Crossroads: The Heimo Kapeller Novels, #3

Chapter 1

A breeze riffled the pages of his half-opened book as Heimo Kapeller reflected on the fact that the telephone could destroy civilization. The faint screechy tune from a mobile in the house scratched his somnolence like an unhappy baby with a wet diaper. He, among many, had grown to hate the intrusion of never-ending communication. Bad news not only traveled fast, it could no longer be easily avoided.

He wriggled comfortably in the chaise lounge, smugly believing the call would not be for him. His eyes remained closed, luxuriating in the July warmth of a morning sun. The message service intercepted the caller and, mirabile dictu, no one shouted at him to take the call or otherwise return to reality. He knew it would work that way, but the little sentinel in the back of his brain was nevertheless grateful.

Summer in France suggested paradise was attainable well before death. Endless blue skies with only a few high mare’s tails of cloud, enveloping warmth from a comforting sun, and the lightest of zephyrs to make the flowers dance left nothing to wish for. There likely was no other person in the Burgundian countryside more at one with the world at that moment than the Austrian homicide detective.

The previous months, filled with idiosyncrasy, soul-corroding bureaucracy, and little to challenge his intellect, fashioned in him a palpable desire to be shut of it all. He felt and openly acknowledged that it might be time to chuck it.

A hand crept over his, warm and squeezing comfort into him as though through a syringe. He opened one eye and cocked it at his partner, Cristina Neuroth, lying in her own lounge next to him.

How do you do that?

She lay, as redolent as he, but with her head turned and expressive eyes mapping his face. I don’t know. Telepathic, I suppose.

He nodded, feeling the truth of her conjecture. I heard the bloody phone in the house and all I could think was ‘It’s not for me!’ I think the Huntington’s is finally kicking in.

Her touch on his hand tightened perceptibly, then relaxed. I don’t think about it anymore. It makes my grief rise.

Heimo rolled onto his side, facing her. I don’t either, really. Just pops up occasionally. Although he possessed the requisite genes for Huntington’s chorea and knew what they would eventually do to him, worrying about such things was not in his makeup.

Far away, intruding on the faint and constant insect hum, they could just hear a car engine laboring up an incline. The girls returning from a shopping expedition. He and Cristina smiled at the same instant.

As summer holidays go, this was the jackpot. Heimo had experienced nothing even remotely like it. A family holiday. And not just any family. A big, diverse, unusual, nothing-fit-together kind of family that had grown from sparse roots within a year. It was possible he would never get used to it.

Cristina had organized everything, making calls, coordinating activities, delving into personal sensibilities, arranging lives. He had no idea how she did it. But within a day of their arrival, he knew it would become one of the signal experiences of his life.

A dusty old Citroen clattered into view and pulled onto an oil-spattered patch of ground that served as a parking space. Doors opened with rusty squeals and four women emerged. Heimo expected smiles or waves and a general air of enjoyment. What he saw did not match that picture.

Paulette, the driver, looked puzzled, her handsome weathered face creased with a frown. The owner of the small farm where they were staying, she had been Heimo’s first proper girlfriend in the long-ago time when he had gone walkabout across Europe. In the intervening years, she had aged magnificently and now resembled a famous Italian actress.

The car’s rear door swung open to reveal a tall, fair young girl. Although she looked to be about sixteen, Heimo’s daughter, Veronique, was actually twenty-four. She made straight for her father, her brow furrowed.

By this time, Heimo was on his feet, the sleepiness gone. Veronique stopped in front of him, holding out her hands. He took them. What’s happened?

A man in the village. We saw him several times. He is not from around here, but he looked like a gangster. And he watched us. Mama is worried.

Paulette walked up and stood beside her daughter. Worried is not quite the right word, dear. She turned to Heimo and said, I don’t know if this man actually had any interest in us or not, but he is not familiar to me and it is not a good time for strangers.

