The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe

Police without taking a breath.”
    â€œSo much the better. And he did the right thing. I’ll be grateful until the day I die.”
    â€œI don’t get you, Pieter. You rarely get the chance to investigate a murder, and all you can say is ‘so much the better’?”
    â€œThe German was still alive when we started the investigation. And who says he was murdered? The man was drunk as a skunk. It was snowing; the streets were icy. Maybe he just slipped,” Van In responded matter-of-factly. “Anyway, I’ve got more than enough on my plate.”
    â€œThere you go again. The perpetual underdog.”
    He ignored the sarcasm and popped the last chunk of lamb into his mouth.
    â€œI’ve heard they appointed a certain commissioner Croos to head up the investigation,” she continued nonchalantly.
    The maneuver had the desired effect. Van In almost choked.
    â€œWilfried Croos?”
    â€œDo you know him?”
    â€œYou bet I know him.” Van In reacted like a schoolgirl to a bee-sting. “Everyone knows the dumbest commissioner in the Northern Hemisphere.”
    â€œMmm, I wouldn’t call him dumb,” said Hannelore, straightening her face and hiding it behind a glassful of wine. “Macho and arrogant, perhaps, but dumb?”
    â€œSo you find the asshole attractive,” Van In snorted. “Do you know what they call him? ‘Bull’s-Eye’ Croos. Even his mother-in-law isn’t safe.”
    Hannelore tried not to laugh. “I know you too well, Pieter Van In. Let’s cut the crap.”
    Van In grinned like a kid watching the postman hit the saddle of his bike the wrong way.
    â€œOrder the baklava,” he said provocatively. “And spill the beans.”
    â€œThe public prosecutor’s insisting on an in-depth investigation. Turns out Herr Fiedle was a prominent businessman.”
    â€œThere we go again,” Van In cursed. “The Kraut gets preferential treatment. I wonder if the public prosecutor would be putting on the same amount of pressure if Fiedle had been Moroccan. You can tell him from me that I’m not going to lose any sleep over a dead German.”
    â€œPieter, behave yourself,” she chided.
    A couple of diners stared at them indignantly from another table. Niko, the Greek, whose Dutch was excellent, stood behind the bar and grinned. The SS had taken his father hostage during the Second World War and executed him in cold blood. He didn’t give a shit what the other customers thought about Pieter’s remarks.
    â€œDidn’t you know that Germany’s most famous son was actually an Austrian?” said Van In at the top of his voice, intentionally.
    The couple at the table beside them laughed heartily, although they had appeared as indignant as the rest moments earlier.
    â€œHave you heard the one about the two Germans ordering a couple of martinis on a terrace in London after the war?”
    Van In was on a roll now. Half the restaurant pricked up its ears.
    â€œTo avoid drawing attention to themselves, they order in English. The waiter nods and asks: ‘Dry?’ ‘Nein: zwei,’ the Krauts answer in unison.”
    While Hannelore thought the punch line was actually quite funny, she still did her best not to laugh. “That’s no way to conduct a conversation,” she said, unamused.
    â€œCome on, Hanne. It was a joke!”
    â€œThat’s what you always say, Pieter Van In.”
    Niko appeared with a generous portion of baklava. “On the house,” he smiled.
    â€œFiedle worked for Kindermann,” Hannelore began after they each took a bite, “one of the biggest tour operators in Europe. He was staying at the Duc de Bourgogne, a hotel on Huidenvetters Square. Croos had his men go through Fiedle’s suite, and they found some unusual photos.”
    She leaned forward and fished a gray-brown envelope marked “Ministry of Justice” out of