"Just one more thing, Fritz," Hannes said and informed him about the young woman Mrs. Olsen had told him about.

"Nothing seems to escape her attention. I'm not sure if it's a lead or not. So the woman is often in the area . . . Maybe she just really likes that lonely stretch of beach. But it's conceivable that she could provide us with some clues. Could Mrs. Olsen describe her to our sketch artist?"

"All she can remember is a slender body and long brown hair."

"Then while you're out there, keep an eye out for her. After all, it's your specialty."

Fritz hung up. Hannes had been so busy with the case these last few hours that he had completely forgotten about Fritz's health problems. His condition had been deteriorating over the last few days, even if he did his best to hide the pain. His face had grown more gaunt and ashen with each passing day, and he appeared to be losing weight. Hopefully, he could hold out until the case was solved.

Hannes's cell phone rang. "Johannes Niehaus."

"Hello, Mr. Niehaus. It's Irene Maler from Lagussa. I enjoyed our lovely chat earlier today."

He rolled his eyes. Not only did Ms. Wagner think it beneath her to go check the parking lot, but she had also delegated the return call.

"That's nice of you to call back so quickly. Have you checked on Ms. Ternheim's car?"

"Of course! I'm glad to help the investigation. At least it gives me something to do other than type up letters."

"And? Is the car there?"

"No, of course not," she said.

In the background, he could hear Ms. Wagner scolding her.

"Unfortunately, I have to go now." She sounded annoyed. "There's some extremely important correspondence waiting for me." She lowered her voice. "But maybe I could help more with the investigation this evening . . ."

"That's really nice of you, but right now there's a lot going on. I'll get back to you if I still need you to do something for me. Thanks, and see you soon!"

Hannes hung up. He had always been particularly bad at saying no. He started the engine, waved to Mrs. Olsen-who had still not given up her seat by the window-and turned onto the road leading to the lighthouse. Just as the old structure appeared around the curve, his cell phone rang again.

"Fritz sent us to Ms. Ternheim's place to search for her car. It's a yellow sports car, right?"

"Yes, that's right," Hannes said and pulled to the side of the road. "Did you find it?"

"No. We looked in the garage and surrounding streets. No vehicle fit that description."

Hannes thanked his colleague for the information and shifted into first gear. He wondered why the car had disappeared.

As he pulled up, Hannes noticed that the basket from the Olsens wasn't by the door of Merlin's dilapidated house. Nothing in the clearing had changed since his last visit, though the book was no longer on the porch table.

Hannes wanted to get this visit over with quickly. He knocked on the door. He had deliberately parked in front of the house so the old man would see the police car. He was about to knock a second time when he heard a key turn in the lock. A moment later, the door opened, and Helene Ternheim's father stood before him.

He seemed a little more hunched over than before, but otherwise nothing about his appearance had changed. His woolen cap was still pushed to the side; his threadbare corduroys flapped against his thin legs. He also wore a tattered wool sweater not meant for the summer heat. His clothing and face were dotted by small splashes of color, and the brush in his clawlike hand explained what the old man had been doing.

Merlin stared at Hannes. His gaze wandered between the green eye and the blue eye.

"Forgive me for ambushing you. I'm sure you remember me. I'm a police officer and was here on Tuesday with my colleague. I'd like to discuss something with you-calmly. Shall we sit here in the sun for a minute, Mr. Ternheim?"

Hannes deliberately addressed him by his given name and pointed to the chair on the porch. Merlin shuffled over to it and downed a half glass of vodka. After placing it on the table, he stared ahead at an imaginary point.

Hannes looked at Merlin's large birthmark, and he remembered Fritz telling him that Merlin's son also had a birthmark under his right eye. Did the murdered Ms. Ternheim inherit something similar? Hannes could not remember.

He sat diagonally across from Merlin on the porch and leaned against the rotten railing. "Mr. Ternheim, I'm sure you can guess why I came here. It's about the dead woman you found Sunday on the beach. Do you know who it was?"

The old man only stared into the distance.

"Your son Christian reported his sister, in other words your daughter Helene, missing yesterday. Unfortunately, the dead woman was your daughter. I'm very sorry, Mr. Ternheim."

There was still no reaction.

"There are some things we don't understand. Your daughter had bleached hair, which surprised your son. We also found traces of a sedative in her blood, and her car has disappeared. There was one more anomaly: your daughter had recently gotten a tattoo on her left forearm."

Finally Hannes had his attention! The old man turned his head and looked into his eyes. His facial muscles twitched. But when he remained silent, Hannes gave up all hope of getting him to talk.

"Does this tattoo sound familiar to you? And did your daughter have it for a while? The last time she visited you was on Wednesday of last week, correct?" Hannes realized he was getting nowhere. "We can't make out what the tattoo is supposed to represent, but we believe it's a group of six or seven numbers."

The old man's eyes widened, and his right hand was trembling so much that small drops of paint flew from the brush.

"Mr. Ternheim! We need your help, otherwise this investigation will go nowhere! You know something, I can see it. I'm begging you. This is about your daughter."

