Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  “Are you married to him?”

  The woman chuckled. “Listen here. I ain’t seen Chandu for a long time now. Leave me your number. He comes around, I’ll call ya.”

  She went to shut the door in his face, but Patrick held it open with a hand.

  She went off on him: “I got no time, man. If you got no search warrant, then go fuck off.”

  Patrick grabbed at her arm and twisted it behind her back until she screeched in pain. He kicked the door open all the way, shoved her inside, and pushed her to the floor.

  “Okay, now let’s talk,” he told her. “And by the time I leave, I expect to know where he is. Anything less? Would not be good.” Then he closed the door.

  Chandu got to the disco’s vast parking lot around 9:30 p.m. He lurked in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity. Luckily the place was underneath a bridge and the lighting was sparse. With no video surveillance and several hard-to-see spots, he felt confident he’d be able to work unnoticed.

  Chandu waited a half hour without seeing any car pull in that was worth stealing. Irritated, he checked his watch. When a silver-gray Toyota Auris compact came around the corner a minute later, Chandu sighed with relief. Finally, a ride he wouldn’t have trouble with.

  From his pants pocket he took a black box that was barely bigger than a cell phone, and he pulled back deeper into the shadows.

  The car zipped into a parking space. The headlights went off, and a young guy in a suit stepped out. He was wearing dark sunglasses and had a flashy watch on his wrist. His hair was combed severely to the side, and a gold chain glittered on his white shirt. As he went to slam the car door, Chandu activated his jammer to interrupt the key’s signal to the car. Walking away, the driver pressed his remote to lock the car. He didn’t notice when the usual flash failed to happen. He was singing some song or other and doing a few dance steps as he headed for the disco. Chandu waited until he was out of sight, emerged from his hiding spot, and opened the driver’s door. Inside he found the right lever and popped the hood. A minute later, he had hooked up his laptop to the engine’s distributor box. Then he started a program called “Toyota Auris” and waited. After a moment, the engine fired up.

  Satisfied, Chandu packed away the laptop and shut the hood. He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and swapped the Toyota’s plates with those of the car next to it. Even if they did start searching for the Auris, the fake plate would keep him safe for a few days. He just needed to make sure he didn’t get stopped at some police checkpoint.

  His job done, he tossed laptop and screwdriver on the passenger seat and drove off the premises, grinning.

  While Chandu was out getting a car, Jan was watching a boring reality show. He hated these crappy talent competitions, but it was the best thing on at the moment. His cell phone rang. The screen showed a picture of his kooky computer buddy.

  “What’s new, Max?”

  “I found something,” the hacker said. “Michael Josseck’s construction company is building a row-house development in Friedrichsfelde.”

  “How did you find that out so easily?”

  “I called their office earlier—said I was an investor and asked if I could have a look at a building project before I put in a bid.”

  “And they gave you the job site’s address?”

  “Yup.”

  “They mention that the company’s owner was just murdered?”

  “No. You’d think nothing had happened. I wonder if the people there refuse to believe that their boss is dead.”

  “Weird,” Jan said. “But, okay, give me the address.”

  Max described how to get there. He hung up.

  Jan was jotting down a note when Chandu came in the door.

  “Was that Max?”

  Jan nodded.

  “We know where we’re going?”

  “To Friedrichsfelde. Some dinky row-house development. We’ll head out tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so worked up,” Chandu said, handing Jan a cap. “We’re just going out for a quick drink.”

  “Maybe you forgot, there’s a manhunt on for me? Going for a little stroll? Maybe. But staying a long time in one place, it’s stupid. Anyone could drop in on us.”

  “You don’t need to worry. It’s my local bar. I know everyone personally, and newcomers rarely come in.”

  Jan pulled on the hat and looked at himself in the mirror. “This is supposed to keep anyone from recognizing me?”

  “With this it will.” He gave Jan a pair of eyeglasses. Their angular frame was basic, almost cheaply so. The lenses were tinted.

