She went to the door. When she turned around, the teenager was still sitting in his chair, arms crossed and lips pressed together. “Are you coming? I’m bringing you home.” That way she could check his alibi with his mother, maybe have a chance to talk to Antje Niemann briefly, possibly prevent something, or maybe change or improve . . . Marcel stared at her with a wrinkled brow and tried to digest what she had said. Bring him home? To his mom? He wasn’t going to the slammer? Shrugging, he got up. Cops—go figure. One clobbers you, the next sucks up to you until you almost soften—and then she even drives you home. Let’s hope with flashing blue lights, yo. Otherwise the whole thing isn’t worth it.
Not a single peep came out of the boy on the entire way out of the station. Not in the elevator when Lina called Hanno on her cell phone and also not when she checked herself and the teen out at the front desk. He stood next to her with knit brows while she was signing the release papers and when the clerk buzzed them out. As they crossed the parking lot toward her car, one could have mistaken them for siblings: Lina, the little sister, trotting half a step behind her brother. Only the hand on his elbow when she discreetly steered him in the right direction marred that picture. Marcel still hadn’t said a word. He looked to the ground, but Lina knew he was checking the surroundings for possible escape routes.
Well, that’s par for the course
. She pretended not to notice but was prepared if he bolted. She had already clicked the remote to unlock her car when Marcel tore away and tried to run for it. Lina caught up with him immediately and grabbed hold of him.
“Better stay here! We’ll drive now . . . Shoot!”
A hard kick against her shin did only a little damage since she moved away at the last moment. A half turn, a sidekick. He wanted to land a punch, but she grabbed his arm and then the kid was sprawling across the hood of her car.
“Poor aim! And can’t you think of anything else but a kick in the shin?” She let go of him with a sigh. “Come on.” The boy straightened himself, a sullen expression on his face. “You really think we’re that stupid? Don’t you know most cops practice martial arts?”
“Lina Svenson, working tirelessly to fight crime!” The voice behind her made her spin around. Max, having witnessed this little scene, was leaning on a nearby car. She stuck out her tongue and turned back to Marcel. He was wiping off his hands and trotting to the passenger door, which Lina held open for him.
“So what have you been doing?” she asked Max, who had come over. He gave a brief recap of his conversation with Niels Hinrichsen in the Niendorfer Gehege.
“What about the kid?” he said in a low voice, pointing to the teen who was curiously surveying the inside of the car. “Is he one of the dangerous subway thugs?”
Lina nodded. “He’s just a little twerp at the moment, but that can change fast. I don’t believe he has anything to do with Birkner, but if we don’t watch out, he’ll be back upstairs at the precinct in a few years.” By upstairs she meant the homicide division. She looked at Max pensively as if she had to decide something. “Are you free right now?”
“Theoretically, yes. I was going to write the report, but, well, you know . . .” Alex was the only one in their group who actually enjoyed writing reports and filling out forms.
“Then get in the car,” Lina said. “It’s a good idea anyway if someone keeps an eye on the rascal, but keep your mouth shut.” When Max looked at her curiously, she blushed, something completely atypical for her, and added, “I want to show you something.”
Max climbed in the backseat behind Lina, so that Marcel could see him and he could see the boy. The latter seemed to feel uncomfortable, which Lina could understand.
After they had driven for a while, she asked the teen, “Where did you learn to kick?”
He shrugged and glared. “A dude showed me.”
“On the street?”
The boy nodded.
Lina signaled and turned right. They drove in silence. Every now and then she glanced at Marcel. In profile, he resembled his mother and even already had the same tired expression around the corners of his mouth. Before the large intersection where she would have to turn right to reach his home, she slowed down and asked, “Would you like to learn how to do it? I mean real kickboxing?”
She saw him fight with himself. Finally he snorted derisively, “In the police sports club, you mean?”
“No.” She drove even slower. “So, what about it?” She looked at him and detected something familiar in his gaze, maybe herself, a former self or what she might have become.
“Fine, then,” he conceded generously. “I can have a look at it.”
Lina nodded and turned left at the intersection. She could see Max’s raised brow in the rearview mirror.
