x
I was sitting on my bed in my apartment in Culver City, watching the Lakers game with the sound turned off, while I tried to study vocabulary for my introductory German class. It was a quiet evening; I had gotten my daughter to sleep about eight.
Now I had the cassette player on the bed and the cheerful woman's voice was saying things like, "Hello, I am a police officer. Can I be of assistance?" and "Please show me the menu." After each sentence, she paused for me to repeat it back, in German. I stumbled along as best I could. Then she would say, "The beer hall is closed. Where is the post office?" Things like that. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate, but I was trying.
"Mr. Bucholtzer has two children."
I tried to answer.
""Herr Bucholtzer hat...."
But by then the woman was talking again.
"This beer is not very good at all."
I had my textbook on the bed, alongside a Mr. Potato Head I'd put back together for my daughter. Next to that, a photo album, and the pictures from her 2nd birthday party. It was four months after Ariel's party, but I still hadn't put the pictures in the album. You have to try and keep up with that stuff.
"There will be a meeting at two o'clock."
The pictures on my bed didn't reflect reality anymore.
Four months later, Ariel looked completely different. She was taller; she'd outgrown the expensive party dress my ex-wife had bought for her: black velvet with a white lace collar.
In the photos, my ex-wife plays a prominent role---holding the cake as Ariel blows out the candles, helping her unwrap the presents. She looks like a dedicated mom. My daughter lives with me, and my ex-wife doesn't see much of her. She doesn't show up for weekend visitation half the time, and she misses child-support payments. But you've never know from the birthday photos.
"Where is the toilet?"
"I have a car. We can go together."
I continued studying. Of course, officially I was on duty that night: I was the Special Services officer on call for division HQ downtown. But February 9th was a quiet Thursday, and I didn't expect much action. Until 9:00, I only had three calls.
Special Services includes the diplomatic section of the police department; we handle problems with diplomats and celebrities and provide translators and liaisons for foreign nationals who come into contact with the police for various reasons. It's varied work, but not stressful: when I'm on call I can expect a half-dozen requests for help, none of them emergencies. I hardly ever have to roll out. It's much less demanding than being a police press liaison, which is what I did before Special Services.
Anyway, on the night of February 9, the first call I got was about Isabella Navarro. the Chilean vice-consul. A patrol car had pulled her over; Izzy was too drunk to drive, but she was claiming diplomatic immunity. I told the patrolmen to drive him home, and I made a note to complain to the consulate again in the morning.
Then 1 hour later, I got a call from detectives in Gardena. They'd arrested a suspect in a restaurant shooting who spoke only Hawaiian, and they wanted a translator. I said I could get one, but that Hawaiians invariably spoke English; the islands had been in the United States for years. The detectives said they'd handle it. Then I got a call that mobile TV vans were blocking fire lanes at the Spinal Tap concert; I told the officers to give it to the fire department.
And it was quiet for the next hour. I went back to my textbook and my sing-song woman saying things like, "Yesterday's weather was rainy."
Then Sarah Rodriguez called. "It's the fuckin' Krauts," she said. "I can't believe they're pulling this bullshit. Better get over here, Herr Jack. Eleven hundred Valverde, corner of Seventh. It's the new SchwarzTech building."
"What's the matter?" I had to ask. Rodriguez is a good detective, but she has a bad temper, and she tends to blow.
"The matter," Rodriguez said, "is that the fuckin' Krauts are demanding to see the fuckin' Special Services liaison. That's you, buddy. They're saying the police can't proceed until the liaison gets here."
"Can't proceed? Why? What have you got?"
"Homicide," Rodriguez said. "Caucasian female approximately twenty-five years old, apparent six-oh-one. Lying flat on her back, right in their damn boardroom. What a goddamn sight! You better get down here as soon as you can."
I said, "Is that music playing in the background?"
"Hell yes," Rodriguez said. "There's a big shindig going on. Tonight is the grand opening of the SchwarzTech Tower, and they're having a reception. Just get down here, will you?"
