step in her investigation would be. But at the moment, she was famished and the langoustine was sublime. The aromas and flavors and Baer’s foodie reviews provided a pleasant respite from the stress of the day. And when her pigeon came, she dispatched it with gusto and asked Baer if she might have a glass of his wine.

  At the end of the evening, she thanked him for one of the best meals she had ever eaten.

  “I’m pleased it lived up to your expectations.” His eyes twinkled. “May I call you again, perhaps when there’s no childcare emergency?”

  Again, she detected a sexual innuendo. Uncertain how to respond, she essayed an ambiguous smile and Swan-like, left its meaning to his imagination. He put her in a taxi in front of the hotel and paid the driver in advance. Before he closed the door, he took out of his coat pocket an oddly shaped parcel wrapped in newspaper and handed it to Jack. “From one connoisseur to another.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Something to feed your dreams. Go ahead and open it.”

  Jack tore off the paper and pulled out the bright red Ferrari 250 GTO. “Wow. I can really have it, Baer?”

  Dinah demurred. “It’s too valuable a gift. It’s very generous of you, but I don’t think he should accept it.”

  “I insist. I am too old to play with cars. But mind you don’t play too rough with it, Jack. The two-five-0 is a special car.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  When Dinah and Jack returned to the apartment after dinner, they walked in on a bristling volley between K.D. and Margaret that featured the words “hag” and “piss ant” with several colorful modifiers thrown in for emphasis. Dinah shunted Jack into the office and took Margaret into the bedroom.

  “How long have you two been at it?”

  “Not long. She hadn’t gotten around to calling me a murdering bitch yet.”

  Dinah scrounged up one of Thor’s old shirts and a pair of sweat pants for her to sleep in. She gave her a towel and washcloth and one of those airline toiletry bags with the folding toothbrush and scratchy eye mask that she’d saved from a previous trip. “Keep out of the way for a few minutes, Margaret, and simmer down.”

  “She’s the one who’s acting out. I tried to be civil.”

  “I know you did. She’s just not ready.”

  “I’ll tread lightly. Who’s the kid?”

  “He’s Thor’s son. His name is Jack.”

  Margaret stripped off the clothes she’d been wearing when her room caught fire and pulled the clean shirt over her head. She had had a drink or two, but she wasn’t tanked.

  “I have to go out for a few hours, Margaret. I’m going to take K.D. with me. Will you look after Jack? See that he puts on his PJs pretty soon and don’t let him swallow drain cleaner or anything.”

  “Sure. I’ll mind him.”

  “Thanks.” Dinah went back to the living room. Jack had come out of the office and was lining his cars up in race formation along one wall with the new Ferrari out in front. K.D. lounged on the sofa, texting.

  “Sign off, K.D. I’d like a word.” She led her into the kitchen. “I know you have plans tonight, but I need your help.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to help me break into an art gallery.”

  “Whoa. That’s rich.”

  “It’s a one-time thing, K.D. Burglary is a crime. It’s wrong and I wouldn’t do it if there were any other way. If there weren’t, you know, extenuating circumstances.”

  “Okay. But afterward, I’m going out with Geert and you have to promise me—no sermons and no flak when I get back. Geert can drive us to this gallery and stand lookout.”

  “Did you hear me say it’s a criminal offense? We can’t involve another person.”

  “Don’t worry. Geert’s cool.”

  “I don’t care how cool he is, K.D. This isn’t a symposium. No third party.”

  “So I won’t tell him what we’re doing. I’ll say we’re out to score a few cartons of untaxed cigs. I’ve seen several Vietnamese dudes selling them on the street. As much money as Geert spends on smokes, he’ll totally go for it. All he has to do is text me from across the street if the cops show up.”

  “Won’t he expect a carton in return for his help?”

  “I’ll just say the seller never showed.”

  Dinah didn’t know what Geert had said to earn K.D.’s trust as an accomplice, but whatever it was, it didn’t boost Dinah’s confidence. Even so, it might be a good idea to have some muscle as backup, not that Geert had much to show in that department. She changed her clothes and the three of them set off in Geert’s Opel.

  “You won’t let her get drunk at the club, will you, Geert?”

  “Seventeen, she can only drink beer and wine. It is the law.”

  “Or let her be drugged and dragged off by a rapist?”

  “No drugs,” he said. “No rapists.”

  Other than yourself, thought Dinah, but K.D. wasn’t your typical teenage ingenue. She could fend for herself.

  Geert parked the Opel on a side street six blocks from the gallery and they wa
lked back toward Kürfürstenstrasse through a spitting rain. At midnight, street traffic was sparse, but there were still plenty of pedestrians on their way to and from the local theaters and clubs. Geert positioned himself in a doorway across the street from the gallery. Dinah and K.D. cut down the alley behind the Happy Hunting Ground. The back door was easy to find. The yellow tepee was still up. Dinah opened the flap and aimed her light inside. It was empty.

  K.D. inspected the gallery’s backdoor lock. “It’s a tumbler. Piece of cake.”

  In the actual commission, Dinah felt feverish and jittery and she couldn’t block out thoughts of Thor. This caper would confirm his worst assumptions about her. Not that he was such an almighty straight arrow. “What about the alarm system?”

  “That’s the tricky part. My bump key will jump the driver pins and I can open the door, but that’ll probably break the electric circuit and brrrang!”

  “Won’t it shut off if you close the door in a hurry?” Even as she said it, Dinah couldn’t believe that a gallery housing pricey objets d’art would make burglary as easy as closing the door behind you. “I guess not.”

  “Not.” K.D. ran her flashlight up and down the jamb and seam. “There’s probably a control box inside, hooked up to more alarms. If that’s the setup, there’ll be a keypad and security code. We’ll have maybe thirty seconds, sixty tops, to find the alarm panel and smash it.”

  “How did you get past the keypad security in my building without smashing it?”

  “Hello-oh? I lived there for two weeks.” She scouted around the side of the building and looked in a low window. “I can see a blue LED light a few feet down the hall. It could be the alarm panel. Or not. The owner may have installed a dummy.”

  Dinah was loath to inquire how the girl had come into possession of a burglar’s bump key, or where and why she had picked up her flair for breaking and entering. If she didn’t clean up her act, she’d end up in the cooler. Dinah faulted herself. I should be counseling reform and setting a good example. Instead, here I am urging her on. If we’re caught…but she couldn’t think about that right now. “What’s your best judgment?”