Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  Scrawny eyed Jan, sizing him up.

  “Fair enough.” He threw his butt on the ground. “You all ears? Here’s what you do . . .” He rattled off the way to an industrial building site.

  “In Marzahn?” Jan asked.

  Scrawny nodded. Jan sighed. From here, it was going to take forever to get there.

  “You don’t got a phone number for us?”

  “I don’t. You gotta go there personally.” Scrawny pulled a pack from his pocket and lit up another cigarette. “Manuel’s there till quitting time.”

  A man didn’t have to be a psychologist to see the guy was lying somehow, but Jan wouldn’t be getting any more than that out of him. At least it was an address.

  “See you around.” Jan raised a hand and went back to the car. Had he turned around, he would have noticed the worker make a call on his phone and watch them warily as they drove away.

  On the drive to Marzahn, they had to pull over to the side of the road twice. The night before was still exacting its toll. After yet another coffee from a snack stand, Jan’s headache began shrinking to a bearable degree.

  When they arrived, Chandu parked the car in front of an industrial building that was clearly under construction. A huge tarp covered the framework of the main building, and the other structures around the site looked abandoned.

  “No one’s here,” Chandu said. “There’s not even a concrete mixer or a crane. Maybe we head back to Friedrichsfelde, break some bones.”

  “Let’s go on in first,” Jan proposed. “I want to take a little tour.”

  The industrial building appeared empty. Dust covered the floor, and it smelled moldy. The tarp barely let any light through.

  “You looking for someone?” a voice echoed through the space.

  Four husky men came up to them. They wore work clothes and big safety boots.

  “Are you Manuel Floer?”

  “Tell me who you are,” the strongest-looking one demanded. He had on white overalls splattered with fading paint. His nose was crooked, and he was missing several teeth. His unshaven face and shifty expression made Jan dislike him instantly. Types like this got their fun bullying others. Normally Jan would take this as a challenge, but he needed information.

  “A friend tells me you’d like to take on a little side job.”

  “You a fucking pig, what?” He pushed at Jan.

  “No,” Jan said calmly. “A builder looking to work around the taxman.”

  “I know that face you got,” the man continued. He shoved Jan backward. “You’re a filthy pig.”

  Jan fought his urge to slam this guy down with a head butt.

  “So who’s this supposed friend anyway?”

  “Peter,” Jan said without pause. He’d thought about putting Horst Esel into play, but decided to wait.

  “Who in the hell is Peter?”

  The guy never got an answer, because a hard blow from Chandu knocked him off his feet. His fist made a loud crack as it connected with the man’s face.

  “Enough chatting,” Chandu said, ripping off his jacket.

  “What the hell you—” Jan began to say when one of the men jumped him. His head hit the concrete, hard. For a moment he saw stars, was disoriented. A punch to the stomach brought him back. His attacker was on top of him, working him over with punches. Jan grabbed hold of the man’s head, jerked him toward himself and hammered an elbow into his back. That earned him a loud groan.

  Jan thrust the man’s head to the right and twisted free of his grasp. Then he grabbed the punching arm, swung his leg over it, and stretched himself backward. An arm lock. Jan applied pressure on the man’s shoulder. Two seconds later, the thug was pleading for mercy.

  Jan released his grip and stood up. The man rolled to the side, holding his shoulder. Chandu stood next to Jan, massaging his knuckles. Their three opponents lay on the floor.

  “You already done too?” the big man said, grinning.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Start a brawl.”

  “These boys weren’t nice,” Chandu said with a shrug. “Plus, they were going to attack us anyway. I just beat them to it.”

  Jan sighed. Diplomacy was never Chandu’s strength.

  “I never know what you want,” the big man protested. “Now they’ll be nice and cooperative.”

  Manuel Floer held a dirty rag to his nose, his head back slightly. The bleeding was slow to stop. Jan would rather have gotten by without a brawl, but Chandu was probably right.

