Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  “You know what cholesterol is?” Jan asked her.

  “You know what my heels could do to your shins?” she replied with her mouth full.

  Jan gazed around. The café was full of customers. Children played out on the green. A riled-up dog’s bark mingled with the beats coming from an Opel with its stereo way too loud.

  Jan had hidden his hair under a cap. He was wearing narrow sunglasses and several days’ worth of stubble. Despite this camouflage, he did not feel secure. He used to enjoy summer mornings like this. Starting off Sunday in a café, enjoying the warm temperatures and the food. Now his eyes darted around, out of fear that a police vehicle could pass through Leipziger Platz.

  Jan heard Chandu’s voice in his ear: “Turn your head to the left.” His friend sat in a car not far from them, staking out the street. Max had attached a tiny camera to Jan’s sunglasses, feeding a picture to a monitor Chandu had mounted on the dash.

  “The guy with jaw-length, blow-dried-back hair.”

  Jan turned inconspicuously. The man might have been attractive if his nose were smaller and his teeth weren’t yellowed.

  “The one with the open shirt and glitzy Rolex?” Zoe whispered into the microphone under her collar.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, dude. Like in some bad movie.”

  Nathan Lefort sat down at a table. Following him was a Mediterranean-looking man, about Chandu’s size.

  “I was right. This joint is the son-of-a-bitch’s breakfast spot.”

  “What now?” Zoe said. “We’re not finding out anything watching him drink coffee.”

  “Bisacodyl,” Chandu said.

  Zoe raised her eyebrows. “What’s a laxative have to do with it?”

  “I know two of the servers. For a kindly gratuity, they’ll help us cause problems with our friend’s digestion. Plus, they’ve been wanting to get back at the not-so-charming Frenchman for a while now.”

  “Where did you get the bisacodyl?”

  “Here and there,” Chandu hedged.

  Zoe kept at it. “Then what? We analyze his stool?”

  “Please have a little more faith in my plan,” Chandu said. “I’ll sneak in the back and wait in the restroom while Jan stalls the bodyguard. You stay in your seat, so our man Max can record it all from your lapel camera. Some other guys might be coming wanting to meet up with Nathan.”

  A blonde woman approached Nathan’s table and took his order. After she’d turned back around, French Nat stuck out his tongue at her lewdly and laughed out loud about it.

  “Nice guy,” Zoe remarked.

  “Don’t stare at him so much,” Jan warned. “Types like that are paranoid.”

  Jan nervously tapped his fingers on the table. He hated sitting here doing nothing while the others did all the work. The server finally brought two coffees to Nathan’s table.

  “Is she one of the ones you know?” Zoe asked.

  “Yes,” Chandu replied. “That’s Sandra. Sweet thing, really gets up and goes. You can’t imagine what she—”

  “Don’t want to know,” Zoe cut him off. “Main thing is, she got the bisacodyl in there. If she did, you should head on in. That stuff works fast.”

  Jan checked the time. The plan was not perfect. Countless things that might go wrong had occurred to him, but this was their only chance to get close to Nathan. Jan would have liked to interrogate the Frenchman personally, but two people waiting for him in the men’s restroom would have been too conspicuous. Besides, Nathan had been in the French Foreign Legion, so Chandu was the better choice. Jan only had to keep the bodyguard at bay.

  Chandu was waiting in a stall in the men’s room. His legs anxiously shifted back and forth. He composed himself like before a fight, blocking all else out. This Nathan was no weakling. Anyone who’d fought with the Foreign Legion for ten years knew all the tricks. In a fistfight he’d slaughter the Frenchman, but Nat was sure to have a knife or even a piece on him.

  Everything had to go just right. The café was busy and bright, not some dark, secluded underpass. If just one customer came into the restroom along with Nathan, the whole thing was finished. Chandu had only one shot. He had to overpower the Frenchman before he knew what was coming.

  “He’s getting up,” he heard Jan say in his earpiece. “The way he’s holding his stomach, our pharmaceutical magic is working.”

