The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set

by Michele E. Gwynn

  Hugo realized she’d set him up with no certainty he’d succeed. The idea was terrifying. He felt outrage bubble to the surface. “If you weren’t sure she’d say yes, why the hell would you tell me to do that? What the fuck, Kreiss?”

  She reached out and patted his now red cheek. “Calm down, Beimer. It worked. And I told you to do that because you had to do something. You were getting nowhere doing nothing. So this way, you’d either fail or succeed. It was a fifty-fifty chance. Well, maybe more like seventy-thirty, and not in your favor.”

  “Christiansen is right. You are a mean woman.” He shook his head and remembered that Sigrid had said yes. He smiled.

  “Come on, there’s a florist two blocks down. Let’s go impress your lady.” She yanked at his hand.

  “Wait. You threw me to the she-wolf a moment ago before knowing she wouldn’t eat me. How do I know this will work?” He was hesitant after her admission to go along with her romantic schemes.

  “Because, you fool. The roses do work. Look how happy I am that Lukas sent me such a lovely bouquet. He may even get lucky tonight. It has been a while, after all.” She walked ahead of him.

  “I take my earlier apology back. You’re no lady, Kreiss. You’re a man in women’s clothing.” He trudged along behind her catching up. “Only a man would say such a thing.”

  “You have a lot to learn about women, Beimer.” She shook a finger at her partner and dragged him to the florist where one dozen of their finest long-stem red roses was arranged and sent to grace Sigrid’s desk.

  Chapter Six

  CHARLOTTENBURG WAS on the west side of the city center of Berlin. It happened to be one of the larger Russian communities in the area, and the place from where all three of the young women disappeared. Heinz and Mahler arrived at the home of what was thought to be the first victim, Liliya Avilova. The house was two story brick with black shutters and white trim. It sat between similar sized and shaped homes in a row. The yards were small, and space between them was barely enough to walk through. Still, the street was quaint, and mature trees lined the median down the center of the road providing green space and a place for residents to walk their dogs.

  “Nice neighborhood.” Heinz looked around as he walked over to the curb waiting for Mahler to join him. The ride over had been awkward, at least, for him. Mahler didn’t seem fazed at all by his seeing her naked that morning. In fact, she’d been quite comfortable in the car chatting away, and reaching over to touch his arm during conversation. He’d noticed every touch. In fact, he’d looked at her hands for the first time noting long, slim fingers, and well-manicured nails kept simple with only a clear polish. Her gestures were graceful for hands that could handle all manner of firearms with deadly force. Her touch was warm and comforting. It was also distracting. Each time she’d made contact, he was reminded of her bare body probably still warm from her hot shower. Sweat beaded his forehead, and she’d taken notice, asking if he was feeling all right which led to her applying that hand to his forehead, a natural gesture for a mother.

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. It’s simply stuffy in here.” He’d unrolled the window a few inches letting the cold air inside while pushing her hand away.

  Now he was standing outside on a curb with the fall chill creeping in wherever it could, waiting patiently as she joined him. Usually, he would simply walk ahead. Now he found himself waiting, wanting to open her door, but she’d already done so herself. She arrived at his side and stopped.

  “What are you waiting for?” She looked him in the eye, her expression curious.

  The question reminded him he was being foolish, a feeling he did not appreciate. “Nothing. Are you ready?” He walked ahead up the walkway. At the door, he rang the bell and waited for the Avilovs to answer. He wished they’d hurry. He could smell Mahler’s perfume, and the subtle fragrance was pleasant, teasing his senses. It seemed to be emanating from her hair, which he’d seen down, and wet, and curling over her bare breasts. Feeling annoyed, he rang the bell again earning a raised eyebrow from his partner, and an angry glare from the man who yanked the door open answering the insistent chime.

  “What do you want?” The older gentleman with a hooked nose and heavy jowls stood facing Heinz.

