with a piece of bread and shook her head. “It was probably just some jealous idiot who couldn’t stand the sight of a Porsche Panamera.”
“You shouldn’t take it so lightly, Hanna. It worries me that you live alone in that big house by the woods. What about the surveillance cameras?”
“I need to have them replaced,” she said. “At the moment, they’re only for show.”
The waitress came and poured white wine and took away the soup plates. Wolfgang waited until she left, then put his hand on Hanna’s. “If there’s anything I can do, if I can help in any way … you know you only have to say the word.”
“Thank you,” Hanna said with a smile. “I know.”
All of a sudden, it occurred to her how happy she would be with Wolfgang if he weren’t married or seriously involved. It wasn’t because of his looks. He was no Adonis, of course, but he was attractive enough. The years had treated him kindly, unlike most men she knew, and lent his soft, youthful features a rugged masculinity that suited him. His hair was graying at the temples, and the laugh lines at his eyes were deeper now, but that suited him, too.
A few years ago, he’d had a girlfriend, a boring, pale attorney, whom he seemed to be pretty serious about, but she’d found no favor in the eyes of Wolfgang’s father. Eventually, the relationship fell apart. Wolfgang never talked about it, but he hadn’t had a steady girlfriend since.
The sole was served. At KUBU, the meals didn’t take long; people knew that the patrons who came for a business lunch didn’t have a lot of time.
Hanna picked up her napkin.
“I’m not going to let myself be buffaloed,” she said forcefully. “Now we just have to salvage the situation as far as my show is concerned. Do you think my strategy will work?”
“I think so,” replied Wolfgang. “You can be very convincing, even when you aren’t convinced about something yourself.”
“Precisely!” Hanna grabbed her wineglass and held it up for a toast. “Here’s to resolving yet another minor mess.”
He clinked glasses with her. The apprehension in his eyes had given way to quiet disappointment. But Hanna didn’t notice.
* * *
Bodenstein couldn’t find a parking place anywhere near the Institute for Forensic Medicine on Kennedyallee. He parked on Eschenbachstrasse, so they had to walk a couple of hundred yards. Pia’s decision to go public with the case had provoked a good deal of media interest. There was a crowd of reporters on the sidewalk, and they pounced on anyone going in or out of the institute. One reporter recognized Kirchhoff and Bodenstein, and they were instantly surrounded. From the shouted questions, Pia gathered that they must have heard a rumor from somewhere that last night there had been another young victim of the phenomenon of “coma drinking,” and now the pack of reporters was greedy for details. For a brief moment, she wavered. Did the press guys have more current information from the hospital than she did? Had Alexander died?
“Why didn’t you tell us that two people died?” one young man shouted, louder than the others, sticking his microphone in Pia’s face like a weapon. “What are the police trying to pull?”
This wasn’t the first time in her life that she was astonished by the aggressive and excitable behavior of some reporters. Did they think they’d find out more if they shouted louder?
“There is no second fatality,” replied Bodenstein for Pia, shoving the mike aside. “Now let us through.”
It took a couple of minutes for them to fight their way to the entrance of the institute. Inside the building, it was cool and almost reverentially quiet; somewhere a computer keyboard was clacking. The doors to the lecture hall at the front of the wood-paneled lobby were standing open. Pia heard a voice and glanced into the spacious room. The rows of seats were empty, but State Attorney Dr. Markus Maria Frey was walking back and forth as he
“You shouldn’t take it so lightly, Hanna. It worries me that you live alone in that big house by the woods. What about the surveillance cameras?”
“I need to have them replaced,” she said. “At the moment, they’re only for show.”
The waitress came and poured white wine and took away the soup plates. Wolfgang waited until she left, then put his hand on Hanna’s. “If there’s anything I can do, if I can help in any way … you know you only have to say the word.”
“Thank you,” Hanna said with a smile. “I know.”
All of a sudden, it occurred to her how happy she would be with Wolfgang if he weren’t married or seriously involved. It wasn’t because of his looks. He was no Adonis, of course, but he was attractive enough. The years had treated him kindly, unlike most men she knew, and lent his soft, youthful features a rugged masculinity that suited him. His hair was graying at the temples, and the laugh lines at his eyes were deeper now, but that suited him, too.
A few years ago, he’d had a girlfriend, a boring, pale attorney, whom he seemed to be pretty serious about, but she’d found no favor in the eyes of Wolfgang’s father. Eventually, the relationship fell apart. Wolfgang never talked about it, but he hadn’t had a steady girlfriend since.
The sole was served. At KUBU, the meals didn’t take long; people knew that the patrons who came for a business lunch didn’t have a lot of time.
Hanna picked up her napkin.
“I’m not going to let myself be buffaloed,” she said forcefully. “Now we just have to salvage the situation as far as my show is concerned. Do you think my strategy will work?”
“I think so,” replied Wolfgang. “You can be very convincing, even when you aren’t convinced about something yourself.”
“Precisely!” Hanna grabbed her wineglass and held it up for a toast. “Here’s to resolving yet another minor mess.”
He clinked glasses with her. The apprehension in his eyes had given way to quiet disappointment. But Hanna didn’t notice.
* * *
Bodenstein couldn’t find a parking place anywhere near the Institute for Forensic Medicine on Kennedyallee. He parked on Eschenbachstrasse, so they had to walk a couple of hundred yards. Pia’s decision to go public with the case had provoked a good deal of media interest. There was a crowd of reporters on the sidewalk, and they pounced on anyone going in or out of the institute. One reporter recognized Kirchhoff and Bodenstein, and they were instantly surrounded. From the shouted questions, Pia gathered that they must have heard a rumor from somewhere that last night there had been another young victim of the phenomenon of “coma drinking,” and now the pack of reporters was greedy for details. For a brief moment, she wavered. Did the press guys have more current information from the hospital than she did? Had Alexander died?
“Why didn’t you tell us that two people died?” one young man shouted, louder than the others, sticking his microphone in Pia’s face like a weapon. “What are the police trying to pull?”
This wasn’t the first time in her life that she was astonished by the aggressive and excitable behavior of some reporters. Did they think they’d find out more if they shouted louder?
“There is no second fatality,” replied Bodenstein for Pia, shoving the mike aside. “Now let us through.”
It took a couple of minutes for them to fight their way to the entrance of the institute. Inside the building, it was cool and almost reverentially quiet; somewhere a computer keyboard was clacking. The doors to the lecture hall at the front of the wood-paneled lobby were standing open. Pia heard a voice and glanced into the spacious room. The rows of seats were empty, but State Attorney Dr. Markus Maria Frey was walking back and forth as he
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