Merlin rose from his seat and walked back to the door. He staggered, and Hannes resigned himself to the fact that the old man would slam the door in his face again. But at the door, Merlin turned around. He motioned with his head for Hannes to come inside.

Hannes jumped to his feet and was relieved that his knee wasn't bothered by this sudden movement. He looked forward to training again soon. Then he felt ashamed. He was standing in front of a dead woman's confused father, thinking about sports. He followed Mr. Ternheim inside.

Just like last time, the hallway was very dark because the shutters were closed. Hannes wondered how it was possible to paint in the dim light and reluctantly followed him into the room where the demons and flames had jumped out at him. But the room had changed. White sheets hung over all the frames. Only one image was not covered. Merlin stood in front of it. Without turning around, he waved Hannes over. Hannes looked over his shoulder and caught his breath. It was a black-and-white drawing unlike any of the old man's paintings. A strikingly beautiful woman stared back at Hannes. Despite the lack of color, she almost seemed alive. Her face was drawn with soft, almost loving strokes, and even though she appeared younger in the painting, he immediately realized it was a portrait of Helene Ternheim.

Merlin stepped aside so Hannes could see the whole painting. Hannes gasped. The scene continued below, turning more and more nightmarish the lower he looked. Helene's body was likewise drawn in a realistic fashion, and at her feet blazed images of immense horror that were reminiscent of the ones depicted in Merlin's other paintings. Several hands clutched at her ankles, attempting to drag her into the depths. Farther down were scenes of people being slaughtered and houses burning while figures standing at attention, their right arms outstretched, watched from the sidelines.

Hannes looked over at Merlin. From an artistic point of view, the painting was certainly a masterpiece-even Hannes recognized that. At the same time, it was incredibly disturbing. What did Merlin want to say with the painting? Hannes forced himself to take a closer look and saw women being raped, the faces of children crushed by heavy boots, and kneeling men resigned to their fates, guns pointed at the backs of their heads by Nazis.

"Are . . . are you saying that your daughter was being harassed by Nazis? Has . . . was she threatened?"

Merlin watched him intently.

"You know, this is . . . well, hard to understand. You have to tell me. I know nothing about art and don't know how to interpret this. Who threatened or harassed your daughter?"

Merlin waved him off. Then he walked over to a table and picked up a sketchbook, like the one Hannes had had in school. He drew a face in pencil and held the pad up for Hannes to see. Again Hannes was overwhelmed by the man's skill. In just a minute, he had created an instantly recognizable portrait.

"That's your son! What about him? Talk to me! What are you trying to tell me?"

Merlin shrugged and started drawing again. When he was done, he laid the pad and pencil down on the table and turned to face Hannes. He stood so close that Hannes detected a sour smell in addition to a whiff of vodka. Merlin looked him straight in the eye and nodded without breaking eye contact. Then he turned and left the room. Hannes heard his footsteps in the hall, then the sound of a door, and finally the turning of a key. Apparently, the visit was over.

Hannes looked at the sketchbook and recoiled. Christian Ternheim had been transformed into an angel of death swinging his scythe at him with a diabolical grin.

He was surprised that he had not thought of it sooner. He had already encountered pictures of forearms tattooed with numbers in his history classes. But it was Merlin's portrait of Helene Ternheim surrounded by Nazis that awoke this memory in him.

He was so lost in thought that he nearly collided with an oncoming vehicle just as he was about to turn back onto the main road. After some frantic braking and turning, the car came to a stop only inches from the lighthouse.

After two deep breaths, Hannes glanced at the frightened driver, then got out of his car and walked over to the metallic-green vehicle. He signaled the driver to roll down the window.

"We were lucky," the man said and looked over at the police car.

"May I ask where you're headed?" Hannes said as he leaned on the door frame.

"Certainly," the man said in a falsetto voice. "I'm on my way to my best horse in the stable, so to speak. My cash cow." He chuckled, opened the door, and got out. He was short and only came up to Hannes's chest. He had thinning black hair and a scraggly ponytail. "Louis Laval," he said in a pompous French accent. "I'm an art agent and represent that veritable genius who's retreated into this desert."

"If by 'genius,' you mean the old man who manages to make hell look like paradise compared to his paintings, then you're right," said Hannes.

Laval laughed. "Yes, his pictures are certainly one of a kind, no? But I'll tell you what: Merlin's hugely sought after by collectors. He has a real fan base that eagerly awaits his new work. I just came back from the US and the Americans are crazy about him. Unfortunately, he's so shy I can't take him to exhibitions. That's too bad! It would double the price of admission."

"So there are actually people who hang his pictures in their homes?" Hannes asked.

"You better believe it! Let me tell you, there's never been anything like his style of painting. Try to describe it. Expressionist? Maybe in part! But you can also find features of naturalism and realism-that is to say, the total opposite of expressionism. You will also find sporadic elements of impressionism and other styles. He cannot be lumped into any one category and has his own inimitable style."

"I see. Do you have a few of his masterpieces?"

"That would be a tremendous waste. All of his paintings have gone for tons of money!"

"You wouldn't know it by the way he lives," Hannes said.

