He knew a visit from the polizei was inevitable. But by the time they found him, he’d have concealed the pistol and crafted a story he could live with.
There was no falling asleep on the ride back to the estate. Gage’s leg hurt too damn much for that. He opened the windows, welcoming the cold wind. It wasn’t ice directly on his wound, but it was better than nothing.
In actuality, it wasn’t the pain or the cold wind that kept Gage awake. No, he was energized through rabid speculation about who the hell tried to kill him with their car.
* * *
The Audi’s clock showed 1:03 A.M. when Gage arrived at the Vogel estate. He removed the pistol from the car, carrying it inside and putting it away. Sheriff was at Thomas’s house until tomorrow. Gage popped some Advil and guzzled a bottle of water. Next, he spirited several frozen gel packs from the built-in Liebherr freezer, using two elastic bandages to hold the packs against his large wound. As his leg and butt cooled, he made a pot of strong coffee and a peanut butter sandwich, listening to the silence of the manor house. He stood at the bar and ate the sandwich and a banana. Then, with his leg throbbing a John Bonham-worthy beat, Gage condensed the list of people who might have tried to kill him.
Or was it a random act of violence?
This is Germany. People follow rules here. It wasn’t random. Make your list.
Whoever it was knew he’d flown from the airport. Knew where he’d parked. Knew Karl Vogel’s Audi. Knew when he was arriving back from Nice. They probably knew they couldn’t get to him at the estate, so the parking deck was their best choice.
With cameras everywhere?
Gage had long ago stopped trying to justify other people’s actions. Had he been tasked with taking someone out, he certainly wouldn’t have chosen a parking deck at one of the busiest airports in Europe.
But, Gage reminded himself, it had nearly worked. Had I been two feet forward, I’d have been struck squarely and probably killed.
So, who was it? Il Magnifico had to be at the top of the list. Gage’s meeting with him had been full of deception. And while the Italian acted as if there were no rift between the Vogels and himself, Gage had no way of knowing that. Perhaps it went far deeper. Perhaps Il Magnifico wanted the Vogel family completely out of the way—an attempt to cut out the proverbial middleman. Perhaps Il Magnifico had Karl Vogel killed, and was now eliminating the one emissary of the estate that remained in his path. It would have been relatively easy to follow Gage and to know exactly when he was departing Nice.
Thus, Il Magnifico was Gage’s chief suspect.
Second to the Italian drug baron were Katja and/or Ina. Though such an action didn’t seem to fit either of the women, they’d be eliminating the person who might eventually prove them guilty. Perhaps they hired a hit man?
But, Gage was attempting to prove them innocent. Killing him would virtually guarantee them of zero inheritance because they were already guilty in their mother’s eyes.
Unless they knew something Gage didn’t.
He had to keep them on the suspect list—near the bottom.
The third attempted murderer was an unknown person. It was the killer of Karl Vogel. It was a person Gage had yet to discover. He held this open as a possibility. He had to. There was a strong chance that he’d not yet come close to identifying Karl’s murderer.
And, you still haven’t even confirmed the results of his blood test. What are you going to do if it comes back clean?
Gage dipped his head, overcome with frustration and the peculiar sensation—for him—that he had absolutely no idea what to do next.
The polizei eventually arrived at 3:25 A.M., just as he knew they would. Despite the coffee, despite the fact he knew they’d be coming, despite the fact someone tried to kill him with a BMW, Gage had dozed off on the sofa. He answered the front gate’s call, telling the night guard to send the police to the manor house. Now that he’d remained static for a few hours, Gage could barely stand due to the stiffness and pain in his leg. After removing the now-warm gel packs, he walked a few laps around the den, forcing himself into a semi-mobile state. It felt as if someone had clamped ten sharp jumper cables to the back of his leg and left them there.
By the time he reached the front door, the polizei were already on the porch. They were both female, bundled up in plainclothes, and they drove an unmarked silver Volkswagen sedan. They knew Gage’s name and introduced themselves as detectives. Both ladies displayed their credentials. They asked if they could come inside.
“Please,” Gage said, speaking German. He offered them coffee, which they accepted.
They followed Gage to the kitchen where he asked the detectives to take off their coats and sit at the small table in the nook. He hurriedly prepared the coffee. No one said anything for a few minutes. Gage glanced over, seeing both women reviewing their notes.
Finally, as the coffee began to brew, the older of the two polizei detectives spoke first.
“Herr Hartline, where were you four hours ago?”
Her last name was Bräden and Gage could tell she was all business. The first clue was her gray pants suit—plain and efficient. Adding to her serious demeanor, she wore her sandy hair pulled severely back and
