Private Berlin (Private 5)
Mattie looked over at him. “About what?”
“Ending your engagement with him,” Burkhart said.
“Easier said than done given the circumstances,” Mattie shot back, annoyed that she was evidently so transparent.
“You break it off?” Burkhart pressed. “Or did he?”
“That’s none of your business,” she said hotly.
“I take it you did, then. Mind telling me why?”
“I do mind. Just get me there, okay?”
Burkhart shrugged. “Helps to talk about stuff with an impartial observer.”
“Not always,” she said, and turned to look out the window again.
CHAPTER 6
THE SKIES HAD taken on a coal and ash color by the time they reached that wooded area they’d seen on the satellite imagery. They circled the woods, seeing only bike trails before finding the vine-choked drive that led to the old slaughterhouse.
The rain was squalling now, blown by gusts from the east.
Burkhart parked just as Mattie’s cell phone rang. It was Katharina.
“We’re just getting here, Kat,” Mattie said.
“The super at Chris’s building won’t let me in,” she complained. “He says he’ll let you in but not me.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be necessary,” Mattie replied. “Gabriel said he’s moving around inside.”
“Oh,” Katharina said, sighing. “Oh, thank God, Mattie.”
“I’ll let you know when we’ve got him,” Mattie said, and hung up.
She tugged up her hood and got out, heading straight into the vines, which she pushed and hacked through until she’d reached a clearing of sorts.
The walls of the slaughterhouse were cement block and rose to a line of blown-out windows below the eaves of an arched roof. The place was covered in old graffiti, including a skull stamped with a dripping bloodred X.
Mattie felt unnerved, which was completely unlike her. She’d been a full-fledged Kripo investigator for the Berlin criminal police for ten years, five of them in homicide, and had another two years working high-profile cases for Private.
She’d seen the worst one man could do to another, and Mattie always handled these incidents like the professional she was.
But now, seeing that graffiti, she felt like ignoring years of training and yelling out to him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Burkhart drawing his Glock. She drew her own pistol, whispering, “Bluetooth. I’m going to call Doc.”
Burkhart fished in his pocket and came up with an earpiece. Then he donned latex gloves. Mattie did the same. The wind gusted, amplifying the drumming of the rain on the leaves and causing a chain to clank somewhere.
“I think that door’s open,” Burkhart muttered.
Mattie moved toward it through the sopping-wet grass and weeds, redialing Dr. Gabriel’s number. He answered immediately.
“Give us a patch, Doc.”
She saw Burkhart pause, then touch his Bluetooth and nod.
“You reading our position?” Mattie murmured.