"Don't be fooled. His eremitic lifestyle is self-imposed. Money's not important to him, especially since he was financially secure before his time as an artist. He used to lead a pharmaceutical company and-"

"So a little money comes your way since it isn't important to him?"

"I'm not driven by the money! I discovered Merlin years ago by accident. And it wasn't easy to get him to share his paintings with the world. It would have been a crime against art to keep these masterpieces hidden. I saw his first paintings in a newspaper column entitled 'What's So-and-So Up to These Days.' There were only two fuzzy black-and-white images, but I knew right away I had a mission to fulfill. And it was not easy. Since he doesn't talk, I had to negotiate with his two children. They wanted to keep his paintings from going public. But I prevailed! His son was furious. Since then, Merlin has been a fixture in the art world."

"Why does he call himself Merlin?"

"That was my idea!" said the little man, who was becoming more and more unlikable. "Great, no? I thought the artist who painted these extraordinary pictures needed a mystical name. His son didn't like that, but our contract expressly acknowledged my right to choose an artist's name for his father. Ultimately, his son was probably glad the images were not sold under his real name."

"So what do you want from your cash cow today?" Hannes asked. He could not share the man's enthusiasm; Merlin was hardly a fitting name for the old artist. Sure, his paintings were special and mysterious, but Hannes had always associated the legendary Merlin with a bright, cheerful figure and not a creator of hellish agony. Whatever the outcome of the investigation, one thing was already clear: the positive image of the magician Merlin had lost its innocence for him, and this strange excuse for an agent was the one to blame.

"What do I want with him? Well, to pick up the goods! I've already sold six paintings, and the buyer hasn't even seen them."

Hannes shook his head in disbelief. The world was certainly a colorful place. "You should be careful. He's a little upset."

Laval chuckled. "Don't worry, I can handle him. I've been dealing with him for years."

"Well, that may be so. But now the circumstances are a little different."

"How so? Did something happen to him? Tell me!"

"Haven't you checked the paper today or listened to the radio?"

"No! I came straight from the airport. What's wrong?"

"Mr. Ternheim, or Merlin, found his daughter dead on the beach last Sunday."

Laval froze. He stared at Hannes, his mouth open. "That . . . that can't be!" He shook his head.

"When did you last see his daughter?"

"Nine years ago on the day the contract was signed. That was also the last time I met her brother. I have regularly heard from him in the meantime, only because he has done everything possible to void the contract. But our exclusive deal is valid for another six months. After that I'll probably have to deal with his son somehow. My God, his daughter, how awful! I hope it has not upset Merlin so much that he can no longer paint?"

"Don't worry, I have a feeling his talent hasn't suffered. I've got to go now. Do you have a business card in the event that I need to contact you?"

Laval took a gold-colored card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Hannes. It had an ornate "L" to the left of his first name that extended downward to incorporate his last name. His address and phone number were diagonally opposite his name.

"Tell me something, is that your real name or have you also adopted an artist's name?"

"In the art world, you need a name that has a ring to it, even better if it has a French touch. My actual name is Ludwig Lachmann. I kept my initials."

Hannes smiled. "Do you know why Mr. Ternheim doesn't speak?"

Laval shrugged. "No idea. Ever since I've known him, he hasn't said a word. But every artist has some kind of quirk. Whenever I come here, he leaves me the finished paintings and disappears into the forest. I once asked his children about his silence, but they wouldn't tell me anything."

"How long were you in the US?"

"Two weeks. I organized an exhibition tour in ten cities. It was hard work!"

Hannes quickly said good-bye and waited until Laval had turned off the main road. He glanced at his cell phone and discovered that he'd missed five calls from Fritz in the past few minutes.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON.

Fritz was back on the case. He limped to his car after leaving the doctor's office with painkillers. He took a water bottle from his glove compartment and washed down two small pills. While waiting for the pain in his back to die down, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to a melody from the radio, lost in thought.

So there actually was a connection between Schneider and Ms. Ternheim. It was his only viable lead, but how was he supposed to track Schneider down in this sprawling city if he hadn't already taken off? When Fritz's back pain had finally grown tolerable, he decided to head to the outskirts of town. He had to pick up Schneider's trail somewhere, maybe starting with his home.

Just as he was about to squeeze his Jeep into a parking space along the wall surrounding the mansion, the driveway gate slid open. A red Mini waited to pull out. Fritz shifted forward. The driver waved for him to move over as he stationed his Jeep in front of the driveway. Fritz shut off the engine and awkwardly got out of the car. As he approached the Mini, a window came down and a perfumed cloud of smoke blew in his direction.

"Can't you see that I'm trying to leave?" an outraged Mrs. Schneider screamed. "Who do you think you . . . Oh."

"Hello, Mrs. Schneider. Sorry to keep you. May I have a word with you?"

Mrs. Schneider glanced at her gold watch. "Is this going to take long? I have a tennis lesson in twenty minutes."

"We're still looking for your husband. Has he been home since we last met? Why hasn't he contacted us?"

"No, he hasn't been home," she said and took a nervous puff of her cigarette.