  Heinz raised his hand flashing his badge. “Petre Avilov?” The man nodded, his expression lessening in intensity upon viewing Heinz’s badge. “I’m Kriminalkommissar Heinz, and this is my partner, Detective Mahler. We’re here to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”

  Avilov backed up. “Certainly, Herr Kommissar. Please, come in, and forgive my rudeness.” He gestured that they should enter. Heinz once again waited, looking awkwardly at Mahler. He swept his hand indicating she should go first.

  Mahler gave him a strange look, unused to him being so courteous. She stepped into the foyer of the Avilov home. Heinz followed, and the door was closed behind them. A plump woman around age forty stood in the doorway of the kitchen with a questioning look at Avilov.

  “This is my missus, Karina Avilova. My dear, this is Kriminalkommissar Heinz and Detective Mahler?” He looked at Birgitta stumbling over her name verifying he’d remembered correctly.

  “That’s right.”

  “They’re here to ask us some more questions about Liliya.” Mrs. Avilov came right up to Mahler and took her hand leading her into the dining room where they could all sit around the table. She immediately offered coffee, which Heinz accepted while Mahler declined.

  “What can you tell me about your daughter’s usual activities? I see she’s enrolled in her first year of university?” Heinz was careful never to refer to a missing person in the past tense as it often put the loved ones on the defensive, and he needed them to be as open and at ease as possible.

  “Da!” Her mother’s eyes brightened, beaming with pride. “Liliya is studying business management. She will one day take over the family business, three dry cleaners, from her father.”

  Mr. Avilov smiled and patted his wife’s hand. “She is quite intelligent. Takes after her mother.” Petre Avilov picked up the thread of conversation. “All she does is go to school, help out at work with me on the nights and weekends, and go to church, of course. Sometimes, she spends time with friends going to a movie maybe, but not much more. She’s a good girl, our Liliya.”

  “And who are these friends?” Mahler opened her little notebook and began writing down names.

  “Nina Belova and Oksana Zakrevskaya. They are school friends. They all grew up together. Nina lives two doors down, and Oksana lives on the next strasse over. I can give you their numbers and addresses.” Mrs. Avilov leaned toward Mahler to make sure she wrote down the names and addresses correctly.

  “You said she attends church. Which one?” Heinz directed his question to Avilov.

  “Resurrection of Jesus in Wilmersdorf. The only Russian Orthodox Cathedral near us, of course,” said Avilov.

  “Of course,” replied Heinz. He looked over to see if Mahler was writing this down. “And is Liliya active in any of the church’s programs? Youth groups and such?”

  “There’s a singles group that meets on Saturday nights for Bible study. Sometimes they do community works like helping the elderly at the hospital, reading to them and organizing activities, or volunteering with the children at the kindergarten. Recently, she was part of the elderly gardening project for the nursing home by the church.” Mrs. Avilov was a veritable font of information. Information that hadn’t made it into the report he and Mahler read just that morning. Faust was slipping.

  “That’s commendable of her. Did her two friends also participate?” Mahler asked, her pen poised.

  “Oh, yes. They can tell you more. My husband and I did not attend seeing as we’re not singles.” She reached out and placed her hand on her husband’s arm, her affection for him obvious. Heinz noticed and instantly recalled Mahler touching his arm in a similar manner on the ride over. He blinked.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Heinz rose, and everyon
e else stood up.

  “Do you have any news at all about where our Liliya might be?” Avilov’s wife looked at Heinz, her eyes imploring.

  “Not yet, ma’am. We’re working on it, I assure you. As soon as we uncover anything, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, please be sure to call us with anything else you can think of, anyone she may have recently begun to talk to or some new place she may have gone.” He handed her his card.

  Mrs. Avilov’s blue eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and Mr. Avilov placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. Heinz could see where their daughter got her fair looks. Karina Avilova was older now, but in her prime, she would have been as fresh and beautiful as the picture in the file.

  They left intending to first question Liliya’s two friends. It would be a long day interviewing the second and third families of the two other missing young women, one of which was no longer missing, but dead. Faust had informed them early that morning. Having a second pair of detectives knocking at their door while they mourned would be difficult. Their memories would be clouded by stress and grief.

