Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(87)

“Good morning.” He looked up and gave his son a friendly nod. “Coffee for you too?”

“Good morning. Yes, please.” Bodenstein sat down. His father stood up, got a cup from the cupboard and poured his coffee. His father would never dream of asking him why he’d showed up in the middle of the night and slept in one of the guest rooms. His parents had always been frugal with words as well. And Oliver felt no desire to discuss his marital problems at a quarter to seven in the morning. So father and son drank their coffee in silent harmony. For as far back as he could remember they had always used the Meissen porcelain for all of their meals—out of thrift. The china service was a family heirloom, and there was no reason not to use it or to acquire a different set of dishes. It would have been of inestimable value except that almost every piece had been repaired multiple times over the years. Even Oliver’s coffee cup had a crack and the handle had been glued back on. Finally he got up, put his cup in the sink, and said thank you. His father nodded and turned again to his newspaper, which he had politely put aside.

“Take a house key with you,” he said in passing. “There’s one on a red key ring hanging on the board next to the door.”

“Thanks.” Oliver took the key. “See you later.”

His father obviously assumed that he would be back in the evening.

* * *



Headlights and flashing blue lights brightened the dark November morning as Bodenstein turned in at the forest parking lot directly beyond the Nepomuk curve. He parked his car next to the patrol car and set off down the path. The autumn smell of damp earth and decaying foliage penetrated his nostrils, and he recalled fragments of a Rainer Maria Rilke poem, one of the few he knew by heart. Who is now alone will remain so for long, wandering restlessly among the avenues when the leaves are turning. The feeling of loneliness pounced on him like a mad dog, and he had to force himself with all his might to go on, to do his job, although he would have preferred to creep away somewhere.

“Morning,” he said to Christian Kr?ger, leader of the evidence team, who was unpacking his camera. “What’s going on up there?”

“The news must have spread over the police band,” said Kr?ger, shaking his head with a grin. “They’re like little kids!”

“News of what?” Bodenstein still didn’t understand and wondered at the crowd of people. In spite of the early hour, five police vehicles stood in the gravel parking lot, and a sixth was just turning in from the road. Bodenstein could already hear the murmur of voices from a long way off. All the officers, uniformed or in the white overalls of evidence techs, were talking excitedly.

“It’s a Ferrari,” one of the highway cops told him, eyes shining. “A 599 GTB Fiorano. I’ve only seen one once, at the International Auto Show in Frankfurt.”

Bodenstein made his way through the crowd. There it was. At the very end of the lot gleamed a bright red Ferrari in the floodlight, reverently surrounded by about fifteen police officers, who were more interested in the cubic capacity of the engine, horsepower, tires, rims, torque, and acceleration of the noble sports car than in the dead man in the driver’s seat. A hose stretched from one of the arm-thick, chromed exhaust pipes to the window, which had been carefully sealed on the inside with silver duct tape.

“That thing costs two hundred and fifty thousand euros,” one of the younger officers said. “Crazy, don’t you think?”

“The value probably dropped a bit overnight,” said Bodenstein dryly.

“How so?”

“Maybe you didn’t notice, but there’s a dead body in the driver’s seat.” Bodenstein wasn’t one of those men who flipped out at the sight of a red sports car. “Did anyone run the plates?”

“Yes,” said a young female officer in the back of the crowd, who obviously didn’t share the enthusiasm of her male colleagues. “The vehicle is registered to a bank in Frankfurt.”

“Hmm.” Bodenstein watched while Kr?ger shot his photos. Then he and a colleague opened the driver’s side door.

“The economic crisis claims its first victim,” somebody joked. Then a new discussion started about how much money you’d have to earn per month to be able to pay the lease on a Ferrari Fiorano. Bodenstein saw another patrol car roll into the parking lot, followed by two plainclothes cars.

“Cordon off a large area of the parking lot,” he instructed the young female officer. “And please get rid of anyone who doesn’t have a reason for being here.”

The young woman nodded and energetically strode off to carry out her assignment. A few minutes later the parking lot was sealed off. Bodenstein squatted down next to the open driver’s side door and examined the body. The blond man was still young, probably in his mid-thirties. He wore a suit and tie and had an expensive watch on his wrist. His head was tilted to one side, and at first glance he looked like he was asleep.

“Morning, Bodenstein,” said a familiar voice behind him, prompting him to look back over his shoulder.

“Hello, Dr. Kirchhoff.” He got up and nodded to the medical examiner.

“Isn’t Pia here?”

“No, today I’m on my own,” Bodenstein replied. “Do you miss her?”

Dr. Kirchhoff put on a weary smile but didn’t comment. For once he didn’t seem in the mood for sarcastic remarks. Behind the lenses of his glasses his eyes were red-rimmed. He looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night either. Bodenstein made room for the ME and went over to Kr?ger, who was inspecting the briefcase that they’d found lying on the passenger seat of the Ferrari.