Private Berlin (Private 5)

The man looked around. “That’s her bike. She’s here.”

“She’s not answering her buzzer.”

“Lots of the buzzers don’t work. But if her bike’s here, she’s here.”

Burkhart flashed his Private badge. “Mind if we go upstairs and try her door?”

“Hell, I don’t care,” he said, and let them in.

They went to Greta Amsel’s apartment on the fourth floor, knocked, and got no answer. Then they noticed a strange smell coming from inside, a mix of bacon smoke and the acrid taint that lingers after hair catches fire.

“Something’s wrong,” Mattie said.

“I agree,” Burkhart said. He crouched and proceeded to pick the lock.

Guns drawn, they entered the hallway. The smell was worse here, crossed with human feces.

The light was on in the bathroom. The toilet seat was up. The fan was running.

So was the one in the kitchen where Greta Amsel’s corpse lay, sprawled on her belly.

Her hands were singed and her fingers charred black.

CHAPTER 63

THIRTY YARDS OUT from the goal, Cassiano came to a full stop, juggled, and then popped the ball over the head of the final Düsseldorf defender. With explosive speed, the Brazilian wove around the stunned sweeper and half-volleyed the bouncing ball left-footed into the upper right-hand corner of the net.

The crowd inside the Hertha Berlin stadium went nuts. Jack Morgan and Daniel Brecht were up on their feet applauding.

“That’s three,” Brecht crowed. “Absolutely super.”

“No wonder Manchester United is interested,” Morgan said. “He’s incredibly good.”

“Why would he risk his career to get involved with someone like Pavel?”

“That’s exactly what he said, remember?” Morgan said.

“But there’s no denying the way he looked in those six games,” Brecht countered. “He was simply not the same player.”

Out on the field, the referee blew the whistle, ending the game. Cassiano jogged off, sweating, smiling, and waving to his adoring fans.

Jack was silent for several moments watching him.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” he said finally. “I don’t think he’d risk his career for someone like Pavel, but maybe Perfecta would.”

“She did get naked for him.”

“She did,” Morgan agreed. “I want to talk to Cassiano again. And his coach. And the club’s general manager. All together. Think you can set that up?”

“When?”

“Now sounds good.”

CHAPTER 64

“HAUPTKOMMISSAR DIETRICH?” MATTIE said into her cell phone. She was standing in the hallway of Greta Amsel’s apartment.

“Who is this?” Dietrich replied in a thick, slow voice.