Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  Henry was all ears.

  “Merle who?” she asked. “What’s his last name?”

  “Oh, hell, ma’am—pardon my language—but I don’t know the full names of half the fellows on these crews.” He put his cap back on. “Especially with, well, you know.” He grinned and made a yacking motion with his hand. “All that Habla Español. Except when they’ve got a complaint about their check, of course. Then all of a sudden their English is pretty damn good.”

  “At the rates you pay, who can blame ’em? You do keep records, though, right?”

  “On the regulars, sure. They get paychecks, W-2s, the whole nine yards. But Merle, he’s a hustleman.”

  “Hustleman?”

  “Part-timer. Cash basis only. No receipts, no records, nothing. We pick up a few every day, for when we’re running short. And with the full-timers jumping from company to company, well, we’re just about always running short.”

  “So this Merle, he just kind of shows up at the job site?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. He’s part of a labor pool, over at Henson Point. That’s where we always go first when we’re looking for hustlemen. He wasn’t there this morning, though, which, like I said, kinda surprised me, because he was always looking to be on any crew coming here. And you folks were due. He would’ve known.”

  “He would’ve? How?”

  “Oh, the grow schedule, mostly. He kept track.”

  “Did he, now? Well, I’d like to find him if I could.”

  “Find him?” Halloran, seeming to finally register her intensity, looked a little uncomfortable.

  “To thank him, for being such a friend to my brother. In light of what happened and all.”

  “Sure, ma’am. But I, uh…I don’t really think they’d like the idea of me helping you track down one of our hustlemen. Not that I’d personally object.”

  “I understand, Ben. So where’s this labor pool, then? You said Henson Point?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One of those informal things. They start showing up in the Walmart lot around six. Every morning but Sundays, looking for any kind of work they can pick up.”

  “Undocumented?” Henry said.

  “Well, mostly, although you didn’t hear that from me. They get some drunks, too, the usual down-and-outers. Cash basis, like I said, which is the way those types like it.”

  “Merle doesn’t sound like a Hispanic name.”

  “Oh, he ain’t, ma’am. He’s as white as you and me.”

  “Then which is he, a drunk or a down-and-outer?”

  “I don’t rightly know, and that’s the truth of it. Always works hard, though, when he bothers to show. That’s usually how it goes with the drinkers and the druggies. Reliable until they’re not. Although, well…”

  “Well, what?”

  “He’s always been kind of a fish out of water with that crowd. Dresses like ’em, I’ll say that. But clear-eyed, never bloodshot. It’s why our crew chiefs like having him. They know they’ll get a good, sober day’s work. ’Scuse me, ma’am. Looks like they’re about finished.”

  He stepped into the rain and headed off toward the trucks. Henry looked at Anna.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Could he be the new Joey?”

  “Better. Joey made flesh.”

  A few hours ago she’d looked beaten. Now she looked invigorated, determined.

  They had work to do. It was a slim thread, but it was a lead.

  15

  Berlin, 1979

  Helen drank alone until three in the morning—her very own dark night of the soul, catered by two bottles of cheap Gewürztraminer. She contemplated the various ways in which her actions had doomed the poor, benighted Frieda, and speculated on what she might have done to save the girl. Her sorriest conclusion was that Frieda would have been better off if Helen had remained upstairs, listening in impotent agony while Kevin Gilley raped her. A horrible prospect, but Frieda—or Anneliese, as Helen now thought of her—would still be alive.

  Damaged, yes, but alive.

  Toward the end of the first bottle, Helen settled on an even better alternate outcome.

  “Should’ve killed him,” she muttered to herself. She remembered the fear in the girl’s face as she had fled into the rain bearing little more than Helen’s parting vows of aid and secrecy. Empty promises.

  Helen supposed there was a chance that the murder was some sort of terrible coincidence. Raped in one venue, killed in another, but for different reasons. The world was always a dangerous place for drifting young women like Anneliese. Helen clung to that thread as she drank her way through the second bottle.

  Then Baucom’s words about Gilley’s field of endeavor flashed to mind—sorcery and black bags—and her torment resumed. Of course it was connected. She swallowed more wine.

  For dinner she ate half a box of crackers and a heel of stale bread slathered with the final scrapings from a jar of Nutella. In the course of the evening she got two phone calls. Probably Baucom, so she didn’t answer. After the second one Helen unplugged the phone.

  A little after four she vomited up everything, spattering her jeans, her blouse, and the floor beside her bed, where she’d nodded off an hour earlier. If she’d been lying on her back she might have choked to death, and what a great loss that would have been to the Cause of the West, she reflected from her seat on the floor, the room spinning.

  Helen stumbled into the shower fully clothed to wash off the mess, and then stood dripping on the bathroom tiles as she stripped off her soaked garments. She put on a soft heavy robe, climbed into bed and fell into a dizzy stupor. No sanctuary to be found this time, despite Baucom’s kindly advice. No realm of sleep yet existed that would have admitted her for protection in this frame of mind.

  But when she awoke there was a plan stirring inside her throbbing head. If she couldn’t pursue or investigate Gilley from inside Berlin station—and that seemed clear, given all the restrictions Herrington had imposed—then she would do it from the outside. From here on out she would set her own limits, take risks. The one thing she wouldn’t risk was letting Gilley go unpunished or unnamed.