Paulette glanced over her shoulder at the other two women who had now exited the car and were removing parcels from the boot. One of the two, a slim woman with an untidy mass of dirty blonde hair and a darkly tanned face, stood and stared across the space at Heimo, her face expressionless. Her companion, small and apple-cheeked, seemed the only one unconcerned. Which made sense, as she was also the only one who had not been in on a secret the rest shared.

Heimo nodded. Let’s get everything inside and you can tell me about it.

The ancient farmhouse in which Paulette still lived and where Veronique had grown up was dark and cool, even in the heat of midday. Everyone picked up parcels from the car and dumped them on a huge, scarred kitchen table. For a few minutes genial confusion reigned as purchases were sorted, then stored away in cupboards and the massive refrigerator.

With something approaching the solemnity of a funeral party, they sat down. The only people missing were Heimo’s brother and two daughters, who had gone on an excursion.

 So, he said, tell me about this man. Although he addressed the gathering, his eyes were on the woman with the blonde mop. Even in the semi-gloom of the kitchen, he could see tiny pinch lines around her mouth.

Paulette said, It was just a man. We saw him several times, but it would be hard not to in a village the size of ours. I couldn’t really tell if he was watching us or not. But he is definitely a stranger, Heimo. I know everyone in the town and all the farms around here.

Veronique chipped in with, But he really looked like a gangster, Papa, very dark and swarthy, and he sort of slouched. Not a pleasant face.

Heimo looked again at the blonde woman. Helena?

She shook her head. Never saw him before, Heimo.

Old client?

Not one of mine, but it’s possible he came to the … house when I wasn’t there. But how would he find me?

The small woman, Hugo’s wife Ingrid, glanced from face to face, her eyes growing wider. Would someone please tell me what is going on? I didn’t see any man. And none of you are making sense.

Heimo glanced at Cristina. Think it’s OK?

She looked at Helena. It seems we have to.

The blonde only nodded.

Cristina turned to the small woman and said, Inge, we’ve been keeping a secret, but we think you will have to know. Hugo also does not know, and Heimo will talk to him when they get back. Helena is hiding here. You don’t need the full story, but she was under threat in Austria and we had to get her away. This place seemed a good bet to hide her for a while until we could make other arrangements. Because it is possible that people are looking for her, we are wary of strangers. Does that answer your questions?

Ingrid astonishment transformed her face. Her mouth sagged open until she snapped it shut. She stared at Helena with undisguised wonder, as though she had suddenly discovered the woman was from Mars. But she recovered her self-possession in a moment. She stretched her hands toward Helena and said, My very dear. I am so sorry, it must be terrible. Is there anything we can do? She turned to Heimo. You need to catch this man and get him away from here.

It was slight, but her obvious concern and naïve solution broke the tension. There were even a few smiles. Heimo shook his head. Not that easy, Inge. For a start, I have no authority in France. For another, we don’t know if this character is up to no-good or not. Paulette, is there anyone you can call in the village who might have seen this chap and know something about him? Someone discreet?

Veronique answered first. Violette Reynaud, Mama. She knows everything and everyone. And you could say he reminded you of someone you met in Lyon when you came to see me.

Paulette smiled. I can almost remember when my mind worked that fast. You are right, of course. She got up and went into the next room.

What they did not tell Inge was vastly more complicated. The woman’s name was not Helena. She was an ex-brothel madam, and it was entirely possible that Balkan people traffickers and the Mafia were both after her. Andrea Foscari, the name she had used for years, fled Austria seven months earlier with the clandestine help of Heimo and Cristina. Paulette reluctantly agreed to hide her until they could find some approach to move her on.

It had not worked out that way. Andrea, out of the desperate world of prostitution for the first time in her life, fell in love with the ancient rhythms of the French farm. And within weeks, Paulette and Veronique had taken her into their hearts. The idea of moving on faded to a remote dream. Weeks worked into months, and the placid change of seasons only imbedded the relationship more deeply.

