“We kindly request your company at the Orient, sir. There’s a Rotten Strawberry.”
“Understood. You know what to do.”
The call ended. She handed the phone to Fernando, who slipped it under his cuff and headed out to dispose of it. Brisk wind forced a waking chill inside. The barrier between the Hotel and the outside world was thinning.
The time had come for the Orient to tell one of its secrets.
— 9 —Neun
“So.”
Like a typical Austrian, Detective Andreas Wolke began every new task from the moment he awoke, to the moment he put his head on his pillow, and even when he talked in his sleep, with the wordso. The Viennese wielded the term as a weapon of mass-subject-change. In one syllable, it could finish a conversation. Combined with a sigh and a knee slap, it could end an entire party. He pronounced it with the Wienerisch accent, cutting the air with the vowel like a knife. It sounded more likesah.
Andreas sat on a bench outside the First District station, awaiting his partner, Beate, and pretending not to be cold. He finished his Melange, a local take on a cappuccino that was rapidly becoming an iced coffee. The fourth movement of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony floated from the Bluetooth headphone in his right ear, strings crisp as the air. The Adagietto was the composer’s gift to his wife, and the state-of-the-art earbuds were Andreas’s gift to himself. He wore only one at a time, to stay alert. He unlocked his smartphone and swiped through whichever dating app wasdisappointing him today. Each time he closed then reopened the app he muttered, “So.”
He checked his own profile. Photos of him hiking, biking, and running a marathon. He was too distant in every frame for his face to be seen clearly, which was a shame, since it was a stronger selling point than his personality. He was handsome, with thick waves of black hair gone gray at the temples and a neat, short beard. The wrinkles tracing down the sides of his cheeks showed he spent more time grinning than he’d care to admit. His square-framed black glasses helped conceal them. His bio had only one sentence:Five foot eleven, since we’re all shallow here.
Andreas was five seven, with shoes on.
Mahler’s Adagietto approached its climax. After checking the street was empty, Andreas risked a moment with both earphones in and his eyes closed. A feminine, robotic voice interrupted the symphony.Battery low. Please recharge device.
Way to leave a man hanging.
He removed the earbuds, returned to his phone, and swiped to the profile of a fit blonde named Oksana.Grüß Gott,Oksana. He saw she enjoyed hiking. Check. And cycling. Check. But the dress she wore in her third photo was a little low-cut for his taste. Andreas preferred a lady who left more to the imagination. The last photo broke the deal. She was in a bikini and wasn’t even swimming. He lifted his glasses to massage the modern-dating-induced headache from his eyes. To be on the safe side, he reviewed the aforementioned bikini photo once more, purely in case Oksana became a suspect one day and he had to identify her by her, um, tan lines. Then he swiped her left into the ether. Farewell andBussi, Baba, Oksana, you aren’t the future Frau Andreas Wolke.So.
He slipped the phone into his pocket as he eyed the breakfast he’d purchased for Beate. He’d taken his weekly measurements today, andhis waist was five-eighths of an inch smaller, so he could afford to steal a nibble of herMarillen Krapfen.The sumptuous, butter-fried, apricot-filled doughnut taunted him, begging him to take another taste. Beate’s footsteps crunched through the snow, and he looked up to find her gloved hand outstretched, demanding her food. She took it, then pulled down her scarf to take a bite, still standing.
“I don’t know how you eat that sugary crap,” he said.
“Liar. You have crumbs in your beard,” she said, mouth full. She’d never act this way around the rest of the force, but he’d earned the honor after years at her side. Such a privilege.
Andreas brushed his chin. He didn’t actually dislike sweets; he enjoyed disliking things in general. But he’d been raised in Vienna, so being crotchety was bred into him. The Viennese were tastefully joyless. The city was built on a foundation of Roman ruins and grumbling. If the locals ever stopped complaining, they’d die of heartbreak.
They had a special term for their unique brand of crankiness,Wiener Grant, and Andreas Wolke was agrantig Grantlerthrough and through. The last sip of his cold coffee didn’t help.
“Did the repairmen fix your heating or did you stay with the boyfriend again?” he asked.
“I got the new boiler yesterday.Florianstayed to oversee the workers,” she said.
“How kind of him to take a break from skiing to help you out.”
Andreas would learn the guy’s name if he stuck around. Which he wouldn’t.
“I brought you a present,” said Beate, chewing as she unlocked her phone with her glove’s touchscreen fingertip.
He perked up, intrigued. Not to be confused with excited or grateful. Merely curious. Her phone made a swish sound, then his pocket vibrated.
“What’s this?” he asked, clicking the document she’d sent.
“The repair manual for my new gas boiler. I know you love that stuff.”
“You make me sound so boring. You just don’t want to read it yourself.”
“Why bother when you’ll memorize it, then I can call you next time there’s an issue and save six hundred euros in repairs?”
He grumbled. But he was already speed-reading past page five of the VRx-114-31g gas water heater. Complete with smart-home connection. What a beauty.
“Alter Schwede,” he said. He wasn’t calling her an old Swede, as the literal translation meant, simply expressing his awed disbelief. In Viennese life, as in Viennese dialect, things were easier if you didn’t ask too many questions. Detective Wolke’s chosen occupation made following his own advice difficult.
