Warm externally although his head and hands were still cold, his cheeks were still stinging from his careless shaving. Electricity provided a weak overhead light in the dining area, too dim to disturb Joachim as he lay on the sofa, legs dangling over the edge. Quietly and carefully, Berg opened the hatch of the stove, raked the coals, and adjusted the draft. Moments later, the radiator sputtered to life, bringing up a dull, wet heat that dissipated too quickly. With the stove tended, he started a pot of coffee. It took a few minutes before the water boiled and percolated through the grounds, but as soon as it did, the rich aroma filled the small room. Berg leaned over and breathed deeply, allowing the warm air to infuse his nose and lungs.

He took his steaming mug and peered out of the window, his eyes surveying a deserted street in a city still shrouded in darkness. There wasn't even a promise of light; the skies were overcast without a star in sight. He sipped the hot coffee until his mouth burned. His second cup was for taste rather than heat. He had just finished his breakfast of a roll, butter, and marmalade when he heard Joachim stirring. He glanced up to see his son nearly fall off the couch before his feet caught up with his body. He rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty. Go back to sleep."

"Why are you up so early, Papa?"

"It was a busy night. I think it's going to be a busier day."

Again Joachim rubbed his eyes as he tottered to the dining table. "I heard it was awful . . . the rioting. Mama was worried."

"I called her. She knew I was safe."

"Still, she worries. She said-" He stopped himself.

Berg offered Joachim a cup of coffee with milk and sugar. "What did she say?"

Joachim took the liquid and sipped greedily. "Thank you."

"What did your mother say?" Berg asked again.

"Nothing important. She just gets upset when the city is in a mess and she doesn't know what you're doing."

"The city is always in a mess."

"Last night was exceptional."

"That is true," Berg concurred. "And today we all suffer the aftermath of that hyena's actions."

"It isn't Hitler's fault that some of his followers are goons."

"The leader sets the tone," Berg said. "The Austrian is a thug and he attracts thugs. You should have seen what his Brownshirts did to Gartnerplatz. It was beyond shameful!"

The boy nodded solemnly. "What were you doing there?"

"Protecting our citizens . . . all of our citizens, and that includes the poor, the Gypsies, and the Jews." Joachim made a face that Berg ignored. "I'm sure they will be talking about the riots in school. Don't let those crazy-headed teachers of yours convince you that it wasn't Hitler's fault. It was!"

"I am glad you're fine, that's all." Joachim looked down. "What about the two new murders, Papa? I heard the little girl was around Monika's age."

Berg winced. "We're making progress. We might have made more progress if the Nazis hadn't torn up the city." He poured himself the last dregs of coffee. Tossing the grounds in the garbage bin, he rinsed the pot and made a fresh brew, the new aroma giving Britta a reason to wake up. "I promise we'll get him."

"Get who?"

His wife's voice. She wore a faded pink robe with old slippers on her feet, her big toe poking through the leather of the fleece. Her strawberry-blond hair was tousled and tangled. She raked the cowlicks down with her fingers. Berg poured her a fresh cup of coffee.

"The monster," Berg answered.

"Which monster? Hitler or the murderer?"

"I was referring to the murderer," Berg said. "I cannot single-handedly get rid of the Austrian scourge. We need to be unified for that."

"Then you might as well just hand him the chancellorship. We can't even unify our own city, let alone the country. We are not a people! We are a series of nomadic tribes constantly at war with one another."

"It's not like that, Mama," Joachim spoke up. "Look . . . I know you don't like Herr Hitler, but he knows the problems that face us. And he's working hard to bring the German race back to glory-"

"Oh, stop, Joachim! You're too intelligent for that nonsense." Britta took out a blue-and-white Watto cigarette tin, lit up two smokes, and gave one to her husband. "Besides, it's too early in the morning for propaganda."

"Thank you." Berg inhaled the smoke and looked at his wife. "Since when have you become such a detractor of the Austrian?"

"I'm sick of his tactics. If the ass can't control his thugs, how can he control a nation?"

"Sometimes you need to get the people's attention first," Joachim blurted out.

"Who have you been talking to?" Britta rolled her eyes. "Don't bother answering that-I know. Uwe Kanstinger, right?"

"I'm old enough to form my own opinions, Mother," Joachim huffed.

"If it's not Uwe, it's his older sister, right?" Britta sniffed. "Don't deny it. I've seen you two talking."

"I talk to lots of people." Joachim snorted.

To Berg, Britta said, "That girl's crazy. She's in love with the Austrian. She has his picture on the wall."

"Then she's not only crazy, she's an idiot," Berg said.

"Now who is being intolerant!" Joachim protested. "How would you know without talking to her? She happens to be very intelligent."

"She's a whore, Joachim."

The boy slammed his coffee cup onto the table. "That's not true! You shouldn't say things like that! It's wrong, Mother! You're wrong!" He got up and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door and waking his sister. Monika, still half-asleep, moaned in protest. Joachim snapped at his sister. Then the two of them began to fight.

"Quiet!" Berg shouted. "You'll wake the neighbors."

The arguing quieted to hostile whispers, eventually stopping altogether.

"Now I finally know what I suspected." Britta bit her lip. "That disgusting little bitch!"

"He's banging her?"

"You heard how he defends her! What do you think?"

"She's what . . . nineteen . . . twenty? Is she crazy? He's just a boy!"

"Obviously not to her." Britta stared at her husband. "And since when has a difference in age prevented a man and a woman from banging?"

Berg didn't answer. Not that it mattered anymore. It was over, as permanent as only death can be.

"You have to talk to him," Britta said. "He needs to know how to prevent an accident. Thank God the boy was baptized Lutheran and can do something about it."

