Dead Woods (8 page)

“Herr Jensen, where were you Thursday night?” she asked as she sat down.

Jensen shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. In a few bars. I strolled around town. I can’t remember where I was exactly.”

“Try to remember,” she pressed.

Jensen sighed. “The Almira, Azaley, the Tropicana—those are the three where I am most often.” He closed his eyes. “But I haven’t been to Azaley for a while because the music is too loud and the beer is too expensive. So, most likely it must have been the Tropicana and the Almira.”

“What other bars do you visit?”

Jensen did not know the names, but he described the locations as best he could and Lina took thorough notes.

“Do you remember whether you talked with anyone? At your house you mentioned a Dieter or Dirk.”

Jensen frowned. “He’s someone I often see in the Tropicana; it’s possible he was there on Thursday.” He closed his eyes. “Yes, I think we had a drink together and talked.”

“When did you come home?”

“No idea. At one point Dirk, or Dieter, disappeared. I sat at the bar a little longer, chewed the fat with the guy next to me . . . No idea whether I’ve seen him before. At some point, I left. I assume that I went straight home.”

“When was that?”

Jensen shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Is there anyone who saw when you came home?” Max asked.

Jensen laughed mockingly. “You mean mice? Or some silverfish? ’Cause nobody lives there, other than me. My wife moved out with the kids five weeks ago. In case you didn’t notice that.”

“Well, that was quite obvious,” Max said, remaining calm. “I was thinking of a neighbor, a taxi driver, someone who made the rounds with his dog.”

Jensen shrugged. “No idea. To be honest, I can’t even remember how I got home. Total blackout.”

Chapter 7

Only a few people were in the cafeteria on a Saturday afternoon. Max got an herbal tea and Lina an espresso. The sandwiches in the display case looked as if they were close to retirement, so Lina grabbed a salad that still seemed to be in its prime. Max chose a yogurt with canned fruit.

“So, what do you think?” Lina asked after they had sat down at a window table and had satisfied their most immediate hunger and thirst.

“Hm,” responded Max and slowly swallowed a piece of pineapple. “It sounds as if Birkner had more reason to be mad at Jensen than the other way around.”

“But Birkner pulled himself together again; Jensen didn’t.”

“But that’s not Birkner’s fault,” Max replied. “I’m afraid Frank Jensen sees himself too much as a poor, innocent victim.”

Lina nodded. It seemed strange to her as well that a well-trained programmer couldn’t find a new job—regardless of what happened before. “I wonder whether there’s any basis for his allegation that Birkner was behind it.”

Max fished a mushy piece of apricot out of his yogurt. “I doubt it. There’s too much of a risk of being found out or harming his reputation.” He put the piece of fruit in his mouth and swallowed. “But let’s just assume that he was involved. He’d have asked for a ton of money, which he’d have to hide from the revenue office. How would he launder the money?”

“Maybe his domestic partner helped him?” Lina said between bites. “After all, she’s a management consultant. She gives a few seminars and consulting sessions for company X, and rakes in an arm and a leg for it.”

Max grinned. “You really don’t like that woman.”

“Why don’t you let go of that? She could have laundered the money. Isn’t that possible?”

Max had to agree. In Katja Ansmann’s line of business, “consultation” could mean all types of selling and packaging. After thinking it over briefly, however, he shook his head. “We’ll get nowhere speculating. We’re not investigating industrial espionage but a murder. And all we’ve got there is the fact that Frank Jensen is going through a rough patch and holds Philip Birkner responsible for it.”

“But why does he only kill him now and not two years ago?”

Max put down the spoon next to the cup of yogurt on the plate. “Maybe he believed until recently that he could pull himself together, but now he has nothing more to lose. No job, no money, no wife.”

“No apartment,” Lina added and reminded Max of the district court notice on Jensen’s desk.

“So maybe all his pent-up rage boiled over again.”

“And his shoe size fits,” Lina said while looking at her watch. “I asked forensics to give us priority treatment.” She grinned. “Hartmann just laughed.” But she knew her colleague well enough to know he would do his best.

“But even if he was in the forest, who was with him? It seems clear that there were several perpetrators,” Max said. “One of them could have been a woman.”

“Maybe Katja Ansmann.”

“Stop it. You don’t really mean that,” said Max.

“Well, the two know each other.”

“But Jensen doesn’t seem to like her. Would you commit murder with someone you didn’t like?”

