Rain Girl (15 page)

She fell silent again and looked out the window. “They get their daughters high on drugs and porn, and then take them to bed with them. Their sons, too. It’s probably not even that difficult. Children don’t put up a fight, and how could they? They’re scared and don’t know anything different.”

She took a deep breath, nodding emphatically. “That’s what it’s like in this beautiful country of ours. And actually it happens in all social classes. But that isn’t anything new to you.”

She turned her head to look out the window again. She’d become cynical over the years, disheartened. She’d seen too much and failed too often. Idealism? What’s that?

“In my job,” she said, turning back to the detectives, “you develop a pretty thick skin, just like in your job. You’ve got to, I guess, but some things . . . some things still get under your skin. That’s why most of my colleagues don’t last very long. Four or five years, then they look for another job.”

She nodded toward the door. “Jennifer out there, the tall one with all the black around her eyes. Her father was drunk and stabbed her mother to death while Jenny watched. She was eleven. She grabbed her little sister Jessica and hid in the cellar for two days. When the police finally found them, Jenny stepped in front of her sister, holding a pocketknife to protect her. They had a hard time getting it away from her.”

Yes,
Franza thought,
you’re right, of course. But we all know these stories
. She stood up and went to the window. The sun beat down on the road.

“If something isn’t going her way,” the social worker continued, “she lashes out. As quick as lightning, without warning, bam! Theoretically she shouldn’t be here anymore. Violence isn’t tolerated, that’s our first rule. No violence, no alcohol, no drugs, no prostitution. But where do you think she’ll end up if we kick her out?”

She paused again briefly. “She’s scared of the dark, needs the light on to go to sleep. Isn’t it funny?”

No,
Franza thought,
not funny
. She looked out the window, but all she could see were the neighboring buildings. There were no wide-open spaces, no ocean, no sky.

“And Cosima, the short blonde. Her father is a musician, her mother a doctor. They had high hopes for her: English-speaking kindergarten, ballet, piano lessons, prestigious school, university, you know, the works. The world at her feet, the high life. But Cosima didn’t cooperate, simply didn’t work out like they wanted her to. She failed at school, took up smoking pot, got stoned and was caught by the police, totaled the family car. Just little things like that, so they kicked her out, Herr and Frau Doctor. At fifteen.”

“You can’t save them all,” Franza said a little too loud, meaning herself.

The social worker laughed her strange little laugh. “Yes, that’s true. As we can see with Marie.”

She refilled their cups. “Marie was on her way to becoming a success story, probably our only one. All of a sudden she started going back to school, aced her finals, and planned to go to Berlin to study. She would have received a scholarship, and we already had arranged a room for her in the dormitory. She would have made it.”

Pride was evident in her voice. She was in her early forties and her body was gaunt and showing signs of stiffness, though her graying hair probably made her look older than she was.

And how about me,
Franza thought, alarmed,
how old do I look?

“What was she going to study?” Felix asked, glancing anxiously at Franza.
Why does he look so worried?
she thought
. What does he think I’ll do, silly man?

“She wanted to be an actress and had signed up to take the entrance exam at a university. I’m sure she would have made it.”

The pride was back in the social worker’s voice, and the soft pink color returned to her face. It showed in her sparkling eyes, and at that moment she looked beautiful. Then the regret and melancholy returned.

Franza raised her eyebrows.
To Berlin to be an actress, I see
.

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“No. No . . . boyfriend. Not as far as I know.” Felix heard the hesitation in her voice.

“But she was in love. That’s what she wrote her mother. Are you sure you don’t know anything about it?”

The social worker thought for a moment, moving her head from side to side. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe you’re right; there may have been someone in the last few weeks. She was . . . different. Softer, hopeful, happy. The girls noticed, too, and teased her about it. But it didn’t bother her, she seemed . . . very certain.”

Franza saw the tenderness in her eyes again, and it touched her.

“And?” Felix asked impatiently.

