Jones smiled. “You laid the groundwork, Scott. That’s not lost on anybody.”
“I’m a headliner, George, not the opening act.”
Jones shrugged. “The brass winds us up and says go, and we do our duty, right? Sometimes you’re the hero and sometimes you’re shoveling shit.”
Mellman said, “We wanted this case from the start, but when word got out that it was going to be you, a lot of us were glad. You’ve got a reputation for getting results.”
Brodie said, “So does the Fifth MP Battalion. I’m happy to turn this over to you.”
Jones looked dubious, but said, “Harry Vance was the best of the best. Everyone loved that guy. We will get justice for him.”
“I know you will.” He told them, “My partner, Maggie Taylor, filed a report with the legat. Read it and take it seriously.”
Jones nodded.
“And if you have any questions for me, Jenkins has my number.” He added, “I’ll be in Berlin for a few more days. Taking some leave time.”
Jones, who knew how to interpret Brodie, advised, “Watch yourself, Scott.”
“You too.” He added, “The people who killed Harry Vance are not dead. They are out there.” He looked at them. “Good luck.”
Brodie continued across the square.
Well, another seed of doubt planted. George Jones, like Mark Jenkins, probably thought he now had a pretty good handle on why Scott Brodie had gotten kicked off this homicide case. Jones would read Taylor’s report, and he was professional enough to give it the attention it deserved. But ultimately, he’d run with the party line. That’s what most people do, most of the time. Even the smart ones.
And that was why it was still up to Scott Brodie—a man with his career in the toilet, no hope on the horizon, and nothing left to lose—to see that justice was done.
CHAPTER 38
Brodie hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of Stefan Richter on a street called Frankfurter Allee. If Taylor had been with him, he’d have told the driver it was near Hamburger Straße. But he was alone, though not yet lonely.
The address—which Brodie had found in the online white pages—was in the outer borough of Lichtenberg, in the former East Berlin, a thirty-minute drive from Alexanderplatz and a thirty-euro fare, which put a dent in his tightly budgeted Berlin adventure. According to the Internet, there was an U-Bahn station near his destination, but through experience he’d learned that taxis were the preferred method of transportation when you were trying to lose, spot, or avoid a tail. Which he always explained to the bean-counters in Quantico when he turned in his expense sheet. This time, however, there would be no reimbursement; he was on his own. Which felt good, and not so good. Good because his hands were untied, and not so good because the Army and this job had become his life. And not a bad life, despite his complaints, which every soldier was entitled to. If nothing else, his work was interesting. And, now and then, dangerous, which was not a complaint.
On the subject of dangerous, he was still pissed off that he hadn’t been issued a gun. They could have used guns at Proletariat, and maybe he could use a gun on Frankfurter Allee. “Hold the mustard or I shoot.”
The driver glanced back over his shoulder. “Was?”
“I’m dictating a memo.”
“Yes?” The driver, an older German man who, thank God, hadn’t been a talker, became one and asked, “Why you go this place?”
“To see a friend.”
“Yes? This place old… How you say…? Bad people who work for GDR. You understand?”
“Insurance salesmen?”
“No. Wohnblock. House. Build for Polizei… Stasi. You understand?”
That was interesting. Sounded like a place where Stefan Richter, ex-Stasi, might live. “Government housing for government workers.”
“Bastards.”
“Right.” He reminded the man, “It’s over. Kaput.”
“When they all kaput, then it is over. Like Nazis. All kaput.”
“I’m sure there’s a few old Nazis left.”
