"The same mystery man involved with the others?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no." Berg worried that he was being too obvious, too ready to drop his first line of investigation. "I would like to show her friends the sketch I made from Gerhart Leit's description-the man who was with Anna Gross. I'm still not ready to give up on Rupert Schick. Still, if he turns out to be a dead end, I must have another plan of inquiry."

"I agree," Volker said. "And if you find a different mystery man in Edith's life, one who appears to be a good suspect, then you will assume that Edith's and her daughter's deaths were not related to the others."

"Possibly." Berg managed a smile. "Right now, I'm not sure what to think. That's why I'm a good Inspektor. I take in all the facts before I come to a conclusion."

Volker's thin lips moved upward, the expression halfway between a smile and a sneer. "I don't know if that's entirely true, Inspektor. I seem to recall your making many wild assertions in the past."

"Assertions possibly, but not conclusions."

"I believe you are nitpicking, Axel."

This time Berg's smile was real. "But, sir, if you don't nitpick, how do you get rid of lice?"

FORTY-NINE.

As he boarded the Triebwagen, Berg's head was spinning with newfound suppositions and what-ifs, backed up so far by nothing but zeal and verve. The short encounter with Volker had left him reeling. He knew he had to go through Records and Registration to give his theories some credence, but in order to do that, he needed a signed request from Volker.

That would be impossible, considering whom he was investigating.

He'd have to do it surreptitiously. He was now alone, without recourse, because aside from Georg, whom could he trust?

As the streetcar pulled away, he realized he was still standing. He grabbed a strap, deciding he was too nervous to sit. His mind was running lap after lap of futility: a circular, endless conundrum.

There was always Ilse Reinholt. Berg knew that the redheaded clerk could be bribed, although this time it would take a lot more than a lunch at a beer hall to get what he needed. He still had almost all the stolen money from Marlena Druer's strongbox, not to mention the bills that Gottlieb had shoved into his hands before he left. What better use of pilfered lucre than to solve murders?

He checked his watch.

Records had closed hours ago. He would go tomorrow morning. . . .

Someone jostled him, bumping him hard on the shoulder. Berg spun around only to face a group of seated passengers with disinterested eyes.

Was he imagining things?

Easy, Axel, easy. Take a deep breath.

He knew he shouldn't go home, that he should be spying on Rodion. It was monstrous to leave him running loose in the city. But logistically, how could he do that? Should he walk ten paces behind him, waiting for him to go in or out of a theater or restaurant? Was he to prowl around Soviet Munich, where surely he would stand out as a foreigner? Must he keep an all-night vigil at the man's apartment? Just a half-hour ago, he had been inspired by his vivid play of ideas. In the reality of afterthought, he wasn't so sure of himself. He had too few facts embellished by much too much speculation.

Abruptly the streetcar stopped and Berg lurched forward.

He was only a man-a simple, frail human being who needed basic things: food, water, sleep . . . love. His body ached with pangs of hunger and loneliness. He needed to go home and nourish himself physically and emotionally. He needed to kiss his wife's forehead and hug his children. He needed to rid himself of thoughts of blood and lust and murder because something inside his brain kept reminding him that he also had played God and snuffed out life. Had he endured the same upbringing as Rodion, he might have become a madman as well.

So immersed was he in his own waking nightmare, he almost missed his stop. He jumped out of the car just as it was pulling away from the stop, the conductor's scolding voice ringing in his ears.

Calm down, Berg. Breathe slowly.

Cutting through the chilly, dark veil of a foggy evening, he walked the several blocks to his apartment. It had been an exhausting day: Mental gymnastics were often more tiring than physical labor. The streets were forlorn except for a single motorcar parked across from his building.

He opened the door to the foyer, collected the mail from his box, then slowly trudged up four flights in a stairwell made warm by dinnertime cooking. The welcome aroma of food wafted into his nostrils, making his stomach growl. He suddenly realized that he had barely eaten all day. Even during lunch with Ilse, he had eaten very little. His fatigue was undoubtedly brought on by his hunger. He was not simply hungry; he was famished.

Down the hall to his apartment.

Still plagued by his guilt over Margot's death, he scarcely noticed that his front door was unlocked. That wasn't really unusual. They knew all their neighbors. Doors were often left open, especially at suppertime . . . someone always borrowing something-an onion or a turnip or a teaspoon of salt. Delicious smells came from inside. Britta was a fantastic cook.

It wasn't until he was inside that he noticed something was very wrong. His wife and children sitting on the edge of the couch, terrified looks on their faces. Britta in the middle, hugging Monika and Joachim with tears escaping from her eyes.

Berg looked up from his family.

Behind them stood the man who had occupied his every thought for the past hour. Images raced through his brain like a child's animated flip book. Taken singly, the pages held static drawings. But when the edges were flipped quickly, a scene was played out.

He was holding two guns, one in each hand: a Luger P.08 and a Mauser C96.

"Hello, Inspektor."

"Kommandant . . ." he whispered.

"Come in and close the door. You don't want to catch a draft."

Berg did as he was told. Then he took a step forward, but stopped as soon as he heard the hammer draw back and the pin click.

The Mauser was pressed against his son's temple. He was as clever as he was evil. A son was what a man treasured most in his life. The Kommandant had already killed a helpless little girl; certainly an older boy wouldn't trouble him.

"Do not move unless I tell you to do so."

"Yes, sir," Berg answered.

"Ah, a good policeman you are." Stefan Roddewig waved the gun in the air. "Take a seat, why don't you."

Berg moved toward the couch.

"No . . . not there."

Berg stopped.

"In your chair, Inspektor. Across from your wife, your son, and your daughter. That way I can see you . . . face-to-face."

Berg sat on his chair.

"Put your hands in your lap so I can see them."

Berg complied.