"I don't believe we're having this conversation." Berg shook his head in dismay. "He just turned fifteen."

"Maybe if you spent more time at home and less time on the streets, you'd be aware of what's happening in the lives of your children!" She turned her back to him and marched into the bedroom, the slammed door signaling that the discussion was over.

Left alone at the table, Berg again peered out the window, noting that the sky had lightened from charcoal to pewter.

A new day had dawned.

THE MORNING PAPERS-all except the Volkischer Beobachter-had printed the requisite host of columns and opinions, everything from finger-pointing, blaming, and recriminations to hand-wringing, self-flagellation, and a call for self-examination. How did this happen? Why did this happen? Hadn't the city learned a lesson from the first putsch (that answer was self-evident), and what was to be done with Hitler now?

This time the Austrian had been wilier, absenting himself from the public as soon as the rioting and mayhem broke out. He had learned from the mistakes of '23 and mastered the art of delegation, transmitting his wishes to subordinates who carried out the orders. Thus, the blame rested not on the bastard's shoulders directly, but on his minions, on the thugs and hooligans who Hitler claimed had "misinterpreted" his words. As the arrested and detained goons were paraded through the jails and holding pens on their way to the courthouses, the young Brownshirts remained defiant, laughing and joking, each one eagerly awaiting his turn to fart in the face of authority.

Any newspaper space not dedicated to the riots was taken up by the murders of Edith Mayrhofer and her little daughter, Johanna. The Volkischer Beobachter ran screaming headlines on the front page, hoping that a new phoenix of protests would rise from the ashes of yesterday's riots. Normally Berg wouldn't be interested in reading the trashy tabloid, but this morning he was looking at the front page simply because the paper had been foisted on him by the Kommissar.

Volker looked tired and dyspeptic. Although impeccably dressed, he was disheveled, his face needing one more go with a razor. He paced back and forth as he ranted.

"The paper has a lot of public support for its position."

"That's very bad."

"We can't control Hitler right now."

"That's very bad as well-"

"But what we can do is stop giving him ammunition to rile up his audience. I want a head on a plate and I want it now! Arrest someone!"

"We tried that with Anton Gross, Herr Kommissar. It didn't work. We need to get the real culprit."

"So do it!"

"I'm trying. I keep running into distractions. And now Muller and Storf are out of commission."

"So pull in Kalmer and Messersmit."

"If I need to do so, I will. Sir, there are things I could do that might help the case . . . if I were allowed to do them."

Volker stopped pacing. "Tell me!"

"I'm trying to verify information-"

"Berg, what do you have?" Volker fired at him.

"Not much individually, sir, but when these little facts are strung together, patterns start to emerge."

Finally, Volker sat at his desk and clasped his hands in his lap. "Go on."

Berg remained standing because he hadn't been invited to sit down. "So far I'm tracking down a calling card given to Anna Gross. The name on the card is Robert Schick. Anna's chambermaid believed that this man had visited Anna Gross several times when her husband wasn't around. She also thinks that Schick is a Russian Kommunist. So I started looking for him.

"A day later Marlena Druer was found dead. Looking through her belongings, we found a letter signed by a man named Robert. We went to the address written on the stationery. A Robert Schick had once lived there, but no one was in the unit when we came."

"He had moved out."

"Yes. And he left no forwarding address."

"Continue."

"As we were leaving, an American journalist living across from Schick poked his head out of his room. He told us that the apartment we thought belonged to Schick was rented to a so-called English aristocrat named Robert Hurlbutt. The building wasn't a tenement, sir, but no real aristocrat would ever live in such a flat."

"Obviously, we have a Hochstapler."

"Yes, but not completely. Ulrich was looking up citizens' records before the riots broke out. He found a promising family. The man was an antique dealer by trade but was also a minor attache for the Russian diplomatic corps. His name was Dirk Schick, and he was married to a woman named Della Weiss who was born in Boston. They had one son named Rupert-"

"Aha!" Volker interrupted. "This is the man. Bring him in!"

Berg stared at him in disbelief. "I would bring him in, Kommissar, if I could find him. It would help if I could sift through the records without being pestered by civil servants. It might give me a clue to his current place of residence."

"They wouldn't be civil servants if they didn't pester you. Sit down, Berg. You're making me strain my neck to look up."

Berg sat.

Volker said, "How is Rupert Schick tied in to the Mayrhofer mother and daughter?"

Here Berg paused. "I don't know if he is. I haven't spoken to the family yet." He checked his pocket watch. It was close to eight. "I have several things I need to investigate. I'd like to go over to the crime scene and look for any leftover evidence before the ground is completely destroyed by pedestrians. Afterward, I could go over and talk to the victim's sister. It would be nice to find out if there is a connection between her and Schick."

"All right." Volker started patting his coat pocket. "Look over the crime scene, then speak with the family. I want you to find out as much as you can about the victims, especially the mother. I want to know the woman's friends, her enemies, her habits . . . everything about her. See if you can find a connection between the latest murders and the earlier ones."

"I will do my best."

"I don't care about your best! I want results! These latest ones may be chance murders, you know, not at all connected to the earlier ones. The victims were murdered in daylight and were slain by bludgeoning, not by strangulation. It doesn't appear that Frau Mayrhofer was a woman of means, and this time the fiend attacked and killed a child."

"Regina Gottlieb wasn't a woman of means, either."

"But she was dressed in finery. Did you see Edith's frock?"

"Yes, sir."

"Rather plain in comparison."

"The sensible brown wool dress."

"Exactly my point, Axel. It was hardly silk and lace."

"One of her boots was gone. A missing article of apparel is consistent with the other murdered victims."

"Yes, but some other lunatic could be copying the first murders."

"How would he know about the missing shoe?"