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“Start in Ahrensfelde, then go to the special archives,” she said. “They’re right here in Berlin.”
“I know where they are,” Burkhart retorted. “But don’t you think if Falk was in there that his story would have come out by now?”
“We’re just looking for his name and some connection to the slaughterhouse,” Mattie said. “Some tangible proof that Falk was real.”
“He was real,” Ilona Frei insisted.
“We know that,” Mattie soothed. “But—”
Her cell phone rang. Katharina Doruk began the conversation by saying, “An Inspector Weigel just called here for you. Hermann Krüger has surfaced. He’s going to appear voluntarily for questioning at central Kripo this afternoon.”
“Really?” Mattie said, surprised. “Where’s he been?”
“Kripo’s not exactly sure where he’s been,” Katharina admitted. “His lawyer’s been brokering the surrender deal with the higher-ups. But I figured you’d want to be there. You should probably call Dietrich to arrange it.”
“The high commissar is probably too hungover to care,” Mattie said before describing her frustrating conversation with him the evening before.
“You’re saying he’s sticking his head in a hole?” Katharina responded.
“Yes, but why would he?” Mattie said. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s not like he’s somehow linked to…”
She stopped, puzzled at a possibility that she hadn’t considered before.
“You all right?” Katharina asked.
“I’ll get back to you,” Mattie said and hung up.
She sat there thinking a second, then jumped up, spun around, and went for the morning newspapers on the table behind her. She checked the indexes and then tore through them before stabbing a finger on a page deep inside the Morgenpost.
“No obituary,” she said out loud. “Just a death notice.”
“Whose?” Burkhart asked, confused.
“High Commissar Dietrich’s father. Conrad Dietrich Frommer.”
CHAPTER 96
CASSIANO STIRRED AT the sharp knock on his bedroom door and asked in Portuguese, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, silly,” a woman’s lilting voice called back. “Open up. Why is your door locked?”
Cassiano got out of bed wearing a warm-up suit. He glanced at the bathroom before going to the suite door, and then he twisted the dead bolt and opened it.
Dressed in skimpy black lingerie, Perfecta stood there holding a tray heaped with fruits and breads and a pot of tea.
Cassiano feigned surprise. “I didn’t know you were in Germany.”
Perfecta smiled at him as if he were addled, then brushed by him saying, “Of course I am. Right when I said I would be. With enough time to prepare your favorite pregame meal.”
Cassiano grinned. “Put it down over there.”
Perfecta did and then turned, skipped into her husband’s arms, and kissed him hungrily. “Miss me?”
“Every day you’ve been gone,” the soccer star said coolly.
“I’m home for a whole month now,” Perfecta promised. “No trips until November.”
“That’s excellent,” Cassiano said. “We should celebrate. Go out after the game somewhere. Eat. See a show.”