She knew he would be there. Lutz practically lived and breathed kickboxing and spent every free minute in the dojo in Altona-Nord. He either practiced by himself on one of the few machines they had, or he worked out with his buddies. Sometimes he taught kids and adolescents from the neighborhood—youngsters who knew a lot about beating someone up, but little about fighting fair. Lutz tried to teach them that, combined with the art of defending yourself without killing the other guy right away. Of course, he didn’t tell them that, at least not so openly, since otherwise they’d have disappeared immediately. Most were boys, but there were a few girls, as well. When Lina entered the room that was covered with training mats with Marcel and Max, the boy opened his eyes wide. Inside, a giant was hitting his partner with a series of blows, each of which looked as if it hurt like hell. And they would have, too, if the receiver of the blows hadn’t protected himself with thick foam pads. Lina waited until the giant looked up, and then waved. He said something to his partner, who nodded and disappeared. Then the huge man wiped his forehead with a towel, came toward Lina, and smiled.
“Hey, Lina.” He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a smooch on her cheek. Then he turned to Max and greeted him with a nod. His smile was a little forced. “I’m Lutz.”
“Max.” Max politely bowed his head. He looked out of place here, with his neat shirt, polished shoes, and jacket, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Lina put her hand on the boy’s elbow. “Marcel, Lutz is a good friend of mine, my trainer.” Marcel had to look up to the more than six-and-a-half-foot-tall man with a chest like a tree trunk. With his short-cropped hair, the dark tattoos on his naked upper body, and his crooked nose, he hardly exuded respectability, but Lina saw the awestruck sparkle in the boy’s eyes. It seemed she had used the right bait.
Lutz scrutinized Marcel: the skinny arms, the cheek that was still red from Sebastian’s slap, the stains on his pants. Most of all, however, he saw an expression around the boy’s mouth, the hint of a blissful smile reflective of all the dreams a boy like him could achieve if only he were more like the hulk in front of him. “Who did ya fight with?”
“The cops nabbed me and one of them clobbered me.” He swallowed. “And she threw me against a car.” He was pointing at Lina.
“And what were you up to?” Lutz asked.
The smile disappeared. “Nothin’.” He looked suspiciously from Lutz to Lina. Was this a setup? Could this type here be a cop as well? But Lutz just snorted sarcastically.
“Sure. You’re a poor little orphan. Completely innocent. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Before the boy could answer, he asked, “Have you ever actually fought before? I mean, kickboxing?”
Marcel nodded. “One of my buddies showed me.”
“Hm, a buddy. What did he show ya?”
The boy’s glance wandered between Lutz and Lina and he shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, in case I’m attacked, what I’m supposed to do. What kind of kicks there are. Stuff like that.”
“Show me,” Lutz said before quickly feigning a blow. After a moment of shock, the boy swerved, turned around with surprising agility, and kicked—way too high and far from his target. Lutz just briefly lifted his foot to block, then raised an arm quickly, and Marcel landed on the mat.
“So that’s what your pal showed you?” Lutz asked.
“Dammit, no!” Marcel picked himself up, vacillating between anger, admiration, and surprise. He squinted at Lutz. His curiosity finally won and he swallowed his pride. “Would ya teach me that?”
The boy had caught fire, but Lutz didn’t answer immediately. He gnawed at his lower lip without letting Marcel out of his sight. After what seemed like half an eternity, he said, “Okay, but I’m the one who makes the rules. If you don’t obey them, you’re out.” Marcel was already nodding his agreement—sure, no problem—when Lutz stressed the point once more. “I absolutely mean it. If you fuck up, you’re gone.”
Marcel heard the man, but, shit, it seemed worth it. And so he nodded, slower now. He was about to say something to clarify the deal, when the door to the dojo flung open and two men entered, laughing loudly. The little group looked toward the door; the laughter stopped. One of the men—sturdy and pale, with gray eyes and short, brown hair—stared at Lina. If they had met on the street, he’d have spit on the ground. Here, at the dojo, he just snorted disdainfully. Lina and Lutz exchanged glances. She was about to say something when the man bawled, “Lookee here, our cop slut.” He glared at Max. “So now you’re dragging along your pig friends, too, are ya?” The man, Kalle, had a nose for cops. Lina turned around again, measured the man from head to toe, and turned away silently. She told Lutz, “Thanks. We’ll talk later.”
Lutz nodded without taking his eyes off the two men. “Are we on for later at Chilli’s?”
