Saturday, November 8, 2008
“Oh my God.” Dr. Daniela Lauterbach reacted with genuine horror when Bodenstein told her how he happened to get her telephone number. She turned pale beneath her suntan. “Rita is a good friend of mine. We were neighbors until she got divorced last year.”
“A witness said he saw someone push Mrs. Cramer over the railing of the pedestrian bridge,” said Bodenstein. “That’s why we’re investigating the case as a possible attempted murder.”
“That’s appalling! Poor Rita! How is she doing?”
“Not well. She’s in critical condition.”
Dr. Lauterbach clasped her hands as if in prayer and shook her head in dismay. Bodenstein estimated that she was about his age, late forties or early fifties. She had a very feminine figure and her shiny dark hair was pulled back in a simple bun. With her warm brown eyes that were surrounded by laugh lines she radiated good humor and a motherly concern. She was obviously a doctor who took enough time for her patients and their troubles. Her extensive practice was located on the pedestrian street in K?nigstein above a jewelry store: big bright rooms with high ceilings and parquet floors.
“Let’s step into my office,” the doctor suggested. Bodenstein followed her into a very large room dominated by a massive, old-fashioned desk. On the walls were large expressionist paintings in somber colors that presented an unusual but intriguing contrast to the otherwise pleasant decor.
“May I offer you some coffee?”
“Oh yes, please,” said Bodenstein with a smile and a nod. “I haven’t had time for any today.”
“You’re certainly on the job early.” Dr. Lauterbach set a cup under the automatic espresso machine sitting on a sideboard next to all sorts of medical literature and pressed a button. The coffee grinder started up, and the appetizing aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the room.
“So are you,” Bodenstein replied. “And on a Saturday too.”
Late the night before he had left a message on the office answering machine, and she had called back at eight thirty this morning.
“I make house calls on Saturday mornings.” She handed him a cup of coffee, and he declined milk and sugar. “And then I usually try to catch up on paperwork. It just keeps piling up these days. I’d rather spend the time with my patients.”
She motioned him toward her desk, and Bodenstein sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs. The window behind her desk offered a wonderful view across the grounds of the nearby spa to the ruins of K?nigstein Castle on the hilltop.
“So, how can I help you?” Dr. Lauterbach asked after taking a sip of her coffee.
“In Mrs. Cramer’s apartment we found not a single reference to any relatives,” Bodenstein replied. “But there must be someone we should inform about the accident.”
“Rita still has a good relationship with her ex-husband,” said the doctor. “I’m sure that he would like to know.” Again she shook her head in concern. “Who could have done this?” She fixed her brown eyes on Bodenstein, giving him a pensive look.
“That’s what we want to know too. Does she have any enemies?”
“Rita? Good God, no! She’s such a sweet person and she’s had to put up with a lot in her life. But she has never been bitter.”
“Put up with what? What are you referring to?” Bodenstein studied the doctor attentively. Daniela Lauterbach, with her calm, steady demeanor, seemed extremely personable. His own family doctor processed his patients as if on a conveyor belt. Every time Bodenstein had to pay him a visit, the pace of the examination was so frenetic that it made him nervous.
“Her son had to go to jail,” said Dr. Lauterbach with a sigh. “That was very hard for Rita. It’s probably the reason her marriage broke up.”
Bodenstein, who had been about to take a sip of coffee, stopped short.
“Mrs. Cramer’s son is in jail? What for?”
“He was in jail, but he was released two days ago. Ten years ago he murdered two girls.”
Bodenstein searched his memory, but he couldn’t recall any juvenile double murderer named Cramer.
“After her divorce Rita took her maiden name again, so that she wouldn’t be instantly associated with that horrible case,” Dr. Lauterbach explained, as if reading Bodenstein’s mind. “Her married name was Sartorius.”
* * *
Pia could hardly believe her eyes. She scanned the document written in sober officialese and printed on gray recycled paper. Her heart had leaped when she discovered the long-awaited letter from the zoning commission for the city of Frankfurt in her mailbox. But what she now read was totally unexpected. Since she and Christoph had decided to live together at Birkenhof, they’d been planning to remodel the house, which was a bit too small for two people, not to mention having room for guests. An architect friend had drawn up plans for the remodeling and a preliminary inquiry for construction. Pia had been waiting impatiently for a reply, because she really wanted to get started on the project. She read through the letter a second and third time, then put it aside, got up from the kitchen table, and went to take a quick shower. Afterward she wrapped a towel around her and sullenly looked at herself in the mirror. It was three thirty by the time she left the party, yet Pia had gotten up at seven to let the dogs out and feed the other animals. Then she had enjoyed a brief break in the rain to exercise the two young horses and muck out their stalls. She just couldn’t cope with late-night partying anymore. At forty-one it was harder to recover from all-nighters than it had been at twenty-one. Absently she brushed her shoulder-length blond hair and plaited it into two braids. Going back to sleep was unthinkable after getting such bad news anyway. She went through the kitchen, removing the unpleasant letter from the table, and continued into the bedroom.
“Hey, sweetie,” murmured Christoph, blinking away sleep in the bright light. “What time is it?”
“Quarter to ten.”
He sat up and massaged his temples with a groan. Contrary to habit he had heavily indulged in alcohol last night. “So when does Annika’s plane leave?”
“Around two. We still have plenty of time.”
“What’s that you have there?” he asked when he spied the letter in Pia’s hand.
“A catastrophe,” she said morosely. “The zoning office answered.”
“And?” Christoph was trying hard to wake up.
“It’s a demolition order!”
“What?”
“The previous owner built this house without a permit—imagine! And now our inquiry has awakened sleeping dogs. All that’s approved is a garden hut and a horse stall. I don’t get it.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking her head. “I’ve been registered at this address for a few years now; the garbagemen pick up the trash, I pay the water and sewer bills. Did they really think I’ve been living in a garden hut?”
“Let me see.” Christoph scratched his head as he read the official letter. “We’ll lodge a protest. It’s just not right. The next-door neighbor is building a huge house, and you can’t even remodel your little bungalow!”
The cell phone on the nightstand rang. Pia, who was on call that day, reluctantly picked it up. She listened for a few moments in silence.
“All right, I’ll be there,” she said, punched off the call, and tossed the cell on the bed. “Damn.”
“You have to go?”
“Yes, sorry. A young man in Niederh?chstadt who was on the train platform yesterday reported that he saw a man push a woman over the railing.”
Christoph put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Pia gave a deep sigh. He kissed first her cheek, then her lips. Why couldn’t this youth have waited until this afternoon to report the incident? Pia simply didn’t feel like working right now. Actually, it was Behnke’s turn to be on call this weekend. But he was “sick,” after all. And Hasse was “sick” too. To hell with those idiots! Pia leaned back and cuddled up to Christoph’s body, warm with sleep. His hand slid under the bath towel and caressed her belly.
“Now stop worrying about this piece of paper,” he whispered, kissing her again. “We’ll figure it out. They’re not going to tear the house down tomorrow.”
“Nothing but problems, day in and day out,” Pia murmured, deciding that the kid could wait a while longer at the station in Niederh?chstadt.
* * *