  The door to the men’s restroom opened. A man was cursing in French.

  Chandu bounded out of the stall, lunging at the startled Nathan. He grabbed the Frenchman by the collar and kicked open the stall door. Chandu rammed Nathan’s head into the toilet bowl and flushed. Nathan twisted and jerked to fight Chandu’s hold, but Chandu drove his knee into Nathan’s shoulders and held him down. Once the water emptied, he pulled Nathan up and slammed Nathan’s forehead against the stall wall. Then he plunged the Frenchman’s head back into the toilet again. The Frenchman floundered in Chandu’s tight grip. The African was merciless. He counted to ten, then yanked Nathan from the bowl and looked him in the eyes.

  “Listen up, son of a bitch. You’re going to answer a few questions. I don’t like an answer? I drown you in this toilet.”

  Nathan’s eyes were wide with fear. He coughed up water. Blood ran from his forehead. And he nodded.

  Nathan’s bodyguard seemed to suspect nothing. The thug drank his coffee leisurely, setting his feet up on the chair opposite. He pulled a pack from his shirt and lit a cigarette.

  The things Jan was hearing through his earpiece made him cringe.

  “Your homeboy is not too squeamish,” Zoe remarked, grinning. “When he’s done with that asshole, he’ll have to go have that talk with my neighbor.”

  After the bodyguard had allowed himself a couple puffs, he glanced toward the restroom, looking anxious. Evidently his boss’s toilet break was lasting too long.

  “Damn it,” Jan said. “I’m going over to him.” He stood.

  “Just wait,” Zoe said, trying to hold him back.

  Jan shook his head. He didn’t want to take any risks. Chandu needed every second. Jan maneuvered around the chairs and tables till he was at the bodyguard’s table. The man was about to rise, but Jan sat down and showed his police badge.

  “Berlin Detectives,” he said. “Please remain seated.”

  The man was taken off guard. He looked around as if reconning possible escape routes, but he sat back down in his chair.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” the man said.

  “Possibly,” Jan said, “but we’ve received a terror warning, so we’re watching all public squares and gathering places.”

  The bodyguard reared up. “I look like a fuckin’ A-rab?” He’d clearly recovered from his initial shock. “What, you think I got a bomb strapped on under my shirt?”

  The toilet flushing roared in Jan’s ear. He could barely focus on their conversation.

  “Measures include weapons checks. Are you carrying a weapon on you?”

  “Not a one,” the man said, holding up his hands. “I swear.”

  “So what’s making that bulge in your jacket, at the left hip?”

  The bodyguard turned his head toward the street again. He seemed to be entertaining more thoughts of fleeing.

  “It’s jus’ a little club I got,” he whispered. “No one’s assassinating anyone with a thing like that.”

  “A little club.” Jan raised his eyebrows, disapproving. “You planning on killing your own breakfast? Why else would you carry that on you, and at a place like this?”

  Jan could practically see the man’s thoughts racing. Meantime, Nathan had become talkative. Jan had to play for more time.

  “There’s a few bad guys in Berlin,” the bodyguard explained. “It’s jus’ self-protection.”

  “Can I see this club?”

  The man grumbled something and se
t a slim plastic stick on the table. Jan knew the style of weapon. It could be whipped out in one quick movement. At its tip was a heavy, round ball, good for breaking bones. Jan took a good, long look at the blackjack.

  “Cudgels and steel rods are prohibited. Purchase and ownership are forbidden. You do know that, right?”

  The bodyguard nervously wrung his hands. “Listen, Herr Police Detective. I’m sorry, but there’s people I got trouble with.”

  Jan suppressed a grin. When thugs started getting civil, you had them in the palm of your hand.

  “I got it all,” he heard Chandu saying in his ear. “We can go.”

  The plan had worked. Now Jan only had to get something good out of his situation. He gave the bodyguard a stern stare.

  “All right, fine,” he began, sounding generous. “We are searching for assassins, not heavies. Since I dread all the paperwork involved, I’m going to let this pass. I’ll confiscate that blackjack, but don’t ever get caught with this again.”

