Rain Girl (10 page)

The coffee was brewed, and she forced herself to let go of Port’s shoulder. She could feel clearly, like never before, that one day she would be broken, her bones would fall to pieces one at a time, her skin a pathetic pile of tenderness, at some beach she loved, lost and gone. Finally they made love, no longer fucked. They hadn’t fucked for a long time now.

For the first time it was crystal clear to her. It didn’t surprise her, but it hurt, because it pushed Max out once and for all and she didn’t know where he’d land—in a soft meadow or on a concrete floor.

Later on the dark terrace, they shared a croissant, which had gone stale during the day, and more coffee, this time with vodka, so that even Port liked it.

Marie had been in the dark, too, but on her own and close to death.
Moribund
as Borger would call it: “
Moribund,
as we Latin students say.”

Her thoughts wandered, and she decided to ask Borger if he’d ever thought he might be gay, because somehow he never got along with women.

“Do you think Borger is gay?” she asked Port, and remembered in that instant that Port didn’t even know Borger, and she felt a new lightness inside her and had to laugh.

“Who?” Port asked. “Borger? Who’s that supposed to be?”

Franza kept laughing, the vodka having gone to her head, and she tried to imagine Borger with a man, tie-Borger in bed with a man—no, that didn’t work, that really didn’t work, the thought was absolutely absurd, but somehow it wasn’t.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, no one, it’s not important.”

“Then why are you grinning like that?” Port asked. “Come on, tell me!”

“Your director,” she asked. “Does he wear ties?”

He raised his eyebrows. “
My
director!” he said. “
My
director isn’t
my
director. And yes, sometimes he does. Why?”

“Just asking,” she said. “Just asking,” and continued to grin. Maybe they could hook him up with tie-Borger.

After all, he was crazy about art and artists, as she now knew. Kill two birds with one stone. Borger’s miserable single life would be over, and the director wouldn’t be making eyes at Port anymore.

“So, little witch,” Port said, throwing a cushion at her, “why this diabolical grin? What do you have up your sleeve?”

She threw the cushion back at him. “Your director,” she teased, “will forget all about you once he’s seen my tie-Borger.”

After they tussled a little and landed in a corner of the couch, he said, “But I need
my
director, as you call him. I have to convince him. I want to be Hamlet!”

He paused theatrically and struck a dramatic pose. “To get this role,” he said, “to get this role, Frau Inspector, any serious actor would commit
murder. Murder!
Do you understand?”

She moved her head from side to side, undecided.

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “I’d only fuck!” He giggled, the vodka having had its effect on him as well. “But I’d do a good job of it. Why not? I’ve made love to men before, onstage. What’s the difference?”

She pretended she hadn’t heard it, the subtle irony in his voice, the little digs.

“Are you worried?”

She ignored it. “Hamlet?” she asked. “Is that the guy in love with his mother?”

He sighed. “No, dearest. That’s Oedipus. Did you play hooky a lot in school?”

“Who cares,” she said. “It’s always the same story. They die and murder as much as they can, and in the end they’re all dead. And you’re fighting for a role like that?”

She sat up and looked at him. It had gotten so late she was dizzy thinking about it.

“Well,” he said. “That’s your field, too, really. Death.”

“Yes,” she answered. “True. Can you get the vodka?”

When he returned he was swaying a little. “You’re jealous!” he said, and she could hear how surprised he was. “You’re actually jealous!”

Now she was surprised herself, because she knew he was right, and she stared at him, for seconds—an eternity—and she felt her heart beating like a drum.
To die,
she thought,
now.
Forever, and not have to deal with anything anymore.

She grabbed her jacket and her bag, and headed for the door, but he jumped up and blocked her path, holding her tight. “No!” he said. “No. Stay, please.”

She stayed.

Back on the terrace, they drank some more and ate the freshly baked cookies she’d brought with her. It had become quiet down on the street, and patches of light were appearing in the darkness. It was muggy; there’d be a thunderstorm, a downpour that would hit the street and bounce back up as little drops of water and evaporate back into the air, back into the wind, a never-ending cycle.

Marie,
Franza thought,
was racing the raindrops
. That’s how she’d been, a bundle of energy, and she’d probably won the race.

