The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

  Ouch. Van In was speechless. Even Leo was taken aback at himself. He stirred angrily at his cappuccino.

  “Have you seen this photo?” Versavel asked in a well-intentioned effort to break the unpleasant silence. He produced a brown envelope from his inside pocket, opened it, and emptied its contents on the table: a key ring, a beige calf’s-leather wallet, and a museum ticket. Versavel opened the wallet and removed a sepia-tinted photograph.

  “This was among Fiedle’s personal belongings,” said Van In by way of information. “I’m not quite sure if we should be showing evidence like this to a low-grade official.”

  “Cut the bellyaching,” Leo groused.

  “What do you think of the photo?” Versavel persisted.

  Leo furrowed his brow. The sergeant had stirred his professional interest. “What am I supposed to see?” he said after a bit.

  “Sergeant Versavel wants to know if anything in the photo catches your eye, a detail, something that doesn’t quite square, quelque chose de suspect. Jesus H. We’re in the middle of an investigation, Leo.”

  “I see an old-fashioned photo of Michelangelo’s Madonna.”

  “Look closer, good friend,” Van In smirked. “Use a magnifying glass if need be, but have a good look.”

  “It looks at least forty years old,” he said hesitatingly. “Excellent quality, but the light could be better.”

  “The light could be better,” Van In roared. “Did you hear that, Guido? The light could be better.”

  A man with a mobile drip got up and moved closer.

  “Take another look, Leo, and this time forget the light.”

  Leo stuck his finger in his ear and pulled an indignant face.

  “The vegetation, Leo.”

  “Is there something wrong with it?”

  “The statue’s outside, Leo … see the hills in the background?”

  “So what?” He examined the photo again. “Remarkable. Do you want an analysis?”

  Van In heaved a sigh of relief. “If that’s not too much to ask,” he groaned.

  “I’ll need a couple of days, Pieter.”

  “Monday’s fine.”

  Checkmate, thought Versavel.

  Leo arrived back at the station at four-thirty that afternoon. He took the elevator to the third floor, beaming from ear to ear and whistling the opening bars of The Barber of Seville.

  Van In was in his shirtsleeves, at his desk, chain-smoking. He had had copies made in the hospital of Fiedle’s passport and the photo of the Madonna and had faxed them to the Bundeskriminalamt—Germany’s Federal Criminal Police. Waiting for their response was getting on his nerves.

  Versavel had turned the thermostat to the highest setting and opened one of the pivoting windows. Even the hardy ficus plant had trouble with the smoke in room 204, shedding a nicotine-stained leaf every hour.

  “Am I on time, or am I on time?” Leo blared.

  He posed in the doorway like a blushing Apollo, a bulging envelope under his arm. When no one answered his rhetorical question, he hopped inside.

  “The door, Leo,” said Van In without looking up.

  “Sorry, Commissioner. I didn’t know you were allergic to fresh air.” Leo took a seat near the window and handed Versavel the envelope. “Herr Fiedle doesn’t look too hot, but he’s still quite recognizable in spite of the head bandage.”

  Versavel examined the enlargements and compared them with the German’s passport photo.

  “You’re sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

  Leo’s face pleaded innocence. “The passport photo’s more than thirty years old.”

  “Give them here.” Van In stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and demanded the envelope with an impatient gesture. Versavel pitched the whole shebang across the office like a Frisbee.

  Fiedle looked like a living skeleton. His pointed nose dominated his hollow face, and his bushy eyebrows stood out against the whiter-than-white head bandage.

  “You have to account for the circumstances,” said Van In philosophically. In the air he waved the fax that he had received from Arents half an hour earlier. “Fiedle had a blood-alcohol level of 2.8. No wonder he looks like death warmed over.”

  “You look the same after six Duvels,” Leo mocked. “And your passport photo is only five years old.”

  Versavel left them to bicker. He fired up his brand-new word processor and opened the file named “Fiedle.” The screen flickered ominously, and Versavel couldn’t help thinking about his trusty old typewriter. Those had been the days.

