“Had you ever done anything like this before?”
She shrugged and lowered her head.
“It’s all right, Kathrin, you can tell me.”
“When I was younger.”
“Shoplifting?”
“Yes.”
“And you were caught, too, I’m guessing, which is how Robert would’ve known.”
“Yes, I was caught once. In my hometown in Sachsen-Anhalt, when I was seventeen. It is why I ran away to Berlin.”
Another waif on the run from family and boredom, alone and especially vulnerable, like Anneliese.
“Did the plan work? Did one of you get this man’s keys?”
“Frieda took them. It was easy. She didn’t even have to sneak it. We just waited until he went to the men’s room, and he left his coat on the bar stool. We pressed both keys into the wax and were done. She put the key ring back into his coat pocket well before he returned.”
“Do you know why Robert wanted them?”
She shook her head.
“How did you know who the target would be?”
“Robert had showed me a photo.”
“Did he tell you the man’s name?”
“No, but the man told us himself. It was Werner. Werner something, maybe with a ‘G.’ Gernhardt or Gernholz, I cannot remember. But he was wealthy, or dressed that way. And, well, he drove a BMW. Or at least that was one of his keys. He liked to brag about his work.”
“What did he do?”
“Something political, for the SPD.”
“The Social Democrats?”
“Yes, a policy job, he said. He tried to make us believe he was very important, but Frieda and I had never seen him on television.”
“Did you leave with him?”
“No. That was not the plan. We were only to imprint the keys, and then deliver the wax kit to the van.”
“And that was the night when you warned Frieda about Robert?”
“Yes, as we were leaving the bar. She had told me she would be meeting him soon.”
“What for?”
“She did not know. But she said it would be at a safe house. This one.”
“The man who was working for Robert, the one in the van, what did he look like?”
“He was younger, more like one of us.”
“Like you and Frieda, you mean?”
“Yes. Longer hair, a leather jacket, like someone you’d meet in the clubs.”
“A German?”
“No. American. Or his accent was American.”
Helen felt a cold spot at the base of her stomach.
“Long hair, you said, and a leather jacket?”
“Yes.”
“Black leather? With silver studs up the sleeves?”
“How do you know this?”
“And his hair. Black? Stringy?”
“Yes. You know this man?”
“Possibly.”
Delacroix again. It seemed obvious. No wonder Erickson had asked Detective Schnapp to back off.
“Have you seen him since then?”
“No.”
“But you would recognize him if you did?”
“Yes.”
“If you do see him, Kathrin, you must contact me right away. Not later, but right away, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“But do not approach him, do not try to follow him.”
Kathrin grew very still.
“Did this man kill Frieda?”
“I don’t know. He might have.”
She put a hand to her mouth.
“Kathrin, listen to me. I’m going to help you leave here safely, all right?”
She nodded slowly.
“There is a back way out of this house. Did Linden ever show you how to use it?”
Kathrin shook her head.
“I’ll show you now. Come with me, let’s get you going, and I’ll watch to make sure you’re away safely and securely, all right?”
They stood, Kathrin a bit unsteadily. Helen took her gently by the shoulders and steered her through the kitchen to the back door, where she pulled back the curtains. It was no longer snowing. The clouds had thinned and were racing across the sky, lit by a half-moon. The spindly limbs of the plum tree waved in a cold breeze.
“At the back of the garden there is a steel gate into an alley. It’s locked, so you’ll need to punch in a key code, okay?”
“Okay.” Her body was rigid, but she was paying close attention.
Helen told her the numbers and had Kathrin repeat them back.
“Very good. Would you like something to drink first?”
“No. I only wish to leave.”
Kathrin had never bothered to take off her shabby overcoat, but it was hanging open in the front. Helen helped her button it up, feeling like a mom on the first day of school, sending her child out into the unknown. She clasped the girl by the shoulders and looked into her face.
“When you reach the alley, turn right.”
Kathrin nodded.
“That will take you to Alt-Moabit, where there should be plenty of people. Turn left when you get there. Don’t linger, don’t look over your shoulder. Act as if you know exactly where you’re going and as if you don’t have a care in the world. And be in touch if you have to be. You have my number, yes?”
“Yes.” Barely audible. She was trembling now.
“It’s going to be all right, Kathrin. And thank you. Because of your help, I think we can stop Robert. Okay, it’s time to get going.”
Helen shut off the light in the kitchen and opened the back door. Kathrin stepped carefully down into the garden. Helen watched through a gap in the curtains as the girl crossed the narrow lawn in the stilted motions of someone traversing a cemetery at midnight. Not a promising start, but what could you do? When she reached the keypad it took her two tries to open the gate. She stepped into the alley, headed right, and disappeared into the shadows.