I said I would. I called Mrs. Chato next door, and asked her if she would watch the baby while I was gone; she always needed extra money. While I waited for her to arrive I changed my shirt and put on my good suit. Then Emanuel Ramroop called. He was watch commander at DHD downtown; a short, tough guy with gray hair.
"Listen, Jack. I think you might want help on this one."
I said, "Why is that?"
"Sounds like we've got a homicide involving German nationals. It may be sticky. How long have you been a liaison?"
"Six months," I said.
"If I was you, I'd get some experienced help. Pick up Rehn and take him downtown with you."
"Who?!"
"Lloyd Rehn. Ever heard of him?"
"Sure," I said. Everyone in the division had heard of Rehn. He was a legend, the most knowledgeable of the Special Services officers. "But isn't he retired?"
"He's on indefinite leave, but he still works cases involving the Germans. I think he could be helpful to you. Tell you what. I'll call him for you. You just go down and pick him up." Ramroop gave me his address.
"Okay, fine. Thanks."
"And one other thing. Landlines on this one, okay, Jack?"
"Okay," I said. "But....who requested that?"
"It's just better."
"Whatever you think's best, Manny."
Landlines: police talk for "stay off the radios," so our transmissions wouldn't be picked up by the media monitoring police frequencies. It was standard procedure in certain situations.
Whenever Raquel Welch went to the hospital, we went to landlines. Or, if the teenage son of someone famous died in a car crash, we'd go to landlines to make sure the parents got the news before the TV crews started banging on their door. We used landlines for that kind of thing. I'd never heard it invoked in a homicide before.
But driving downtown, I stayed off the car phone and listened to the radio. There was a report of a shooting of a three-year-old boy who was now paralyzed from the waist down, taken down by a stray bullet. The child was a bystander during a Circle-K robbery. I switched to another station and got a talk show.
Ahead, I could see the lights of the downtown skyscrapers, rising into the midst. I got off the freeway at San Pedro, Rehn's exit.
What I knew about Lloyd Rehn was that he had lived for a time in Germany, where he acquired his knowledge of the German language and culture. At one point, back in the 1960s, he was the only officer who spoke fluent German, even though Los Angeles then had the largest German population outside of Europe. Now, of course, the department has more than eighty officers who speak German---and more, like me, who are trying to learn. Reh had retired several years before. But the liaison officers who worked with him agreed he was the best. He was said to work very fast, often solving cases in a few hours. He had a reputation as a skilled detective and an extraordinary interviewer, able to get information from witnesses like nobody else. But most of all, the other liaisons praised his even-handed approach. One said to me, "Working with the Germans is like balancing on a tightrope. Sooner or later, everybody falls off on one side or the other."
Some people decide the Germans are fabulous and can do no wrong. Some people decide they're vicious pricks. But Rehn always kept his balance. He stays in the middle. He always knows exactly what he's doing.
Lloyd Rehn lived in the industrial area off 7th Street, in a large brick warehouse alongside a diesel truck depot. The freight elevator in the building was broken. I walked upstairs to the third floor and knocked on his door.
"It's open," he said.
I entered a small apartment. The living room was empty and furnished in the German style: sofa, armchair, coffee table, dining table, sideboard, bookshelf, bed, wardrobe, desk, and a shoe cabinet. A fountain pen, a black lacquer table, and a vase with a single splash of water lilies. I saw two pairs of shoes set out beside the door. One was a man's hush-puppies. The other was a pair of women's high-heels.
I said, "Captain Rehn?"
"Just a minute."
A Japanese-inspired room divider slid back and Rehn appeared. He was surprisingly tall, maybe a hundred and ninety centimeters, well over six feet. He wore a light blue cotton robe. I estimated he was fifty-five years old. Broad-shouldered, balding, with a trim mustache, sharp features, piercing eyes. Deep voice. Calm.
"Good evening, Lieutenant." We shook hands. Connor looked me up and down and nodded approvingly. "Good. Very presentable."
I said, "I used to work press. You never know when you might have to go in front of a TV camera."
He nodded.
"And now you're the SSO on call?"
"I am."
"How long have you been a liaison?"
"Oh, six months, I believe."
"You speak German?"
"A little. I'm taking lessons."
"Give me a few minutes to change." He turned and disappeared behind the room divider.