  Bruges nightlife was limited to a handful of notorious cafés and bars. Van In presumed that the German had visited one of them before the encounter on Blinde Ezel Street. The 2.8 blood-alcohol count seemed to point in that direction, unless he’d tied one on in his hotel room before heading out for a walk in the snow.

  Two officers were still checking the hotel registers. They hadn’t managed to locate Fiedle’s hotel yet.

  At seven-fifteen, Van In and Leo Vanmaele left Versavel to get better acquainted with his word processor and headed out.

  “Page me if there’s news on the hotel,” Van In shouted as he closed the door behind him. His spirits had lifted.

  Armed with the photos, the two men went bar-hopping on the Egg Market. Most of the proprietors knew Van In and were happy to cooperate, or at least pretended to be. Waiters and regulars examined the photos, but no one recognized the German. Almost every café cost them a Duvel. At one-thirty they ordered their sixth in the Vuurmolen, an after-hours bar on Kraan Square. The place was packed, and hard rock music was slowly but surely ruining the expensive speakers.

  Leo ordered a double toasted sandwich; Van In finished his Duvel and switched to coffee.

  “Hard to keep up, eh?” Leo scoffed between bites.

  Van In grudgingly sipped the hot but bitter concoction.

  “Christ pulled the same face when they offered him a sponge soaked in vinegar,” Leo grinned.

  “I remember it like yesterday,” said Van In, stony-faced. “You were on the left and you died of thirst.”

  “Very spiritual, Pieter. You’ll be lying next, before the cock crows a third time.”

  Van In glanced at his watch. “Jesus H. Two-fifteen.”

  “Tired?”

  “Of course not,” Van In snapped. “Finish your sandwich. Whiskey-cola in the Villa. My treat.”

  “Your treat!” Leo grinned. “The entire force knows that you get your meds in the Villa for free.”

  “Shout it from the rooftops. My guess is you’re not planning to cough up for that dog food you’re guzzling either. The double portion is a giveaway.”

  Leo took a final serious bite and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see when the bill comes.”

  Although Van In looked like a dredged-up vagrant, the bouncer at the Villa let him in with a friendly smile. An indignant young American couple—he in expensive Levis, she in $140 Nikes—watched them go inside. Jean-Luc, the bouncer, had shown them the door.

  The Villa was alive and swinging. After midnight the place was usually packed to the doors. Hot chicks writhed on the dance floor, playing with the dazzling laser beams. From a distance, and in the constantly changing light, they looked irresistible. Their miniskirts left nothing to the imagination, and the promised land rippled under their tight tops. The majority were over thirty and divorced. Van In was familiar with the genre. An overblown title or a nonchalantly flaunted bundle of banknotes was enough to get them on their backs.

  “Hello, Mario,” Van In yelled, and the bartender read his lips. Mario gave him a thumbs-up and automatically grabbed a pair of long drink glasses. He leaned over and shouted something into the ear of a balding forty-something customer. The mature yuppie took his girlfriend by the arm and hey, presto, a couple of empty barstools.

  Van In th
anked him with a wink, sat down, and slumped over the bar. He was tired. His ankles were swollen, and he had pins and needles in his calves.

  Mario didn’t spare the Glenfiddich. One bottle of cola was enough to fill the glasses to the brim.

  “It’s been a while, Commissioner,” he bellowed. “And your luck’s in. Véronique’s here. Want me to call her over?”

  Van In sensed Leo’s disapproving glare burning a hole in his left cheek. The booze isn’t the only thing that’s free, he could hear him think.

  “Not today,” Van In roared. “We’re here on business.”

  Mario grimaced. “Nothing serious, eh?”

  Van In showed Mario the photos. “Do you recognize him?”

  He stared the bartender in the eye when he asked the question. Even seasoned liars can sometimes give themselves away with an evasive glance or an overly glib answer.

  “Wait a minute,” Mario shouted. “Can’t be…. Surely…. Isn’t that … nah. Sorry, Commissioner. A stranger to me. Gimme a sec. I’ll ask Jacques.”