Helen relocked the door and swallowed hard. She poured another vodka, and this time didn’t bother to add orange juice. Half an hour later, having steadied her nerves and reassured herself that she was doing the right thing, she headed home. Checking behind her on the way to the U-Bahn station, she noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No black leather jackets with studs up the sleeves. No young men with long, stringy hair.
Yet, the moment she entered her apartment, the buzzer sounded from the door downstairs, meaning that someone had either been waiting nearby or had followed her home. Too close for comfort. She reluctantly pressed the button for the speaker.
“Who is it?”
“Otto Schnapp.”
She sighed in relief and buzzed him in. His footsteps echoed up the stairwell in a rhythm that was steady and precise, almost military. Or did she think that only because he was a German cop with a buzz cut?
He entered frowning, and stopped only a few feet inside the door.
“Can I get you something? Coffee maybe?”
“Nein. No, thank you. I have information for you, then I must go.”
Helen nodded, a bit breathless. Finally, some help.
“Kurt Delacroix. I have found him.”
She reached instinctively for her handbag to pull out a notebook and a pen.
“Yes?”
“I have no address for you.”
“But—”
“I know only his present whereabouts.” Schnapp pointed at her window, with its view of the street below. “He is down there, a block away. Or was when I last saw him. He was following you, directly from the U-Bahn station at Dahlem-Dorf.”
Helen’s pen fell from her hands and clattered on the bare wood floor.
“You’re sure it was him?”
Schnapp nodded.
“He is dressed differently tonight. A green army coat with a torn collar. His hair is gathered in a horse tail—”
“Ponytail?”
“Yes, ponytail, and it is pushed beneath a woolen cap. But it is him. It is Delacroix. Of this I am quite sure.”
“Did he see you?”
Schnapp shook his head.
“He did not bother to check behind him. I think this is because he was so intent upon watching you.”
“I see.”
She glanced down at the pen on the floor. She had no idea what to say next.
“I am sorry. But I thought that you should know.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you. Do you mind if I sit down?”
Her cautious optimism from half an hour earlier was gone. In all her worrying on Kathrin’s behalf, she had neglected to worry about herself. A mistake. A grave and serious mistake.
24
August 2014
Henry and Anna drove away from the third post office they’d visited that morning. Like Cinderella’s slipper, the Sisterhood key was proving to be a tough fit.
“I’m beginning to think it’s not for a post office box,” Anna said.
“Well, we know it’s not a box at a bank. We’d have found something by now in her records. Or maybe the key’s obsolete, for something she either lost track of or didn’t renew.”
“If you hid a secret key in the ceiling, would you lose track of what it fits?”
“Okay. Then maybe I’m just tired.”
“Or having a doughnut crash.”
“You know, before we met I was eating yogurt and fruit for breakfast.”
“On the morning I hired you, weren’t you frying eggs and bacon?”
“I didn’t say it was yogurt every day”
Anna’s cell phone chirped in her handbag. She glanced at the number.
“Sorry, I need to take this.”
Henry reached over to turn down the radio for her, with the welcome side effect that he could hear every word. It was apparent right away that the call was about her job, and for the next few minutes Anna spoke about various children. Tywon would need more meds soon. Holly had to be kept away from her uncle at all costs. Darren was a handful, yes, but with coaxing and the right treatment could be a dreamboat, too. She spoke with an undertone of affection.
The last minute or so of the conversation returned to the topic of logistics for Princess, the itinerant cat. Then she signed off, reached for the radio and turned the music back up.
“Another Princess update?”
“You know, it just occurred to me why I’ve never wanted a child of my own. What if, after the first three months, I decided to give him back? Too many parents like that already, don’t you think?”
“I doubt you’d be that way. Like mother, like daughter, you said that the other day, and she never gave up on you or Willard.”
“True. And it couldn’t have been easy for her. Maybe that’s what really worries me—having another Willard because of something in my genes.”
Henry was trying to come up with a tactful answer to that when her phone chirped again.
“Shit,” she said, eyeing the number. “I need to take this one, too.”
This time she turned in her seat to face the passenger window. Henry reached again to turn down the car radio, but she shook her head. Obviously she wanted some privacy, so he acted as if he wasn’t the least bit interested even as he tried to listen in. She sounded annoyed, and her body language came across as one big frown. Briefly she raised her voice, and for a few seconds he heard every word.
“You know, we’ve been over this before. And if you can’t see why this is a bad time to go over it again, well…” A pause, while Anna nodded rapidly. “I know, but you’re just going to have to be patient…Okay, then…Right. Bye.” Followed by a muttered “Jesus!” as she dropped the phone back into her bag.
“Sorry you had to hear that,” she said.
He let that hang in the air for a moment before following up.
“Some guy?”
“Does that have any bearing on our work?”
“No.”