"This is a homicide?"
"Yes."
"Who notified you?"
"Sarah Rodriguez. She's the OIC at the crime scene. He said the Germans were insisting on a liaison officer being present."
"I see." There was a pause. I heard running water.
"Is that a common request?"
"No. I've never heard of it happening. Usually, officers call for a liaison because they've got a language problem. I've never heard of the Germans asking for a liaison."
"Neither have I," Rehn said.
"Did Ramirez tell you to bring me? Because Sarah Ramirez and I don't always admire each other."
"No," I said. "Emmanuel Ramroop suggested I bring you in. He felt I didn't have enough experience. He said he was going to call you for me."
"Then you were called at home twice?" Rehn said.
"Yes.."
He reappeared, wearing a dark blue suit, knotting his tie. "I see. It seems that time is critical." He glanced at his watch. "When did Ramirez call you?"
"About nine."
"Then forty minutes have already passed. Let's go, Lieutenant. Where's your car?"
We hurried downstairs. I drove up San Pedro and turned left onto Second, heading toward the SchwarzTech building. There was a light mist at street level. Rehn stared out the window. He said. "How good is your memory?"
"Pretty good."
"I wonder if you could repeat for me the telephone conversations you had tonight," he said. "Give them to me in as much detail as possible. Word for word, if you can."
"I'll try."
I recounted my phone calls. Rehn listed without interruption or comment. I didn't know why he was so interested, and he didn't tell me. When I finished, he said, "Ramroop didn't tell you who called for landlines?"
"Nope."
"Well, it's a good idea in any case. I never use a car phone if I can help it. These days, too many people listen in."
I turned onto Valverde. Up ahead I saw searchlights shining in front of the new SchwarzTech Tower. The building itself was gray granite, rising into the night. I got into the right lane and flipped open the glove box to grab a handful of business cards. They said Detective Lieutenant Jack H. Reynolds, Special Services Liaison Officer, Los Angeles Police Department. Printed in English on one side, in German on the back.
Rehn looked at the cards. "How do you want to handle the situation, Lieutenant? Have you negotiated with Germans before?"
I said, "Not really, no. A couple of drunk driving arrests, but that's all."
Rehn said politely, "Then maybe I can suggest a strategy for us to follow."
"Fine with me," I said.
"I'd be grateful for your help."
"All right. Since you're the liaison, it's probably best. You take charge of the scene when we arrive."
"No problem."
"Don't bother to introduce me, or refer to me in any way. Don't even look in my direction."
"No problem."
"I am a nonentity. You alone are in charge."
"No problem."
"It'll help to be formal. Stand straight, and keep your suit jacket buttoned at all times."
"No problem."
"When you start to deal with the Germans, remember that they will be assertive in their approach. They assert their positions firmly, but they'll express impatience or frustration if their expectations are not met."
"Got it."
"Stand up straight. Hands at your sides."
"No problem."
"The Germans have a short fuse and are easily provoked by perceived threats or confrontational behavior. Even subtle cues of disagreement or resistance can trigger a hostile response, so speak slowly in a calm and even voice."
"Will do."
"I'm serious, Jake. The people we're dealing with don't have effective conflict-resolution skills. They sometimes resort to brute force and intimidation to get their way."
"Well, I'll just remind them that I'm a cop and I have the right to defend myself. This is Los Angeles, not Berlin."
"That won't matter to them. These Germans value physical strength and combat skills above all else. Wrestling and boxing are ingrained in their upbringing. To them, violence is an acceptable way of resolving disputes and asserting dominance."
"Nice people," I said.
Connor smiled. "Don't worry, you'll do fine," he said. "You probably won't need my help at all. But if you get stuck, you'll hear me say 'Perhaps I can be of assistance.' That will be the signal that I'm taking over. From that point on, let me do the talking. I'd rather you not speak again, even if you're spoken to directly by them. Okay?"
"No problem."
"You may want to speak, but don't be drawn out."
"Understood."
"Furthermore, whatever I do, show no surprise. Whatever I do."
"Okay."
