Read Online A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) by James Craig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Craig
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don’t know,’ Marin mumbled. ‘Even my wife wouldn’t shoot me in the head.’
Why not? Max wondered. ‘The husband ran a bookshop,’ he interjected, ‘so either it was a case of mistaken identity or there’s something funny going on amongst the shelves in the fiction section.’
Marin picked up the cigar and stuck it back in his mouth.
Why don’t you just smoke the fucking thing? Max wondered.
‘Mistaken identity?’
‘It’s possible,’ Michael responded, knowing how weak it sounded.
‘If you’re a professional hit man,’ Marin said, drawing on the wisdom of Solomon, ‘you don’t just kill a family of six by mistake. This is Germany, for God’s sake, not the third fucking world. Even our shooters are professional and efficient.’
Graciously accepting the Kriminalkommissar’s insights, storing them away for future reference, Max smiled. ‘Good point boss; that’s why we’re going with the second theory.’
‘Good,’ Marin nodded. ‘Just make sure you make some progress. And quick. I don’t want us to be caught in the media spotlight on this one.’ Reaching for a cheap red plastic lighter, he finally began firing up his cigar. Taking that as his cue to leave, Max jumped to his feet, pulling Michael up with him.
‘The technical boys – and girls – will be going back to the house this morning, so we’re off to have a look round the bookshop.’ Without waiting for a reply, Max hustled his partner out of the door, heading for the exit of the Polizeipräsidium, towards the hustle and bustle of Stresemannstraße, with the promise of fresh air and some decent coffee.
10
The Last Word book store was located on Forsterstraße , less than a dozen blocks from the Beerfeldt family home. Set over the basement, ground and first floors of a wide commercial building, the shop was more substantial than Max had imagined. Inside, the floor-to-ceiling shelves were crammed with tomes of all descriptions, giving the place a cramped but cosy atmosphere. On each floor, towards the back of the building, were a couple of battered, comfortable-looking leather armchairs where customers could read at their leisure.
I must have walked past this place hundreds of times, Max mused as he lowered himself into one of the chairs, but this is the first time I’ve ever made it inside. Then again, I was never much of a bookworm. The thought made him laugh out loud. Michael Rahn, who was talking to a girl by the till at the front door, looked up and frowned. He said something to the girl who nodded and promptly disappeared between two book stacks.
‘Find out anything interesting?’ Max asked hopefully as Michael slipped into the other chair.
The sergeant shook his head, annoyed. ‘All she wants to know is will they be able to re-open and when is she going to get paid.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Max mused. The girl reappeared at the till and he looked her up and down with the practised eye of a professional people-watcher. She was tall and slim, with short dark hair, tight jeans, a tight T-shirt bearing the face of Che Guevara. Armchair revolutionary, he thought, sliding further into his own seat.
Catching him staring, the girl frowned. Undeterred, Max continued his assessment.
Small breasts.
Big earrings.
Tight ass.
Fairly pretty, if you liked that kind of thing.
How old? Hard to say; he thought that she could be anything from twenty-one to thirty-five. Holding the girl’s eye, he smiled. Looking away, she began tidying a selection of books piled precariously behind the cash register.
Having taken a moment to make himself fully comfortable, Michael spoke. ‘Her name is Suzanne Suzuki.’
‘Like the motorbike?’ Max grinned. ‘She doesn’t look very Japanese to me.’
‘God knows where the name’s from,’ Michael yawned. ‘She’s from Hamburg.’
Max’s thoughts suddenly turned to Sarah Rahn and the Green and Red club. ‘Late night?’ he asked, lecherously.
‘Yeah,’ Michael
Why not? Max wondered. ‘The husband ran a bookshop,’ he interjected, ‘so either it was a case of mistaken identity or there’s something funny going on amongst the shelves in the fiction section.’
Marin picked up the cigar and stuck it back in his mouth.
Why don’t you just smoke the fucking thing? Max wondered.
‘Mistaken identity?’
‘It’s possible,’ Michael responded, knowing how weak it sounded.
‘If you’re a professional hit man,’ Marin said, drawing on the wisdom of Solomon, ‘you don’t just kill a family of six by mistake. This is Germany, for God’s sake, not the third fucking world. Even our shooters are professional and efficient.’
Graciously accepting the Kriminalkommissar’s insights, storing them away for future reference, Max smiled. ‘Good point boss; that’s why we’re going with the second theory.’
‘Good,’ Marin nodded. ‘Just make sure you make some progress. And quick. I don’t want us to be caught in the media spotlight on this one.’ Reaching for a cheap red plastic lighter, he finally began firing up his cigar. Taking that as his cue to leave, Max jumped to his feet, pulling Michael up with him.
‘The technical boys – and girls – will be going back to the house this morning, so we’re off to have a look round the bookshop.’ Without waiting for a reply, Max hustled his partner out of the door, heading for the exit of the Polizeipräsidium, towards the hustle and bustle of Stresemannstraße, with the promise of fresh air and some decent coffee.
10
The Last Word book store was located on Forsterstraße , less than a dozen blocks from the Beerfeldt family home. Set over the basement, ground and first floors of a wide commercial building, the shop was more substantial than Max had imagined. Inside, the floor-to-ceiling shelves were crammed with tomes of all descriptions, giving the place a cramped but cosy atmosphere. On each floor, towards the back of the building, were a couple of battered, comfortable-looking leather armchairs where customers could read at their leisure.
I must have walked past this place hundreds of times, Max mused as he lowered himself into one of the chairs, but this is the first time I’ve ever made it inside. Then again, I was never much of a bookworm. The thought made him laugh out loud. Michael Rahn, who was talking to a girl by the till at the front door, looked up and frowned. He said something to the girl who nodded and promptly disappeared between two book stacks.
‘Find out anything interesting?’ Max asked hopefully as Michael slipped into the other chair.
The sergeant shook his head, annoyed. ‘All she wants to know is will they be able to re-open and when is she going to get paid.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Max mused. The girl reappeared at the till and he looked her up and down with the practised eye of a professional people-watcher. She was tall and slim, with short dark hair, tight jeans, a tight T-shirt bearing the face of Che Guevara. Armchair revolutionary, he thought, sliding further into his own seat.
Catching him staring, the girl frowned. Undeterred, Max continued his assessment.
Small breasts.
Big earrings.
Tight ass.
Fairly pretty, if you liked that kind of thing.
How old? Hard to say; he thought that she could be anything from twenty-one to thirty-five. Holding the girl’s eye, he smiled. Looking away, she began tidying a selection of books piled precariously behind the cash register.
Having taken a moment to make himself fully comfortable, Michael spoke. ‘Her name is Suzanne Suzuki.’
‘Like the motorbike?’ Max grinned. ‘She doesn’t look very Japanese to me.’
‘God knows where the name’s from,’ Michael yawned. ‘She’s from Hamburg.’
Max’s thoughts suddenly turned to Sarah Rahn and the Green and Red club. ‘Late night?’ he asked, lecherously.
‘Yeah,’ Michael
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