Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  Betty lived on a typical Kreuzberg block. A one-euro store occupied the street level. The white facade was faded out, the windows busy with advertisements. Plane trees, barely illuminated by streetlights, cast long shadows across the sidewalk.

  Jan sneaked behind a tree and watched the street. Plenty of cars were parked along the curb. Nothing looked unusual at first, but then a lighter flashed inside an Opel.

  Jan smiled. Luckily, not all his fellow cops had given up smoking.

  “The stakeout crew is across the street, in a dark Opel.”

  “What now?”

  “We have to get inside the building next door. From there, we’ll get to the basement window of Betty’s building through the shared courtyard.”

  “Is the entry open?”

  Jan shook his head. “Doors are locked after eight, but it’s an older lock. We can jimmy the door. Hopefully no officers will look in the rearview mirror right about then.”

  “Won’t working on the door be too loud?”

  “Until two, a bus comes through here every thirty minutes. See that traffic light in front of Betty’s building? If we make the noise right when the bus brakes for the red, no one will hear. If the guys just keep focusing on that front door, we’re in.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs.”

  “Child’s play, actually. Just a question of timing.”

  “When does the bus come?”

  Jan looked at his watch. “In the next five minutes. Take the jimmy and get set behind that tree, in front of the building. I’ll keep an eye on my guys.”

  Chandu opened up their bag, pulled out the jimmy. The little crowbar looked like a toy in his big hands. He casually crossed the street and leaned against a tree trunk. Then he took his cell phone out and tapped around on the screen. He kept the jimmy hidden behind his back.

  It was surprisingly quiet. Few cars passed by. Across the street, an older man was taking his dog out. Otherwise, they were alone. Jan pressed up to a tree trunk, keeping his eyes on the stakeout car. He nervously tapped his foot on the pavement. What would Betty say? Would she believe him, that he had nothing to do with the murder, or would she slam the door in his face and call for the cops? Chandu had a point. Four months was not long. And yet he trusted her. She would never leave him high and dry.

  The roar of a bus engine jarred Jan from his thoughts. Chandu put his phone away, held the jimmy ready, and made for the courtyard door. As the bus screeched to a stop at the light, the big man inserted the jimmy, jerked his arm, and popped the door open. Jan watched his fellow officers. All was calm. They hadn’t noticed. Jan grabbed their bag and went over to the pried-open door, where Chandu waited with a broad grin, all cool, the jimmy resting on a shoulder.

  “Some folks should spend a little more on security.”

  “Let’s get in quick before someone notices the lock’s busted.”

  A dark hallway led out to the courtyard. Mailboxes were crammed with heaps of ads. Jan was tiptoeing along when he heard footsteps coming from the courtyard. He signaled Chandu, and they pressed up against the wall. They’d stay concealed unless the person came their way. In the moonlight, Jan saw a slender figure wearing a cap. The person had a bag in hand and was hurrying away in the other direction. After the footsteps faded, Jan counted to five, gave Chandu another signal, and rushed through the courtyard to the basement of the neighboring building.

  Chandu joined him moments later at the basement window. He stowed the jimmy in their bag and took out a little tool that reminded Jan of a potato peeler. It had a wooden grip and a metal attachment shaped like an E, with little wheels at the ends. Chandu placed a suction cup on the glass and used the tool to cut the glass where it met the window frame. The grating sound made Jan’s teeth ache. But it didn’t last long. Seconds later, Chandu pulled at the suction cup and removed the window easily. He stepped to one side and pointed at the opening with a smile.

  Jan climbed through headfirst. Once inside, he opened up the basement door, which only had a latch locking it from the inside. Chandu followed him. They crept silently along the hallway, reaching the stairwell. The streetlights’ glow through the windows lit their way up.

  Jan closed his eyes and listened. It was calm in the stairway. He went up to the fourth floor. With every step, his anxiety grew. Yesterday he had been on the homicide squad, and now here he was breaking into his girlfriend’s building because she was the only person who could save him from a murder charge.