"Once I take over, move so that you're standing slightly behind me and to my right. Never sit. Never look around. Never appear distracted. Remember that although you come from a sexy MTV rock-'n-roll culture, they don't. They're Germans. They'll maintain a degree of distance and formality until trust and mutual understanding are established. Every aspect of your appearance and behavior will reflect on you, on the LAPD, and me as your superior and mentor.
"No problem, captain."
"Any questions?"
"Why do I need a 'mentor'?."
Rehn smiled. We drove past the searchlights, down the ramp into the underground garage.
"In Germany," he said, "a mentor is a senior man who guides a junior man, known as a schützling. The mentor-schützling relationship is quite common. It's often assumed to exist whenever a younger man and an older man are working together. They will probably assume it of us."
I said, "You mean you're my teacher and I'm your student?"
"Not quite," Rehn said. "In Germany, a mentor-schutzling has a different quality. It's characterized by structured guidance and support. The mentor provides direction, feedback, and mentorship to help the protege navigate their professional and personal challenges." He smiled.
"That's good to know."
We came to the bottom of the ramp and saw the flat expanse of the parking garage ahead of us. Rehn stared out the window and frowned. "Where is everybody?"
The garage of the SchwarzTech Tower was full of limousines, the drivers leaning against their cars, talking and smoking. But I saw no police cars. Ordinarily, when there's a homicide, the place is lit up like a Christmas tree, with lights flashing from a half-dozen B&Ws, the medical examiner, paramedics, and all the rest.
But there was nothing tonight. It looked like a garage where somebody was having a party: elegant people standing in clusters, waiting for their cars.
"Interesting," I said.
We came to a stop. The parking attendants opened the doors, and I stepped out onto a plush carpet and heard soft music. I walked with Rehn toward the elevator. Well-dressed people were coming the other way: men in tuxedos, women in expensive gowns. Sarah Rodriguez was standing by the elevator, wearing a stained corduroy sports coat and furiously smoking a cigarette.
Rodriguez was born and raised in Los Angeles, growing up in a diverse and vibrant neighborhood. Coming from a working-class family, she witnessed firsthand the struggles of her parents to make ends meet and provide for their family. After graduating from high school, Sarah initially considered pursuing a career in law, but was drawn to the more hands-on nature of police work and decided to join the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) at the age of 21. Always too outspoken, Rodriguez had made enemies in the chief's office, and at 39, further advancement was unlikely. Now she was bitter, fierce, and putting on weight---a big woman who had become ponderous, and a pain in the ass: she just rubbed people the wrong way. Her idea of personal integrity was to be a failure, and she was sarcastic about anybody who didn't share his views.
"Your taste in clothes is in your ass," she said to me, as I walked up.
"Nice to see you too, Sarah."
She flicked imaginary dust off my lapel. I ignored it.
"How's it going, Sarah?"
"You guys should be attending this party, not working it." She turned to Rehn and shook his head. "Hello, Lloyd. Whose idea was it to get you out of bed?"
"I'm just observing," Rehn said mildly.
I said, "Emmanuel Ramroop asked me to bring him down."
"Hell," Rodriguez said. "It's okay with me that you're here. I can use some help. It's pretty tense up there."
We followed her toward the elevator. I still saw no other police officers. I said, "Where is everybody?"
"Good question," Rodriguez said. "They've managed to keep all of our people around back at the freight entrance. They claim the service elevator gives the fastest access. And they keep talking about the importance of their grand opening, and how nothing must disrupt it."
By the elevators, a uniformed German private security guard looked us over carefully.
"They're with me," Rodriguez said. The security man nodded but squinted at us suspiciously.
We got on the elevator. "Fuckin' Krauts," Rodriguez said, as the doors closed. "This is still our country. We're still the fuckin' police in our own country."
The elevator was glass-walled and we looked out on downtown Los Angeles as it went up into the light mist. Directly across was the Arco building, all lit up at night.
"You know these elevators are illegal," Rodriguez said. "According to code, no glass elevators past ninety floors, and this building is ninety-seven floors, the highest building in L.A. But then this whole building is one big special case. And they got it up in six months. You know how? They brought in prefab units from Trier and slapped them together here. Didn't use American construction workers. Got a special permit to bypass our unions because of a so-called technical problem that only German workers could handle. You believe that shit?"