There had been one brief alarm in Austria a month after she left, but it turned out to be false. As far as Heimo could find out, given that he couldn’t overtly ask too many questions, no one in the underworld seemed to be in the least concerned about their star madam’s disappearance. At least until now.

Paulette walked back into the kitchen and winked at Helena. It is all right. Violette says the man is a cousin of Marcel Charlier. He is from Marseilles and here on holiday.

A collective sigh evaporated the tension. Helena smiled uncertainly, then got up and walked outside. Cristina glanced at Heimo, who nodded and followed her.

He found her leaning against a gnarled oak and smoking a Gauloise. Those things will rot your insides, you know.

She smiled and drew in another lungful of smoke. I haven’t smoked since I was about sixteen. But here it somehow seems natural.

He watched the blue smoke curling up and wisping away. You OK?

Yes. It is so peaceful here and I am so happy, I sometimes forget what may be out there. She turned and looked straight at him. I won’t lie, Heimo. I feel like I want to stay here for the rest of my life. I know I can’t, but I also cannot let this go, not yet.

No reason you should. For the first few months, we worried you might compromise Paulette and Veronique despite our best efforts. But I think we are well past that. Whatever it was they thought you could tell us is now ancient news. The trafficker network is gone, we’ve had virtually no migrants of any kind coming over the border for six months, and the Carabinieri have only caught a few small fish.

She remained quiet for a while. I sometimes feel as though I need to take a deep breath, but I can’t. But I don’t wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night anymore. There is a little hope every day and I am content with that.

Cristina came out of the kitchen and wandered toward them. Helena crushed her cigarette underfoot. She grasped Cristina’s shoulders for a moment, then enveloped her in a fierce embrace. And without a word, she strode away toward the massive old barn.

I take it she’s OK?

Heimo nodded. She’d like to stay here forever, or at least she feels that way now, and I’m totally in sync with her. How’re the rest?

Much happier. They’re making a vast lunch so I got out of the way. And I brought you a present.

She handed him his mobile phone. There was a message on the screen: Missed Call - Greiml, Max. His boss. Heimo was morally certain the man was not calling to wish him an enjoyable holiday.

Chapter 2

"Good morning, Heimo. I hope you’re enjoying your holiday. I hear the weather is excellent."

And I can hear the schmooze in your voice, thought Heimo. It’s wonderful. In fact, it’s so wonderful I might never come home.

Greiml managed a chuckle. I’m sorry to call, but we have a bit of a problem. Two men died in what appeared to be an automobile accident. However, people in Vienna are questioning that conclusion.

Heimo’s political antenna quivered. We don’t do car accidents.

One victim was a man named Henrik Winkler. Ever heard of him?

No.

I hadn’t either, but he was an important diplomat in Vienna and in the EU for a long time. He retired some years ago and lived in Canada. Apparently, he returned to Carinthia every few years to see old friends. Two days ago, he and a man named Paul Legat had lunch at a gasthaus, then went off the road on the way back. Both killed instantly.

A significant loss, I’m sure. But I still don’t see why we should be involved.

Vienna wants an investigation. The chief of staff for the deputy minister asked us to look into it.

Kat and Josef can handle it if there’s anything to handle. What does Karl say? Karl Halegger, the Chief of Forensics, would have to have some evidence of foul play before Homicide could go to work.

Greiml hesitated. He hasn’t actually looked at it yet. I’ll call him as soon as I finish here, but he’s been on a course in Graz this week.

Wassnig done an autopsy?

No, there seemed no reason initially. I called him, but he is terribly busy at the moment.

Heimo wanted to snap and snarl, but there was no point. Greiml wanted nothing more than a smooth life. Anyone calling from any Ministry in Vienna automatically caused him to go into self-protection mode. I suggest until he completes an autopsy, and either that or Karl finds some evidence of murder, there’s nothing to do. Unless you’re ordering me to come back to investigate an auto accident.

Well, of course, I don’t want to spoil your holiday. Let me see if I can find out a bit more from Vienna. They may have information that will make things clearer. So, have a good time.

