They headed into the ballroom and hid behind an elaborate floral arrangement to surveil the Goldfinches’ table. Frau Doktor Doktor sat by her husband’s empty chair. The wedding planner had removed the place meant for David.
The Goldfinches’ lawyers had been making this case a nightmare. Holding any requests in bureaucratic limbo even Andreas couldn’t defeat. On other cases, he’d had mothers who called multiple times a day, dying for updates. Not Frau Doktor Doktor Goldfinch.
She wasn’t entirely alone. A broad-shouldered security guard hung out nearby. A young assistant photographer was making the rounds, and stopped to snap a photo of her table. The planner darted over to scold him. Frau Goldfinch’s hired muscle intervened, escorting the cameraman outside for a chat. Andreas got the sense his lens was about to get cracked, if not his teeth. No wonder it was hard to find pictures of the Goldfinches.
With the guard distracted, Andreas took the chair meant for Herr Doktor Doktor Sebastian Goldfinch (Dr. techn., Dr. rer. soc. oec.) while Beate searched for him.
“Good evening, Frau Doktor Doktor Goldfinch. Where’s your husband this evening?” he asked.
“Herr Doktor Doktor is away on business,” said Frau Goldfinch. Her eyes narrowed. “Why areyouhere, Detective?”
“To share in David and David’s happy day, of course. But enough about me. How do you know the happy couple? Are you on the groom’s side or the groom’s side?”
“English David and my husband are longtime friends. They attended Oxford together,” she said, flinching. “We’re members of the same exclusive clubs.”
“Did you name your son after him?”
“My husband picked the name.”
“That’s a big gesture. Were your husband and David ever more than friends?”
Her lips pursed. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. But maybe I understand why your family values their privacy.”
“We avoid publicity so people don’t accost us and demand financial handouts. It’s a downside of wealth. Something you wouldn’t understand,” she said, sneering at his suit. She gently swallowed, as if stifling disgust. Or hiding a lie.
“Hey, this is from the best suit maker in Floridsdorf. Ask any nightclub owner. Finest cotton-polyester blend a civil-servant salary can buy. As for your wealth, I’m sure we’ll be impressed by David’s charitable donations once your lawyers hand over his financial records.”
“It’s in poor taste to discuss money at dinner, Detective,” she said, taking a sip of her champagne. The sapphires and diamonds on her bracelet, the one that matched David’s, glinted.
“As I recall, you started it. How’d you feel about your darling boy’s dreams of a surveillance state?”
“Detective, this is neither the time nor the place. If you have an update on my son’s case, tell me now, otherwise, consult my lawyers. I’ll ensure my husband speaks to the commissioner about this.”
“Let me guess, he’s skiing with your husband next week? Your strength to be socializing so soon and while grieving is… admirable. First the Brustkrebs Ball, then the fu—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Andreas saw the wedding planner dragging Beate by the arm. Beate mouthedSorryat him. The planner shot him a terrifying glare, hand to her earpiece. He sensed she’d summoned security. Andreas slapped his knees.
“So. Apologies for the intrusion, Frau Doktor Doktor Goldfinch. I must be going.”
“Oida, that backfired,” Andreas said as they passed a waiter balancing a tray of champagne on their way out.
Beate checked the time on her phone, then snatched two drinks from the tray and gave him one.
“Good news is, we’re off the clock.” She raised her glass. “Prost.”
He clinked his against hers. “Prost. To getting fired.”
It had been a brutal two weeks. They needed some release. They stopped into Casablanca, a dive bar in the First District’s Bermuda Triangle of nightclubs. Casablanca was a rare gem where a policeman could afford a decent buzz, so long as you never mentioned your profession.
Beate ordered aPfiffof beer, a polite two hundred milliliters suitable for a work night. Which was every night until this case was solved. He requested a slightly larger but still conservativeSeiterlof the same. Once they started complaining about their chief, they upgraded to half-literKrügerln, then drank themselves into a stuporuntil they were cursing him in full dialect. Bartenders changed shifts, and they paid their tab. When Beate saw their new barman’s name tag, she fell into a fit of red-faced laughter, nearly sliding off her seat:David.
Even Andreas had to laugh. After recovering her breath, Beate announced this was a sign to head home, and he put her in a taxi. He stayed back with Dive Bar David for one last drink. Or three.
When he left, hemeantto walk to the taxi line, he truly did. Alas, his feet went the other way. Andreas stumbled through winding alleys until he was staring at the shiny brass doorbell of the Hotel Orient.
He rang. She answered.
