same needs, you and I.”
“Things have resolved themselves to your satisfaction, then?”
Hoffner did his best to ignore the goading. There was no point in going down this path. He said, “How much of this did you know in January?” Jogiches showed a moment’s surprise. “Rcker’s bar,” said Hoffner. “The day after she was killed. You were there, keeping an eye on me.”
Jogiches recalled their first encounter. “The tired professor. I didn’t think you would have remembered that.” He nodded his approval. “Groener,” he said. “He’d seen Rosa and the carvings when she first came in that morning, and knew the case would go to you. He got in touch with me, told me where I might find you. I suppose I wanted to see the sort of man who would be asked to make sense of it.”
“And?”
“You didn’t seem a complete idiot.”
“No,” Hoffner corrected. “And how much did you know?”
Jogiches took the bottle and refilled his glass. “Not enough to have stopped the killings, if that’s what you mean. Pieck found me the night before. He told me that Rosa had been taken by Vogel. I knew she was no maniac’s victim.” He was about to drink, when he said, “Or, rather, I knew she wasn’t
“And Munich?”
“That came later, after you’d caught the Belgian. There was money flowing into the
“Braun,” said Hoffner.
“Yes. He was also meeting with Nepp on a regular basis. The arrogance of these people astounds me.”
Hoffner thought about his own trip to Munich: and what had that been, he wondered. He said, “So this Pieck is willing to come forward?”
“If it comes to that.”
Hoffner saw something in Jogiches’s eyes. “You don’t know where he is, do you?”
Jogiches waited: there was nothing apologetic in the tone when he spoke. “No,” he said. “Not that it would make any difference. A Red pointing the finger. . who’s going to place much stock in that?”
It was an obvious point, but one that Hoffner would never have thought Jogiches willing to accept, at least not so graciously. And then it struck him, the reason why Jogiches had been with this from the start: the reason he was still at the table. “But a Kripo Detective. . that’s something entirely different, isn’t it?” Hoffner waited for a reaction; when none came, he said, “You or your friend Pieck put things together and no one has to pay attention. You let the Kripo put it together and suddenly there’s a legitimate case.”
For several long moments, Jogiches continued to hold Hoffner’s stare. He then raised his eyebrows and said, “And there it is.” Again he waited. “Tell me, Inspector, would you have trusted anything I might have given you openly? The former lover out for revenge, the mad revolutionary desperate for chaos? Was I wrong? It was all in the aid of truth, so what difference does it make? I certainly wouldn’t have trusted you had the positions been reversed.”
“You wouldn’t have trusted me regardless of the positions.”
“Fair enough.”
For the first time in a week Hoffner felt a different kind of hostility, one aimed out, not in. It perched at the base of his throat and was oddly comforting. “And now I’m meant to finish what you started, is that it?” he said.
“I started nothing,” said Jogiches. “I simply chose the best route to an end.”
“Regardless of the consequences.”
“You and I aren’t all that different in that regard, are we, Inspector?” Jogiches could be equally biting. When Hoffner said nothing, Jogiches said, “You’re not the only one to have lost something in this.”
Hoffner remained silent: there was nothing he could say to defend himself.
Jogiches shifted tone: “When was the last time you saw a bed?” Hoffner couldn’t remember; he shrugged. “You need sleep,” Jogiches said as he stood. “I have a place.” Hoffner shook his head, but Jogiches already had the bottle. He turned to the bartender. “We’ll take this with us.” The man nodded distractedly and went back to the woman. Jogiches turned to Hoffner. “You need to get up now.”
It was close to eleven when they stepped outside. Hoffner had lost track of the time hours ago-days ago-and was struck by the pitch black of the night sky. Why, he wondered, had he imagined it to be earlier? He breathed in deeply-only a twinge now from his ribs-and let the rawness fill his lungs. He had almost forgotten the taste of crisp air; it cleared his head. He recalled having spent a night at the Hotel Palme in and among the whores and pickpockets, the sight of its tattered awning up ahead now a reminder of muffled voices and thuds coming from somewhere beyond his walls as he had drifted in and out of sleep. He had chosen the Palme for a reason. He now remembered that, as well.
Two streets on, he turned right. Jogiches stopped behind him and said, “Where are you going?”
Hoffner spoke over his shoulder as he continued to walk. “This won’t take long.” With no other choice, Jogiches caught up and the two walked in silence.
The street might have been any other, a lamp here and there to offer the pretense of civility, but the chipped walls and occasional shattered window of the flats above made plain what kind of life lay within. Even where a strip of light peeked through from the edge of a drawn shade, there was no warmth beyond it. This was a street meant to be forgotten, and it was why Hoffner had chosen it.
He mounted the steps to one of the stoops and pressed his thumb twice, then twice again, against the bell for the third-floor flat. Jogiches had remained down in the street. Hoffner peered up and saw a curtain ripple. Half a minute later he heard footsteps through the door. It opened and a dim light spilled out onto the stoop.
Lina held her arms tightly across her chest, her best defense against the chill in a thin dress. She was without makeup, her skin an ashy white, her eyes smaller and less severe than usual: Hoffner had never noticed the natural beauty in her face. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said, and she shook her head. “It’s all right, then?” he said. “The place?” Hoffner had called in a favor, a black-market meats peddler who kept a spare room. At least Lina was eating well. She nodded. He said, “It shouldn’t be more than another few days, just to be safe. You have money?”
“I’m going tomorrow.”
Hoffner shook his head. “They might still have someone watching your place.”
“Not there,” she said. Her eyes dropped as she spoke. “I have an uncle in Oldenburg. In the north. He has a shop.”
This was something Hoffner had never considered. He had imagined that he could place her safely away for a time, lose himself, and then return to open the cage: a final act of contrition. Maybe then she would keep him somewhere in her memory, but that, too, seemed not to be. He did his best to sound encouraging. “A flower shop?”
She looked up and tried a smile, but there was too much sadness in her eyes. “I hope not.”
“It’ll be better there, I imagine.” Hoffner had no idea why he had said it.
She nodded unconvincingly. “The boy is all right?”
The boy, he thought. Fifteen-year-old Sascha. What, then, was a girl of nineteen? Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out the few bills he had. “You’ll want this for the train.”
She shook her head and said, “I’m all right. Give it to Elise. She’ll need it for the rent.” She took in a deep breath and glanced up at the sky as she tightened her arms around her chest. “I’m not running away, you know. It’s just too much right now.”
Hoffner took her hand and placed the money in her palm. So many things to notice for the first time: the smallness of a wrist, the slenderness of her fingers. He saw her shiver. “You should go in,” he said.
Her fingers closed around his hand. “You could come up?”
The warmth of her body and the promise of a bed, he thought: if only it were that simple. He shook his head and took back his hand. Her neck was now a rippling of gooseflesh.
She said, “There really isn’t anything here for me, is there?”