  Chandu set a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll work out,” the big guy said, his voice low. “Just find out what happened yesterday, and the worst shit’s over. I’ll wait here.”

  Jan nodded, leaving Chandu behind and continuing into the fourth-floor hallway. His hands were slick with sweat. Doubt plagued him. Should he have called beforehand? He paused, uncertain.

  “Jan.” His friend’s voice snapped him out of it. Chandu was pointing to his nose. Jan smelled it too.

  Gas. It was coming from the hallway, in front of him. Jan wanted to keep going, but the door to Betty’s apartment exploded with a loud boom. The pressure threw Jan to the floor. He landed hard, and the impact sucked all the air from his lungs.

  The hallway spun around him. Chandu was shouting something at him, but then the whistling in his ears smothered all sound. Jan wanted to stand up, but his limbs felt too heavy to move. Then all went black.

  Chapter 3

  Jan came to in a small storage room. He barely had the strength to open his eyes. It was tough to breathe. A taste of vomit stuck in his mouth. His throbbing head tormented him.

  A streetlight filtering through the room’s one dirty window revealed some of the surroundings. Old chairs and tables stood stacked in one corner. A tabletop grill leaned against a wall. The smell of smoke and scorched plastic was everywhere.

  He lay on an old couch about as comfortable as a torture chair. He sat up, groaning.

  “Welcome back.” He heard Chandu’s deep bass voice. Jan’s friend was standing at the door, watching the hallway through the crack. Loud shouts from outside filtered into the room. Noise from the stairway was deafening now, as if a whole class of schoolkids were running up and down.

  “How you doing?” Chandu asked him.

  “Had better days,” Jan said. He held his forehead and winced, feeling a wound over an eye.

  “Can you remember anything?”

  “Just the explosion that took me off my feet.”

  The racket got louder. A man shouted orders and a siren sounded.

  “What in the fuck is going on here?”

  Chandu shut the door. He sighed. “As you noticed, there was an explosion. Probably a gas leak. You were lucky. Two steps more and the debris would’ve put holes through you.”

  “Were there injured, dead?”

  Chandu bit his lower lip. “Betty’s apartment exploded.”

  “What?” Jan howled. “We got to get up there right away.” He stood but had trouble keeping his balance. His legs gave way and stars danced before his eyes.

  Chandu caught him and laid him back down.

  “Just lie here,” he insisted. “You took a real good one. That wound on your forehead, it wouldn’t stop bleeding. A miracle you don’t have any burns. That leather jacket of yours got the worst of it.”

  “What about Betty?” Jan demanded.

  “I don’t know. Right after it blew up, I got you down here to the basement. Then all hell broke loose. Lights went on all over, people screaming. Your cop friends stormed the place just as we got to the basement. They almost had us. I laid you here and went upstairs, saw all the mayhem. Betty’s apartment was just rubble. Even parts of the outside wall were blown out. The place was in flames, and the hallway was all smoke.”

  He put a hand on Jan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Tears ran down Jan’s cheeks. “It can’t be.” He
tried to stand up again. “I can’t just hide down here. I have to know what’s going on.”

  Chandu pushed him back down to the couch. “Whatever happened, you can’t help Betty right now. It’s swarming with police up there. If you go out this door, they’ll arrest you. Two ambulances are outside. If she’s injured, she’ll be well taken care of. We’ll find out which hospital she’s in and visit her. But charging up there will only put you in the slammer.”

  “Betty,” Jan whispered. His head fell back on the couch. Then he lost consciousness.

  When Jan came to again, sunshine was coming through the filthy window and illuminating the fine dust drifting idly around the room. For a moment, he thought it was still Sunday morning and he was lying next to Betty, but then the couch’s stale odor brought him back to reality. The cold, hard facts struck him. His girlfriend might be dead, every police officer was his enemy, and he was a criminal on the lam.

