Where the Bones are Buried

by Jeanne Matthews

  He inhaled deeply and turned to look out at the river, the color of lead in the fading light. A tour boat glided past and he followed it with his eyes. “Nothing is without consequences. They follow our sins as surely as a wake follows a boat. Sometimes the consequences are worse than the original sin.”

  When last they’d talked, he had insisted that Viktor was incapable of murder. Today he sounded reconciled to the fact. “When Viktor called you in the middle of the night, did he confess that he’d killed Pohl?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve spoken to Amsel. Did he confess to him?”

  “No. Neither Stefan nor I would have blamed him if he had done it. After the shabby way Lena treated him, he showed a kind of tragic nobility by not killing her.”

  Baer’s antipathy toward Lena made Dinah wonder if his late wife had betrayed him in similar fashion. She hazarded a push into more personal terrain. “Viktor mentioned that your wife died young. Did he know her?”

  “No.” He crushed his cigarette in the shell and, like a brooding Bogart, withdrew to the window to stare out at the Spree.

  Dinah couldn’t decide whether he was composing himself to speak or whether he meant to stand there with his back to her until she slunk away down the stairs and left. She said, “That was presumptuous of me. Sorry if I roused painful memories.”

  He turned and his face had relaxed. “It is I who must apologize. I forget how open Americans are, how natural and unoffending such a question would seem to you. We Germans tend not to reveal ourselves so directly to people we don’t know. In truth, we are reticent even with those we call friends.” He returned to his chair and picked up his glass of amber. “My wife Sabine died before I moved to Berlin. At the time, she was about your age, I’d guess, with dark eyes and a smile very like yours. She died while carrying our unborn child.”

  Dinah was about to utter some bromide about losing a loved one when he asked, “Will you attend Viktor’s funeral with me?” There was nothing seductive in his manner. He seemed like a man grieving for a friend and in need of company.

  “When will it be?”

  “We don’t know yet. There’s to be an autopsy. We must wait for the police to release the body. We will have our answer then, as between suicide and murder.”

  “If it was murder, if you had to guess who did it, who would you guess, Baer?”

  “The person who would want to kill Pohl and the person who would want to kill Viktor are fundamentally incompatible. And yet I understand that in crime fiction, it’s a mistake to postulate more than one murderer.”

  That postulate was going to take some time to consider. She said, “Call me and let me know the day and time of the funeral ceremony, Baer. I’d like to be there.”

  The doorbell rang and he looked at his watch. “Stefan is early. We are going to dinner tonight to discuss the arrangements.”

  “I’d better go,” she said. “I have to prepare for my class at the University on Tuesday.”

  “Thank you for coming.” He walked down the stairs in front of her and she noticed a limp she hadn’t noticed going up. Of course. She remembered Florian saying he had an artificial foot. In the entryway, he helped her into her jacket and opened the door.

  A sixtyish man with a blocky build and collar turned up to his ears was waiting on the other side. He skimmed a surprised look over her head to Baer, who forgot to make the introductions. The visitor said something in imperious German. Whatever the gist, it was obvious from the hostile sheen in his eyes that he was less than thrilled at the sight of Dinah.

  She covered her own surprise, said “Auf Wiedersehen,” and started down the path. She turned her head for a second look, but the man had already disappeared inside.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was the same voice she’d heard talking to Farber in the gallery. She was positive of that much, but was the man Reiner Hess? If she called Lohendorf this minute and told him to get to Baer Eichen’s house ASAP, would he find a wanted tax evader or a gruff-voiced member of der Indianer club who had helped Farber reset his burglar alarm and who was now helping Baer plan Viktor’s funeral? Would Lohendorf take a chance on her flimsy suspicion if, as Thor said, tax evaders and art thieves weren’t his bailiwick?

  Like a dope, she realized that the photograph Lohendorf had shown her on the Müggelsee ferry must have been Hess. She had been so sure that Pohl was Hess that she had scarcely given it a glance. It could be the same man she saw today. Or not.

