The first seeds of cynicism took root. Recognizing innocence lost, she sighed. There was no magic in Barcelona anymore. No reason to stay any longer.
Sarah went up to her room where she changed her travel plans, departing a day earlier than scheduled. She showered and set out her travel clothes for the next day. After she finished packing last-minute things, she sat down on the side of the bed and called the front desk to order a five a.m. wake up call. Her plane was scheduled to leave at a quarter past eight in the morning and she would need to be at the airport at least two hours ahead of time. Finally, she lay back in the bed she’d so recently shared with Anthony—the bed where she’d lost her virginity to a man she barely knew. It was in this bed, in this room in Barcelona, where she’d fallen so briefly in love, and where she’d experienced her first major heartbreak. Sarah thought the best thing she could do would be to leave all those feelings behind, packed away inside these four walls where they would linger like a ghost of what might have been. She would never forget her time here at the Hotel Claris, but after experiencing such raw abandonment, both of her heart and body, and of being left behind, she knew that dwelling on why Anthony had chosen to walk out on her without a word would serve no purpose. She’d come to Europe for a reason; to explore her own boundaries, discover who she was in every form. This was merely one of those forms.
A tear trickled down her cheek as she closed her eyes. Sleep was hard to find, but she eventually succumbed to Morpheus’ lure. Tomorrow, a new adventure awaited her. Berlin would mark a new chapter in the education of Sarah Brown.
Chapter Seven
A LOUD POUNDING WOKE Paul from a drunken slumber. The banging was harsh and insistent. He threw off his blanket and walked to the front door, scratching at his eyes and adjusting himself through his boxer briefs. He tripped over the edge of his easel, cursing roundly.
“Who the fuck is it,” he grated out.
“Open up, you lazy rekening fool!” Paul knew that voice and he stopped dead in his tracks. Uncle Peter’s voice still had the power to instill morbid dread and fear into him. It was the voice that haunted his nightmares. Since turning of legal age, he’d avoided his uncle and managed quite nicely to steer clear of him for the most part. Since becoming a man in his own right—a man with more than enough strength to inflict great bodily harm on the old codger should he need to—he knew he could protect himself. But when he heard that voice, he forgot about being a grown man; forgot his own height, strength, and agility, even forgot his own rights and felt once again like that five-year-old boy lured by a friendly smile, a piece of candy or a toy, onto the lap of the seemingly giant man whose hands held him immobile while he fondled and molested that innocent child; that trusting nephew.
Paul reached into the drawer of the side table for his handgun, checked the chamber for rounds, and then cautiously proceeded to the door. He left the chain in the lock on as he inched the door open. He peered through the opening at the weathered but sophisticated man on the other side. His silver hair was neatly parted to the left and his gray twill sports jacket covered a cream-colored turtleneck sweater. As usual, his uncle looked every bit the gentleman and not in the least like a child-molesting creep. To Paul, he looked like a monster.
“What the hell do you want?” Paul was in no mood for this and knew he didn’t want to hear anything his uncle had to say.
“Are you going to keep me out here in the cold,” he asked, smiling benevolently. It was the smile of a crocodile before it eats you.
“Yes! What is it?” Paul grew more agitated.
His uncle’s smile fell, and all hints of civility faded away like flecks of ash in a stiff breeze. “I have a job for you. It’s rather urgent.”
Paul could smell the stale alcohol and tobacco on his breath. It threatened to revive memories best left forgotten.
“I don’t work for you, Uncle.” Paul started to close the door, but Peter Knudson stuck his booted foot in the jamb.
“Not so fast. I know you need the money. Your mother said you’d come ‘round asking for a loan to tide you over. She also said she refused to lend it to you.”