Heimo stared at the phone for a while. He had never taken more than a few days off work since he joined the LKA. This was his first family holiday because he’d never really had a family before. And Greiml, with a simple phone call, inserted a wedge between him and his happiness. His mouth twisted.

He punched in Kat Unger’s number. She was his number two in the Homicide section and an able, intelligent investigator.

Heimo, how are you? Still in France I hope.

Morning, Kat. I am, but I’m not sure how long. He described Greiml’s call. Have you heard anything?

Not a word. Hang on and I’ll look at the accident report.

He could hear her keyboard clicking. After a minute she said, Got it. Happened up around St. Veit yesterday afternoon. Two victims, Winkler and a man named Paul Legat. Car went off a steep embankment and rolled almost thirty meters down. Looked like both died instantly. On-scene officers saw nothing unusual except one airbag didn’t deploy. Apparently, only their vehicle involved. No skid marks or other indications. Totaled the car. The doctor certified death. It’s possible alcohol was involved, but he couldn’t say for certain.

Nothing indicating homicide?

Not from this report. How would Vienna find out about it, anyway? Doesn’t make sense.

Might have been a news report, or they picked it up when the family was notified. Doesn’t make any difference now. Greiml will talk to Karl and try to get Wassnig to do a postmortem. See if you can find out where the bodies are. Unless the stuff hits the fan, I will not be coming home for a car accident.

Good for you, Kat replied. We’ll hold the fort.

He jammed the phone in his pocket and wandered toward the house. Once again, he questioned whether he really wanted to go on with police work. Since he met Cristina, he’d become increasingly dissatisfied. Some of it was the political shenanigans, some was stress, and more than a little was a dawning recognition of the banality of murder. But until this trip to France, he hadn’t realized he wanted other things from his life, things he’d never even thought about before.

Cristina, in a way, made the frustration more acute. She also loathed the endless infighting and bureaucracy that infected the government from top to bottom. Although she’d achieved the exalted status of Senior Prosecutor, it only meant she spent more time in administration and less on the law. Her angst compounded his.

For the second time in an hour, he heard a car engine, this one considerably smoother than the old Citroen. Hugo and his daughters probably and just in time for lunch if the clatter from the kitchen was anything to go by.

Meals at the farm were celebrations. Food, wine, family, and friends were the most important things in the world to the average French man or woman. Heimo had fallen in love with their joy in these things many years before, and it was immensely satisfying to come back and find nothing changed.

Paulette’s father had long ago built a rough shed for some purpose lost to history. The walls were gone, but it had evolved into the dining area, used whenever weather permitted. A sagging roof shaded diners from the direct vitality of the summer sun but allowed vagrant breezes and benign insects to meander through.

The women emerged from the house like a pack train, each with a heaped platter of wonderful fresh food bought from the market that morning. Cristina brought up the rear, lugging a special box that held six bottles of wine. The plates, glasses, and silverware were already on the long trestle table.

The car, a big BMW, slid into place next to the Citroen and the rear doors flew open. Two young girls bailed out and raced toward him shrieking, Uncle Heimo, Uncle Heimo!

He couldn’t help but laugh. His nieces, Giselle and Teresa, had been in a state of high excitement since they’d arrived four days earlier. Each held a bag of treasures Hugo had no doubt purchased at a market. Heimo dutifully inspected every item, then told them to go help with lunch.

His brother ambled toward him, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. I don’t know where they get the energy, he said. They were going around that market like they were on speed. Wore me out.

Heimo grinned. Old age, my boy. You’ll be ready for the rocking chair any day now. Come with me, I’ve got a bit of news.

They walked toward the tree under which Heimo had been resting his eyes, and he told Hugo about Andrea, being careful to stick with her nom de guerre, ‘Helena’.

Hugo stared at him for a minute. I thought it was odd that an Austrian woman would just happen to be living out here.

The idea was to move her as soon as we could figure out a safe way to do it. We just haven’t found it yet.