"I received a visitor today," Roddewig said. "A fine citizen of Munich who was very perturbed. It seems you've upset his mother by poking into private matters."

Berg didn't say anything.

"Old family matters."

Berg remained silent.

"You do know who I'm talking about."

Berg was still quiet.

"Answer me!" Roddewig shot the ceiling with the Luger, and plaster rained down. Monika let go with a piercing scream, but Britta wisely clamped her hand over her daughter's mouth. "The next time I shoot, it will be the lad. I don't like to be ignored."

"I apologize for my impudence, Herr Kommandant." Berg's voice was surprisingly strong. A quick glance at his family to make sure they were still whole. They were suffused with dread but otherwise all right. He focused his eyes on the Mauser. Roddewig's hand was sure and steady. "I believe you are referring to Rolf Schoennacht. I certainly didn't mean to upset him or anyone else, especially you."

"Oh, is that so?" The Kommandant appeared calm and in control. Only a slight tic in his eye gave any hint of a crack in the steel demeanor. "Then you have failed miserably."

"Again I apologize."

Roddewig exhaled angrily. "If the problem had only been that idiot Rolf, we could have handled this in office. Just you and me, Berg, and that would have been that. But you got his mother involved!"

Rolf wasn't the idiot. I was an idiot. Of course, Hannah would tell her son about the visit.

"What were you thinking?"

What had I been thinking? But then Berg realized something. How could Hannah have talked to her son when he was supposedly in Paris or America? Either Rolf had cut his trip short or he had never left Munich. That meant he could have been in the city when Edith and her little girl were murdered. Maybe Roddewig and Schoennacht were perpetrating the murders in tandem.

"I'm . . ." Berg forced himself to remain calm, even managing a quick smile for Joachim. The boy was too paralyzed to respond. "I'm very sorry. Deal with me however you want, Herr Kommandant, but please leave my family alone."

The wrong thing to say. A smile played on Roddewig's lips. "Ah, so now you are a good family man, settling for your wife now that your mistress is dead."

Berg closed his eyes, not daring to look at his family. Then, he snapped them open.

Don't take your eyes off the gun, you idiot.

Berg jumped as he heard a soft click, as if a gun with an empty chamber were being fired.

"Something the matter, Inspektor?"

Berg looked at Roddewig's Mauser, which was still aimed at his son's temple. Now he was hearing things. The brain playing tricks on him.

"Nothing."

"You jumped."

"A chill in the room."

"Sit still. You make me nervous when you jump. You don't want me nervous, do you?"

"No, sir, not at all."

"Good." Roddewig smiled. "Now I understand why Martin insisted that you lead the Mordkommission. You are exacting. You make his command look sharp. Your meticulous and dogged pursuit of the killer has been impressive. But not as impressive as all the details that you have miraculously unearthed, constructing a plausible story from nothing but fragments."

Berg's natural instinct was not to answer, but he knew he had to say something. "Thank you, sir."

"You were so close, my good man, so very close."

Berg licked his lips. "You give me too much credit-"

A shot rang past his shoulder. The Luger pointed in his direction, a bullet discharged before he could finish his sentence. Berg was startled, but somehow managed not to move.

"You're not a fool, so don't act like one. While you may know some things, Berg, you don't know everything. Shall I fill you in?"

There was the eye tic. Not as pronounced this time. He was becoming calmer as time passed.

"I'd like to hear whatever you'd like to tell me," Berg said.

Roddewig nodded. "Good answer. You may not report directly to me, Inspektor, but I know what's going on. Records do tell an interesting story, don't they?"

Only two people knew he had been to Records this morning. One of them was in the hospital. The other was Volker. How stupid and naive he was to trust the Kommissar with his game plan.

"If you had kept your sights on Rolf, if you had investigated him, you would have realized that he was in town at the time of Edith's murder. His alibi about going to America would have made him look very, very guilty."

"I'm sure I would have found that out, sir. And I would have charged him-"

"No, no, no!" Roddewig's tongue clucked. "Don't insult my intelligence! As soon as you spoke with my dotty aunt, I knew it was only a matter of time before you discovered my identity."

There it was again. That distinct click. It wasn't imaginary! Berg tried to keep his face expressionless and his brain focused. The sound was coming from behind him. Someone else in the room? He dared not turn to look over his shoulder. Instead, he gazed past his wife's head at Joachim's charcoal drawing on the wall, the one that he had framed himself and covered with glass. In the reflection, he failed to see anyone in back of him.

But the click was real! If it wasn't from someone in the room, it had to be coming from the other side of his front door.

The unlocked front door.

Someone was trying to come inside but being very quiet about it. With any luck at all, he would live long enough to find out who it was.

Stall the bastard!

And remember to duck!

Berg cleared his throat. "We still can blame all the murders on Schoennacht, sir. He was the one who knew Regina Gottlieb. Regina worked for his wife. Schoennacht hated Jews. It would make perfect sense for him to murder her."

"He did murder her, you dunce!" Again, Roddewig's mouth turned upward into a sickly grin. With the eye tic, it would have been comical if the man hadn't been armed. "Rolf Schoennacht . . . my favored older brother . . . the one my mother held up as an example of sophistication and taste. The one for whom my mother ached even though it was she who had deserted him . . . though to hear Mother explain it, nothing was ever her fault, the gutless harlot."

The gun was still in Roddewig's right hand, but it had slid from Joachim's temple, the barrel now pointing at his jawbone. If it were to drop just a tiny bit more, Berg would have a chance, providing he was fast enough.

". . . the great Rolf Schoennacht crying like a baby." The smile grew wider. "He came to me in a panic, hoping I could extricate him from the situation. But even his panic and fear didn't stop himfrom having the Jew bitch . . . twice."

Berg swallowed. "He took advantage of her after she was . . ."