  The big bodyguard nodded and thanked him profusely. “Promise, Herr Police Detective. Won’t happen again.”

  Jan stood, went back over to his table, and waved at Zoe.

  “We’re out of here,” he whispered. He set a twenty-euro bill on the table and left the café. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the bodyguard heading for the restrooms. Whatever the guy found in there, it was sure to end his career in the underworld.

  Chandu sat on the couch and sighed.

  “If I would’ve known how much fun you have solving cases, I would’ve joined the detectives.”

  Jan ignored the remark. “What were you able to find out? On the recording we only heard the toilet flushing and a bunch of French cussing I didn’t understand.”

  “Oh, our friend got quite creative,” Zoe explained. “In one part he’s calling Chandu an African locust muncher whose dick is the size of a—”

  “That’s about as much as I need to hear,” Jan interrupted. “Just tell us what info he spat out after downing that toilet water.”

  “One thing I have to make clear first,” Chandu told them. “I don’t usually go in for violence, but Nathan is a bag of shit even for the Berlin underworld. So it was my duty to treat him like that.”

  “You’re the kind of good Samaritan I don’t want to meet in a dark alley,” Zoe said, which earned her another deprecating look from Chandu.

  “I have to admit it was a tall order, but after that toilet bath he started singing like a lark,” he said.

  “Michael Josseck was one of his clients. The guy did four thousand euros a month in business with him. As far as his sexual requests, he was into gay sex, rough S&M, and even pedophilia. Apparently Josseck tried everything Nathan had to offer.”

  “He know the judge?” Jan asked.

  “No.”

  “Could it be that one of the girls was abused by the both of them and decided to take her revenge?” Zoe asked. “She could have come to the judge some other way.”

  Chandu shrugged. “That would be one possibility. Over the years, Nathan has pimped hundreds of girls whose names he never bothered to get to know. He can’t help us any further, toilet bath or no. Prostitutes won’t get us anywhere.”

  “Damn it,” Jan said. “Keep thinking. The two murders must be connected. There’s more to it.”

  “I might have something to offer,” Max broke in. They all turned to the hacker.

  “I checked out Nathan Lefort. As you guys might imagine, he’s been to court countless times already. Assault, money laundering, inciting prostitution. Nothing special for him, but one time he was under suspicion of murder. It was for a woman named Stein. She was his drug courier.”

  The name struck Jan like a bolt through the head.

  “You mean Marie Stein?” He jumped from the couch.

  “Yes,” Max said. “You know the case?”

  “Marie Stein was the sister of Patrick Stein, my fellow cop.”

  Chapter 12

  “Patrick Stein joined the Detective Division because of his sister’s murder,” Jan began. “Supposedly, an illustrious career as a lawyer was in his future. He was the family’s golden boy, but his sister had gone off the rails. She was taking hard drugs and ran away at sixteen. Next two years, she kept getting arrested for drug-related crimes, casual prostitution. She must have met Nathan somewhere in there. He got her working as a drug courier. She allegedly smuggled heroin from Russia to Germany. Her parents had already given up on her by then. Only Patrick stood by her. She was found in a gutter eventually. Someone had beaten her to death and cut open her stomach to retrieve the dope.”

  Jan turned a beer bottle in his hands, deep in thought.

  “The case was never solved. Her pimp, who we now know as Nathan, was the main suspect, but the evidence was sparse and he was let go. On the day the verdict came down, Patrick broke off his studies and applied for the police. He worked hard from the very first day and passed with flying colors. He got into Homicide. The first few years went well, but then his rise got the brakes put on it.”

  “Why?” Chandu asked.

  “He lacked the instinct,” Jan told them. “Patrick knows all the rules, regulations. He is a good cop, but when standard operating procedures fail him, he gets nowhere.”

  “And you were better at it, and you spoiled his career?” Zoe asked.