  It had only taken one day for the world that he’d known to vanish, replaced by a nightmare worse than anything he could ever have dreamed.

  He turned his head and saw the massive figure of his friend sitting in a chair by the couch. At least there was one ray of hope in his shitty life.

  “How you doing?”

  Jan moaned. “I got a jackhammer in my head, my girlfriend’s apartment blew up, and I’m wanted for murder. I’m doing splendid.”

  “If you can crack stupid jokes, your head wound can’t be that bad.”

  Jan grumbled, scowling.

  “You went eight hours unconscious,” Chandu told him. “I was about to get you to a hospital, but too much was still going down. I wouldn’t have gotten far carrying you, and besides you would’ve woken up handcuffed to a bed.”

  “Thanks for looking after me.” Jan stood. His legs still wobbled under him, but the dizziness was gone. “What’s going on outside?”

  “Most of the police and firemen are gone. It’s quieter inside the building, but there are still some investigators inside Betty’s apartment.”

  Jan rubbed at his eyes. He felt weary and strung out. He could hardly believe he’d slept so long.

  “What do we do?” Chandu said.

  “We have to find out how Betty’s doing. First we get out of here, then I’ll call hospitals.”

  Jan peeked out the room’s lone dirty window. A young blonde woman stood out in the courtyard, cigarette in hand. She looked annoyed, as if she’d imagined her Monday morning going much differently. She had a flawless face, long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, and a posture that suggested a bold self-confidence. Her slim-cut jeans clung to a slender body made even more picture-perfect by stiletto heels. To Jan’s eyes, shoes like that tended to look slutty on most women, but on her they actually looked elegant. Next to her lay a white plastic coverall, the type that evidence analysts wear at crime scenes.

  Jan went pale. “My God,” he muttered. Speechless, he headed for the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Chandu said. “Where are you going?”

  Jan heard his friend talking to him, but the words didn’t slow him down. He forgot all caution and went out into the courtyard.

  When the woman saw him she raised her eyebrows in barely perceptible surprise. Then her face returned to its impenetrable mask of cool beauty. She tossed her half-smoked cigarette to the ground, stepping on it till extinguished. And Jan knew what had happened to Betty.

  “Hello, Zoe,” Jan said, despondent.

  “I always took you for an idiot,” the woman began without saying hello, “but I never thought you’d fuck up this bad.”

  “Maybe it was a mistake to take off,” Jan said in defense, “but it doesn’t matter now. Just tell me what’s happened to Betty. Then you can run me in.”

  Zoe’s hard face turned a little softer. “There is only one reason why I get called. I’m a medical examiner.”

  Jan nodded. “Did she . . . ?” His voice broke.

  Zoe shook her head. “She was in the kitchen when the gas line blew. She died instantly.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She was taken to the medical examiner’s office. The identity has not been confirmed yet, because the body was fully burned.”

  Jan swallowed. “My little Betty,” he muttered.

  Zoe, looking embarrassed, turned her head away. Despite the many crime scenes she’d worked, she’d never had to tell someone the bad news about a loved one.

  “Did she have anything we can use to identify her?” she said.

  “A nose piercing.” Jan wiped at his eyes. “I also bought her a Gucci necklace, with these two nameplates that look like military dog tags. Her name’s on that.”

  “She did have a necklace on, but the force of the explosion drove the metal into her chest. I’ll find it during the autopsy.”

  Zoe took out another cigarette. Gauloises. No filter. She fired it up with a silver windproof lighter and blew smoke into the air without taking her eyes off Jan.

  “What do you want to do now?” she said.

  “Go to the pen. What else is there?”

  “Why did you run away?”

  “The evidence against me, it’s conclusive. But I didn’t murder the judge. Someone wants to pin it on me, and if I’m in custody I can’t find out who.”

  “You couldn’t trust your fellow cops after all these years? Now, instead of looking for clues to clear you, they’re busy with a manhunt to bring you in.”

