Dead Woods by Maria C Poets Page B

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 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 a 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 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?”

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