It was true that Paul was low on funds. He worked odd jobs here and there but hadn’t ever settled into any particular career. His paintings never sold. He never even tried, thinking them not good enough, just the manifestations of his inner turmoil and attempts at creating art. Because of this, he’d ended up many a time on the scummy side of employment in the sex trade, turning a few tricks, and even working in a few porn films to make ends meet. He liked his playboy lifestyle, but he’d never learned to work for it. He was lucky he hadn’t fallen too heavily into drugs, although he’d dabbled often enough. He liked a fast buck because it afforded him the time to play, and here was his loathsome uncle on his doorstep dangling another carrot in front of him, again. He’d learned not to reach for this particular carrot because there were always strings attached; strings that tied him up both metaphorically and physically, leaving him broken inside and hating himself.
Paul stared back at his uncle in frustration. “My finances are none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business. You’re my nephew.” Peter’s voice softened and the benevolent smile returned; the one that always preceded that “bad” thing. Paul knew it and yet he still felt drawn in. It was like every one of his nightmares.
“I am always concerned about you, Paul. You’re not settled. You drift from this to that. Don’t you know that I worry about you?” The honeyed concern dripping from his voice was like acid to Paul’s soul. It burned slowly, drop by drop.
“State your business so I can say no one final time, and then go!” Paul had lost his patience and in doing so, brought up the gun in his right hand, aiming it straight at Peter’s chest.
Peter’s eyes shifted to the barrel aimed at him and his face tightened with near-imperceptible anger. “What’s this?”
“Speak!” Paul didn’t bother to hide his impatience.
“Well,” his uncle cleared his throat, “as you are aware, I have several business interests in the Red Light District—”
“Yes, yes.” Paul waved the gun in an attempt to hurry him along.
“There’s a domme in Berlin I wish to bring into my club. She’s one of the best in the business, but she’s reluctant to leave the club she currently works for. I want you to travel to Berlin and convince her to come work for me.”
“That’s it? That’s your big job?” Paul was skeptical. He knew his uncle’s perversions and he wasn’t personally into being dominated, so why did he want this dominatrix? He preferred being in control, and he preferred it with young men...with boys.
“This is business. I have a list of high-end customers who would pay a fortune for her. Do this. Go to Berlin and convince her. For your part, I’ll pay your travel expenses, plus fifteen hundred euro.”
Paul’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Fifteen hundred euro? You’ll pay me that much to recruit a new dominatrix for your club? Why can’t you go and do this yourself? What’s the catch?”
Peter replied in a half truth. “I am blocked from entering Germany. Therefore, I need to send you as a representative for Club Tiberius since you can travel unrestricted.”
“Why are you blocked from entering Germany?” In his heart, he knew why. He knew his uncle had probably gotten into trouble while visiting Berlin. His penchant for pedophilia was surely the reason.
“That’s none of your business,” he replied angrily. Peter’s face smoothed over and the crocodile smile slid easily back into place. “So, nephew, will you do it?”
Paul weighed all the pros and cons. He knew getting involved in anything his uncle orchestrated would somehow cause him a problem, but he couldn’t quite figure out how this situation would. Plus, it paid well, and he did need the money. All he had to do was go to Berlin, all expenses paid, and charm some dominatrix into coming to work for Peter. She would not be in any danger from his uncle since Peter’s tastes d
idn’t include women. Should he grab the carrot this time?
“All expenses paid?”
“Yes.”
“Payment up front?”
“Half now, and half when you succeed.” Peter looked sincere, but he always looked sincere. That was how he’d managed to fool Paul’s mother into thinking her son was safe in his care whenever she would ask her brother to babysit while she went to work. That was why she never believed Paul when, as a child, he’d tried to tell her what was going on with Uncle Peter.
“What am I to tell this young woman? Who is she and where will I find her?” Paul lowered the gun to his side and Peter knew then he’d won.
“I’ll send you all the details of my offer to her, her information and so forth, along with your airline ticket. I’ll have it delivered this afternoon. You’ll leave in the morning.” With that, Peter retracted his foot, which had been in the door the entire time, then turned and left.