  As she walked back toward the Gendarmenmarkt, Baer’s question repeated in her head. Why was she pursuing the matter? Unless Viktor’s autopsy showed a wound he couldn’t possibly have inflicted, or a dose of poison he couldn’t possibly have administered, the case was closed. She should back off, put her energy into resolving her personal problems, count her blessings. She was alive. All the people she cared about were alive and well. Everything had worked out for her mother in spite of her lies and very soon she and Margaret would be needing a ride back to the airport. Blessings all. Even her sore throat had passed.

  The Saturday street market in the Hausvogteiplatz was jumping and she joined the crowd of shoppers. The kale and carrots and bell peppers looked jewel-bright, the mushrooms were gorgeous, the neon-green heirloom tomatoes smelled like real tomatoes, and the cheese display tantalized her taste buds. On a whim, she pulled out her phone and called Thor.

  “Plans have changed. I’m cooking dinner at home.”

  “Sounds exciting. Jack and I will bring the flowers.”

  “Good. Be there by eight. And come hungry.”

  “Got you. Drop that chocolate bar, Jack.”

  “And Thor?”

  There was a pause. “If I’m interpreting that tone correctly, it’s the one that precedes an announcement that you want to do something chancy, or you want me to.”

  “Not at all. But can you bring home your official laptop? The one that lets you access Interpol’s databases?”

  “Will this be a working dinner?”

  “No, no. I just have one pesky little question. Maybe two.”

  “All right. I’m reasonably sure the Norwegians aren’t listening in. Let’s hope your N.S.A. hasn’t bugged my phone or planted spyware on my computer.”

  “How could anybody object to you looking at a few old files?”

  “I hope I don’t find out. See you around eight.”

  She bought a filet of beef and a mélange of vegetables, thinking she could find a way to tie all the ingredients together after she got home. She couldn’t resist the cambozola and she splurged on an expensive bottle of red wine. Inspired, she lugged her purchases the remaining two blocks to the apartment.

  She schlepped her bag up the stairs and as she walked through the door, Aphrodite meowed and scarpered toward the kitchen. Dinah followed and saw that her bowl was empty.

  “K.D.?”

  No answer.

  Swell. She spooned out a mound of cold fish and began unloading the groceries. “How come K.D. gets the purring and nuzzling? I feed your mangy ass and all I get are yowls and scratches.”

  She went to see if anyone else was at home. To her surprise, she had the place all to herself. Neither K.D. nor Margaret had left a note. In the bedroom, she noticed Margaret’s suitcase, seemingly undamaged, lying open on the floor. Dinah hoped she was out looking for a hotel, but she didn’t rule out the possibility that she’d been lured into another assignation with Hess. People came and left this apartment as unpredictably as gusts of wind.

  Before she started dinner, she went into the office, sat down at the computer, and called up Interpol’s website. She clicked on the link to Wanted Persons. To her amazement, the photos, nationality, and ages of two hundred and eighty-eight people appeared with a detailed physical description and the crimes for which they were wanted. Murder, fraud, forgery, robbery, extortion, brigandism, abduction of a
minor, and illicit trafficking in narcotics. But it soon became apparent that tax evasion didn’t land a person on Interpol’s wanted list. There was a report of a pan-European investigation of tax evasion and money laundering that involved fictitious VAT invoices and air pollution trading rights, but she couldn’t see how that would relate to Hess. Anyway, Thor had other resources.

  She hunted up a recipe for raw kale and carrot salad and returned to the kitchen. She browsed an ancient copy of Bon Appetit and decided that she had enough of the main ingredients to do a modified version of beef Stroganoff. While she cooked, she tried to replay Farber’s slideshow of the powwow in her mind. Had any of the people in those pictures looked like the man who showed up on Baer’s doorstep? She didn’t think so, but they were all in disguise to a greater or lesser degree.

