Private Berlin (Private 5)

“Maultaschen with venison and onion stuffing,” Aunt C said, moving toward the kitchen. “But the noodles are already cold. I’ll fry them and you can have them with sour cream and a beer, ya?”

“Uh…ya,” Burkhart said, rubbing at his stomach.

Ilona Frei still looked lost, and Mattie was trying to figure out what she could say to set the woman at some ease when Socrates pranced into the room. Chris’s cat went straight to Ilona and rubbed against her legs.

“That’s Socrates,” Niklas said, reappraising the woman his mother had brought home to a late dinner. “He doesn’t usually like new people.”

Mattie shook her head, saying, “It’s true. He was Chris’s.”

Socrates purred loudly and contentedly until a weak but growing smile crossed Ilona Frei’s face. She bent down and picked up the cat. She sat in one of the chairs and rubbed Socrates’s belly as Niklas surged again into a high-spirited explanation of why Cassiano was such a great striker.

Niklas’s argument was directed at Burkhart, who listened attentively and in total agreement while Mattie helped her aunt fry the stuffed pasta crispy and golden.

Burkhart praised the fried Maultaschen as the best he’d ever had after eating the last one in the bowl. Ilona Frei ate only one, but she agreed with Burkhart’s assessment of the meal, which pleased Aunt Cäcilia to no end.

After clearing the plates, Burkhart said to Mattie, “If you’ll give me a blanket and a pillow, I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

Mattie frowned. “That’s not—”

“It is necessary,” Burkhart said firmly. “She’s one of the last two.”

“Last two of what?” Niklas asked.

Ilona Frei looked upset and Socrates jumped off her lap.

“She’s one of the last two really nice ladies we know,” Mattie said quickly, irritated with Burkhart. “Now off to bed, you. I’ll be in to say good night in a minute.”

CHAPTER 91

MATTIE KEPT HER irritation in check until Aunt C had taken Ilona Frei to show her where she could sleep and she’d heard Niklas’s bedroom door shut.

She crossed her arms and faced the counterterrorism expert. “I try to shield Niklas as much as I can from what I do. I don’t want to explain all the murders to him. It will frighten him. He’s only nine.”

Burkhart’s face fell. “You mean my line about Ilona being one of the two left?”

Mattie nodded. “He’s smart, but he’s also very sensitive.”

“I apologize,” Burkhart said sincerely. “It won’t happen again.” He paused. “He’s a good kid, you know. You’re doing something very right with him.”

Mattie softened. “Thank you, Burkhart. It’s nice of you to say so.”

He hesitated. “His dad in the picture?”

She didn’t know whether she wanted to respond, but said, “No. Niklas’s father was someone inconsequential in my life, an ill-considered fling that became the miracle that is my son. He wanted no part of Niklas, and I, frankly, wanted no part of him.”

“So you raised him alone?” Burkhart said. “That’s impressive, considering.”

“Aunt C and my mother helped until she passed,” Mattie said, feeling defensive. “And considering what?”

“Well, the job of course. I know how demanding it can be.”

Mattie’s shoulders fell. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Tell me,” Burkhart said.

She studied him, wondering whether to explain or let it lie. Something about his compassionate expression made her decision.

“I lost my position at Kripo because I refused to compromise when it came to Niklas,” Mattie said. “I won’t bore you with the details, but one night when I should have been at a murder scene, I was, instead, home with him. He was very ill: a horrible cough and fever. For that I was transferred to the press office and away from investigations. I sued the force. I lost.”