Paul stood there with the cold blowing in through the crack in the door. It was chilling, a foreshadowing perhaps. Finally, he closed it and thought, what the hell did I just get myself into?
Chapter Eight
TEGEL INTERNATIONAL in Berlin presented as a small, but efficient airport. It was the cleanest airport Sarah traveled through so far, although so far, she’d only seen San Antonio International, a brief flight change in Atlanta, and Barcelona. Still, the cleanliness of it hadn’t escaped her notice. Even the bathrooms were spotless, and she noted that they were separated into men’s, women’s, families, and disabled. The Germans certainly pride themselves on spotless toilets, she thought.
After utilizing the facilities and brushing out her hair, she picked up the handle on her suitcase and went in search of an exchange where she could acquire euros for her American dollars. She looked around for the word wechseln. She located the booth and stood in line. Down one corridor were rows of fancy shops where one could purchase beautiful gifts like German crystal, chocolates, clothing, leather purses and wallets, and even fun novelties duty-free. Sarah listened to the people walking by speaking in multiple languages; Chinese, French, Italian, and German. Back home in Texas, she mostly heard Tex-Mex, a localized version of the Spanish that originated from Mexico and evolved over decades north of the Río Grande. Other than that, she was used to Americanized English spoken in various dialects depending on what region of the United States people came from. Being a military city, San Antonio attracted all kinds and Helotes sat at the northwest side of Military City, USA. Spain didn’t sound any different. Castilian Spanish fell upon her ear with the same rhythms as Mexican Spanish. Hearing all the different tongues speaking at once without any of the usual audial salsa, she truly felt like she was finally in Europe.
“Ich mochte Geld wechseln, bitte.” (I would like to exchange money, please.)
“Wie viel?” The kindly woman behind the glass asked.
“Eight hundred U.S. dollars.” Sarah’s brief grasp of German ended with numbers.
With the exchange to euros complete, she set out to find a taxi. One happened to be in the queue out front and she headed for it, running straight into a tall man with dark hair, causing him to drop the handle of his luggage.
“Sorry!” Sarah stopped and looked up, smiling her apology.
The man opened his mouth, prepared to curse at the clumsy person when his eyes lit upon, instead, a beautiful woman smiling up at him. His expression changed immediately. Like a chameleon, the anger left his eyes, and the tight lines around his mouth smoothed out.
“Entschuldigen Sie, Fraulein.” Blue eyes locked onto the woman, taking her measure from head to toe, and then began to crinkle in the corners as a smile spread across his attractive lips.
The taxi driver looked up from his newspaper at the two and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you said, but it was all me. I wasn’t paying attention,” Sarah babbled, reaching down for his luggage.
“I simply said ‘excuse me,’” he replied, ducking low to retrieve it from her hand. His fingers brushed hers as he gripped the handle. “You are American?” The man continued to smile down at her.
He could have been a model that just walked off of a runway in Milan. Seriously, she thought, are all the good-looking men in Europe because they never look this good back home? They certainly never dress this well in Texas, either. Sarah noted the dark blue tailored suit, and the Italian leather shoes. He didn’t have one hair out of place. He even smelled good.
“Yes. I guess the babbling gave me away.”
He chuckled. “Not at all. It was just your charming accent.”
“I don’t have an...”she began to say and then realized to anyone not American, she did, indeed, have an accent.
“But you do, and it is as charming and lovely as yourself.” He continued to stand and stare down at her with a smile on his face. The moment stretched out awkwardly.
“Well, thank you. It was nice to meet you.” Sarah began walking again toward the taxi.
He followed. “You’re just arriving? Maybe we could share the taxi? I’m on my way into the city, to my hotel.” He reached past her and opened the back door. The cab driver stepped out and stood looking from one to the other to see whose luggage he would be depositing into the trunk.
She looked at the cab driver, who simply shrugged. Looking back at the tall, handsome man, she hesitated. A red flag waved somewhere in the back of her mind. Sure, he’s good looking, but she was still a stranger in a strange land and for all she knew. He could be a serial killer.