She shook her head regretfully. “Nothing. I don’t know any more. She didn’t talk about herself very much. When I asked her how she was doing, she said fine, and that she was confident she’d make it. But then . . . something must have gone wrong.”

“Dr. Lauberts—does the name ring a bell?”

“Yes, of course.” She didn’t seem surprised.

“You’re not surprised we’re asking about him?”

She shrugged, looking very tired all of a sudden. “I’ve wondered about that for some time.”

Felix nodded. “Great. So what do you know?”

She hesitated briefly. “I’m guessing she was involved with him somehow. Or rather, he with her.”

Franza came back to the table and sat down. “He paid her. I assume you know what that’s called.”

“Yes,” the social worker said softly. “Of course I know what that’s called.”

“Could Lauberts be Marie’s murderer?”

Startled, Hauer looked up and frowned. “Do you believe so?”

“We don’t believe anything. We investigate. We look at all the angles. What do you believe?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, either,” she said. “No, I can’t imagine it, not really. But then again I couldn’t imagine that he of all people . . .”

She fell silent, looking down.

“What? Frau Hauer?”

“Would turn her into a hooker,” she said reluctantly. Suddenly she had tears in her eyes, and she quickly turned away, trying to hide them.

The detectives looked at her with surprise and renewed interest. Was it possible . . . ? Could it be . . . ? Was there any chance of that . . . ?

“Why didn’t you do anything about this . . . relationship?”

She looked down at the tablecloth and flicked some crumbs to the floor. “I’ve only known about it myself for two weeks, since this strange visit of his . . . I’m guessing you’ve heard about it. Our intern told me, of course. I confronted Marie, but she only laughed at me.”

“And?”

She shook her head, bewildered. “And what?”

“Do you know of any other . . . clients?”

She gave a short laugh and brushed hair out of her face. “What are you talking about?”

“Apparently there’s a list, and we’d like to have it. Do you know anything?”

“No, how should I?”

“Don’t you have a certain legal responsibility?”

Hauer sighed and looked impatient. “Do you always know what your children are doing?”

That hit home.

One–nothing, your favor,
Franza thought, picturing Ben.

Touché,
Felix thought, picturing Marlene.

But Franza wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “Tell me again—what were your guidelines?”

They could see in her eyes how tired the social worker was, how fed up she was with all of it.
Lead,
Franza thought,
in your bones, everywhere. I know how it feels
.

“Listen,” Frau Hauer said. “I’ve been working in this job forever, way too long, probably. Just like you maybe. If we’d met in different circumstances, we might even have been friends.”

I don’t think so,
Franza thought,
I really don’t. I don’t like you self-proclaimed Samaritans, you do-gooders.

It’s possible,
Felix thought indifferently,
perhaps
.

The social worker paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is, I did the best I could for Marie, and you just have to believe that. I was sure she’d make it, clean break and everything. She was doing so well!”

She shook her head. “But time and time again I get blindsided by the fact that anything is possible, that there is a dark side . . . and that’s why . . . besides, she was over twenty.”

Franza opened her mouth. She was about to say,
Let’s get back to Lauberts . . . Could it be that you and he . . . and that’s what’s holding you back?

But she didn’t say anything and just looked at Felix, who was tugging at her sleeve. “Leave it alone,” he muttered.

Aha,
she thought,
gotcha
. That really hit home.
All right, I’m tired, too. Let’s leave it for now. Let’s do it some other time, poor woman.

She turned away, and Felix continued.

“The girls, would they know anything?”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. She was a loner, preferred being by herself.”

“We’ll interview them anyway, individually.”

“If you think it’ll help.”

The social worker leaned back and folded her arms. “Jennifer and Marie sometimes spent time together. If anyone knows anything about Marie’s”—she paused for a moment—“private life, it’d be Jenny. But I’m certain you won’t get a word out of her.”

“Why? Why would she want Marie’s death to remain unpunished, with her murderer running around loose?”

“He won’t.”

Felix rolled his eyes inwardly, but Franza asked patiently, “What do you mean?”