I shrugged. "They got it past the American unions."
"Hell, they got it past the city council," Rodriguez said. "But of course that's just money. And if there's one thing we know, the Germans have money. So they got variances in the zoning restrictions and the earthquake ordinances. They got everything they wanted."
I shrugged. "Politics."
"My ass! You know they don't even pay taxes? That's right: they got an eight-year break on property taxes away from the city. Shit: we're giving this country away."
We rode for a moment in silence. Rodriguez stared out the windows. The elevators were high-speed Electronas, using the latest technology. The fastest and smoothest elevators in the world. We moved higher into the mist.
I said to Rodriguez, "You want to tell us about this homicide, or do you want it to be a surprise?"
"Fuck," Rodriguez said. He flipped open his notebook. "Here's the damage: The original call was at 8:32. Somebody saying 'ja, uh... there is... how you say... a dead person? In the... uh... house? Ja, bitte come quickly.' A male with a thick European accent who doesn't speak good English. The operator couldn't get much out of him, except an an address. The SchwarzTech Tower. Black and white goes over, arrives at 8:39 p.m., and finds it's a homicide. Forty-sixth floor, which is an office floor in this building. The victim is a Caucasian female, approximately twenty-five years old. Hell of a good-looking girl. You'll see. The uniforms stretch the tape and call the division. I go over with Romano, arriving at 8:53. Crime scene IU and SID show up about the same time for PE, prints, and pics. Okay so far?"
"Yes," Rehn said, nodding.
Rodriguez said, "We're just getting started when some Kraut from the SchwarzTech Corporation comes up in a thousand-dollar blue suit and announces that he is entitled to a fuckin' conversation with the L.A.P.D liaison officer before anything is done their fuckin' building. And he's saying things like we got no probable cause. I go, 'What the fuck is this? We have an obvious homicide here. I think this guy should get back. But this Kraut speaks excellent fuckin' English and he seems to know a lot of law. And everyone at the scene becomes, you know, concerned. I mean, there's no point in pushing to start an investigation if it's going to invalidate due process, right? And this fuckin' guy has Stanford Law School written all over him. But anyway." She sighed.
"You called me," I said.
"Yeah."
I said, "Who is the man from ScwarzTech?"
"Shit," Rehn scowled at his notes. "Baumann. Hoffman. Something like that."
"You have his card? He must have given you his card."
"Yeah, he did. I gave it to Romano," I said. "Any other Germans there?"
"What are you kidding?" Ramirez laughed. “The place is swarming with them. Fuckin’ Disneyland up there.”
”I mean the crime scene.”
”So do I,” Ramirez said. “We can’t keep ‘em out. They say it’s their building, they’ve got a right to be there. Tonight’s the grand opening of the SchwarzTech Tower. They have a right to be there. On and on.”
I said, “Where’s the opening taking place?”
”One floor below the murder, on the 45th floor. They’re having one hell of a bash. There must be 800 people there. Movie stars, senators, congressmen, you name it. I hear Madonna is there, and Tom Cruise, Senator Drummond, and Senator Kennedy. Elton John. Senator Horton. Mayor Tomlinson’s there. District Attorney Weyler’s there. Hey, maybe your ex-wife is there, Jake. She still works for Weyler, doesn’t she?”
”Last I heard.”
Ramirez sighed. “Must be nice to fuck a lawyer, instead of getting fucked by them. Must make for an epic change.”
I didn’t want to talk about my ex-wife. “We don’t have a lot of contact anymore,” I said.
A little bell rang, then the elevator said, “Sie nahern sich threm stockwerk.”
Ramirez glanced at the glowing numbers above the door. “Can you believe that shit?”
”Sie nahem sich threm stockwerk,”the elevator repeated. “Bitte machines sie sich zum aussteigen bereit.”
”What’s it saying?”
”We’re almost at the floor.”
”Fuck,” Ramirez said. “If an elevator’s going to talk, it should be in English. This is still America.”
“Just barely,” Rehn said, staring out at the view.