“That’s okay. I can wait until the next one. You go ahead and take this one,” she said.
He smiled, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “No, no. You must take it. I can wait till the next one rolls through.” He indicated with one look to the driver that he should take the woman’s suitcase. The man did and loaded it into the boot.
“Well, thank you then.” She slid into the seat.
The man gave her what was surely a practiced grin that made his blue eyes twinkle. “You’re most welcome.” With that, he closed the door and then walked around where the cab driver was locking the trunk. They spoke briefly before the tall man stood back again on the sidewalk and waited as another taxi rolled to a stop behind Sarah’s.
Her driver hopped into the front seat and put on his seatbelt. He looked back at her and asked, “Where to,” in half-way decent English.
“The Holiday Inn Express on Stressemannstraße, please.”
The driver turned the wheel and began pulling out. Sarah twisted around and saw the handsome man give her a wave before he got into his own taxi. She faced forward and laughed to herself.
She caught the cab driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. He was an old man with quite a bit of padding around the middle. His wrinkled face attested to many long years of hard work. He gave her a wink and a laugh and then wagged his finger at her like a grandpa having a little fun at a grandchild’s expense.
Sarah shook her head, grinning. They drove off airport property and merged onto the highway. Berlin loomed large before her eyes and she looked forward to exploring the city and all it had to offer, including some of the darker attractions.
The ride into Berlin took about half an hour with the traffic. The driver turned around on the street and pulled up in front of the hotel. It was a flat faced building with large windows on the first floor. Out on the sidewalk, the cab driver handed over her luggage. She paid him and offered a generous tip. The old man shook his head and laughed at the crazy American who over-tipped him.
She crossed the sidewalk, which had both a cobbled walkway and a bike path—she’d read that it was wise to stay off the latter unless one wanted to get run down by bicycle traffic—and entered into the lobby. Inside, there was a reception desk straight ahead, and off to the right was a large cafeteria-styled dining area. She approached the desk and checked in.
Passport back in hand, key in the other, she wheeled her suitcase around to the left to find t
he elevators. On the way up to the third floor, she read the brochure in her hand. Dining hours were outlined within. Stepping out of the lift, she turned right and searched for number 317.
Her room was contemporary in design. The bed was platform-styled, and the furniture looked like the clean lines of Ikea. Her window faced out onto the courtyard below. She unlocked it and the glass leaned in forward, tilting from the top. The fresh air wafted in, clearing out the stuffiness. It was quiet below.
She unpacked her toiletries and placed them on the sink in the sizeable bathroom. A quick shower and a change of clothes, and she was ready to head out and explore before dinner. It was three in the afternoon and overcast. The air promised to be much cooler once the sun went down, so Sarah grabbed a sweater to tie over her shoulders.
Back down in the lobby, she walked out the front doors. Across the street was a German restaurant and what appeared to be a convenience store. Good to know. She looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. There wouldn’t be much exploring today since it was already late afternoon, and she was hungry. She came from the right, so she went left. About two blocks down on the other side of the street was an Italian restaurant. Diomira. It looked clean, and Italian food appealed to her in that moment. However, there was a cluster of police vehicles parked in the road out front.
Police surrounded an unmarked delivery truck. One uniformed officer had what she presumed to be the driver of the truck on the ground, face-down, hands cuffed behind his back. Two plain-clothes officers, an older man with streaks of gray hair at his temples and a petite woman wearing a black suit stood to the side speaking with a second uniformed officer. The older man questioned the uniform while the woman took notes. A third uniform directed traffic around the scene. As Sarah watched, the second uniform turned, approaching the cuffed driver. Words were exchanged and the first uniform pulled the driver to his feet, escorting him to the back of his police car. A tow truck arrived, maneuvering in front of the delivery truck. The plain-clothes officers returned to their vehicle and left.
The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set Page 7