  The room began to fill with the aroma of shallots and mushrooms sautéed in butter. She cut the beef into pieces and dried it in preparation for browning. She took a shortcut with the stock. Who had time to boil bones? She used canned stock, enriched with a generous amount of beef demi-glace. She was pouring in the Madeira to begin the reduction when Thor and Jack blew in.

  “You’re early,” she said, taking a great bouquet of dahlias out of Jack’s hand. “And these are beautiful. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “The final race in the Le Mans series is being run today, the Circuit Paul Ricard. May I please be excused to watch TV?”

  “Go,” said Thor. He gave Dinah a perfunctory kiss and set his laptop down on the table next to the wine. “Grand vin de Bordeaux, two thousand ten. Looks ready to enjoy. Let’s have some.” He opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and sat down.

  She took the mushrooms off the stove and clanked about in the pantry until she found a vase. “That kiss was not one of your finer efforts. Are you annoyed because I want you to contact Interpol?”

  “No. I’ll contact the Kremlin if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t think the Kremlin or even Interpol is the right agency. Can you access a photo of a German citizen? His national ID card? Or his driver’s license or passport photo? Whichever agency will give you a peek at Reiner Hess’ puss would be great.”

  “Simplest will be the driver’s license. Give me a few minutes.” While he trolled the Net, she arranged the flowers in a vase and wondered what to do if the man she’d seen going into Baer’s house really was Hess. Had Baer been hiding him in his underground bunker? Was Baer part and parcel of Farber’s art theft ring?

  “Here you go,” said Thor, turning the laptop screen around.

  She saw a gray-haired man with a high forehead, a narrow ridge of a nose, and piercing eyes. It was Hess. She’d seen the mystery man at last. “I know where he was a few hours ago. You’d better call Lohendorf. Even if he’s convinced that Viktor killed Pohl, Hess was at Müggelsee that night and he was at the gallery when I broke in. He should be questioned.”

  “Tell me where you saw him and when and I’ll text Jens.”

  “At Baer Eichen’s house. Shortly after three.”

  He logged off the computer, took out his phone, and sent the text. “Done. Now I want you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Sit down.”

  She sat, not much liking the look on his face.

  He picked up his wineglass, turned it around a few times as if studying the contents, and set it back down without tasting. “How are we doing on our trust problem?”

  “Oh, that.” She wasn’t ready to discuss the long-term fallout from his secret or from hers. “I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “Think about it now. Do you trust me?”

  The question by itself made her leery. “Mostly.”

  “I know you had the rug pulled out when you were a kid, Dinah. You’ve been raised on shifting sands and there will always be a tendency to doubt. I’m willing to accept that ‘mostly’ is as good as it’s ever going to be with you. But ‘mostly’ covers a lot of ground.”

  The sound of screaming engines blasted from the TV in the office. “What’s this about, Thor? Are you trying to tell me you’ve fathered another child?”

  “No, and don’t be flip. Sometimes the best defense is no offense.”

  “What then?”

  “We’ve each kept secrets. Lied, if that’s how you want to characterize it. But deep down, I trust you to do the right thing and I’m telling you that you have to trust me the same way if we’re going to have a life together.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Trust was an almost religious thing. It had to be more compelling than facts, stronger than fear. Distrust was her defense against the fear of being deceived. “I trust you as much as I can, Thor. In some ways, more than I trust myself.”

  “Prove it.” He took a notepad and a pen out of his pocket and set them next to her wine. “Write down the name and address of that bank in Panama, the account number, the balance, the names of all the employees you’ve spoken to, the dates you’ve made withdrawals and the amounts. Everything.”

  “Kingdom come! You want a confession? Are you going to turn me in?”

  “Did you just say that you trust me?”

