“Yes, my wife set a strong example with her charitable endeavors. David has her devoted work ethic. Had…” said Doktor Goldfinch.
Beate nodded compassionately. “I saw your lovely preparations for the Breast Cancer Foundation Ball. Exquisite work, Frau Doktor Doktor Goldfinch.”
Achso, the pink explosion across the room was for a charity. Not a baby shower.
“Perhaps someone took advantage of his generosity?” asked Beate.
“Who? His friends came from affluent families,” said Frau Goldfinch.
“What about corporate rivals? His company was controversial, it could have ruffled feathers,” said Andreas.
“We stayed out of his work. He tried to explain it, but, you know, all that high-tech stuff, we’re a different generation. We helped him make connections and provided seed funding,” said Doktor Goldfinch.
“Right. We’ll need to review his finances to be certain,” said Andreas.
Doktor Goldfinch’s demeanor shifted. He adopted a stern posture and said in a steely tone, “Listen, son. We don’t want our family’s privacy jeopardized.”
“I understand, sir, but it’s standard procedure. We’re happy to provide a warrant.”
“Well, we’re happy to call our friend, the commissioner,” said Herr Goldfinch.
A tension headache pulsed in Andreas’s temples. Everyone in this overgrown village was friends with police leadership except him.
They had to close this down, fast. After a few more questions, they detailed their next steps and left. There was only so much to accomplish in a day.
It was twilight as the gate locked behind them. Andreas withdrew his tablet; the screen’s soft glow illuminated his glasses as he scanned the medical report.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Beate.
In a dazed tone, he mumbled, “The Concierge’s lips…”
“Excuseme?” she said, aghast.
He pointed at the house’s red number plate and said, “They were red, like this sign.”
“Yes?” said Beate, warily.
He stared out over the rolling, snow-dusted vineyards, which sloped towards the city center. “The victim’s lips were the same color.”
“It’s a common style,” she said, confused.
He squinted at her. “You only wear lipstick on date night, but it’s more… brown?”
“It’smocha rose. Are you suggesting I try a new shade?”
Andreas continued. “That spot on David Goldfinch’s cheek. I thought it was a bruise. Dr. Bell did too,” he said, then read aloud from the medical report. “Mottling on right cheek, suspected purpura, later determined to be stain from waxy cosmetic in a deep mauve tone.”
“So, someone besides Hedy kissed his cheek before he died.”
“I don’t know much about makeup, but would you say Frau Goldfinch’s lipstick was” —he consulted the tablet—“deep mauve?”
“I’d call it more boysenberry myself, but what’s your point?”
“The honorable Frau Doktor Doktorclaimsshe was at their chalet for a week. So how’d she kiss her son goodbye the night he died? We need a warrant for the Goldfinch’s private jet’s flight manifest and their financials. Especially Frau Doktor Doktor’s,” said Andreas.
“Really? That’s a big reach. Any number of women wear that shade. We might get a warrant for David’s financials. But no judge will let us raid Frau Doktor Doktor’s makeup case. It doesn’t make sense—she thought her son walked on water. You just dislike her because she’s a snob.”
“Or because she lied to us,” he said. “Also, she called Hedy a harlot before we mentioned David was with an escort.”
