“When was that?”
“Around eleven.” Jan Niemöller, dressed in black from head to foot, shrugged. “Maybe ten past. After that, I left the party. I can’t say how long she stayed.”
“Until shortly before midnight,” said Irina Zydek, Hanna Herzmann’s assistant. “Before the thunderstorm.”
“Did she say whether she planned to go anywhere else?” Pia asked.
“No.” Niemöller shook his head. “She never did. She always kept her private life confidential.”
“You talk about her as if she were dead,” Irina Zydek said indignantly, snorting. “Hanna isn’t secretive—she just doesn’t tell you everything.”
Niemöller was insulted and didn’t reply. Obviously, there was no love lost between the two.
“Ms. Herzmann had no papers on her, no cell phone, and no handbag when she was found,” Pia said. “We traced the license plate to her company. Where does she live?”
“In Langenhain, which is part of Hofheim,” replied the assistant. “Rotkehlchenweg Fourteen.”
“What can you tell us about her personal life?”
“A few months ago, Hanna … I mean, she and her husband separated,” said Jan Niemöller.
Pia noticed his hesitation.
“
She
separated from her husband—or
they
separated from each other?” she asked.
“Hanna separated from Vinzenz,” Irina said firmly.
“You seem to know a lot about your boss,” said Pia.
“Yes, I do. I’ve been Hanna’s assistant for more than fifteen years, and she has few secrets from me.” Irina Zydek smiled bravely, but her eyes had filled with tears.
“Do you have the address and telephone number of Mr. Herzmann?”
“Kornbichler,” Irina corrected her. “Vinzenz Kornbichler. Hanna didn’t take his name when they married; she kept her own. I’m sorry, but I only have his cell number. Just a moment. I’ll look it up.”
As Irina searched on her tablet for the number, Pia looked around the big conference room. Hanna Herzmann was omnipresent. Radiantly beautiful and self-confident, she smiled from at least a dozen photos hanging on the snow-white walls. What would it feel like to have your own face always looking at you? Famous, successful individuals often had some kind of character flaw. Was Hanna Herzmann’s vanity?
Pia looked at all the framed posters and photos and thought of the cruelly beaten face of this woman she had seen so often on TV. Who could have done that to her?
Half an hour ago, the police had received word from the hospital that Hanna Herzmann had suffered critical internal injuries, which made an emergency operation necessary. Details would follow later after an extensive forensic examination was made.
The wanton brutality of the perp gave rise to the suspicion that powerful emotions must have been involved: hate, rage, disappointment. And only someone who either knew the victim personally or had perhaps had some sort of relationship with her would have harbored such feelings.
“Have there been any problems or changes recently? Trouble with someone? Threats?” asked Bodenstein, who had remained in the background until now.
By now, Hanna’s assistant and the manager of the firm had recovered from their initial shock and horror upon hearing the bad news. For a while, it was silent in the big room. Through the half-open window came muted street noise, and a commuter train rushed past.
“When anyone is as successful as Hanna, there are always people who envy her,” Niemöller said evasively. “It happens all the time.”
“But to beat up someone, to rape her and then lock her naked in the trunk of her car, that doesn’t happen all the time,” replied Bodenstein mercilessly.
Jan Niemöller and Irina Zydek exchanged a quick glance.
“About three weeks ago, Hanna fired our longtime producer,” Irina conceded at last. “But Norman would never do anything that terrible. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides … he’s not into women.”
It always astounded Pia to hear what incredibly erroneous assessments people could make with regard to their fellow human beings. Even the most placid individual could turn to violence or even to murder if he got into a situation that seemed to have no way out, putting him into an emotional state of emergency that he could not control. Often alcohol played a role, and a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly could then emerge as a brutal killer who lost all inhibitions in an excess of violence.
“According to statistics, ice-cold professionals commit the fewest crimes of violence,” Pia told them. “In most cases, the perpetrators come from the victim’s immediate circle of friends and acquaintances. What’s the full name of the man Ms. Herzmann fired? And where can we find him?”
Irina Zydek reluctantly recited a name and address in Bockenheim.