  “Reading glasses?” Jan said. “Really?”

  “The lenses aren’t prescription,” Chandu explained. “I got them for a costume ball.”

  “You go to costume balls?”

  “Long story. Put ’em on.”

  Jan looked in the mirror, the glasses resting on his nose. “I look worse than Max.”

  “Precisely.” Chandu grinned. “It’s not like we’re out on the prowl—we’re just getting a drink, so you can relax a little. Anyone there will only remember some unshaven freak with a stupid hat and even stupider glasses.”

  “Sounds killer.”

  “Come on, don’t be like that. Used to be a phone call was all it took and we were on our way out.”

  “I wasn’t the main suspect in a murder case back then.”

  “Tonight, we’re going to block out that little detail,” Chandu said, smiling. “Two beers and we come home.”

  Jan sighed. “All right, fine.”

  Chandu grabbed his jacket. He was glad to be providing his friend with a little diversion. Zoe and Max didn’t know Jan well enough to see the weight on his shoulders. Jan was barely sleeping, and if it weren’t for the light sleeping pill he was swallowing down with his beer, he wouldn’t be getting any shut-eye at all. Chandu knew it was tough for him to be off the detective squad, not to mention being a murder suspect. Then there was Betty’s suicide. It had almost shattered him, partly because he seemed to feel responsible for her death.

  “Not more than two beers,” Jan said. “We have to get to the job site early tomorrow.”

  Chandu gave a thumbs-up and pushed Jan out the apartment.

  “I’m still not sure I like this idea,” Jan said as they headed down the stairway.

  “Man, I do miss the wild times in good old Kreuzberg.”

  “Once I’m not a suspect any more, we’ll make up for it.”

  On the way to the bar, Chandu tried to drive away Jan’s dark thoughts with a few of their stories. He talked about those massive outdoor viewing parties during the World Cup, swimming naked at night in the Spree, even that brawl they’d gotten into with some bikers after one of their leather-clad girlfriends had hit on Jan.

  Chandu’s local bar was a small joint with darkened windows and two tall bar tables at the entrance. The small nameplate-style sign was illegible. It was not the kind of place a guy would just stumble into, but Chandu loved it. Soul music boomed from two speakers. A smell of deep-fry grease hung in the air, and the dim lighting resembled a hazy twilight.

  “Where to?” Jan asked.

  “Standing tables in back,” Chandu said. “That way we’ll be away from the entrance, and it’s so poorly lit that no one will recognize anyone, even if detectives do come.” He pressed a bill into Jan’s hand. “Grab us two beers. I’m going to say hi to a couple dudes. I’ll be waiting over there for you.”

  Jan left Chandu waving at friends and starting to shake a lot of hands. By the time Jan made his way back with two beers, Chandu was deep in conversation with a few guys about Berlin’s bar scene. He was about to introduce Jan when his eyes roamed toward the entrance—and his smile went cold. Chandu grabbed Jan by the collar, opened the nearby restroom door, and heaved his friend inside.

 
“Stay in there,” he hollered after him. Chandu slammed the door shut before the sound of beer bottles crashing started disturbing the regulars.

  A man in a suit had come in. He pushed on through the regulars, looking disgusted, and came directly for Chandu. With his bright tie and standard oxfords, he looked like an alien being in the bar.

  “My name is Patrick Stein.” He showed his badge. “I have a few questions for you.”

  Chapter 9

  “Why didn’t you look me up at home?” Chandu asked Patrick, taking a useful look around. “A bar isn’t exactly the right place.”

  “Your housemate told me that you’re rarely home and you could be found here.”

  Sakina, Chandu thought. He’d have to threaten to increase her cheap rent when he got a chance—not that he’d ever have the heart to go through with it. Still, thank God she didn’t know about the apartment on Oranienburger. He glanced at Patrick. There was no sense in putting him off. The more helpful he was, the sooner the man would be gone.

  Chandu put on his friendly face. “How can I help?”

