Private Berlin (Private 5)

Burkhart’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what Dietrich meant when he first came on the case and said something about your reputation preceding you?”

Mattie’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, I expect so. And speaking of the Hauptkommissar, I think it’s time to tell him everything that happened today.”

Aunt C came into the living room with a blanket and pillows. “You sure you’ll be comfortable on that couch? Your legs will hang off.”

Burkhart grinned and took the bedding from her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good night, Burkhart,” Mattie said. “And thank you for staying.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

CHAPTER 92

THE MOON WAS near full and glowed through a vent in the storm, casting Treptower Park in a pale light that threw dark shadows past the statues of the kneeling Russian soldiers.

High Commissar Dietrich sat bow-backed amid those shadows on the stone steps of the memorial. He was drinking from a bottle of vodka and staring blearily out over the graves of Stalin’s men toward the silhouette of the great Soviet warrior carrying the German child.

Dietrich was recalling how he’d come here as a boy shortly after his mother’s death from pneumonia. He’d been no more than six or seven. The colonel had brought him to these very steps.

His father had pointed across the graves toward the huge statue, saying: “Your mother is now like the heroes buried here, Hans. And you, you are like that child cradled in that soldier’s arms. Do you understand?”

Dietrich had not understood. At that moment, he had felt only confusion and loss. And yet he had nodded at the colonel for fear of disappointing him.

Sitting there in Treptower Park some forty-odd years later, the high commissar felt the same emotions whirl through him, and anger, and desperation, and…

His cell phone rang. He thought about ignoring it but then dug it from the pocket of his coat. “Dietrich.”

“High Commissar,” Mattie said. “It’s—”

“I know who this is,” Dietrich grumbled. “Weigel called me two hours ago. She informed me of the murder of Herr Jaeger and the fact that you and Herr Burkhart are wanted in Frankfurt on charges of grand theft auto and for questioning in regards to that murder.”

“It’s irrelevant. We know who the killer is, High Commissar,” Mattie said.

Dietrich’s head snapped back.

“Hermann Krüger?” he asked, feeling much drunker than he had a minute ago.

“No,” Mattie said firmly. “His name is Falk. No first name yet. He’s the son of the man who ran the slaughterhouse in Ahrensfelde. Have you been drinking again, sir?”

“I have,” Dietrich acknowledged. “I buried my father today. My last family.”

There was a silence on the phone before Mattie said, “I am sorry, sir. Should I take this information to Inspector Weigel?”

A war erupted inside the high commissar, part of him wanting to push it all Weigel’s way, but his insatiable curiosity got the better of him. “No. Tell me.”

Clouds closed in on the moon, leaving Dietrich and the war memorial in darkness save a saber of dim light that cut across the statue of the Soviet as Mattie gave him a thumbnail report on their actions in Frankfurt am Main and a rough outline of Ilona Frei’s story.

As she spoke on, bile crept up and burned the high commissar’s throat. When she finished, Dietrich felt weak, almost disjointed, almost like a marionette clipped of strings, and he hunched over his bottle.

He was silent for many moments, his drunken mind reeling, trying to think through the implications of the tale. He saw several lines of possible inquiry that he did not like. Not one bit. Despite his pride, his ethics, and his devotion to duty at Berlin Kripo, the high commissar began to think openly in a different manner, one that was more extremely self-interested.

“High Commissar?” Mattie said. “Are you there?”

Finally, Dietrich cleared his throat and said, “Your sources are prostitutes and a schizophrenic methadone addict. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Mattie said, again defensive. “But I believe them.”

The high commissar laughed scornfully. “That’s why you work for Private and I still work for Berlin Kripo. As a public servant, I have to take sources into account when I’m judging where to put my manpower.”