“I recall seeing Ms. Herzmann’s name recently in the headlines,” Bodenstein said. “Wasn’t there something about guests on her show who felt poorly treated?”
“Things like that happen occasionally,” said the manager, trying to play down the controversy. “People talk on camera about all sorts of things and don’t notice till later what they blabbed about. Then they complain. That’s how it goes.”
He seemed very annoyed by the fact that Bodenstein wasn’t sitting at the table but instead was prowling about the room.
“In this case, I believe it was something more than just a complaint,” Bodenstein insisted, now standing by the window. “Ms. Herzmann apparently rectified the whole matter on one of her shows.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Jan Niemöller squirmed uncomfortably on his chair, his prominent Adam’s apple twitching up and down.
“We’d like to have the names and addresses of every person who has ever lodged a complaint.” Bodenstein pulled out a business card and placed it in front of Niemöller. “It would be good if that could be done ASAP.”
“Unfortunately, it’s a rather long list,” the manager admitted. “We have—”
Irina Zydek interrupted him. “Oh God! I have to call Meike. She has no idea what’s happened.”
“Who’s Meike?” Bodenstein asked.
“Hanna’s daughter.” The assistant grabbed her cell and pressed a button. “She’s working with us during her summer vacation as a production assistant. When Hanna didn’t show up this morning at the editorial meeting and couldn’t be reached on her cell, Meike drove over to her mother’s place. She should have checked back in by now.”
* * *
“When will Papa finally get here?” asked Louisa for at least the tenth time. Each question struck Emma like a knife in her heart.
“At two o’clock. In five minutes.”
The little girl had been kneeling on the wide windowsill in the kitchen ever since Emma had picked her up an hour earlier than normal from day care. She was holding her favorite stuffed animal as she kept her gaze on the street below. She was fidgeting with impatience and seemed anxious to get away. This hurt Emma more than the knowledge of Florian’s infidelity.
Louisa had always been a daddy’s girl, although Florian wasn’t home much and had only seldom looked after his daughter. When he
was
home, the two were inseparable, and Emma felt shut out. Now and then she even got jealous of this almost symbiotic connection between father and daughter, which made her feel superfluous.
“There! I see Papa’s car!” Louisa shouted, climbing down from the windowsill. She grabbed her little bag, ran to the front door of the apartment, and hopped excitedly from one foot to the other. Her cheeks were glowing, and when Florian came up the stairs a couple of minutes later, she tore open the front door and flew into his arms, shouting with joy.
“Papa, Papa! Are we going to the zoo? Are we going right now?”
“If you like, sweetie.” Smiling, he rubbed his cheek on hers, and she threw her little arms around his neck.
“Hello,” Emma said to her husband.
“Hello,” he replied, avoiding her glance.
“Here’s Louisa’s bag,” she said. “I packed a few clothes, a pair of pajamas, and a spare pair of shoes. And two diapers. Sometimes she needs them at night.…”
The lump in her throat threatened to stifle her voice. What an awful situation. Was this whole process going to repeat itself every two weeks—this cool, businesslike handover? Should she ask Florian to move back in, and simply ignore his unfaithfulness? But what if he didn’t agree? Maybe he was glad to have escaped from her.
“Are you serious about the separation?” she asked in a hoarse voice.
“You threw me out of the house,” he reminded her, still without meeting her gaze. He was a stranger, someone she no longer trusted. And that made it even worse to surrender her child to him.
“You still owe me an explanation.”
Not a word from Florian, no justification, no apology.
“Let’s talk about it next week,” he said evasively, as usual.
Louisa was wriggling impatiently in Florian’s arms. “Come on, Papa,” she urged him, oblivious to the cruel effect her words had on her mother. “I want to go now.”
Emma crossed her arms, fighting so hard against the rising tears that she almost forgot to breathe.
“Please take good care of her.” Only a whisper issued from her lips.
“I’ve always taken good care of her.”
“When you were around.” She couldn’t help the bitter tone in her voice. This reproach had been smoldering inside her for too long.
