Read Online Grave Intent by Alexander Hartung - Free Book Online Page B

and our car salesman, and it’s going to lead us to the murderer.”

    Dusk was approaching as Moritz Quast lowered the shades in the living room. He had hardly any furniture. No books or CDs. No flowers to add a touch of color to the room. No framed family photos. Just an oversized poster of Pamela Anderson on one wall. The room did sport a flat-screen standing amid assorted game consoles. A little fridge abutted a daybed. Bottle caps and beer stains decorated the battered throw rug in front of it.
    Only missing the bearskin rug and porn collection, Jan thought as he checked the windows.
    Lowering the shades wasn’t strictly necessary, but Jan wanted to show Quast that things were secure. The car salesman was still jumpy. On the way home, even with Jan accompanying him, he had peered nervously around at every intersection. Quast had practically sprinted up the short path leading from the street to his house, and he’d barely managed to get the key in the lock with his hand shaking so badly. If Jan hadn’t been there, the guy probably would have hidden under that daybed.
    “What now?” asked Quast.
    Jan was hoping the man would start to calm down now that he was home, but no such luck. His eyes were those of a cornered animal, and his blue shirt was soaked with sweat. He clawed at the inside of his jacket with his right hand.
    “Let’s go through the routine one more time.” Jan said, doing his best to sound composed. The whole way over, he had explained how Quast should conduct himself while under police protection, but a second go couldn’t hurt. Otherwise the man might flip out at the slightest sound. “We secured the windows and pulled down all the shades. Front and back doors are locked up. You do not let anyone in. No friends. No relatives. Not even pizza delivery. At the front door are two of my colleagues, who’ll be watching out for you the whole night. Their names are David Fleck and Fabian Gisker. Both are reliable men with experience.”
    Jan handed Quast a police radio. “This is how you reach the officers out there. Press the button on the left here and speak. That saves you having to call. My colleagues have a key to your house. If you need help, they’ll be in here in the blink of an eye.”
    Quast took the portable radio in his hand and pressed it to his chest as if his life depended on it.
    “If anything strikes you as unusual, just report it over the portable. You also have the police number and my cell.”
    Jan placed a hand on the car salesman’s shoulder. He was surprised at how much the man was shaking.
    He pointed to the flat-screen. “Watch some TV. Try to relax and enjoy your evening. I’ll come back by tomorrow morning and give you the latest on the investigation.”
    Quast nodded and sat down on the daybed. He turned on the TV with the remote and began surfing through the channels. The man would do a handstand if Jan asked him to.
    There wasn’t any more to be done there. The house was well secured, and his colleagues watching the door were reliable. Jan had searched all the rooms twice, so the killer couldn’t already be in the house. Unless he was some master break-in artist, no way was he getting in.
    “See you tomorrow,” Jan said and left the house. Moritz Quast raised a hand without looking away from the screen.
    Jan went through the front yard to the street. A patrol car was parked in front of the house. At first glance, it differed little from other cop cars, but if you looked more closely, you could recognize the driver’s distinctive character. The rear window prominently displayed a Hertha Berlin soccer club sticker. The backseat served as clothes closet. Jackets, pants, and gloves were piled up next to shoes. On the middle console, a glittery little Elvis swiveled, and the cup holder was just as against-the-regs as the cell-phone tray next to it. And those were only what a passerby could see.
    Jan knew the driver from his own days in training. Fabian Gisker was a