Rosa

Hoffner said, “It’s best if you mix it with the cream. Less bitter.”

Lina kept her eyes on the spoon and cup. “I like it this way,” she said. “At least at the start.” Hoffner took a sip of the coffee. It was the first good cup he had had in weeks. Lina looked over at him and said, “Would you like my address?”

It was rare for Hoffner to be caught out like this, but here it was. He felt something sharp run through his chest. It moved up to his throat and made his mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t felt it in years. It was anticipation. He slowly placed his coffee back on the table. Out of necessity, he said, “Is that such a good idea, Frulein?”

She spoke with certainty: “You came to find me. Didn’t you?”

When he had no choice but to answer, Hoffner said, “I’ve been wondering if you make enough to survive, selling flowers and matches.”

For the first time, he saw the smallest slip in her otherwise perfect stare. Just as quickly, she recovered. “Have you?” She placed the spoon in the cup and began to fold the cream into the chocolate. “I do all right. I’ve started modeling. For an artist.”

Hoffner watched as the liquid became silky brown. Lina was merciless with even the smallest floating fleck of cream. She seemed to take a wicked pleasure in drowning each of them to oblivion.

“How very exciting for you,” he said. He retrieved his cigarette, took a few puffs, and crushed it out. Digging the last of the butt into the ashtray, he said, “Yes.” He let go of the cigarette and looked at her. “I did.”

Again, her cheeks flushed, although she was too good to let it take hold. She stopped mixing and placed the spoon to the side. “I’m glad.” Taking her cup in both hands, she brought it up to her lips. She was about to take a sip, when she stopped and peered over at him. “I wouldn’t want anything to change with me and Hans,” she said. “A chance to leave my basket behind. You understand that.” She took the sip.

Hoffner suddenly remembered how young she really was. He doubted Lina realized it, but in that moment she had shown herself at her most vulnerable. She might just as well have said, “I’m not expecting anything, so don’t feel you have to give anything.” Or, perhaps, it was just what he had wanted to hear.

Hoffner watched as she placed the cup on the table. He slowly reached over for her hand. It might have been an awkward movement, but the two came together too easily, and he ran his thumb gently over her palm. Just as easily, he let go. “Thank you for the lovely time, Frulein Lina.” He picked up the pack of cigarettes and placed them in his pocket.

“Yes,” she said warmly. She then said, “Kremmener Strasse. Number five.”

Hoffner waited a moment. He nodded and, somewhere, he thought he heard Victor Knig laughing. He found a few coins in his pocket and placed them on the table. He then took his hat and stood. “A pleasure, Frulein.”

“As always, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner tipped his brow and headed for the door.

Back at the Alex, the security desk was under frontal assault from a group of irate Hausfrauen when Hoffner walked in: something to do with a pickpocket, from what he could make out. Hoffner decided to avoid the commotion and instead started for the wire room, when the duty officer put up a hand and shouted over:

“Kriminal-Kommissar.” Hoffner stopped. “Your Sascha’s been looking for you.”

Hoffner was momentarily confused. Why would his son have come to the Alex? “Sascha’s been by?” he said. Hoffner immediately thought of Georgi.

The man had no time for games. “Yes. Sascha. He’s asked for you twice.” Before Hoffner could answer, the women were once again on the attack.

Only then did Hoffner realize which Sascha the man had been referring to: “Sascha the ru

Kripo Sascha was sitting on the ground, reading outside the wire room, when Hoffner pushed through and into the corridor. At once the boy stood. He took a folded sheet from inside the book and held it out to Hoffner.

Hoffner took the note and said, “So, when did it come in?”

“Just over an hour ago, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” The boy spoke with great precision.

“And no one else has seen it?”

Sascha looked almost hurt by the question. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. No one.”

“Good.” Hoffner crooked his head to the side so as to take a look at the book in the boy’s hand. The Count of Monte Cristo. Hoffner was liking this boy more and more. “Pla

For the first time, Sascha let his shoulders drop. He smiled, and shook his head. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner pulled a coin from his pocket and, taking Sascha’s hand, placed it in the boy’s open palm. “Our secret.” Before Sascha could say a word, Hoffner was nodding him down the corridor.

Hoffner’s mood changed the moment he started reading: WOUTERS DEAD STOP HANGED HIMSELF TWO DAYS AGO STOP STRANGE BEHAVIOR AS OF FIVE MONTHS AGO STOP NO BATHING CUTTING HAIR STOP PUT IN ISOLATION THREE MONTHS AGO STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS STOP

Hoffner read the note several times to make sure he had missed nothing. “No bathing, cutting hair.” He stepped into the wire room.

The man behind the desk was just finishing off a wire. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said without looking up. “You’ve something for me to send?”

“A reply,” said Hoffner; he handed the original to the man.

The man examined it. “To Bruges?”

“Yes.”

The man took out a pen and paper. “Go ahead.”

“Two words,” said Hoffner. “‘Shave him.’”

THREE

Paul Wouters had been destined for Sint-Walburga as early as 1898. His mother, having no way to support or handle the already troubling three-year-old, had given him over to her dead husband’s mother, A

A

Before he was five, Paul was taught the art of lace-making; it was the only skill A