Private Berlin (Private 5)

In short, quick succession, he hit the billionaire with the mistresses, the prostitutes, and the Private Berlin investigation into his life.

“You found out that Private Berlin was looking at your extramarital activities on Agnes’s behalf,” Dietrich said. “You decided word of your perversion would harm your reputation, so you killed Christoph Schneider and then your wife in revenge, and you fed Schneider’s body to rats in a secret basement in an old, abandoned slaughterhouse in Ahrensfelde.”

Krüger got beet-red and choked out, “That’s—that’s—”

His attorney snarled, “Slanderous, High Commissar. My client did no such thing. He had absolutely no involvement in his wife’s murder or Schneider’s.”

The billionaire found his voice. “And I have no idea what goddamn slaughterhouse you’re talking about!”

“Your stepson thinks you killed your wife,” Dietrich said calmly. “Or had her killed.”

“He would, the little leeching bastard,” Krüger said evenly. “I repeat, I had nothing to do with Agnes’s death.”

“And yet, you did not rush home when you heard about it,” the high commissar remarked.

“As I understood it, she was dead,” Krüger replied. “Not sick. Not dying. Dead. I was upset, and grief-stricken, but I knew I could not change that sorry state of affairs, and I had vital business to conclude.”

“With who, Hermann?” Dietrich demanded. “Tell me where you’ve been, and now, or that will be the

story presented in your indictment, the one the press and the bloggers will devour and spit out at the corporate world.”

Krüger acted like he had bugs on his skin. He squirmed and said to his lawyer, “I pay you enough. Make him understand what’s at stake here.”

Richter checked his watch. “As a matter of fact, I think it’s safe to talk now, Herr Krüger. The markets close in one hour. As long as the high commissar agrees not to talk about this conversation until four, you’re free to speak.”

Hearing that, Mattie checked her watch. Three o’clock. School was getting out. She flashed on an image of Niklas leaving with Aunt C, and then returned her attention to the billionaire, who finally looked ready to tell all.

CHAPTER 102

FRIENDS, FELLOW BERLINERS, it’s five past three when my soon-to-be young friend Niklas Engel walks out the front of the John Lennon Gymnasium. He’s looking for his mother’s aunt. But the poor dear won’t be making an appearance today. I’ve made sure of that.

The boy looks upset. How perfect. I make my move and pull the Mercedes forward and roll down the window. “Niklas?” I call in an affected Dutch accent. “Niklas Engel?”

I’m holding out my Private Berlin badge and identification and smiling at him. “I’m Daniel Brecht. Your mother’s probably mentioned me. She asked me to come get you and take you home.”

Niklas looks at me suspiciously. “Where’s my aunt Cäcilia?”

I give him a sad smile. “That’s why your mother asked me to come. Your aunt is sick, very sick. She was taken to the hospital.”

That does it. The dear boy’s defenses drop and, clearly worried, he moves straight to the car door and climbs in, asking, “What’s wrong with her?”

“They don’t know,” I say. “She collapsed at home and they’re running tests. Now buckle your seat belt.”

Niklas does. Right away. No argument.

What a remarkable boy. So earnest. So obedient.

“Where’s my mom?” Niklas asks as I put the Mercedes in gear and pull away from the school.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “She’ll be joining us shortly.”

Niklas frowns, looks around, and says, “This isn’t the way to my house. Where are we going?”

“A special place,” I say. “A very special place for a very special boy.”

CHAPTER 103

“FOR THE PAST ten days I’ve been in Sweden,” Hermann Krüger announced. “I’ve been staying at a hunting lodge near Östersund that belongs to the Swedish financier Olle Larsson. Olle and I have been negotiating the sale of my empire. I wished to enjoy the rest of my life and do some good with my money. I’d hoped Agnes would like to stay with me and help me do good. But the last time I spoke to her, she told me she wanted a divorce—”