  It turned out that the second missing girl also attended Resurrection of Jesus, as did the third. Nina and Oksana were the most helpful that day sharing that on their last outing with the church, the girls met a very nice young man currently staying in Berlin visiting family. He’d shown them some planting techniques for winter vegetables, but he’d shown a marked interest in Liliya ignoring the brunette Nina, and the redheaded Oksana. This could mean everything, or it could mean nothing, but one thing it absolutely did mean—he and Mahler would be going to church. Heinz looked up at the sky for signs of an impending storm.

  “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Anno walked into Elsa’s room and threw himself across her bed. At eighteen, her little brother had grown quite tall. His boyhood beauty was metamorphosing into a handsomeness that caused the girls to flock to him like bees to honey. His shoulders were wide, his back straight, and muscles sprouted everywhere where before only stick-thin limbs existed. Even his voice had deepened, but to Elsa, he was still her little brother.

  “Out.” She stood looking at herself in the mirror trying to decide which dress to wear to Paul Christiansen’s exhibit. She insisted on referring to it as that rather than the date she knew it really was. Lukas Trommler managed to maneuver her quite nicely into meeting him at the gallery. She was still undecided on how she would treat him, enemy combatant or possible new lover and cobweb cleaner. She enjoyed giving a cocky man a hard time, but it had been a really long time since she’d had sex. And he was very good looking. Her inner conflict was the source of her trouble at the moment in deciding what to wear.

  “Looks like you’re dressing for a date. I thought you said it was Paul’s exhibit. You’re not dating him, are you?” Anno’s fair eyebrows came together above his blue eyes. Although he didn’t dislike Paul, not after all they’d been through together, he still didn’t want the man dating his sister.

  “Of course not! He’s not my type.” Elsa pulled the green dress over her head and tossed it onto the floor.

  “My eyes!” Anno covered his eyes and turned his head away. “You could warn me, you know. I don’t need to see you naked.”

  Elsa laughed. “Then get out of my room.” She reached for a red off-the-shoulder dress that clung to her body when she slid into it. The long sleeves would keep her arms warm, but the skirt hit mid-thigh leaving her legs bare. She rummaged through her drawer and found a pair of nude nylons.

  “So why are you dressing like that then?” Refusing to get up, much less leave, Anno continued to grill his older sister.

  “Because. I was invited by an employee of the gallery.” She knew her non-answers were driving him insane. It was what he did to her every day. Where are you going, Anno? Out. When will you be back? Soon. Who will you be with? Friends. And on it went.

  Anno stood up and began to leave but stopped at the door. “So, it’s a date. Is he nice at least? Because if he’s not, I’ll have to hurt him.” He stood leaning on the door jamb; his expression serious.

  “I think so. But thanks for having my back.” The half-smile on Elsa’s face was answered by her brother walking back in, wrapping his arms around her, and kissing the top of her head. Over the summer, he’d grown nearly a foot taller than her.

  She pushed him off, laughing. “Stop kissing me!”

  “But I love you so!” He picked her up and swung her around.

  “Put me down, you boob!” He was laughing hard, but finally set her on her feet.

  “Be careful. And get home at a decent hour, young lady!” He wagged his finger at her, and then walked out heading for the kitchen. Anno was always hungry.

  Elsa sat on the edge of her bed and inserted her feet into the silky nylons. They weren’t much of a barrier to the cold, but they were better than nothing. After smoothing them up over her calves and thighs, she stood and began the process of yanking them up over her red thong. She decided to forego a brassiere since the dress was off the shoulders. The last decision would be shoes. She tried on two pairs, a classic black pump and red stilettos. The stilettos were sexier, but the three-inch heeled black pumps with a cute Mary Jane-style strap over the top arch of each foot said ‘classy’. It was an art exhibit, after all. She would also be standing around most of the night, so she chose the black pumps.

  With her red hair down in waves, and subtle makeup with a smoky eye effect causing her green eyes to look cat-like, she rouged her lips red and was ready to see what this night would bring. Elsa double-checked her Chanel bag, a rather larger-than-usual vintage clutch. Wallet. Compact. Lipstick. Badge. Discreet, police-issue handgun. Condoms. Everything a woman needed for a date.