  “I’m investigating two murder cases in which a friend of yours is a main suspect.”

  Chandu said nothing, maintaining his noncommittal expression. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Patrick either.

  “Jan Tommen.”

  “Jan?” Chandu made a surprised face. “Doesn’t he work as a detective?”

  “Used to. He changed sides.”

  “Really? Who got murdered?”

  “Not important.” Patrick waved it aside, growing impatient. “Have you seen Herr Tommen recently?”

  “Not for two weeks now.”

  “I don’t have to remind you what happens when you lie to a police officer.”

  “It’s the truth, Herr Kommissar.” Chandu raised his hands in defense. “We know each other, go drinking now and then, but we were never close friends. Why are you after me?”

  “I found a photo of you and Herr Tommen together. You looked like real good friends.”

  “I’m a bouncer. Jan helped me out once, when I was having trouble with a couple drunk dudes. Wasn’t a big deal. He was just doing his duty.”

  “Uh-huh,” Patrick muttered, unconvinced. Chandu forced himself not to turn to his right, look toward the toilet. Hopefully Jan was heeding his warning. If he as much as peeked out, they were screwed.

  “What kind of car do you drive?”

  “I don’t have a car. Mother nature is dear to my heart, which is why I use public transportation.” Chandu fought a grin. He was proud of how easily the lies passed from his lips.

  “You don’t drive a tuned-up black Mercedes?”

  “You must have me confused with someone else. Check my registration. I don’t have a car.”

  And why would he? Patrick thought to himself. Borrowing is cheaper.

  The door to the restrooms opened. Chandu’s heart stopped a second, but instead of Jan, a young blonde came teetering out on high heels.

  “Sicko perv!” she shouted, slamming the door. Only now did Chandu realize that he’d shoved Jan into the women’s restroom. With an angry snort, the blonde pushed on through between them, left the bar, and slammed the front door too.

  Patrick kept looking between Chandu and the toilets. His sense of duty as a police officer was apparently fighting with a dread of entering the women’s restroom.

  “Hey, why don’t you leave me your number?” Chandu said, pulling the man’s attention back his way. “I’ll get in touch if I hear anything about Jan.”

  “Er, all right,” Patrick stammered. He reached in his pocket and handed over a business card. “Jan Tommen committed two murders. He is dangerous. Stay out of his way and call me at once if you see him.”

  “Will do, Herr Kommissar.” Chandu gave a casual salute. “You can depend on me.”

  Patrick nodded and made his way back out. After a couple steps, he turned around.

  “And one other thing.” He pointed a finger, threatening. “Don’t call me Herr Kommissar.” And he slammed the front door shut as well.

  Jan’s sudden appearance in the women’s restroom hadn’t been well received. Chandu’s shove had sent him crashing into the door of a toilet stall, where a pretty blonde was just fixing her top. While falling, he had tried to save his beer, but the two bottles had foamed all over his shirt. Thus drenched, he’d winked at the young woman cheerfully enough. As his reward, the blonde started beating him with her handbag so hard he’d fled into another stall. That was where Chandu found him.

  As Chandu relayed what had happened, Jan was again reminded just how dangerous it was to be out in public. A hat and glasses would not have fooled his fellow cops.

  Out of fear that Patrick could still be creeping around outside by the door, Chandu had grabbed a case of beer and moved the party into the women’s restroom. His friends kept joining the festivities until all the regulars were hanging out with them. It wasn’t till 3:00 a.m., when the bar closed up, that Chandu and Jan sneaked out the rear entrance.

  Jan was going to have a hell of a headache the next morning, but he didn’t care. For a few hours, everything had been like it used to be. Before the murders. When Betty was still living.

  Jan lay in bed, breathing in the subtle aroma of basil. Sunlight brightened the main room that was bedroom, living room, and kitchen in one. Betty stood at the stove, cooking her special breakfast. Ham omelet with fresh herbs. She had a tiny garden growing along her window ledge. She loved the smell of plants. Flowers, miniature trees, and shrubs were spread out all over, and she was devoted to caring for them. At Jan’s, even the fake tulips died, but Betty always knew when a plant needed water or a few days in a sunnier spot.

