Rosa by Jonathan Rabb Read Free Book Online Page A

day?”
    Fichte was still mulling over the impromptu lesson. “Shouldn’t we bring the KD up to speed?” he said.
    “Hans”—Hoffner rinsed off the last of the soap, trying not to sound too dismissive—“the Herr Kriminaldirektor has been home for the past hour, sitting in front of a nice fire with a far better brandy than you or I will ever drink. He knows these ladies will be here tomorrow. He knows we’ll be here tomorrow. His only concern is that we don’t find any more of them to play with.” Hoffner shook out his hands, turned off the tap, and took a towel. “Unless you want me to drink alone?”
    Fichte hesitated. “Well, no,” he said. He moved to the far table and covered up victim number five. “It’s just”—he began to take off his gloves—“I was meeting someone, and—” Fichte struggled to finish the thought.
    “Ah,” said Hoffner, saving him the trouble: the prospect of facing dinner at home without something of a distraction beforehand was far more deflating than Fichte’s awkward brush-off. “A different kind of deviation.” The joke was lost on Fichte. “Never mind,” said Hoffner. “Another time.” He pressed a small white button by the sink, and a bell rang beyond the doors to inform the orderlies that the bodies were ready for the ice room.
    “No.” Fichte was suddenly more animated. “You should come. I’d like you to come.” Still more steam. “Yes, come. Lina’s even asked about you.”
    “Lina,” said Hoffner.
    “A friend. A girl.”
    “Oh, a girl,” said Hoffner, stating the obvious. He tossed the towel onto the counter. “Then I should definitely not come.”
    “No, no. It’s nothing like that,” said Fichte, even more insistent. “Well, I mean it is like that, but it’ll be for a drink. One drink. We can talk about working together. You know.”
    “‘Working together,’” Hoffner echoed.
    “As detectives.”
    “Right,” said Hoffner, more skeptically. “I can tell her what a fine partner you are, the great work you’re doing.”
    “Exactly,” said Fichte. “We’ll have some fun.” He continued to gain momentum. “She’s great, my Lina. No. You have to come now. She won’t forgive me if I show up without you.”
    “I see.” Hoffner stepped aside. He sat against the counter, arms crossed at his chest, as Fichte started in at the sink. “How can I deprive your Lina of my remarkable company?”
    “Yes. Exactly.”
    Hoffner watched as Fichte sniffed at his lathered hands. There was something reassuring about this particular fixation of his. Fichte completed his inspection and, finding nothing, rinsed off.
    “So,” asked Hoffner, “how long has she been selling flowers along Friedrichstrasse?”
    “About three months,” said Fichte offhandedly. He then looked over at Hoffner in complete surprise. “How did you know that?”
    Hoffner smiled. “I was also once a twenty-three-year-old Kriminal-Assistent, Hans. Mine was called Celia.”
    Fichte shook his head as he turned off the tap and picked up the towel. “No, my Lina’s a nice girl.”
    For several seconds, Hoffner stared down at the floor, trying to recall his Celia. He could almost see her, the long, slim frame, the wirelike fingers, the small breasts, all of it, except for the face. He tried to find it—bad skin, pretty—but no, only a vague outline: an endless array of thieves and murderers clear as day, but no Celia. “A nice girl,” he said, still distant. He looked at Fichte. “And what makes you think mine wasn’t?”
    Fichte saw the change in Hoffner’s expression. He stopped drying his hands. “.         .         .         I didn’t mean—”
    Instantly, Hoffner started to laugh. “Well, you’re right. She wasn’t.” When Fichte smiled sheepishly, Hoffner pushed himself up from the counter and said, “All right, one drink, Hans. But anything to impress your Lina will cost you extra.”
             
    T en minutes