  “Why were you looking for trouble?” Jan asked.

  “Because I don’t fucking like pigs.”

  “Maybe I’m not one.”

  Manual snorted a laugh. “You stink like a whole room of them.”

  Jan fought an urge to sniff at his clothes. He waved away the thought. “Screw it. Just answer my questions, and we’re gone.”

  The man nodded, scowling.

  “Where is Horst Esel?”

  “No fucking clue.”

  “You should be more cooperative,” Chandu threatened, “otherwise there’s seconds.”

  Manuel was clearly intimidated by Chandu. “I really don’t know,” he said feebly. “I saw Horst a few days ago. He visited me at a job site and started telling me all about his time in the big house. I asked him if he was gonna work construction again, but he just laughed. He was ‘sitting pretty,’ that’s what he said. Then he grinned all stupid.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “How should I know, man? Horst always skimmed off the top by moving this or that building material, but he didn’t get rich off it. Don’t ask me where he got the dough.”

  “You have an idea where he is?”

  “Not a one, man. I’m telling you. Apparently he and his wife moved out of his old place.”

  “Why did he come to the job site?”

  Manuel shrugged. “For old time’s sake, maybe. Didn’t give me a number or any kind of clue where I could find him.”

  Jan had done enough questioning to see Manuel knew nothing. Another dead end. He pulled a pen from his jacket and took Manuel’s hand.

  “Here’s my number.” He wrote the number on the man’s palm. “Something comes to you or you see Horst, call me.”

  “Be better for you if you did,” Chandu added.

  Manuel nodded. And they left the building.

  “What do we do now?” Chandu asked on the drive home.

  “We have to get back to Josseck. Going after Esel’s lackey Manuel wasn’t a bad idea, but we might be looking in the wrong direction.”

  “It is interesting that the murders coincide with Esel getting free.”

  “But he had no real reason to kill Judge Holoch and Josseck. And he had no connection to me.”

  “Connection to you?”

  “I didn’t kill Judge Holoch, so we know the murderer got a hold of my fingerprints, my blood, and my car somehow. It had to be someone close to me or someone who caught me in a moment of weakness.”

  “You blacked out for thirty-six hours. Could be that Esel was lying in wait and slipped you something.”

  “But how and why would he have targeted me? We had nothing to do with each other.”

  “You could have run him in before on some raid, or knocked up his sister, or screwed up some deal he had going.”

  “I’ve put a ton of losers in the pen. If each one wanted revenge, half of Berlin would be pinning me with murder.”

  “In the pen, he did have plenty of time to think it out.”

  “A simple construction guy is supposed to figure out a scheme like that?”

  “There’s more than enough sickos in prison. He only had to have the right cellmate, with connections to the outside.”

  Jan pondered that thought, hemming about i
t. There could be something to what Chandu was saying. “How fast can you get me another police ID?”

  “The basic kind that won’t pass a test? Three hours. If I put down two hundred it’ll go faster.”

  “Can your counterfeiter make forged passport photos too?”

  “You’d be surprised just how fast he can do it. He’ll turn you into a cross between a squirrel and a Martian if you want.”

  “I don’t need it that hard core. Just make my hair a little longer and give me a trimmed beard. And come up with a new name for me.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going inside the pen.”

  “I thought prison is a place you don’t want to be.”

  “I’ll explain later,” Jan said. “Let’s meet back at the apartment in three hours. Let me out at Oranienburger. They got just the shop I need there.”

  Jan felt like a kid in a toy store. Latex masks hung all over the walls. A laughing pig stared at George Bush. An old man with a beard rested next to Venetian masks with gold ornaments that clashed with the zombies lurking above a doorway. A colorful clown grinned demonically at Batman, while the superhero’s indifferent gaze was set on a bimbo wearing a feather boa.

  Jan wanted to roam the store and try on every mask, but time was short. He tried on a few select wigs until he found the right one. He threw in some makeup and checked out. He hadn’t worn a disguise for a long time.