Lina had to laugh. “Did you hear what you just said?” She got serious. “He could be pretending he can’t stand her. A smoke screen.”

“Well, I’d rather put my money on the unknown woman who left the Waldschänke with Birkner.”

“Maybe Jensen drove to the woods with one of his drinking buddies,” Lina said and sipped her espresso. “He’s telling his sob story, an idea sparks to life—to give that bastard Birkner what he deserves—and off they go.”

Before Max could answer, someone shouted, “So that’s where you’re hiding!”

Hanno waved to them, got himself a Coke, and finally came wheezing to their table. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, sitting down and looking at them. “And? How’s Jensen coming along?”

“Moving along,” Max said and told him about the interrogation. “He hasn’t confessed, but he has a motive and his alibi is iffy.”

Hanno nodded as if he had expected this. “I checked whether we have anything on file about him,” he said and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a piece of paper on which he had scribbled information. “Two years ago, Philip Birkner filed charges against him because of suspected industrial espionage. The investigation is still open. By the way, the name Philip Birkner rang a bell on the computer.” He looked reproachfully from one to the other. “Why didn’t anybody check this yesterday? He was involved in a murder investigation fifteen years ago, just marginally, though. Birkner was nineteen when a young girl from his school was murdered, Julia Munz, eighteen years old. She and Philip Birkner had been an item for a while. They separated a short time before her death.”

“Who killed her?” Lina asked.

“The killer was never found. Birkner was initially on the list of suspects since rumor had it that the girl was the one who broke it off, which might have caught him by surprise. But he was out of town at the time of her murder.”

They were silent for a while. Lina nibbled on her salad.

“And?” Max asked. “Is there more?”

Hanno shrugged. “Julia Munz was strangled in a park after a party. She was partially undressed but hadn’t been raped. It’s possible that the murderer was interrupted or he wanted to make believe it was a rape.”

“Were there tracks? Hair? Fibers? DNA?” Max pressed.

“DNA evidence was secured, but at that time they couldn’t analyze it yet. The technology simply wasn’t there. They did find hair from at least four different men on the dead girl’s clothes.”

“An attempted gang rape?” asked Lina.

Hanno shook his head again. “Not likely. According to witnesses, Julia Munz had been quite generous with her affection at the party, throwing herself first at one guy and then at another.”

All three were quiet again until Max said what all of them thought. “Does this have anything to do with our case, or doesn’t it?”

Hanno leaned back and took a sip of his Coke. “Just in case, I requested the old file. When we’re running out of ideas, we can look into it.” He waved with his piece of paper. “But I also have something more recent: the list of telephone numbers on Birkner’s cell. Remarkably many women.” Hanno looked up. “At least for a man who’s in a strong relationship. Look into it.”

Lina and Max looked at each other. “And what about Jensen?” Max asked. “I’d like to keep him here until we’ve checked out his alibi.”

Hanno was not convinced. “What was it—he claims to have been on a booze cruise in Eppendorf on Thursday? And you think after that he drove to the Niendorfer Gehege to kill his former boss? How did he know that Birkner was in the forest?”

“He might have trailed him in the evening, clobbered him with two guys he hired, and then driven back to one of his favorite haunts to have an alibi,” Lina said, watching the straw she clutched dissolve slowly.

“Hm,” responded Hanno. “I’m sure you know all this is quite far-fetched, don’t you?” Then he grinned. “It looks like a pub crawl is on your schedule today. You only have yourself to blame. But if you don’t come up with something, you let Jensen go immediately. Understood?”

On a late Saturday afternoon, the area around the Eppendorfer Marktplatz was rather dead. Most of the fashionable shops were already closed and it was still too early for barhopping. Lina and Max strolled down the street, looked in the shop windows, and were silent. It had stopped raining and the air felt humid and close. Lina took off her jacket and wrapped it around her waist.

They began with the Almira, one of the bars Frank Jensen often frequented—maybe also on Thursday. Nobody in the little bar remembered having seen the man in the photo Max handed around. No one, not the woman behind the bar, the innkeeper, or the regular customer who claimed to be there practically every night, had seen the man on Thursday.