  Mario disappeared without troubling himself with the half-wit dandy who had been trying to order a fresh margarita for the last two and a half minutes.

  “Bingo,” Leo roared when the bartender vanished behind the back of the bar. “Our friend’s heading in the wrong direction. That’s Jacques over there.” He pointed to a table near the dance floor. Van In barely reacted. The whiskey was struggling with the Duvels. He felt nauseous.

  “It never fails to amaze me,” Leo raved, “that the last address is always the right address. If you’re looking for a report, it’s guaranteed to be at the bottom of the pile.”

  Van In nodded. All the shouting made his ears ring, and he was doing his best to fight the fuzziness filling his head.

  “I should call it Vanmaele’s law,” Leo roared.

  Van In nodded once again. But he wasn’t quite sure what connected Leo’s last two statements.

  After five minutes or so, Mario reappeared with Patrick, alias the Gigolo. Patrick was forty, slim, tanned. He had been running the Villa for the best part of six years and he knew the tricks of the trade. In principle, the world of after-hours bars and private clubs tended to be frequented by two types of cop: the ones who did their job, and the ones you could sweeten up. Van In was the proverbial exception to the rule. The commissioner didn’t like to be pigeonholed. The Gigolo was on his guard.

  “Bonsoir, Pieter.”

  He extended a cheerful hand. A fortune in gold chains dangled from his wrist.

  Van In tapped his ear. The Gigolo understood immediately.

  “Let’s go to my office. There’s less noise.” Leo saw the Gigolo beckon with his head. He hadn’t heard what the man had said. The words had wriggled through the elated jumble of groggy dancers grinding to the perverse beat.

  Van In knew the way. He had been there more than once.

  The padded door absorbed ninety of the decibels. The Gigolo’s office was furnished like a Greek temple, complete with Corinthian columns and salacious chaises longues. The white marble fluoresced blue in the indirect UV light. A fountain splashed in the corner. The tasteless thing, three shell-shaped basins piled on top of one another, was crowned with a plaster replica of the Venus de Milo.

  “Tell me, Pieter. What can I do for you?”

  The Gigolo settled unashamedly into one of the chaises longues. Van In followed his example, and Leo perched on the arm like a leprechaun. His short legs didn’t quite reach the mosaic floor.

  “I’m looking for a man,” said Van In with difficulty. His tongue was acting up, and the Gigolo knew what that meant.

  “That’s strange,” he answered lightheartedly. “You’re usually looking for a woman.”

  “This man,” said Van In. He took the photos from the envelope and handed them to Vanmaele. Leo played go-between without protest. A good slap in the face was what the Gigolo deserved, he thought.

  “What makes you think I would know this old man?” asked the Gigolo after looking at the photos a couple of times.

  “It’s important,” Van In insisted. “Believe me. If someone here can identify the man, I promise—”

  The sentence was interrupted by a rattling coughing fit. Leo jumped to his feet and helped Van In stand up. The commissioner wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “I’d be happy to help you, my friend,” said the Gigolo with a note of pity. “But I just got back from Jamaica. And even if I had been here….”

  Van In recovered and sat down on the edge of the chaise longue.

  “Jesus H.,” he wheezed. “I’m not asking if you recognize him. I want permission to talk to your staff. Mario had his doubts, but perhaps Jacques can identify him.”

  The Gigolo gulped at his whiskey like a true American, greedily and without enjoying it.

  “Listen here, Pieter. The place is packed. Leave the photos with me and I’ll get everyone to have a look after we close.”

  “Much appreciated, Patrick,” said Van In, peering at the Gigolo like a dazed reveler.

  Leo followed the conversation with growing amazement. He couldn’t understand why Van In was letting the guy walk all over him. He took a swig of his drink out of pure frustration. It tasted like stale cough syrup.

  “Do we have a deal, Pieter?” The Gigolo fidgeted with a golden scuba diver on a chain dangling around his neck. “If Véronique had been here….” He deliberately cut his sentence short.

  “I thought she was here,” Van In said.

  “Not tonight,” the Gigolo lied.