“Sie Sind heir. Gehen Sie jest,” the elevator said.
The door opened. Ramirez was right: it was a hell of a party. The whole floor had been made into a replica fortress ballroom. Men in suits. Women in cocktail dresses. The band playing Glenn Miller's trademark swing music. Standing near the elevator door was a gray-haired suntanned man who looked vaguely familiar. He had the broad shoulders of an athlete. He stepped onto the elevator and turned to me.
“Ground floor, please.” I smelled whiskey.
A second, younger man in a suit instantly appeared by his side. “This elevator is going up, Senator.”
”What’s that?” The gray-haired man said, turning to his side.
”This elevator’s going up, sir.”
”Well, I want to go down! He was speaking with the careful, over-articulated speech of the drunk.
”Yessir. I know that sir,” the aide replied cheerfully. “Let’s take the next elevator, Senator.” He gripped the gray-haired man firmly by the elbow and led him off the elevator. The doors shut. The elevator continued up.
"Your tax dollars at work," Ramirez said. "Recognize him? Senator Jaxon Sterling. Nice to find him partying here, considering he's on the Senate Finance Committee, which sets all German import regulations. But like his pal Senator Kennedy, Sterling's one of the great pussy patrollers."
"Really?"
"They say he can drink pretty good, too."
"What was my first clue?"
"That's why he's got that kid with him. To keep him out of trouble."
The elevator stopped at the 46th floor. There was a soft electronic ping. "Gehen sie gest."
"Finally," Ramirez said. "Now maybe we can get to work."
The doors opened. We faced a solid wall of blue business suits, backs turned to us. there must've been twenty men jammed in the area just beyond the elevator. The air was filthy with cigarette smoke.
"Coming through, coming through," Ramirez said, pushing his way roughly past the men. I followed, Rehn behind me, silent and inconspicuous."
The 46th floor had been designed to house the CEOs of SchwarzTech Industries, and it was impressive. Standing in the carpeted reception area just beyond the elevators, I could see the entire floor---it was a gigantic open space. It was about 60 or 40 meters, half the size of a football field. Everything added to the sense of spaciousness and elegance. The ceilings were high and paneled in wood. The furnishings were all wood and fabric, black and gray, and the carpet was thick. The sound was muted and the lights were low, adding to the soft, rich quality. It looked more like a bank than a business office----the richest bank on Earth!
And it made you stop and look. I stood by the yellow crime scene tape, which blocked access to the floor itself, and got my bearings. Directly ahead was the large atrium, a kind of open bullpen for secretaries and lower-level people. There were desks in clusters, and trees to break up the space. In the center of the atrium stood a big model of the SchwarzTech Tower, and the complex of surrounding buildings under construction. A spotlight shone on the model, but the rest of the atrium was relatively dark, with nightlights.
Private offices for the executives were arranged around the perimeter of the atrium. The offices had glass walls facing the atrium, and glass walls on the outside walls as well, so that from where I was standing you could look straight out to the surrounding skyscrapers of Los Angeles.
It made you think the floor was floating in midair.
There were two glass-walled conference rooms, on the left and right. The room on the right was smaller, and there I saw the body of the girl, lying on a long black table. She was wearing a black dress. One leg dangled down toward the floor. I didn't see any blood. But I was pretty far away from her, maybe sixty meters. It was hard to see much detail.
I heard the crackle of police radios, and I heard Ramirez saying, "Here's your liaison, gentlemen. Now maybe we can get started on our investigation. Jake?"
I turned to the German men by the elevator. I didn't know which I should talk to; there was an awkward moment until one of them stepped forward. He was about thirty-five and wore an expensive suit. The man shook my hand and slightly nodded his head. I nodded back. Then he spoke.
"Guten tag. Herr Klink, Herr Hochstetter, Herr Baumann."
A formal introduction, although perfunctory.
No wasted time. His name was Baumann. He already knew my name. "Wie geht es Ihnen? Schön, Sie kennenzulernen." How do you do? Glad to meet you. The usual.
"Hier ist ihr essen. Bitte." He gave me his business card. He was quick and brusque with his movements.