  Chandu, yawning, climbed the stairs to his apartment. He still felt the drinking, right down to his bones. At the counterfeiter’s place, he’d nearly fallen asleep in his chair, even though it had only taken an hour to create a cop badge for one Martin Müller. In the doctored photo, Jan had a beard that made him look ten years older and totally changed his face.

  Chandu was turning the key in the lock when the door flew open, a gun aimed in his face. He cursed his slow reaction, but with that .45 barrel at his nose he didn’t exactly have time for reacting anyway.

  He raised his hands. “Okay, man,” he said to the intruder. “Just don’t be getting nervous now. Who are you, what do you want?”

  “Fldya,” the intruder said, waving the pistol around.

  “Wha . . . ?” Chandu stammered. He was obviously dealing with some kind of weirdo. He weighed his options. He’d have to move all in one motion, yanking the man’s arm to the side to take him.

  The intruder stepped closer. A broad grin showed on his bearded face, and he pocketed the gun.

  “Fooled ya,” Jan chirped.

  “You fucker.” Chandu sighed in relief. “I just about shit my pants.”

  “How you like my new disguise?”

  Jan had long brown hair. The beard looked real. Put an old shirt on him and he was some lazy clerk who called it quits every day at three.

  “Learn that in detectives?”

  Jan shook his head. “In German class.”

  “German class?” Chandu said, puzzled.

  “In eighth grade our teacher made us put on a play. My role was old vagabond with beard. I had to paste on a thing like this for every show. Together with the wig, no one knew who I was.”

  “Why not just keep it on all the time, then?”

  “A glue-on beard is a nasty deal. It itches like hell for hours and you break out in a rash. Get my new ID?”

  “Yes, Martin.” Chandu pressed the plastic in his hand.

  “Martin?”

  “Martin Müller. Whenever you’re sporting that sweater on your face, that’s your new name.”

  “Not exactly creative.”

  Chandu shrugged. “I’m guessing you plan on questioning Horst Esel’s cellmate?”

  “Precisely. If the guards just look at my badge, it’ll be easier. The ID is only backup.”

  “Don’t the guys know you in there?”

  “I haven’t visited the pen for two years now.”

  “What are you hoping to get?”

  “A possible motive. A year in the pen doesn’t turn a crooked construction supervisor into some sick serial killer. On the other hand, it’s bizarre that Esel went into hiding right after being set free. Plus, I want to find out more about this thing Manuel mentioned, that Esel seemed to be acting flush.”

  Jan checked himself out in the mirror, satisfied. The disguise fit perfectly. “If nothing else, maybe I’ll find out more about any connection between Judge Holoch and Josseck. There has to be more than a few court decisions. I called Zoe and Max. We’ll get together tonight. I’ll tell you how my questioning went.”

  He faced Chandu, grinning. “Till later then.”

  “Take care, Martin.”

  Once the door clicked shut, Chandu shuffled into his bedroom. He pulled off his shoes and dropped into bed. Until Jan was back, he was going to have himself a little nap.

  Jan let his gaze roam the empty visiting room. Visiting time was over now, but his badge had granted him access anyway. He anxiously patted his beard, hoping the glue wouldn’t lose its stickiness.

  The door opened. Horst Esel’s cellmate was an obese man, with thinning hair and an unshaven face. He sat down looking grumpy.

  “I already told the tax people everything,” he began. “What do the police want from me?”

  Jan glanced at his notes. “Gregor Linz, I take it?”

  “Yes. I’m hoping you have good news about my motion for reduced sentence.”

  “I’m not here because of you.”

  “Why, then?”

  “Because of Horst Esel.”

  “Horsti? What’s up with the guy? Was he moving goods again?”

  “I can’t tell you, because I don’t know where he is,” Jan explained. “Maybe you can give me a tip.”