  “You expecting her?” Van In reached for his glass. His hand shook. Leo gave him a dig in the ribs. He had known Van In for more than twenty years, and it hurt to see his friend let himself down like this.

  “She’ll be here on Wednesday,” the Gigolo dawdled. “I can ask her to wait for you.”

  Van In retched and lay back in his chaise longue. His eyes started to turn in their sockets like a pair of revolving lights, and his left leg suddenly went into a spasm.

  “I think we should go, Pieter.” Leo got to his feet and shook Van In by the shoulders. The Gigolo nodded and came to take a closer look.

  “He’s not a well man. Maybe he ate something?”

  “Just give me a hand,” Leo snarled. “He needs air. Fresh air,” he added bad-temperedly.

  The two men helped Van In to his feet. He seemed in a daze and didn’t put up a struggle. The walk to the padded door took forever. Van In felt like he was walking on a conveyor belt, his legs like those of a comatose spider, his head still resting on the chaise longue.

  It took Leo and the Gigolo a full five minutes to work their way through the heaving masses. Jacques lent a hand when they got close to the exit. The Gigolo slipped quietly out of the picture.

  “Have a good day, gentlemen.” The anemic waiter made no effort to disguise the derision in his voice.

  “Have you lost it completely?” Leo snorted when Van In leaned against a wall and slumped into the snow. “You’ll catch your death if you’re not careful.”

  Van In scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it into his face.

  “You’re smashed. Don’t expect me to sympathize,” Leo snapped.

  “The fucking … ,” Van In shuddered. “The fucker spiked my drink.”

  “Of course he did,” said Vanmaele sarcastically. “They spiked your cola with whiskey.”

  Van In started to cough and retch. He took off his jacket and shirt and tossed snow on his chest like a child burying himself in sand on the beach.

  “Are you all right, buddy?” A well-dressed gentleman had stopped out of curiosity. “Shall I call an ambulance?”

  “Mind your own business,” Vanmaele snapped.

  “Your friend looks as if he needs one,” the obliging stranger insisted.

  Leo Vanmaele was known for his gentle cha
racter and his preference for the stoic approach, but the Duvels he had consumed with too much haste had awakened the Mr. Hyde in him.

  “Is he on drugs or something?” the concerned passerby added. “Times have changed, haven’t they? He’s no spring chicken, either. You only get to see the young guys on TV, but you can’t believe everything they show you on—”

  “Listen, friend.” Leo filled his lungs. “If you don’t cut the crap and fuck off out of here, I’ll have you arrested for disturbing the peace.”

  He fumbled in his inside pocket and produced his ID.

  “Crime Squad.”

  The threat sounded serious.

  The talkative Samaritan took a quick look at the card and scuttled off like a novice skater.

  Leo Vanmaele looked at the card and grinned. He had shown the man a supermarket loyalty card by accident.

  4

  VAN IN CALLED IN SICK the following morning. His tongue was swollen and there was a cartload of grit under his eyelids. A lump of raw flesh seemed to be thriving in his throat, and it hurt to swallow. Even a twenty-minute shower barely helped ease the pain in his bones. His joints grated like ungreased hinges. He felt as if he’d slept with a block of lead on his chest; he still found it hard to breathe now.

  Van In prodded the most sensitive part of his body with his finger, just beneath his breastbone. The pain almost drove him insane.

  His reflection in the mirror was like a crumpled shadow. The only advantage of his still-murky vision was that he didn’t pay much attention to the expanding rolls of fat under his chin and around his middle.

  The first cup of coffee tasted like diluted heating oil. The obligatory cigarette that usually accompanied the grimy brew caused a dry coughing fit.

  Nothing can spoil my day now, he decided as he hawked, nothing at all.

  Van In saw the mail dropping through the letterbox and went to pick it up with the speed of an almost-empty balloon. The Invest Bank logo on one of the envelopes didn’t bode well. He poured himself a second cup of coffee. The warm liquid dissolved fifty percent of the lump of flesh in his throat.

  “Cancer? Who said cancer?” he muttered under his breath.