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The “something else” missing from the scene.
The problem was that my shock and grief were getting in the way of my rational mind. It was far too raw, too painful, to dwell in that moment. I couldn’t force myself to bulldoze past those Kübler-Ross stages of grief. My heart hadexplodedin that hallway two days ago. And every time I tried to access my memories of that awful moment, some kind of self-defense mechanism slammed a door in my face. I had to find the strength to push past all of that if I was going to put the pieces together.
I was also exhausted. Berliner Dom was too far away, and I didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in a musical instrument again.
This is when I heard Kevin’s voice in my head:
Well, at some point I’m going to have to meet up for a quick drink with Bill. He lives nearby in Simon-Dach-Kiez, just a neighborhood or two away.
CHAPTER 29
KEVIN HAD ALWAYS told me that Bill Devander was a serious foodie who preferred living in places with a wide array of dining options. (And women who liked to drink, he’d added.) I could see what he meant the moment I stepped onto the bustle of Simon-Dach-Straße. The narrow street was lined with so many tables and chairs spilling out of nearby restaurants, it felt like one big, bustling dining hall.
At the moment, those tables were full of carefree young couples and students out for a night on the town. I found myself hating them all. How could they be here, sipping good wine and eating good food, pretending everything was right in the world? When I was standing here, dying?
Stop it, I told myself. Self-pity won’t help you find Kevin’s killers.
I knew that Bill’s home address wouldn’t be public information; he was a wealthy businessman, after all. But a little social engineering might do the trick. Kevin doubted his best friend would ever settle down; he was too much of a playboy. “Weddings give him hives.” I picked a cocktail lounge at random and approached the most attractive female bartender—a lithe woman with purple fingernails who wore her hair in a severe bob.
Now, I was fully aware that I must look like hot garbage. I hadn’t bathed since my shower more than two days ago, and I’d since gone from the hospital to a secret interrogation room. Plus my clothes were far from stylish, unless “Soviet Brutalist” had swept the runways during the most recent fashion week. But I tried to use all of this to my benefit now, using my pain to project the image of a spurned date.
“But Bill wassupposedto meet me here,” I said in English, almost in a pout.
“I’m sorry,” the bartender replied. “Who?”
“Bill Devander. I amsureyou know him. He runs a big company here in Berlin.”
Of course she knew Bill; I could read the recognition on her face. But she told me she was sorry, she didn’t know who I was talking about, did I want a cognac while I waited? I told her I did not.
This same trick yielded zero results at the second lounge. In fact, I’m pretty sure they thought I was going to pull a dine-and-dash scam, because they asked me if I wouldn’t mind waiting outside for this Mr. Devander.
But at the third, I found a curly-haired sommelier who was quick to admit she’d had a fling with Bill. In fact, she poured me a very fine glass of 2012 Donnhoff Riesling as she launched into the gory details. At first, it was one for the storybooks: Bill had taken her on shopping sprees. Bill took her out to a new place for dinner every night she wasn’t working. Bill promised trips to wine country, just as soon as “some annoying things at the office were ironed out.”
“And then he ghosted me,” the sommelier said. “He didn’t even tell me to my face that he’d grown bored of me and gone off in search of someone better.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t the case,” I said, feeling sorry I’d started this conversation in the first place.
“Was it you?” The sommelier regarded me with both pity and confusion.He dumped me for this tall, skinny woman in bad workout gear?
“To be fair, I think our situations are very different.”
“So why do you want to see him?”
“He promised me a favor, and I need to hold him to it.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “You might try…” at which point she rattled off an address I won’t repeat here. “If you see him, tell him Karla with a K says hello.”
“Karla with a K,” I repeated to myself, and went off into the night.
CHAPTER 30
“SAMANTHA! I’VE BEEN worried sick about you!” Bill Devander exclaimed.
“Not as sick as I am,” I replied. “I promise you.”
As Bill wrestled with the appropriate response, I tried to put him out of his misery. “Do you mind if I come in? I don’t want to die in your doorway.”
I won’t lie: the feeling of a well-made sofa beneath my aching body felt like a dream. My limbs trembled. Bill offered me a variety of refreshments, from a warm latte to a cold martini—anything,he said. His home bar was well stocked. But I told him I just wanted some water and a moment to breathe.