“I know you almost live here, Willi,” the woman behind the counter said to the man in his late sixties with gray stubble on his face. “I’ve been wondering why you bother going home to sleep.” The woman looked as if she were in her late fifties, probably was in her midforties, and seemed to be part of the furniture. The furnishings inside the bar were shabby and the drink menu was short. As for food, they offered bread with rendered fat, sausages, and goulash soup. Since smoking was allowed here, it seemed likely that Frank Jensen would turn up at the Almira from time to time.

“But haven’t you seen this man before?” Max asked. The woman looked at the picture again. “Yes, sure. He’s been here quite a bit lately. Drinks his beer and doesn’t say much.”

Lina looked at the name of the bar written in elaborate script above the counter. How did the joint end up with this name? Beerheaven or The Crown would be better fits than the slightly exotic Almira.

The next place was the Tropicana. Here, the name lived up more to the promise: Brazilian flair, Brazilian music, and Brazilian servers—at least from the looks of them. The bar was large and hall-like; a cocktail bar rather than a tavern. The door leading to a small front garden stood wide open. Lina suggested they order something to drink, her treat.

“People open up more that way,” she explained. She had noticed that the people at the Almira had been reserved, maybe ill at ease after she and Max had introduced themselves.

“Fine,” said Max. “I’ll have some orange juice.”

“You’re really boozing it up today, aren’t you?” she teased. Her colleague just shrugged.

Lina decided on a beer, paid for the drinks, and handed Max his glass. She climbed on one of the barstools and looked around. The place wasn’t very full yet. The young woman behind the counter had her eyes on everything. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. Her skin was the color of coffee with milk. She wore her hair in corkscrew curls and had an absolutely dazzling smile. Lina gestured for her to come over and pushed an old photo of Frank Jensen across the counter. He had been in much better shape then.

“Sorry, have you seen this man before?” Lina asked. “These days he looks . . . somewhat more battered.”

The young woman bent forward and looked at the photo.

“This guy?” She shrugged regretfully. “Sorry, I’ve never seen him. Is he your guy? Did he walk out on you?”

Lina hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “You can say that. I’ve got to know whether he was here on Thursday night.”

The young woman looked at Max, who was sipping on his OJ without getting involved, and back to Lina. Her face was a veritable question mark.

“That’s my big brother,” Lina said, patting Max’s shoulder. Max almost choked on his orange juice. The woman behind the counter giggled.

“Do you think one of your coworkers might know the man?” Lina asked, pointing to the photo. “Or your boss?”

“Maybe,” she said. Scanning the room, she motioned to a man who was serving people in the garden. He was around thirty, had black hair, and moved like a dancer. His smile reached all the way to his sideburns. The young woman whispered something and he winked at Lina before bending toward the photo, which was still on the counter.

“So you’re looking for a man?” He had a strong accent. Portuguese maybe. Possibly a stage accent—good for business. His eyes flashed, and Lina had trouble suppressing the urge to show him her badge, after all. Instead she batted her eyelashes again and, voilà, the man looked at the photo once more and finally nodded. “Yes, that guy’s been here quite often lately, but I don’t know his name. He drinks a lot, mostly by himself, and rarely talks with other guests.” His rolling
R
s were impressive.

“Thursday evening?” Lina asked.

The man moved his head slowly. “I can’t say for sure.”

“Were you the only one working on Thursday?”

“No, there was also Michele. Linus, too.”

“Are they also here tonight?”

“Michele will be here in half an hour. Linus called in sick.” The man frowned. “You’re asking questions like the police. What did your husband do?”

“He isn’t my husband.”

His gaze wandered to Max, who lifted his glass of OJ and said, “I’m just the big brother.”

Lina repeated her batting-eyelashes routine. “We’ll wait for Michele, okay?”

“Sure,” said the man and left.

“So, I’m your big brother, am I?” Max said quietly. Lina knew from his tone that he was amused.

“Should I have introduced you as my uncle?”

Max laughed, but then turned serious. “Why didn’t you say we’re police?” he asked in a low voice. “You know we can get into trouble for that.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it.”

“Oh,” Max said.

Lina took a long sip of beer. She sometimes found Max almost eerie, the way he somehow seemed to know what she thought. He didn’t have to say much. It was the way he pronounced
oh
and looked at Lina that made it seem like more than just one little word. She was quiet for a long time. Max finally broke the silence when he asked, “What made you join the police?”

She had to laugh. When she lifted the beer bottle, she saw that it was empty and ordered another one. After the young woman with the dazzling smile placed a bottle in front of her, Lina grinned and said, “I lost a bet.”