He looked closer. Bleeding through the single coat of fresh paint he could make out the unmistakable image of a spray-painted swastika.
CHAPTER 15
Maggie Taylor sipped her white wine and looked at Brodie across the small, candlelit cocktail table. They were at an intimate bar on a side street off Karl-Marx Straße, a place with dim lighting, a quiet clientele, and a ten-page cocktail menu. Old German cabaret music played softly in the background. Brodie had just told his partner about his excursion to the Al Mahdi Center, and she seemed to still be processing it.
“Taylor.”
She refocused.
“Any positive thoughts on what I told you?”
She was quiet again for a moment. The flickering flame of the tea light danced over her features. Then she said, “When I was at Fort Campbell, I saw the on-base therapist.”
Brodie didn’t respond.
“She told me that I get myself involved with dangerous, untrustworthy, and oftentimes unstable men, and the reasons for this date back to the trauma I experienced in my childhood.”
He assumed the trauma she was referring to was her mother blowing away her father with a shotgun, which would screw anyone up. As for the men, she must be thinking about Trent. Not Scott Brodie. He said, “Makes sense.”
“I alternate between the roles of child and mother, either allowing myself to be dominated and controlled by these men or burdened with the responsibility of providing discipline and comfort to them. Both roles are attempts to fill voids in my life, and both hold me back from being a strong and independent woman.”
This sounded like a three-drink conversation, but they were only on their first round. Brodie said, “I think you are a strong and independent woman.”
“I don’t need your validation.”
“Of course.” He took a swig of his doppelbock beer, which had a high alcohol content, but maybe not high enough.
Taylor continued, “So my first impulse now is to chastise you for being so impulsive and reckless, for possibly endangering yourself and compromising both of our roles in this investigation. But a reprimand from me is what you expect, and on some level it’s what you want and what you need.” Taylor looked him in the eyes. “I refuse to waste my time with someone who does not respect me, Scott. Pull this shit again and I walk.”
Maggie Taylor had changed. Psychobabble aside, she was more self-assured, self-possessed, and maybe even self-centered in a way that was probably good for her. And where did that leave him? In need of his own shrink, maybe. Though he didn’t need to pay someone by the hour to tell him that there was an adolescent boy inside of him who made half of his decisions.
He said, “You’re right. I should have called you before doing that so we could confer, and I apologize. But you need to know that I do respect you.”
“Not enough, Scott.”
“I’ll work on it.”
She finished her wine and stood. “I’m getting us another round.” She walked to the bar.
Brodie watched her approach the bar and start chatting up the young male bartender, who seemed to enjoy the attention from the pretty American woman.
Brodie drank his beer as he scanned the place, noticing that most of the patrons were in their thirties or older, probably thanks to the high-priced cocktails. This bar was obviously a product of Neukölln’s gentrification. On the exposed brick wall at the far end of the room he spotted a Gay Pride flag, as well as a sign that said in EnglishREFUGEES WELCOME, which was a nice sentiment, though he wasn’t sure if the refugees could afford the fourteen-euro martinis.
He also noticed a large black-and-white placard that saidFCK AFD. He thought he could fill in the missing vowel in the first word, and he remembered that AfD, Alternative for Germany, was the right-wing political partythat had organized the anti-Muslim protest outside the American Embassy in reaction to Vance’s murder.
This place certainly had its liberal credentials in order, which reminded him that despite the right-wing populism roiling Europe and parts of Germany itself, Berlin was still a very progressive city. Then again, it had been a liberal, cosmopolitan place during the Weimar Republic too, right up until the day Adolf Hitler became chancellor.
Brodie’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but when on assignment you always pick up. “Brodie.”
“Mr. Brodie, it’s Jason Butler. I heard back from the Berlin Police. An officer will meet you at the embassy after our briefing and remain with you while you review the security footage that you requested. He will provide a laptop for viewing, and you can use one of our empty offices.”
“Great. I’m sure the police were happy to oblige.”
“Not exactly. But they like to cooperate on the small asks so that they can say no to the big ones.”
“Anything else?”
“I was told to let you know that the only available footage within Prenzlauer Berg is from the three metro stops you requested, and that the authorities have already reviewed every minute of that footage as part of the investigation.”