Martha Hauer brought her fingertips together and stared into her empty cup. “It’s simple,” she said. “They’ll take care of him themselves.”

35

Interviewing the girls was just as fruitless as the social worker had predicted. They listened to the questions in silence, staring blankly into thin air.

“Let’s drop it,” Felix said. “We’re not getting anywhere. Time to give it up—for now anyway.”

Martha Hauer excused herself. “You’re all right on your own here? I’ve got an appointment. If you have any questions . . .”

She gestured toward the young woman who’d arrived a short time ago. She nodded at them from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Franza said, examining Hauer’s tanned arms and face. Tennis-court tan? Playing with Lauberts?

“We might have more questions for you,” Franza said. “We won’t hesitate to contact you again.”

The social worker parried the ironic tone of voice with a strange, sad smile. “I assumed so.”

Franza watched through the window until Hauer walked down the street, got into a car, and drove off. “I bet,” she said, feeling a faint tingling, “I bet Marie—the naughty girl—stole her lover.”

Was this a lead? Just a small one, maybe?

She turned around to look at Felix. “Yes,” he said as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

“Arthur,” he said, “I have two names for you. I want to know everything, both private life and professional—especially private. We suspect our girl interfered with someone’s love life. But be discreet. All right?”

Franza nodded, satisfied. “Let’s take a look at her room,” she suggested. “Before we send the forensic people.”

Marie’s bedroom was completely different from the one at her mother’s house. No little girl’s room like that one. There was nothing childish about this room. It was plain and convenient. The furniture was as motley as that in the living room. There was a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a bookshelf containing a surprisingly large number of books. Exercise books, textbooks, and folders were stacked on the desk along with pencils, pens, and paper.

Obviously Marie hadn’t gotten around to tidying up, to sorting and throwing things out from her last term. Now it was too late.

Franza sighed thinking about how much Ben had enjoyed going through his school things last year and making a huge bonfire out in the yard with all the books and papers he never wanted to see again. It had been cathartic—for him and for Franza and Max. For weeks after they’d had to pick up the charred remains of paper and ashes from all over their yard.

Franza walked over to the desk and wistfully leafed through the books and folders. Would they discover Marie’s secrets here, perhaps even the ominous list they weren’t even sure existed?

Felix interrupted her train of thought. “The visitors’ record,” he said, “we haven’t even looked at it. Maybe we’ll find other interesting names in it. I’ll go have a look and ask the young lady out there a few questions.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Franza walked over to the bed and carefully sat down on the edge. As always, it felt like a desecration.

The corner of a shirt was peeping out from under the blanket, a pajama top perhaps, and she pulled it out and held it up. It was a big T-shirt with Winnie the Pooh and Piglet on the front. Franza smiled. What a surprise! Winnie the Pooh here in Marie’s bed.

Had he given back to her a tiny piece of the childhood she’d lost so early? A faint feeling of warmth, of safety, at least? Franza hoped so.

Ben had loved him, too, Pooh. Back when they were still allowed to call him Benny or Benjamin. He’d owned everything that could be bought of Winnie the Pooh and his friends: bedding, jerseys, backpack, water bottle, coloring books, comic books, picture books. And, of course, the whole gang of stuffed animals.

The little bear had sat in the corner of his bed for years, and one day Benny, in a serious mood, had scribbled his name on its little red shirt with a permanent marker. That way, he’d reasoned, if someone took his bear away from him he’d have an easier time finding it.

Franza smiled, looked at Pooh’s face, and slowly put the T-shirt back on the bed. What had happened to Ben’s treasures?

She tried to remember when she’d put them away and where, but she couldn’t remember. Had Ben put them away himself? Somewhere in the depths of his drawers and wardrobe? So that no one could take them away from him, ever?

Wistfully, she attempted a laugh. Where had those times gone? And that place where they’d been so happy—Benny, Max, and herself? Had that place even really existed, and those times? For more than a few precious moments?