  “I said mostly.” She got up and turned the heat on under the frying pan. What the hell was he thinking? Did he have a crisis of conscience and blab to the IRS? Was he trying to arrange some kind of a plea bargain? Was he protecting himself or her? She dropped in the butter and oil, which began to sizzle. She lowered the heat and ladled in the pieces of beef. “Will you at least tell me what it is that you intend to do with the information?”

  “Yes, but not tonight.”

  A drop of hot grease splattered onto her hand. She licked the burn and thought about all those yanked rugs and shifting sands and sinkholes that had opened up under her feet over the years. Without realizing it, had she been waiting for Thor to disappoint her in some way? Had she been subconsciously looking for an excuse to break off the affair and go start another—the way her mother always did?

  An old proverb popped into her head. Ponder the path of thy feet. Well, she was due for a patch of solid bedrock and if Thor Ramberg wasn’t it, maybe it didn’t exist. One way or the other, it was time she found out. She turned around and handed him the tongs. “Turn the beef as it sears. I’ll write down the information.”

  The kiss that followed was a vast improvement, a kiss worth remembering if she ended up doing serious time in the slammer. When the kissing was over, while he tended the beef, she sat down and laid out the whole Panamanian enchilada. She didn’t need to look up any numbers or names or dates. She knew it all by heart. When she finished, she went to get the key to the safety deposit box attached to the account. She was using a yardstick to winkle it out of its hiding place behind the mirror in the foyer when Margaret walked in the door.

  “I’ve done what you asked,” she said. “I’ve put Reiner Hess behind bars. He trusted me and I threw him to the wolves. It just goes to show.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Margaret’s bulletin teemed with connotations. Dinah couldn’t unpack them all at once, so she asked the most obvious question. “Has he been arrested?”

  “Oh, yes. I called Lohendorf and told him where Reiner and I were having dinner. He wasted no time. He and his men rousted us out of the café before the dessert came. I’ll be seeing that et-tu-Brutus look in Reiner’s eyes on the day I die, which I hope is soon.”

  Thor had come out of the kitchen to listen. He said, “The man broke the law, Margaret. You did the right thing.”

  “You get paid for locking people away in prison, son. I’ve been there and I can tell you it’s hell. I don’t give a fig that he hid his money and I don’t believe he had anything to do with blackmailing Swan or murdering Alwin Pohl. But Dinah means more to me than Hess, more than she knows. I couldn’t leave Berlin with her thinking that I’d colluded w
ith him.” She rasped a bitter laugh. “Then again, maybe he’ll say that I did and stab me in the back the way I stabbed him.”

  Dinah was touched. “I’d take your word over his, Margaret.”

  “There are two kinds of people you shouldn’t take at their word, kiddo. The ones you know and the ones you don’t.”

  Thor chimed in a little too quickly. “Dinah made beef Stroganoff. Will you join us for dinner, Margaret?”

  “Thanks for asking, but I’m not fit for human company.” She unwrapped a new bottle of Monkey 47 and started into the bedroom.

  “Margaret, wait.” He put out a hand. “Where had Hess been living while he was in the city?”

  “The Adlon. He was registered under the name Dobbs.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief and her mouth bent up on one end like a tire tool. She held Dinah’s stare for a moment. “If any more strangers drop in for a slumber party, I’d prefer to wake up with a good-looking man next time.” With that, she retired to the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

  Dinah grappled with the ramifications. What was Margaret saying with that look? Did she know that Swan had moved into the Adlon? Did Swan know that Hess was there? Had their paths crossed? Was Margaret making a joke about the convergence or hinting at something else?

  “Is that the safety deposit key?” Thor asked.

  She flashed to a vision of herself in an orange jumpsuit and cringed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She dropped the key into his hand and called Jack to wash up for dinner.

  Back in the kitchen, she added the beef into the reduced stock and blended in the sour cream and the cream. She whisked the balsamic vinaigrette for the kale salad and set the table.

  Thor put out the flatware and the napkins and poured a glass of water for Jack. “Do you think your mother knew that Hess was staying in the same hotel?”