  It was already past 9 a.m., so the first thing she did was phone Herrington.

  “I’m not feeling well. Some sort of bug.”

  “Then by all means take a day.” He sounded relieved.

  “I might need more than one, but I’ll be available in any emergency, and I won’t fall behind in my paperwork.”

  “Take as long as you need. Whatever it takes for the old, reliable Helen Abell to return to form.”

  “Thank you, sir.” You fuckwad bastard.

  “Thank you, Helen.” Smug as ever, even in trying to sound gracious.

  Obviously he believed he’d won. Problem solved! Another administrative coup for the chief of station!

  She threw on the first clean clothes she found—black jeans, a blue cotton T-shirt, a brown Irish fisherman’s sweater. Then, reconsidering in light of her planned destination, she dug out a more professional getup. A navy business suit with a white cotton blouse. Something that looked not only very American but vaguely spooklike, because that’s what she was shooting for. She swallowed three Tylenols, drank two glasses of water, and grabbed her ID and shoulder bag. The last thing she did before leaving was to check inside the bag for the two reels of audiotape. From now on she would keep them with her at all times. She was glad she wouldn’t be going into the office, where it would feel like she was carrying a load of smuggled plutonium.

  Helen headed straight to the nearest café, where she ordered a Milchkaffee and a chocolate croissant. She grabbed a copy of Tagesspiegel from a stack by the door and then steeled herself by gulping half the cup before opening the paper. She found the item boxed among the local news briefs on an inside page, and her first reaction was to wretch, barely able to hold down those first sw
allows. This drew an indignant stare from one of those older Hausfrau types who were always correcting your behavior. Helen glared back until the woman looked away. She took a bite of the croissant and another swallow, letting the coffee scald all the way to her stomach. Then she read the story.

  The murder of Anneliese Kurz merited only four paragraphs, and the details were scant. Strangulation and a severe beating. A suspected lovers’ quarrel, just as Erickson had said. No suspect was in custody, or was named, but an eyewitness had apparently spotted a young man running from the scene, and then saw the body through an open door. So, then. Not Gilley, but that was hardly a surprise.

  The most valuable item was the name of the policeman handling the investigation: Otto Schnapp, a detective with the Kriminalpolizei, or KriPo. He was based in the cop shop for the Abschnitt, or precinct, for Kreuzberg. She borrowed a phone book from behind the counter and looked up the address on Friesenstrasse. Schnapp was probably the fellow Erickson had dealt with, and his task would have been simple enough: Hush it up or, at the very least, keep the Agency’s name out of any further discussion. Erickson also would’ve requested access to Frieda’s personal effects, and by now a team would have searched and sanitized her apartment.

  The precinct house was a complex of imposing nineteenth-century red-brick buildings, five stories high. With their turrets and arched windows they were grandiose, like something built in the age of the Kaisers. Her walk from the U-Bahn took her past Templehof, the horseshoe-shaped air terminal that had been the main landing strip of the Berlin Airlift, which kept the western half of the city fed and watered during the Soviet blockade of 1948. Now it was a minor hub for commuter flights, but Helen could never pass it without recalling the postwar photos of spindly German boys standing atop piles of rubble as they watched the incoming American cargo planes—back when the East-West struggle really was a matter of life and death.

  She found Detective Otto Schnapp on the third floor, in an office with glass partitions. His door was open, so she entered without knocking. He was standing with his back to her, dressed in a police-issue ribbed green sweater as he rummaged through an open file drawer.

  “Herr Detektiv Schnapp?”

  He turned calmly, a rangy man in a blond buzz cut, and assessed her with steady blue eyes.

  “Ja?”

  She handed him her official ID and addressed him in German.

  “I am Helen Abell, here on behalf of my employer with regard to the homicide of Anneliese Kurz.”

  He raised his eyebrows as he inspected the ID. Then he handed it back.

  “Again?” he said in English. “Your Mr. Statler was here yesterday on this matter. I told him all that I know. And I am assuming that by now his representatives have already visited the scene, as well as Miss Kurz’s place of residence.”

  Statler. Erickson’s cryptonym.

  “Yes, and thank you for your cooperation. But further questions have come up, so I’m here to double-check. And, please, do speak German.”

  Schnapp settled in behind his desk and gestured toward a chair. He steepled his fingers, and looked her in the eye long enough to make her uncomfortable.

  “It is best if I speak English in these sorts of…situations. I do not wish to be told later that something was lost in translation. Although your German is certainly superior to Mr. Statler’s.”

  Hardly surprising. Schnapp was impressive, not least because she already sensed he wasn’t buying her story.

  “Pardon me a moment,” he said.

  He picked up the phone, dialed a number from memory, and, following a brief pause and the squeak of an answering voice, said in English, “Miss Helen Abell, please.”

  She started to object, then thought better of it. He nodded and spoke again.

  “Very well. I shall try later. No, there is no message.”

  Neatly done. He’d managed to check the validity of her name, but without blowing the whistle on her to Berlin station, and she wondered why.

