cab for him. Of course, he could’ve hailed one outside or he could have ordered one on his phone.”
“But was Frank capable of walking home on his own?”
Michele shrugged. “He was really drunk, true, and could hardly
walk straight, but he still knew who he was and where he was.” Almost imperceptibly, she squared her shoulders. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have let him leave alone. After all, we’re responsible for our guests.”
Lina and Max exchanged a quick glance and then Max nodded.
“Good, Frau . . . sorry, I only know your first name, Michele. You’ve 80
Dead Woods
helped us a lot.” He was his usual polite self and Michele’s expression softened. “If you can think of anything else, please call us.” He slid his business card toward her.
She looked at it quickly and put it in her pocket. Leaning over the
counter, hesitantly, she asked in a low voice, “Frank isn’t in trouble, is he?”
81
Chapter 8
Rays of sunshine fell through the window directly onto Lina’s face. She blinked lazily and contentedly inhaled the tangy male scent, this mixture of perspiration, beer, and lust. She lay on her side and could see the strong arms and bristly chin of the man next to her through half-closed eyes. Sleepily, she rubbed her nose against his warm skin, caressed his firm biceps with her lips and bent forward until she reached the thin, sensitive skin of the crook of his arm. From farther up, she heard a slight grunt, half panting and half groaning. She dove underneath his elbow, pushed her head between his arm and his chest, and cuddled
against his naked torso.
“Still asleep?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
An arm covered her shoulder and pulled her closer to the warm
body. Contentedly, she closed her eyes and sighed. His head was bending toward her, and she felt the hot breath as his dry lips touched her forehead. A tongue outlined her eyebrows. She tilted her head backward and a rough chin scratched along her cheek until lips found her mouth. The dry, tentative kiss—sleepy and badly aimed—tasted of
Dead Woods
garlic and cigarettes. Lina put a hand on his chest, searched for tiny nipples, scratched them lightly, tugged and twisted.
At first she didn’t even register the ringing of the phone. Lutz’s
kisses became more insistent, and he moved around as if he wanted to create a noise that would drown the digital ringing. Lina didn’t want to hear it, either, but finally could no longer ignore it.
“I’ve got to take it,” she said and wriggled out of the embrace that she herself had sought.
“Come on! You’re not on duty.”
“In a way I am, though.” She got up and could hear Lutz suck in air.
She didn’t know the number on the display and hesitated. It could
be important, or not. Finally her curiosity got the better of her and she answered.
“Hello, Lina. It’s me.”
Lina rolled her eyes. “What do you want?” she asked instead of
saying hello.
“Oh . . . Lina, dear, don’t sulk again right away.”
She rolled her eyes once more.
The man on the phone cleared his throat. “I’ve heard that Katja
Ansmann’s partner was murdered and that you are part of the investi-
gative team.”
Lina needed a moment to connect the dots. Katja Ansmann? She
knew no Katja Ansmann. Then she remembered everything and had to
sit down. “Why are you interested in this?”
He coughed slightly. “Katja’s father is a good friend of mine. He
was very upset because the police interrogated his daughter, and not very sensitively, to hear him tell it.”
Lina thought of Max—his gentle look, his soft voice—and knew
this wasn’t true. “So?” she said, grabbing the blanket from the couch and wrapping herself in it.
“That’s when your name was mentioned . . . Johannes doesn’t
know that you’re my daughter . . .” Of course not, Lina thought. “But 83
Maria C. Poets
I’d like to ask you to be careful. This man has connections in the high-est circles.”
“And you think this threat intimidates me?”
“Lina, dear, I’m not threatening at all. I’m just worried about you.
After all, I know how easily you get carried away.”
You know nothing, thought Lina. She felt like flinging the phone against the wall. She hated it when her father called her dear, but his call made her curious. After all, they had only sporadic contact.
Suppressing a yawn, she looked at her watch. It was a little after eight thirty.
“I’m just saying,” her father continued, “Johannes is simply wor-
ried about his daughter. She told him that two officers came by and
interrogated her, as if she were one of the suspects. I’d just like to know whether