  “I’m sorry, boss.” Gregor held his hands up in defense. “Got no idea.”

  “Herr Linz,” Jan said gently. “If you help me, I will speak up for you about that reduced sentence. Otherwise you’ll have to sit out the full sentence, because I’ll tell the review committee that you weren’t cooperative.”

  Gregor pinched his eyes shut, and then opened them wide and glared at Jan. His indignation at this veiled threat was clear.

  “Fine,” Gregor said, the tension draining from his face. “Well, so? What do you want to know?”

  “The whereabouts of Horst Esel.”

  “I can’t help you there. Horst did tell me about his house, though. Built it with a guy he worked with. In prison he even worked out plans for a swimming pool. If you can’t find him there, something must have happened after he got out.”

  “Okay,” Jan said. “Now, tell me about your stay together in here.”

  “He got a cozy deal. Someone had seen to it that he was put in with me.”

  “What’s so special about that?”

  “Me, I’m sitting here because of tax evasion. I don’t hurt a fly.”

  “And that’s it?”

  Gregor shook his head. “He was always getting all kinds of stuff. Magazines, food, that kind of thing. Don’t ask me from who.”

  “That didn’t bother the other prisoners?”

  “That was the thing. One of the baddest guys in the joint was watching out for him.”

  “Who?”

  “I only know him by his nickname, Troweler. Real name Otto or something. Skinhead. Over six foot six with hands like sledgehammers. Broke two guys’ necks. A goddamn plague, but he always kept an eye on Horst.”

  “So, why?”

  “Word was, there was lots of dough flowing his way. Hundred a day.”

  “Who paid him?”

  “Some kind of builder type guy.”

  “Michael Josseck?”

  “That’s it.” Gregor clapped his hands. “Horst was always telling me how he’d gone to prison for the guy.”

  “Just because? Brotherly love?”

&nb
sp; “No. Horst got dough for that too. Plus this Josseck had promised he’d get him work right away once he was out.”

  “Did he say anything about what kind of work?”

  “Something on a building site. I’m sure Horsti doesn’t know anything else. He seemed along for the ride.”

  “Nothing else? Maybe ripping off building materials? Or some other big scam?”

  “I never knew of anything like that. His time in the joint was earning him a tidy little sum. That was the main thing.”

  “All right, thanks a lot, Herr Linz.” Jan put away his notebook and stood. He wasn’t going to get any more than this out of the man.

  “Hey, boss,” he shouted after Jan. “You will put in a good word for me. Without Horsti’s food donations I’m croakin’ on this grub here.”

  “First thing tomorrow,” Jan lied.

  He left the room. He waved to the guards. He hadn’t gotten much closer to Horst Esel. Tonight, he hoped the combined forces of his whole ragtag team could make sense out of all the puzzle pieces.

  Chapter 10

  The gatherings were almost falling into a routine. Zoe and Jan made themselves comfortable on the couch while Chandu fiddled with the coffeemaker. Max stayed absorbed in the tech, fine-tuning the images coming from his little projector. With the smell of cigarettes in the room, the whole scene reminded Jan of a night of poker with friends. The only things missing were cards and beer.

  “How did it go with Esel’s cellmate?” Chandu asked from the kitchen.

  “I didn’t get much further. Josseck was making sure, from the outside, that Esel had a pleasant prison stay. There’s no reason Esel would want to kill the builder. More like the opposite.”

  “So, another dead end,” Zoe remarked.

  “It’s conceivable Esel took off for vacation. We should focus on Josseck. Meantime, maybe Max finds something on the Homicide server.”

  Max sensed he’d been called upon. “Your fellow officers have been hard at work,” he said. He was wearing the same threadbare jeans he’d had on when they first met. His unkempt hair was sticking up all over, and his attempt to let his stubble grow was looking pathetic. His T-shirt boasted a Sesame Street character aiming a pistol. Underneath it read, “Make My Day.”