“Then it’s really none of your business.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. It’s your job to ask questions. Just don’t expect me to answer all of them.” An awkward pause, ten seconds that felt more like sixty. “But yes, I am involved with someone. I guess you might say he and his needs are on probation. Until I’m done with all of this. Or until I’ve got my head back on straight, whichever comes first. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Involved or not?”
“Not.”
She nodded as if it was exactly the answer she’d expected.
“The kind of work I was doing didn’t leave much room for forming attachments.”
“Or maybe that’s how you were already inclined, and the job was the perfect excuse for staying unattached.”
It was close enough to the truth to make him uncomfortable.
“How about pulling into that store up ahead for a cigarette break,” she said. “I keep telling myself I’m buying my last pack, then the minute I run out I want another one.”
Henry flipped on the blinker, happy for the opportunity to change the subject.
He followed her into the convenience store, which was chock-full of the usual junk and glory. Anna went straight to the checkout counter, where a fairly jolly-looking fellow with a potbelly and a plaid flannel shirt eyed her closely as she scanned the tobacco offerings along the back wall. Henry rummaged among the cheese curls and potato chips.
“Pack of Newports,” Anna said.
She was scowling, still in a bad mood after the phone call, and the attentive clerk noticed.
“Smile!” he said, all cheerful and chirpy.
Anna leveled him with a glare.
“That’ll be seven seventy-five,” he said meekly.
Poor, clueless fellow, Henry thought, having instantly known the remark would piss her off. His previous job had forced him to spend more time than he would’ve liked on social media, searching for behavioral clues among the staffers who were the subjects of his investigation. Most of it was crap—snapshots of meals, or of children and pets. The only worthy takeaway had come from studying the postings of various women and their like-minded friends, a witty commentary with a subterranean lava flow of anger directed against the male of the species. Not him, or anyone else in particular, but the general cluelessness and violence of his gender.
At first he was bewildered, a little stung. Had they always felt this way? He then began to view it from a more analytical and, finally, more sympathetic frame of mind, and he was soon thinking wryly of himself as a fly on the wall in the Facebook equivalent of a Maoist reeducation center. Even from that jaded perspective he couldn’t help but be influenced.
Henry thought of all that as he watched Anna snatch up the cigarettes and head out the door. In lieu of advice—Hey, buddy, they hate it when you tell them to smile—he bought a cup of scorched coffee and left a one-dollar tip. He said little for the rest of the drive.
Back at the Shoat house, where Anna was hoping to plow through the last two boxes in her mother’s closet, the message machine was blinking. When Anna pressed the button, the voice of Stu Wilgus filled the kitchen.
“Anna? Sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d want to hear this. Ran into Cilla Miley this morning over at the grocery store, a friend of your mom’s from way back, and she tells me she saw Willard a few days before…before all the unpleasantness, walking across the far end of one of their fields with his rifle next to some other fellow who, as far as she could tell, wasn’t even armed and definitely wasn’t your dad. Bearded fellow, she said. So, maybe they were hunting and maybe they weren’t, but she was kind of surprise
d to see him way over on their side of the county, since they live probably ten, fifteen minutes from your place. So, anyhow, you might want to touch base with her. That’s Cilla and Stan Miley, right off of Showalter Road. Hope all is well with you, and take care of yourself.”
The message ended. Anna paused the machine and looked at Henry.
“Bearded,” she said. “Like our pal Merle.”
“You know this Cilla Miley?”
“From years ago. Did some charity work with Mom, and we’d have dinner over there sometimes, but it’s been ages. Shit.”
“What?”
She was looking at her cell phone.
“I also missed a call on my cell. It’s from the county cops. They left a voicemail.”
She put it on speaker so he could listen. It was a Captain Saunders, who’d called only a half hour earlier, probably while they’d been in the convenience store:
“Just thought you’d want to know, ma’am, that the forensic report is in, plus the last of the postmortem results from the state medical examiner. You’d wanted to know when they were available and you might want to come in for a look before we release them to the media.”
“You got that right,” Anna said, as the message ended. “Let’s go.”
* * *
* * *
The police, to their credit, were solicitous and gentle, and didn’t seem to mind she’d brought along her own amateur detective. Captain Saunders, an older guy with a brush cut and an outdoorsman’s tan, led them to an interview room where the reports were already stacked on a table next to a water bottle.
“I can make copies, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” Anna said.
“Can I get you any coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
He paused at the doorway of the interview room.
“I knew your dad, back in the day. Not long after high school. Good man. It was a terrible thing.”
“Yes it was. About these reports, have you looked at them?”
“Yes, ma’am. About an hour ago.”
“Anything stand out?”
“Well, that footprint, the one in the mudroom at the back of the house—you’ll see it in there—that’s the only item that was a little curious, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Probably one of the first responders.”
Safe Houses Page 19