"Vielen dank." I accepted his card with both hands, which wasn't necessary, but taking Rehn's advice, I wanted to do the most formal thing. Next, I gave him my card. The ritual required us both to look at each other's cards and to make some minor comment, or to ask a question like "Is this your office telephone number?"
Baumann took my card with one hand and said, "Is this your home phone, Detective?" I was surprised. He spoke the kind of unaccented English you can only learn by living here for a long time, starting when you're young. He must've gone to school here. One of the thousands of Germans who studied in America in the '70s. When they were sending 150,000 students a year to America, to learn about our country. And we were sending 200 American students a year to Germany.
"That's my number at the bottom, yes," I said.
Baumann slipped my card into his shirt pocket. I started to make a polite comment about his card, but he interrupted me.
"Look, Detective. I think we can dispense with the formalities. The only reason there's a problem here tonight is that your colleague is unreasonable."
"My colleague?"
Baumann gave a head jerk. "That fat bitch. Ramirez. Her demands are unreasonable, and we disapprove of her intention to carry out an investigation tonight."
I said, "Why is that, Mr. Baumann?"
"You have no probable cause to conduct one."
"What makes you say that?"
Baumann snorted. "I would think it's obvious, even to the likes of you."
I stayed cool. Five years as a detective, and then a year in the press section had taught me to stay cool.
I said, "No, sir, I'm afraid it's not obvious."
He looked at me disdainfully. "The fact is, Lieutenant, you have no reason to connect this girl's death to the party we're holding downstairs."
"It looks like she's wearing a party dress...."
He interrupted me rudely. "I would guess that you'll discover that she died of an accidental drug overdose. Therefore her death has nothing to do with our party. Wouldn't you agree?"
I took a deep breath. "No, sir, I would not agree. Not without an investigation." I took another breath. "Mr. Baumann, I understand your concerns, but..."
"You do not," Baumann said. "I demand that you appreciate the position of the SchwarzTech company tonight. This is a very significant evening for us, a very public evening. We're naturally upset by the prospect that our function might be marred by unfounded allegations of a woman's death, especially this, a woman of no importance...."
"A woman of no importance?"
Baumann made a dismissing wave. He seemed to be tired of talking to me. "It's obvious, just to look at her. She's no better than a common whore. I'm shocked that she's even in this building at all. For this reason, I strongly protest the intention of Detective Ramirez to interrogate the guests at the reception downstairs. That's entirely unreasonable. We have many senators, congressmen, and officials of Los Angeles among our guests. Surely you agree that such prominent people would find it awkward..."
I said, "Just a minute! Did Detective Ramirez tell you she was going to question everyone at the reception?"
"That is what she said to me, yes."
Now, at last, I began to understand why I'd been called. Ramirez didn't like the Germans and she had threatened to spoil their evening. Of course, it was never going to happen. There was no way Ramirez was going to interrogate United States senators, let alone the district attorney or the mayor. Not if she expected to come to work tomorrow. But the Germans annoyed her, and Ramirez had decided to annoy them back.
I said to Baumann, "We can set up a registration desk downstairs, and your guests can sign out as they leave."
"I am afraid that will be difficult," Baumann began, "because surely you will admit...."
"Mr. Baumann, that's what we're going to do."
"But what you ask is extremely difficult..."
"Mr. Baumann..."
"You see, for us this is going to cause...."
"Mr. Bauman, I'm sorry. I've just told you what police procedure is going to be."
He stiffened. There was a pause. He wiped some sweat from his upper lip and said, "I'm disappointed, Lieutenant, not to have greater cooperation from you."
"Cooperation?!" Now I was pissed off. "Mr. Baumann, you've got a dead woman in there, and it's our job to investigate what happened to her."
"I insist that you acknowledge our special circumstances...."
"Aw, Christ, what is this?"
Looking over my shoulder, I saw a short, bookish German man twenty meters beyond the yellow tape. He was taking pictures of the crime scene. The camera he held was so small it was nearly concealed in the palm of his hand. But he wasn't concealing the fact that he had crossed the tape barrier to take his pictures. As I watched, he moved slowly back toward us, raising his hands for a moment to snap a picture, then blinking behind his wire-frame spectacles as he selected his next shot. He was deliberate in his movements.
