Bad Cop (Hamburg Noir Book 2) by Peter Sarda

Author:Peter Sarda [Sarda, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Highway 99 Press
Published: 2022-11-11T07:00:00+00:00

seventeen

Body Count

The wide tires of the Charger slipped over hidden train tracks in the misty dawn. Through the hand-streaked windshield, Motz could make out cranes and rows of containers stacked high enough to block the weak sunlight on Steinwerder.

Behind the mist was the depot where they repaired old cargo containers—and tortured detectives. The scars on his wrists twitched uneasily.

He glanced at Ritter, who seemed lost in thought. Probably retracing his own steps six months earlier.

The Charger maneuvered the tight right–left–right–left that led to the rusty “Do Not Enter” sign. Motz laughed mirthlessly. How appropriate.

On that fateful night, he hadn’t seen the warning, even with the full moon, because they’d put a smelly hood over his pounding skull. The gaping wound from the pistol butt required five stitches to the back of his buzzcut. It was his second visit to the emergency ward in almost thirty years. This wound healed better than the first, but it bothered him more.

He tried not to look at the red container at the top of the last row. He wondered if his blood was still splattered on the corrugated steel inside. Then he remembered. Container renovation was like witness relocation. First, steam-cleaning that required waterproof coveralls and hoods, then industrial paint sprayed through nozzles that made masks and goggles mandatory. After that, the containers were all but untraceable.

Up ahead were half a dozen patrol cars and Forensics vans clustered around three bodies. KHK Wolf was standing near the first body, facing the misty sun with closed eyes, dragging on a cigarette. Rudi was kneeling over the third body, examining something with a small flashlight.

Motz killed the engine, swung open his door, and stepped onto gritty wet concrete that crunched under his boots.

Ritter was already surveying the crime scene.

They were greeted by a uniform with steaming hands.

“Thanks,” Motz said, gratefully taking the first paper cup. He hadn’t wanted to wake his wife and daughters so early, even on a school day, so he left the house without his usual pick-me-up. The coffee from the uniform was black and harsh, like his mood.

“What’ve we got?” Ritter said, ignoring the cup offered to him.

“Three DOAs,” the uniform said, pointing at the bodies.

Ritter nodded and headed toward the first body. Motz followed.

Wolf’s cigarette sparked on gravel as he gave Motz a friendly heads-up. Ebeling’s expert seemed to have made a hell of a recovery. If Motz had dumped that much Stoli down his gullet, he’d be in ICU with a pumped stomach and tubes up his nose.

“Moin moin,” Motz said, getting a closer look at the bodies, which had been torn apart by what he guessed was yet more shotgun fire. Plastic numbers marked a small number of shell casings, which might indicate return fire. “Glad I didn’t eat breakfast,” he said.

“Good thing you saved your appetite,” Wolf said. “We’ve got a lovely buffet for you this morning. First up on the menu is one Manhar Hasani.”

“Sulejman Hasani’s enforcer,” Ritter said from his crouched position.

Motz bristled. The oversized body belonged to the thug he had pistol-whipped and hog-tied three days earlier.

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