Taylor typed on her phone, then said, “I see a few Anna Schillers in Berlin… One appears to be an older woman who owns a bookstore. Got some address hits too…” She looked up at Brodie. “No addresses for this street. But Anna Schiller could be unlisted. Or recently moved.”
“Try Anna Albrecht.”
Taylor worked at her phone again. “Oh. Okay, this might be something. Anna Albrecht is a curator at an art gallery in Kreuzberg. The gallery has a website… She has a bio… Let me run this page through a translator.” After a minute Taylor handed him her phone, and he read a short bio describing Anna Albrecht as “a longtime resident of Prenzlauer Berg with extensive experience in the Berlin avant-garde art scene.” The bio included a photo of Ms. Albrecht, a very attractive woman in her mid-thirties with a short pixie haircut, high cheekbones, and big brown eyes, which sort of matched the description given to them by Johannes at the schnapps store. Brodiehanded the phone back to Taylor. “I’d take a ten-hour round-trip train ride for her.”
“I’m sure you would.” Taylor looked up at the building. “Maybe not a bad lead after all. Let’s see.” She pressed the buzzer for Apartment 3B. They waited a moment. No response.
“Entschuldigen Sie.”
A fifty-something woman in a fur hat and peacoat approached the door, along with a yappy miniature black schnauzer on a leash.
Brodie and Taylor stepped aside as the woman unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed it open. She held it for them and smiled.
“Danke schön,” said Taylor.
They entered a high-ceilinged foyer with a ceramic-tile floor leading to a wide staircase. They lingered in the foyer as the woman climbed the stairs, talking to her schnauzer, who barked replies.
When the conversation stopped, Brodie and Taylor climbed the stairs to the third floor, where there were two wooden doors on a small landing, 3A and 3B. They approached 3B and Brodie knocked.
They waited. Brodie knocked again and said loudly, “Anna Albrecht. My name is Scott Brodie. I was a friend of Harry’s and I would like to speak with you.”
Nothing. Brodie twisted the old doorknob, which was locked. But from the sound of the knocks the door wasn’t too thick. He’d breached his share of doors in training and in combat, and this one wouldn’t put up much of a fight.
Taylor knew what her partner was thinking. She whispered, “This might not even be the right Anna. Plus, we have no jurisdiction and no warrant. This is breaking and entering.”
“We have the right apartment. This woman had an ongoing romantic relationship with the murder victim and has not come forward. Maybe she killed him. Or maybe she’s dead.” He reminded her, “You know the rules of forced entry.”
“Maybe shedidgo to the police. Another detail they conveniently forgot to put in their briefing.”
That was possible, but not probable. “Even our German colleagues wouldn’t withhold information that would explain the murder victim’s presence in Berlin.”
Taylor said, “We can call Agent Whitmore or Chief Inspector Schröder and have a team of BKA officers sent here.”
Brodie stared at the closed door. Taylor’s suggestion was the right way to make an entry. Then again, Scott Brodie had been sent here to get answers, and the answers were behind that door. More importantly, he’d already announced himself. If Anna Albrecht was home and had something to hide, she could be destroying evidence—or slipping out the window and down a fire escape—while they waited for the police to show up. Or she really could be dead or dying.
Brodie said, “I’m going in. You can leave.”
Taylor looked offended. “We’re partners. We both live and die by your bad choices.”
“Right.”
She eyed the door. “Aim just left of the doorknob.”
“I’ve done this a few times.”
He stepped back, then brought his foot up and slammed it next to the doorknob, feeling it crack. He shouldered the door and it flew open. This is where they’d pull their guns if they had guns, but Brodie settled for, “Police! Hands up!”
They rushed into a small foyer with a table and coatrack. To their left was a hallway leading to a kitchen.
“Scott…”
He turned to his right. Another hallway led to an open door about fifteen feet away, and standing in the doorway was a petite woman in her thirties with pixie-cut black hair dressed in a gray tank top and jeans.
She was pointing a rifle at them.
CHAPTER 23
The woman with the rifle spoke in almost unaccented English, “Who are you?”