  “I’m not better, just more driven by instinct. Which meant I made progress on cases when he was never able to. I didn’t destroy his career. He’s the one still working as a detective.”

  “So why does he hate you, then?”

  “Two reasons for that. First, I made jokes at his expense. That’s an initiation ritual. Nothing dramatic, but he took it the wrong way coming from me. The final break came when I interfered with one of his cases. His investigation had gone down the wrong road, but thanks to my help, the case was solved. But it made Patrick look stupid. He’d wasted two weeks without getting any results, and I got it done in one day. I can get where he’s coming from, but we’re in Homicide. All that counts is catching who did it. It doesn’t matter who gets the credit for solving the case. That’s the way I look at it.”

  “Patrick sees it otherwise,” Chandu said.

  “I dismissed it all so easily. I never would’ve thought it would lead to something as big as this.”

  “You’re saying he’s behind all of this?” Zoe said. “That’s a pretty harsh allegation.” She blew cigarette smoke at the ceiling. “I hardly know Patrick, but he doesn’t seem like a psychopathic murderer to me.”

  “There’s a madman inside all of us,” Chandu stated. “You only need that trigger. His sister’s brutal murder might have done it.”

  “I don’t want to go suspecting anyone too easily,” Jan said. “But with Patrick, we have found the connection to me. Plus, he’s the perfect murderer.”

  “Because he’s with detectives?” Chandu said.

  “Who can pull off a murder better than someone who’s preoccupied with it all day long? He’d know crime-scene methods, forensics, how to track clues. He’d know how to observe a target, figure out their weaknesses, and determine just the right moment to commit murder. Patrick possesses all the skills for going on a killing spree.”

  “And since he runs the homicide squad, that caps it all off,” Chandu said. “He just diverts the investigation away from himself and straight to you.”

  “I feel so much safer now,” Max remarked.

  “I still don’t see why he decided on you,” Zoe said.

  “I was an easy target,” Jan said. “He knows my apartment, my car. He knows all my colleagues and friends—he easily could have found out that Judge Holoch and I had a history.”

  “How did he get at your blood and fingerprints?” Max asked.

  “It must have happened sometime after Betty and I went out Friday. He could
have spiked something I drank with knockout drops, at my place even.”

  “They wouldn’t have seen that on a blood test? They found the ecstasy, after all,” Max said.

  “No,” Zoe said. “Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, for instance, one of the most common knockout drugs, is only detected in the blood for twelve hours maximum. They would have had to check Jan’s hair.”

  “Let’s assume that Patrick is the murderer and wants to take revenge on you,” Chandu said. “What’s the connection between him and the two victims?”

  “It’s pretty apparent that Marie wasn’t just a drug courier; she was also a prostitute,” Jan contended.

  “That I get,” Chandu said. “But how did Patrick know that Marie was abused by Judge Holoch and Michael Josseck?”

  “She would have told him,” Zoe said.

  “Really?” Chandu said. “Would you tell your own brother that you were doing tricks with all kinds of perverts to fund your drug addiction?”

  “He was all she had,” Zoe argued. “Her parents didn’t want anything more to do with her, and if she was a true addict, she didn’t have any real friends.”

  “There are unanswered questions,” Jan said. “But since Nathan Lefort is a dead end, Patrick is the best we got.”

  Max turned on the projector. A picture appeared of Jan’s fellow cop wearing a suit. “Ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to introduce—our new main suspect, Patrick Stein.”

  “So what do we do now?” Zoe asked. “We can’t go ambush Patrick in a café and stick his head in a toilet bowl.”

  “Although that does work on cops,” Chandu said, grinning.

  “We have to be careful,” Jan warned them. “Right now the homicide squad is only focusing on me. If someone guesses that Chandu’s hiding me or that Zoe’s helping me, we’re all going to be in big trouble.”

  “We wouldn’t be personally introducing ourselves to him,” Chandu reassured Jan. “Patrick only needs the slightest suspicion to launch an all-points dragnet. The fact that he’s seen Zoe once isn’t that bad. But another encounter would get him suspicious.”