“They don’t like cops at Chilli’s,” Kalle interrupted and slowly came closer. He stopped three steps in front of Lina and Max. Marcel had edged to Lutz’s other side.
“Chilli’s is Lina’s joint as much as it is yours,” Lutz said.
“But not this one’s,” Kalle declared, staring at Max. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m a policeman,” Max answered, emphatically calm and polite.
“And how dare someone like you come to our dojo? Did the missus not tell ya that we don’t wanna see no cops here?”
“Sorry, but that’s news to me,” Max replied, still politely. “I had no idea my presence would disturb anyone.”
“You bet your ass your presence disturbs someone, you fucking pig.” Kalle looked at his buddy, whom Lina had never seen there before, and took another step toward Max.
“Stop it, Kalle,” Lina said.
“Kalle, that’s enough,” said Lutz.
Kalle ignored them both. Max stood in front of him totally relaxed, his weight resting equally on both legs, his arms dangling loosely at his sides, and his hands slightly open. Kalle’s eyes contracted. He took another step forward.
“If I were you, I’d stop,” Max said. His voice was a touch lower and a bit calmer, if that was possible. “Otherwise, someone might get badly hurt.”
“Yeah, you faggot cop, I bet someone’s getting hurt right now,” Kalle said. He wore a tracksuit. Max was in street clothes. Kalle positioned himself in front of Max, held up his fists, and stared at his opponent. Max stood there without moving, breathing calmly.
The attack came with lightning speed. A kick, a blow, a scream—and Kalle flew through the dojo and crashed down on the mat about ten feet away. He was white as snow and looked as if he were about to throw up. All Lina could see was Max lowering his arm and putting down his left foot.
“Wow,” she said.
“The pig dislocated my shoulder,” screamed Kalle, his voice breaking and sounding rather high, not at all fitting for such a huge guy. His pal was already kneeling at his side and Lutz also ran to him and checked the shoulder.
“You’ve got to see a doctor,” he said, but Kalle ignored him.
“I’ll report that pig to the police. This was intentional bodily injury! That fucking cop . . . Ouch, damn!” When Lina made a few tentative steps in his direction, he screamed, “Just piss off. Just wait till I’m fit again. I’ll get you for this. I’ll—”
“That’s enough now,” Lutz interrupted him. “Can you get up? I’ll bring you to the hospital.” He helped Kalle get to his feet with the help of his buddy. Kalle was still pale as the walls of the dojo, but he could leave under his own power.
“Call Igor. He has to train the kids today,” Lutz told Lina on the way out, and she nodded. It hadn’t been more than two minutes since Max’s strike and she still wasn’t over her surprise. She noticed Marcel, who stared at Max with big eyes. It seemed that he also hadn’t even seen Max move.
“What was that?” she finally asked when the door had clicked shut and Kalle’s cursing was muted.
“Kung fu,” Max said and wiped off his jacket with his hands, as if they had caught him in some embarrassing activity, like listening to pop tunes or crocheting doilies.
“Well, you certainly aren’t a beginner,” Lina said, shaking her head. “Kalle might not be the brightest bulb, but he did earn the third
dan
.” She fished the cell phone out of her knapsack. After briefly talking with Igor, who promised to come by immediately, she steered Marcel and Max to the backyard, away from the stuffy smell of the dojo and out into the evening sun. Marcel hadn’t said anything the entire time, but he was watching Max. He seemed to have forgotten that he was sitting on a bench with two cops and said, “That was super cool. Where did ya learn that?”
“In a dojo very similar to this one. Do you know what a dojo is?” Max asked when he saw that the youngster was confused. Marcel shook his head. “It’s a Japanese word that means ‘exercise room.’ Here in Europe we usually use it for martial arts training rooms, but in the Eastern tradition fighting and meditating are considered as one and are practiced together.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I’ve been practicing since I was three. Meditation and kung fu—the two are one. Kung fu is just another form of meditation. My parents,” he said, mostly to Lina, “are Zen Buddhists. I grew up with it.”
Lina had only a very vague idea what distinguished Zen Buddhists from other Buddhists or what Buddhists in general thought or did. She said nothing since she was too tired. Kids were now starting to turn up for their training session. Some knew her and nodded when they walked by, looking curiously at the other two on the bench.