Grave Intent by Alexander Hartung Page B

his old trick still worked; otherwise he was going to lose valuable time.
    He knocked three times, waited a moment, and then knocked twice. On the other side, a key turned and a chain pulled back. A clicking sound.
    A little man with unusually thick glasses opened the door. His unwashed dark hair gleamed in the corridor’s fluorescent light. His protruding teeth were more rodent-like than human. A tattered T-shirt hung off his scrawny shoulders.
    Chandu landed a straight punch to the nose. Man and glasses flew, arcing backward, into the apartment.
    “You should change your secret knock, Rat.” Chandu stepped in and shut the door behind him.
    He had three minutes—max. He’d need the rest of the time to clear out of the hood. So as not to give away his sense of urgency, he sat on an old armchair, crossing his legs. Never be in a hurry; never show weakness.
    Tim’s apartment hadn’t changed in the last few years. Dark curtains kept the light out, though a small hole in the fabric gave him a sneaky glance onto the street. The kitchen consisted of little more than a sink with a dripping faucet and a microwave oven. Enough for Tim to warm up his dearly beloved ready-made tortellini, which had to be the only food in the droning fridge next to his folding camp table. There was no TV, much less flowers, photos on the walls, or any sort of decoration at all. At odds with the scant, rickety furnishings, a high-tech coffee machine stood on a stool next to the broken-down bed in the corner. Tim’s second love—caffeine.
    “You broke my nose,” Tim shouted, pulling himself up. He felt around for his glasses with one hand while the other found his bloodied face.
    “That beak of yours always was crooked. Can’t be any worse than before.”
    “You know I hate that nickname.”
    “Your problem.”
    “My name is Tim.”
    “Can I get you anything else? Maybe some dessert?”
    “What do you want? I don’t have any debts.”
    “If you did, I wouldn’t be treating you so nicely right now.”
    Tim picked up his glasses off the floor. The bridge was busted, the glasses in two pieces. He tried setting one piece on an ear while holding his nose with the other hand.
    “You broke my glasses,” he whined.
    Chandu sighed. “Sometimes I ask myself how you survive in a hood like this.”
    “Why’d you have to hit me?”
    “For old time’s sake.”
    Tim stared at the blood streaming down his hand and forearm and pressed his lips together. He looked like he might start bawling.
    “I don’t keep any stuff at my place and no money here. If you want to rob someone, try the seventh floor. That pimp, he—”
    “Spare me your bitching. Give me some info, and I’ll be on my way.”
    “What’s in it for me?” Tim’s expression switched from sniveling to all business. He straightened up, his broken nose apparently forgotten.
    “I won’t rip your ears off, that’s what.”
    “I’m not doing jobs anymore,” Tim began. “So it’s hardly like I’d—”
    “I’m not here to chat.” Chandu rose from the chair. He positioned himself before the little man, whose head only reached Chandu’s chest. The threat did the trick. Tim’s gaze found the floor.
    Chandu pulled the police sketch from his pocket and thrust it at him. “I want to know who this is.”
    Tim squinted with one eye and stared at the picture with the other. “Why come to me?”
    “You know every cockroach in Berlin. If you don’t disappoint me, I’ll send you a teddy bear for Christmas. Maybe stuff it with a few bucks—if the info’s any good.”
    Tim grumbled to himself.
    “I’ll take that as a yes.” Chandu lifted a threatening finger. “I’m expecting results within the next thirty-six hours. That’ll spare you another visit. You know how to reach me.”
    Chandu left the apartment without turning around. He’d put the Rat on the scent. Hardly anyone in Berlin knew its seedy underbelly better. If the man in the picture was involved in any dirty