“Once, we almost got very close,” Port said so quietly she could barely hear. She knew immediately he was talking about Marie, and she felt the sting, firm and sharp, a tugging pain.

This must be telepathy,
she thought,
what a fragile idyll
. Deep down she wanted to laugh, but then fear took hold of her.

“You did?” she asked, trying to sound interested, like a detective should.

“Yes,” he said. “For a brief moment. A really brief moment. But then one of us hesitated, and it was over.”

He fell silent, thinking about it as she waited expectantly, looking into his eyes, unfathomable darkness.
Fragile idyll,
she thought again,
shit, shit!
She had the metallic taste of that fragility on her tongue.

“I don’t even know who,” he said finally. “Her? Me? Both of us? Do you know what I mean? A fraction of a second and you choose life or death, but you don’t know, not in that moment.”

She had pulled herself back together and tried to laugh. “Aren’t you being a little dramatic? Choosing life or death! Shouldn’t that be onstage?”

“No,” Port said. “Stage! Life! What’s the difference? Why are you making fun of me?”

She stroked his face gently, tracing the lines of his cheeks, his nose, his mouth.
I love you,
she thought. “
We
didn’t miss the moment, this magical fraction of this magical second.”

For a long time now they’d been making love, not just fucking anymore.

27

A nap,
she thought.
A nap would be really nice right now
.

Unlike Port, who was still asleep, she had to get up and go to work. She knew she’d be irritable today, and she knew later she’d have to apologize to Felix and Arthur and Robert and everyone else for her foul mood. She decided to knock off punctually that night and get ten hours of sleep.

Things were already hectic in the office. Her colleagues were examining, organizing, and checking up on the calls coming in.

“So!” Franza said in a cheerful tone meant only to cheer herself. “What’s up?”

“Lots,” Felix said. “Really quite a lot. Did you have trouble sleeping? You look awful.”

He shook his head and watched her as she rummaged around in her handbag looking for aspirin.

“Thanks,” she said. “That’s very sweet of you, Felix. Just think how you’ll be feeling in a few months.”

He grinned rather unhappily, and she was satisfied.

“So,” he said, “let’s take a good look at Marie’s life. I figure her last home is most important. The manager called us, a social worker. She recognized Marie from the photo. Robert spoke to her, and apparently she’s pretty shaken. He’s made an appointment for us to see her this afternoon.”

He leafed through the little notebook he always had on him, and then raised his head and stared at Franza. “Ah, yes,” he said, “before I forget. We have a DNA match. The cigarette butts from the shoulder of the autobahn are from the same person as some of the ones at the rest area. Just as we suspected. It’s nobody we have in our files, however, so he didn’t do us that favor.”

Felix shrugged regretfully and continued leafing through the notebook.

“What else? Oh, yes, a teacher called us, also because of the picture. She was going to school again and was in his class. I think we should talk to him, too. We’re meeting him at the school around noon, during his lunch hour.”

He flipped another page and nodded contently. “That’s it for now. No one saw her on the autobahn, unfortunately. Or at least no one’s contacted us about it. But you never know . . .”

He shrugged, leaving the sentence uncompleted, and took a sip of Coke.

“Yuck!” Franza said. “How can you drink that stuff!?”

Felix looked at the glass in his hand with surprise. “Why? Because of a few teaspoons of sugar? Your cookies have at least that much.”

He turned around and walked back toward his desk. Before he sat down he turned to Franza again. “Oh, yes, the mother, Frau Gleichenbach, called again. She’s coming to identify the body today and would like you to be there. I said yes. Is that OK with you?”

Franza nodded. “When?”

“She’ll be here in about an hour. I thought you could drive to the hospital together.”

“No problem.”

She looked around the room. “We still don’t have a coffeemaker?”

Felix kept typing on his computer without looking up. “No. I thought you’d bought one. I saw the box in the back of your car yesterday.” He looked up. “Or was I mistaken?”

Franza felt herself turning red.
Shit,
she thought. “No,” she said, “I mean yes. No.”

He was listening attentively now, leaning back in his chair, rocking and grinning. “So which is it?”

She didn’t answer, but sat down at her desk opposite Felix and turned on her computer.