  “I’m leaving now.” She walked out into the living room and headed toward the door. Anno poked his head out of the kitchen, fat sandwich in hand, and mouth full.

  “Good Lord! You’re going out like that? I guess you’re not planning on coming home.” His expression was disapproving.

  “Of course I’ll be home. Leave the hall light on. And behave yourself while I’m out.” She grabbed a black classic trench coat from the hall closet and put it on, tightening the belt around her slender waist.

  “It’s not me who’s dressed for trouble. It’s a first date, Elsa. Keep your gun in your purse.” He tried to make light of it all, but he was clearly not happy about seeing his sister going out on a date. He’d not seen her date anyone since he could remember. She only had friends around like Nicolette who tended to stay overnight often.

  “Shut it, Anno. I’ll tell Paul you said hello.”

  “Yeah, do that. Is he still in contact with Sarah?” The boy could speak endlessly, even while chewing through a sandwich like a starved locust.

  “Last I chatted with her, yes. He calls and texts. Why?” She eyed her brother curiously.

  “No reason. Just wondered. We should call her tomorrow. She needs to visit again.”

  Elsa smiled. Her little brother carried a torch for her American friend ever since they first met. He was overly protective of her when it came to Paul Christiansen, and recently, when he was told Sarah and Anthony hadn’t worked out, he was over the moon.

  “I think so, too. Okay. We’ll call her.”

  “She still owes me a date. And I’m eighteen now...” He headed off back into the kitchen with a smile on his face and a cocky swagger in his step.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, Anno!” She laughed as she headed out the door. Anno had no idea that she and Sarah shared a very steamy sexual experience together back then, nor would he ever. He also would never know the true nature of her relationship with Nicolette. It just wasn’t something he needed to know.

  The lifts were slow this night, and it took longer than usual to get downstairs. Frau Schmidt really needed to get them checked by maintenance. It was an old building on Köthener Straße, and things went wrong and broke down all the time. Still, it was home. She wouldn’t trade it for the world. Outside, the cold night air slipped up
under the hem of her coat chilling her. She passed Herr Schumaker out walking his dog as she headed for her old Peugeot. He waved and gave her a thumbs up upon viewing her all dressed up. It was too cold to take the tube tonight, and she wasn’t dressed for a long walk. Plus, she would be arriving home late, and years of working nights, and listening to Heinz taught her one important fact, danger lurked in the shadows.

  LUKAS SURVEYED THE crowd assembled at the exhibit. Everything was set up perfectly. The Christiansen paintings were divided into two separate yet distinct themes, nightmares and wet dreams. On one side were the canvases that disturbed art appreciators with their dark and horrific imagery of a monster reaching out from various hidden corners to grab at a child with dark hair and tortured blue eyes. The drab colors denoting depression, fear, anxiety, and anger were relieved only now and again by red and bright blue. These were the paintings Paul Christiansen created over the years both before and after the death of his abuser, Peter Knudson. Knudson was Paul’s uncle on his mother’s side, and everyone in the world of art knew the story by now following news of his death in Amsterdam nearly three years ago. There were clear differences between the paintings done before Knudson’s death, and after when Christiansen began professional therapy to deal with his emotional issues. The pre-death paintings were far more disturbing and highly valued by collectors. The ones he created during and after his onset of therapy showed rays of hope for the child within.

  On the other side of the gallery were the brighter, happier, and far more erotic paintings brought to life by the other side of Paul Christiansen and his love of the nude female form. Aptly titled Wet Dreams, these paintings would grace the private collections of erotisans, for lack of a better term. Christiansen liked to paint his women while they were still fresh from a good fuck. The blush on their cheeks, the glow of their skin, and the moisture still beading and pooling in humid places was so real in its authenticity that some of the patrons tried reaching out to touch the drops only to have Lukas step in and smack their hands away like naughty children. This did not interfere in the least with sales which were going well as more red tags were being placed on pieces until only a few of the larger canvases remained.