  Jan hung his head, ashamed. “I’ve acted like an idiot. But when my DNA matched the crime scene, I just wanted to run.”

  Zoe sucked at her cigarette and exhaled loudly.

  “Who’s that walking mountain behind you?”

  “That’s Chandu. He helped me get away.”

  “You mean Chandu Bitangaro, the bouncer?”

  “You know him?”

  “I used to go to a club where he kept watch on things.”

  “Really? Which club?”

  “You don’t want to know. He’s connected to heavyweights in the Berlin underworld, you do know that, right?”

  “He’s not as much of a criminal as everyone thinks. Lots about him is just made up, could never be proven.”

  “Hiding you probably won’t improve his record.”

  “Listen here, Zoe.” Jan pointed at her. “Call Bergman for me, have me picked up, whatever, but if you ever mention Chandu helping—”

  Zoe blew smoke in his face. “Spare me the threats, Janni. Save it for kindergarten. And do not piss me off or I’ll add a broken nose to that wound on your forehead.”

  Zoe’s face had tensed up, just a bit. A person had to know her to recognize how dangerous the change was. Jan had no doubt she’d pop him one.

  He changed the subject. “How do you really know so much about him?”

  “My job in forensics, it gets a little boring. Not exactly CSI: Las Vegas. So when I get bored, I click around and check out how the latest investigations are going.”

  “But the files are password protected.”

  Zoe shrugged. “Not the old ones.”

  “Why don’t you just apply for homicide squad?”

  “I’m a scientist, Jan. I graduated with biology and medical degrees. I never wanted to go to the police academy.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jan sighed. “So, get out your cell phone and call Bergman. I’ll wait at the door.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “There’s a manhunt for me. You might not be a cop, but you’re still working in the same club.”

  She shrugged. “You might be a bore with limited intelligence, Jan, but somehow you are a good detective. I’m sorry about your girlfriend. So, what I’ll do is, I’ll go finish another smoke before I tell Bergman that I saw you.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Zoe paused. “M
ost think I’m just this superficial bitch, but I am a good judge of people. My dad, he was a lying bastard who brought people more bad luck than Berlin has kebab joints. That alone was a school of hard knocks. So if you’d killed that judge, I’d be able to tell. Plus,” she continued between drags, “I don’t see you going about it so stupidly.”

  Jan wanted to thank her and held out his hand to shake, but Zoe stepped away.

  “Don’t go getting all sentimental,” she declared. “I don’t do emotional crap. I’m not completely selfless in doing this.”

  “Uh, okay,” Jan stuttered. “But what—”

  “First off, lend me Steroid Man there.” She pointed at Chandu. “My neighbor gets all bent out of shape when I play music too loud in the morning. He needs someone who can talk to him in just the right way. Beyond that? It’s my chance for a little variety, for a change.”

  Jan eyed her, confused. He managed little more than, “Uh, I . . .”

  “You really are slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes, taking a drag. “I give you time to get out of here. In return, you let me in on your own little investigation. Bergman would never let me work a homicide, and I’ve always wanted to.”

  “You’re nuts,” Jan blurted.

  Zoe nodded. She took a pen, grabbed Jan’s hand, and wrote a number on the underside of his wrist.

  “Call me this evening. I’ll tell you what the crime-scene guys found out.”

  And she giggled. For a moment, she looked like a little girl who’d just done something forbidden.

  “Now take off,” she said, lighting up another cigarette.

  Jan, astonished, took a second to recover. Then he signaled Chandu, and they tiptoed out of the courtyard.

  Jan lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. After Chandu had driven him back to his place and bandaged up his wound, he’d tried to cheer Jan up. They’d watched recordings of ice hockey and American football, but their usual enthusiasm had never kicked in. At some point it had grown dark again, and Chandu had gone to bed. Jan had never felt so lonely. He was glad to be staying here, but his life was in ruins. He could not call anyone or write any e-mails. The days of comforting city strolls were past. He couldn’t even show up in his local pub.