sorry for the girls. ‘If you plan on staying with the police,’ I was told, ‘you’ll have to learn quickly that that’s exactly what such people want you to feel.’” Lina inhaled deeply.
“I think that was the moment I realized that I was going to stay on. I saw the girls. I saw their fear. They didn’t want to play me—I’m sure of that. To help such girls, I could achieve much more if I was with the police than if I were working for some initiative or nonprofit against forced prostitution and human trafficking.” She grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “And so I stayed . . . much to the chagrin of some of my colleagues.”
For most members of the police force Max knew, Lina was some-
thing exotic, something to be approached with curiosity, mistrust, or even open dislike, especially since she wasn’t one to keep her opinions to herself. He still remembered her first day with the homicide squad.
She wore black jeans, heavy boots, and a hoodie. Her spiked hair was streaked with neongreen. Hanno’s eyes almost popped out. Alex just
78
Dead Woods
silently shook his head. Sebastian thought at first she was a perp who had escaped somehow from one of the interrogation rooms.
Max knew it wasn’t easy for her and was about to say something,
when a woman bent over the bar from the other side and said, “Hey,
Andre said you wanted to ask me something.”
Max looked up. The woman in front of them wore her hair in a
ponytail. Her small, strong hands rested on the counter. This must be Michele, the woman who worked on Thursday and might remember
Frank Jensen. Lina was lost in thought, so Max nodded and slid the
photo toward the woman. “Have you ever seen this man?”
Michele just glanced at the picture and nodded. “Sure, that’s
Frank. He’s been here a lot lately. Always drinks more than is good for him.” She looked up. “Has he done something wrong?”
“No. My sister’s looking for him,” Max said, smiling. Lina raised her head and looked at him. “Was he also here the day before yesterday?”
“Day before . . . Thursday. Yes, I think so. Yes, for sure. He was
talking with one of our other regulars. The two have become friends, I think. At least they’re always talking when they meet here, even though Frank otherwise likes to be left alone. Dirk, the other one, was here, too, on Thursday. He bought me a drink to celebrate that he’s off for a week.”
Lina cleared her throat. “That means he’s out of town?”
Michele nodded. “He was going to go to Freiburg, to visit family,
or something.” She eyed them warily.
“Do you have any idea how we could reach Dirk? Or what his last
name is?” Lina asked.
Michele picked up a rag and started to wipe the counter, though
it wasn’t dirty. “Why do you want to know that? Are you from the
police?”
“Man, I suck at undercover work.” Lina winked at the woman.
“Yes, we’re from the police. We’re investigating a murder. A man lost his life and left a woman and her little son behind. All we want to know 79
Maria C. Poets
is whether this man,” she pointed at the photo, “was here on Thursday and when he left. Do you know anything about him? You know his
name, after all.”
Michele slowly looked from Lina to Max. “I’ve talked with him
a few times when we weren’t busy. He told me he’s doing something
with computers and that someone conned him—if I got it right.” She
shrugged. “He drinks a lot. I always tell him to be careful, but he just gestures and tells me that nothing matters anymore. It’s been really bad these past few weeks; he’s letting himself go more and more. On
Thursday he said his wife walked out on him.”
“He told you that?”
“No, he told Dirk. I overheard him when I brought them another
beer.” She hesitated for a moment and then continued. “At first, Frank ordered a cocktail every now and then or a grappa, but lately, he mostly has beer. It’s cheaper.”
“Do you remember when Frank came in and when he left? Also,
did he leave alone?” Lina asked.
“When he came . . . I don’t remember. Maybe half past seven, or
eight. Dirk left at some point, and Frank had another beer or two at the bar. He was pretty smashed when he finally left . . . around eleven or eleven thirty, I think.”
“Did he walk or did he call a cab?”
Michele shook her head. “He walked. At least, we didn’t order