Both Florian and his parents spoiled Louisa, which meant that she was the only one who set rules and boundaries for the child. And for that reason, she was not particularly popular with Louisa. “You were never more than a weekend father. You’ve always left me to deal with the everyday problems. Now you shower her with everything she doesn’t get from me for pedagogical reasons. It’s really unfair.”
Finally, he looked at her, but he said nothing.
“Where are you taking her?”
She had a right to know; she’d learned that from the woman at the child-protection agency and a family law attorney with whom she’d spoken at length on the phone over the past week. In order to deny a child’s parent the right to see her, there had to be serious grounds, such as alcohol or drug abuse. The woman from the agency had explained to Emma that for young children, spending the night away from home was often not permitted, but that was left to her discretion.
For a long time, she’d pondered whether to insist that Florian bring Louisa back in the evening, but she’d finally decided not to. For days, Louisa had been looking forward to the weekend with her papa, and the last thing Emma wanted was to make her daughter a victim of selfish parental power plays.
“I have an apartment in Sossenheim,” Florian said coolly. “A basement in-law apartment. Only two rooms, plus kitchen and bath, but it’s probably sufficient.”
“And where will Louisa sleep? Do you want to take her travel cot?”
“She’ll sleep with me.” He put the child down and grabbed the bag that Emma had packed. “That’s what she did almost every night when I lived here.”
That was true. Night after night, Louisa had appeared in their bedroom, and Florian had always let her sleep next to him, although Emma had protested and said that the child had to get used to her own bed. In the morning, when she got up, the two would stay in bed, snuggling, tickling, and romping with each other. They would no doubt do the same thing tomorrow morning. With one difference: Emma wouldn’t be there. And suddenly, a word flashed through her head, an ugly, nasty word, which the woman at the agency had mentioned when she listed the reasons why a parent might have visitation rights revoked.
“Have you ever considered what an impression that might give?” Emma heard herself saying. “A grown man and a little girl alone in an apartment? In the same bed?”
She noticed Florian’s jaw muscles tighten and his eyes widen. For a moment, they stared at each other in silence.
“You’re sick,” he said then, full of contempt.
The front door opened downstairs.
“Florian?” The voice of Emma’s mother-in-law came from the entry hall.
Louisa reached for her father’s hand.
“I have to go say hi to Grandma and Grandpa.” She pulled Florian toward the door.
Emma squatted down and stroked her daughter’s cheek, but Louisa no longer had eyes for her mother.
“Have fun,” Emma whispered.
She couldn’t hold back the tears a second longer. She left her husband and daughter standing there and fled to the kitchen. But she couldn’t resist the desire to watch them go. She stood at the kitchen window and saw Florian buckle Louisa into her child seat in the backseat of the car. His father stood on the steps to the front door; his mother had gone with him to the car and, with a smile, handed him Louisa’s bag. What had he told them? Certainly not the truth.
Then Florian got in the car and drove off. Through a veil of tears, Emma saw her in-laws waving good-bye. Then she pressed her fist to her mouth and began to sob.
I’ve lost my husband, she thought. And now I’m also losing my child.
* * *
Christian Kröger and his team were already waiting in front of the house when Pia and Bodenstein arrived at Rotkehlchenweg.
“What are you doing here?” Kröger asked in surprise. “Is she dead?”
“Whom were you expecting?” Bodenstein asked.
“Well, somebody from the Thirteenth,” he replied.
Their colleagues from K-13 were in charge of sex crimes, but two of them were on vacation and the third wasn’t particularly upset to hear that K-11 had taken over the case.
“I’m afraid you’re just going to have to put up with us,” Bodenstein said.
Irina Zydek had given them a house key after they had tried in vain to reach Meike Herzmann. The house, which a real estate agent had extolled as an “entrepreneur’s villa,” stood at the end of a cul-de-sac on property adjoining the woods, and it had certainly seen better days. The roof was covered with mossy lichen, the white trim had greenish spots, and the flagstones up to the house and the travertine steps fairly screamed for a thorough steam cleaning.
“The first thing I would do is cut down the fir trees,” Pia said. “They’re blocking all the light.”
“I could never understand why people would plant fir trees in the front yard,” Bodenstein agreed. “Especially not when they live right next to the forest.”
He stuck the key in the front door lock.