Ramirez went up to the tape and said, "For Christ's sake, get out of there. This is a crime scene. You can't take pictures in there."
The man didn't respond. He kept moving backward. Ramirez turned away. "Who is this guy?"
Baumann said, "This is our employee, Mr. Schneider. He works for SchwarzTech Security."
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The Germans had one of their employees wandering around inside the yellow tapes containing the crime scene. The nerve of the sons-of-bitches!
"Get him out of there," I said.
"He is taking pictures."
"He can't do that."
Baumann said, "But this is for our corporate use."
I said, "I don't give a damn, Mr. Baumann. He can't be inside the yellow tape, and he can't take pictures. Get him out of there. And I want his film, please."
"As you wish," Baumann said something quickly in German.
I turned, just in time to see Schneider slip under the yellow tape, and disappear among the blue-suited men clustered by the elevator. Behind their heads, I saw the elevator doors open and close.
Son of a bitch. I was getting angry. "Mr. Baumann, you are now obstructing an official police investigation."
Baumann said calmly, "Please try to understand our position, Detective Reynolds. Of course, we have complete confidence in the Los Angeles Police Department, but we must be able to undertake a private inquiry of our own, and for that, we must have...."
A private inquiry of their own?! The bastard! I suddenly couldn't speak. I clenched my teeth, seeing red. I was furious. I wanted to arrest Baumann. I wanted to sprint him around, shove him against the wall, and snap the cuffs around his fucking wrists and...
"Perhaps I can be of assistance, Lieutenant," a voice said behind me.
It turned. It was Lloyd Rehn, smiling cheerfully.
I stepped aside.
Rehn faced Baumann, bowed slightly, and presented his card. He spoke rapidly: "Entschuldigen Sie bitte die plötzliche Störung, aber darf ich mich vorstellen. Ich heiße Lloyd Rehn. Bitte nehmen sie meine visitenkarte. Ich freue mich auf eine gute zusammenarbeit."
"Lloyd Rehn?" Baumann said. "The Lloyd Rehn? Ich bin von Ihnen berührt und freue mich auf unsere Zusammenarbeit. Ich bin Ishiguro, angenehm, Sie kennenzulernen."
He said he was honored to meet him.
"Das ist meine Visitenkarte. Bitte." A graceful thank you.
But once the formalities were completed, the conversation went so quickly that I caught only an occasional word. I was obliged to appear, interested, watching and nodding, when in fact I had no idea what they were talking about. Once I heard Rehn refer to me as schutzling, which I knew meant his protege or apprentice. Several times, he looked at me severely and shook his head like a regretful father. It seemed he was apologizing on my behalf. I also heard him refer to Rehn as "bestrafung," a disagreeable man.
But these apologies had their effect. Baumann calmed down, dropping his shoulders. He began to relax. He even smiled. Finally, he said, "Then you will not check the identification of our guests?"
"Of course not," Rehn said. "Your esteemed guests are free to come and go as they wish."
I started to protest. Rehn shot me a look.
"Identification is unnecessary," Rehn continued, speaking formally, "because I am sure that no guest of the SchwarzTech Corporation could ever be involved in such an unfortunate incident."
"Fuckin' A," Ramirez said under her breath.
Baumann was beaming. But I was furious. Rehn had contradicted me. He had made me look like a fool. And on top of that, he wasn't following police procedure---we could all be in trouble for that later on. Angrily I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked away.
"I am grateful for your delicate handling of this situation, Captain Rehn," Baumann said.
"I have done nothing at all," Rehn replied, making another formal nod of his head. "But I hope you will now agree it is appropriate to clear the floor, so the police can start their investigation."
Baumann blinked. "Clear the floor?!"
"Yes," Rehn said, taking out a notebook. "And please assist me to know the names of the gentlemen standing behind you, as you ask them to leave."
"I am sorry?"
"The names of the gentlemen behind you, please."
"What in God's name for?"
Rehn's face darkened and he barked a short phrase in German. I didn't catch the words, but Baumann turned bright red!