Bad guys still looking for her?

We don’t know, Heimo said. Maybe, but they’re not likely to advertise it. I’ve had my ears out for a while, but not a peep. Paulette and Veronique thought they saw someone suspicious in the village this morning, but it turned out to be a man visiting a cousin. We can’t do much more than play it by ear for a while. Also, I got a call from my boss. I may have to go back early although I’m fighting it.

Hugo grinned. Never a dull moment, is there?

In the interval, all the food and wine had been arranged, and the rest of the tribe waited impatiently for the menfolk to take their places. As soon as Heimo and Hugo sat, a cacophony of conversation broke out. Platters passed from hand to hand, and wine tipped into sturdy glasses. The youngsters related their morning adventures without pausing for breath, and good humor bubbled around the table.

It lasted for two hours. It had been the same at every lunch and it never got stale. Even now, Heimo could not suppress a slight feeling of astonishment. He knew all families were not like this. Part of his job involved dealing with the aftermath when things went the other way. But his family was like something from a Disney movie. Sometimes, he thought, you landed on your feet without even trying.

As lunch wound down and the dishes trundled away to the kitchen, everyone except Giselle and Teresa sought a bed or hammock or lounger. A meal like that demanded a nap. The heat was intense, but bearable in the house or the shade of the huge old trees. Heimo and Cristina resumed their previous positions in the two chaise lounges.

Although he was almost unbearably comfortable, Heimo could not quite drop off. Greiml’s call had chewed a small hole in his subconscious, and he couldn’t stop the theories and speculations from sneaking out and asking for consideration. But he told himself sternly to knock it off and eventually he dozed.

The mobile in his back pocket chimed at half past four. He didn’t hear it, but Cristina did and poked him in the ribs. Half asleep, he fished it out and stared at the screen: Karl Halegger.

He groaned. Hi Karl.

Sorry to call, Heimo. I know you’re with the family, but Greiml put a flea in my ear about this auto accident. Can you talk?

If I have to.

I couldn’t see a problem with the accident report, so I called the station and talked to the patrol officers. They saw nothing unusual except it was an odd place for an accident. Weather was good, it’s a fairly straight stretch of road although quite a downslope, and there were no skid marks. There’s no guardrail at that point, so they just drove off the side. The station chief said they’d found out the men had been to the gasthaus for lunch, so they assumed alcohol was involved.

All of which means it’s not my problem.

Possibly. Greiml told me some jerk in Vienna was pushing his buttons, so I called Otto Wassnig. He said he’d take a look if he got time. I’ll let you know if he spots anything.

Heimo carefully turned the phone completely off and jammed it back in his pocket. Cristina watched him, her eyebrows up in a question.

Heimo grimaced and told her Karl’s news. It’s trivial.

"Which is exactly why you are concerned."

He nodded, misery creeping over his face. It’s always the easy ones that turn into a god-awful mess.

Chapter 3

The commuter flight bounced and wallowed on its final approach to Klagenfurt. It carried five passengers, all men. Four were dressed in the current fashion of suit jacket, tie, and jeans. The other man also wore jeans, but the rest of his outfit consisted of a travel-rumpled shirt and pullover.

Greiml called Heimo at five thirty the previous day. Otto Wassnig had done a quick external examination of the two victims and suspected both men had been shot. He’d scheduled the autopsies for today. Max Greiml was anxious because of Vienna’s interest, and he wanted his Chief of Homicide to come home and make it all better. Or so Heimo thought.

He’d caught a late train to Paris and stayed at an airport hotel for five restless hours. He boarded a very early flight to Vienna, then laid over for another two hours before the commuter left for Klagenfurt. Tired, his eyes grainy from lack of sleep and feeling grubby despite a shower at the hotel, Heimo was not in a forgiving mood when the pilot thumped the runway in a show of either incompetence or defiance.

There were only two people waiting in the arrival area when he trudged out of baggage claim.