“Ah!” he said, lifting his left eyebrow a bit and smiling. “I see. It was for . . .”—he thought for a moment—“for your . . . what do you call it? Lover? Do I know him?”

“How’s Angelika?” she asked.

“Don’t change the subject!” he said.

She was silent for a while as he looked her up and down. Finally she took a deep breath and decided to talk. Felix was her best friend, so who could she confide in if not him? She told him Port’s name, convinced Felix wouldn’t know it. But he whistled softly through his teeth. “Wow!” he said. “You’ve got good taste. Our theater’s rising star! But since when do you have a thing for artists? You’ve never even been inside a theater.”

She was speechless. Who else here knew Port? “How on earth do
you
know him?”

He laughed. “Why on earth are you surprised?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “
I
didn’t know who he was.” She had to grin. “That was a shock to him.”

“I believe that,” Felix said, grinning as well. “But by now he’s probably used to the fact that you’re a lowbrow. You must have other qualities, then? Qualities I don’t know about?”

She narrowed her eyes and smiled mysteriously. “It looks that way.”

“So the coffeemaker is at his place now?”

Franza nodded.

“Tea drinker?” He shuddered. “Unbelievable!”

Franza nodded. “Isn’t it?”

“And Max?”

Franza sighed.

At that moment there was a knock on the half-open door, and a man entered: about fifty years old, well-groomed, a tennis-court tan, wearing a suit and tie and carrying the beginnings of a paunch.

“Am I in the right place?” he asked. “I’m looking for the detectives in the case of this girl, Marie Gleichenbach.”

Felix leaned back in his chair again. The ball had started rolling. “Yes, you’re in the right place. I’m Detective Herz, and this is my colleague Detective Oberwieser. And you are?”

“Lauberts,” the visitor said, holding out his hand to Felix. “Dr. Lauberts.”

He smiled a little apologetically and looked around. Franza got a chair for him and offered him a glass of water. “One never drinks enough, right? Especially in this heat.”

“Yes,” he said, grateful for this easy opening. “Thank you.”

“So,” Felix replied, putting an end to the formalities whose sole purpose was to put visitors at ease. “How can we help you?” he asked, and crossed his arms.

“The newspaper said it was murder,” Lauberts blurted out. “And then it said it was an accident—so which was it?”

“Well,” Felix said, “we don’t know all the details yet, but there’s a lot of evidence to suggest the girl’s death was premeditated.”

“Murder, then.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” Felix looked at the man with interest. He was clearly struggling with himself.

“And you’re investigating?”

Felix nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Lauberts took a sip of his water and sighed. “Well, in that case,” he said, “in that case, I don’t have a choice.”

The detectives waited. Lauberts pressed his lips together and stared at his hands.

“Well, then,” he began finally. “The thing is, I work for social services looking after adolescents who’ve gone astray, if you want to call it that. It’s an administrative job, but I’m responsible for sending them to state homes and residential groups, which is how I met Marie Gleichenbach several times.”

He paused and looked expectantly at the detectives.

Franza noticed that little drops of sweat had formed on his tanned forehead. “Yes?” she asked softly.

He emptied his glass in one gulp. “Well, the thing is,” he said. “I want to be completely open with you. Each home we supervise has to keep a record of visitors. We can’t have just anyone come and go as they please.”

Franza and Felix nodded sympathetically.

“I mean,” Dr. Lauberts continued eagerly, “it’s our highest priority to keep our teenagers away from drugs and violence. We try to supervise their contacts as much as we can. This is difficult because they’re not locked up, so they have to report to their resident supervisors, if you know what I mean.”

Franza and Felix nodded that they understood.

Dr. Lauberts was on a roll. “After all, they’re supposed to be rehabilitated. Of course, they can go wherever they want in their spare time, don’t get me wrong. We can’t control every minute of their lives anyway. But at least the comings and goings at the homes need to be recorded, who visits whom for how long, and
especially
when
the visits take place behind closed doors, if you know what I mean. Certain acquaintances from our charges’ pasts are not welcome at all, of course. I mean, I don’t want you to think we’re that suspicious, or that nosy, or that coldhearted, but our colleagues in the field have seen so much . . .”