  “Tell me,” he asked, steepling his fingers again, “what is so important to you—or, rather, to your employers—about this case?”

  “As I said, I’m only here to double-check.”

  “Even with so little information at hand? What details of the case, in particular, did you wish to ‘double-check,’ as you say?”

  He leaned forward and opened a small notebook. He was calling her bluff, asking for specifics.

  “The eyewitness, for one. I’d like to review his statement, and his contact information.”

  “So, I see that you have read this morning’s newspaper.”

  “We’d hoped there would be no coverage. Now, about that statement…”

  Schnapp smiled.

  “Why don’t you ask Mr. Statler for his copy?”

  “As I said, I’m here to verify. We do that sometimes.”

  He eyed her a moment longer. Then he shook his head slowly, opened a desk drawer, and retrieved a glossy photo clipped to some paperwork. He tossed it toward Helen.

  It was a crime scene photo of Anneliese Kurz. Helen reflexively looked away, but the image was already embossed on her memory. A white, thin neck, twisted at a horrible angle. Glassy lifeless eyes. That pale skin, and the same blouse that Gilley had torn open, buttons missing. Helen swallowed slowly and glanced again. The girl’s mouth was agape. Her temple was bruised.

  “May I get you something to drink?” Schnapp sounded solicitous. He seemed taken aback by her reaction. “Mineral water, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She steeled herself and unclipped the photo to read the report, although she could barely focus on the words.

  “I’ll need a copy of this,” she said, her voice sounding to her like it was coming from another room.

  “Your colleague has already misplaced his?”

  “Just being thorough.”

  “Of course. You may keep that one. I have others. The photo remains here.”

  She slid it toward him without comment and again tried to focus on the words. She cleared her throat and spoke again.

  “Any luck in identifying or locating a suspect?”

  “None. The eyewitness account, as you will see, was not so detailed.” He recited from the report by memory: “Male, early twenties, medium build, long blond hair, blue jeans, white T-shirt—”

  She held out a hand to halt him.

  “You know, my German really is quite good. As long as you’re quoting the witness verbatim, you might as well give me his exact words.”

  “Those were his exact words, Miss Abell. The eyewitness was American.”

  “American?”

  “Yes, as you will see in the report. Kurt Delacroix, age nineteen. Some sort of hippie, it would seem, or perhaps simply a fellow traveler of all those Autonomen anarchist trash who live in that building.”

  “I see. And the report contains his contact information?”

  “Such as it is. Some flophouse calling itself a youth hostel. Bedbugs, syringes in the stairwell, that sort of place. A room on the fifth floor with six beds. But as I spoke with him I saw that he only had one bag. A duffle, I believe you call them, so at this moment he may be anywhere.”

  “You think he’s left Berlin?”

  “I do not know. I asked him to remain in the city in case we arrested a suspect. For a lineup, you see. The victim supposedly had a boyfriend, whose description matches that of the suspect, but no one seems to know where he has gone. Delacroix promised he would stay, but when I went to question him a second time he had vacated the building. His current whereabouts are not known to me.”

  “Does the report give his physical description?”

  “It is not our customary procedure to log descriptions of eyewitnesses, Miss Abell, not when we have already spoken with them face-to-face. Nor was your Mr. Statler much inter
ested in such information, so there is nothing to ‘verify,’ as you put it. But would you like to know for yourself?”

  They were looking intently at each other. Helen sensed that Schnapp didn’t really care if she was here in an official capacity or not. For whatever reason, he seemed to be enjoying their back-and-forth. Curiosity, maybe.

  “Yes, please. Describe him.”

  “Fairly tall, perhaps a hundred eighty-eight centimeters.” Schnapp paused. “Ah, yes, you are not metric. Allow me.” He reached into a desk drawer for a pocket calculator and punched in a few numbers. “About six feet, two inches. Broad-shouldered, but trim. Brown eyes, a reddish complexion, clean-shaven. Long black hair, greasy and uncombed. When I saw him he was wearing black leather pants and a black leather jacket, with silver things up his sleeves—do you call them buttons?”

  “Studs, I think.”

  “Yes. Silver studs. A white T-shirt. Black boots, of the sort that the anarchists wear for kicking in the teeth of fallen policemen. He speaks as they speak, with contempt in every word. I gathered that he enjoys their company, perhaps, but does not share their taste for fighting simply for its own sake. So, then, an Autonomen in appearance only, but not by personal manifesto.”

  “What sort of progress have you made in the case?”

  “None. Nor do I anticipate making much more in the days to come, unless our crime scene technicians come up with some sort of wonderful discovery, or unless Mr. Delacroix suddenly reappears with more information. There was no blood at the scene. Whoever killed her was quick and efficient, and was unusually tidy about cleaning up after himself.”

  “Well trained, then.”

  “Or lucky. It happens.”

  “How do you know he was quick?”

  “The room showed no signs of a major struggle, and the doctor who examined her said there was no skin beneath her fingernails. Only the dirt of the streets.”

  A plain enough statement, but it nearly moved Helen to tears.

  “But if this was some sort of lovers’ quarrel, shouldn’t someone have a name?”