  She smiled over at him. Jan’s heart threatened to burst with joy. She was so gorgeous, with her long hair and her sparkling eyes. Jan could still taste her lips and feel her warmth on his fingers, as if their bodies were still united in their lovemaking. He wanted to take her in his arms again and savor the taste of her skin.

  Jan wanted to stand, but something was pressing him to the bed. An unseen force held him there without mercy.

  Betty didn’t notice any of it. She scattered rosemary in the pan, its aroma mingling with the basil. She turned a knob on the stove and the burner flame grew larger. The fire only licked around the pan’s edge at first, but it grew with every breath of air it got until the exhaust hood was turning black. Betty’s good mood remained. She kept on cooking as if the flames were just an illusion. Her arms caught fire. The fresh scent of the herbs was driven out by the stink of burning flesh.

  Jan screamed, but the pressure on his chest only grew stronger. He could hardly get any air. He tried to wrench himself free and get up. But the more he tried, the harder he was pressed down into the bed. The flames shot higher and set the kitchen on fire. Betty’s arms were scorched black. Her hair blazed. Her faced seemed to melt. Then the stove exploded in a ball of fire.

  Jan jerked awake from his dream, screaming. He’d kicked the covers off the couch, but his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. His hands trembled. Only slowly did he become aware of his surroundings. The streetlamps outside illuminated the dim outlines of Chandu’s living room. Then his memories overtook him—the murder cases, his escape, Betty’s death. His stomach rebelled, and he vomited onto the coffee table.

  Jan hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep after the dream. His head ached and he felt dizzy, the images on a recurring loop in his head. Even after the hour it took him to clean up the table, he still could hardly walk straight. Only when Chandu brought him a cup of coffee did he start to feel recovered.

  On the way to the car they spoke little, and the trip passed in a shared silence. Judging by how many aspirin Chandu had taken with his morning brew, he wasn’t feeling great either. After an hour, they found the development. It stood in the middle of cleared land surrounded
by trees on all sides. A rutted, trash-strewn road led to the site, where most of the houses were under construction. Some already had windows, but all were missing the exterior plaster. There were no vehicles apart from a crane and a backhoe. No lights were burning, no chimney smoke rising into the sky. No one had moved in yet.

  “Who’d pay for a shack like this?” Chandu asked.

  “There are worse places.”

  “Guantánamo?”

  Jan laughed but regretted it instantly. His head punished any sudden movements.

  Chandu pointed to the last house. “There’s a few people over there.” He drove the Toyota up to the sidewalk, and they got out. The sandy earth was mushy, dotted with little puddles of muddy water filled with building debris. Jan looked for a path that wouldn’t ruin his shoes.

  Chandu put on dark sunglasses. With his hair cut short and his broad back, he looked like the perfect bodyguard for a Bond villain. He motioned for Jan to go first.

  Four workmen leaned against a delivery van, smoking and looking bored. Judging from the number of butts on the ground, they’d been at it awhile already.

  “Morning, guys,” Jan said. None of the men reacted to him.

  “You working for Michael Josseck?”

  “Might be,” one of them grunted. He had a scrawny build and uncombed long, blond hair. His lower arm sported an indistinguishable tattoo. Possibly a lion’s head.

  “Not to worry. We’re not building inspectors. We just have a little . . . job.”

  That perked them up. “What’s it about?”

  “Nothing big,” Jan said. “Restoring some old prewar in Charlottenburg. Twenty an hour.”

  “Why come to us?” the scrawny one asked. He wasn’t looking convinced.

  “Buddy of mine worked with Manuel Floer and was happy with it.”

  “Manuel ain’t here.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “Why’s it have to be Manuel? Guy ain’t even a super.”

  “I only work with recommended guys. He brings you along to work? It’s all good by me.”