Free Until the Debt Is Paid by Alexander Hartung Page A

All he wanted were answers.
    “Do you know a Jan Tommen?”
    “Never heard of him, boss, but if he’s a friend of yours, then bring him on over and we’ll party.”
    Patrick sighed and stuck his pistol in his holster.
    “Take this drugged-out idiot down to the station,” he ordered the officers. “I’ll question him once he’s come down.”
    Patrick worked his way through the trash to get back outside. In frustration he kicked away a beer bottle, which clanked and shattered against the wall. The guy was just a goddamn drug dealer who hadn’t even noticed that his car had been stolen. And given the bender the guy was on at the moment, Patrick couldn’t hold out hope that his memory would be stellar.
    “The first round goes to you, Jan,” Patrick muttered. “But I’m already getting warm.”

    As Chandu slowed the car, Jan looked out the window at the desolate neighborhood. He hated run-down areas like this. The buildings’ gray walls were smeared with graffiti, and not the artful kind. The glass windows of one of the now-closed storefronts had been replaced with plywood, and then pasted over with cheesy ads for an upcoming André Rieu concert at the O2 World arena. The bare trees looked hardly alive, and an uprooted “No Parking” sign lay out on the street. Near the curb, young women lounged around in way-too-short skirts. Their thick makeup masked the grief on their faces as their eyes followed the traffic. Jan watched a car roll to a stop alongside one of the young women. The driver opened the door, and she climbed in without a word.
    Jan had been investigating scenes like this for a long time, but he still felt a little pang whenever he saw such young girls out on the sidewalk. No one deserved such a life.
    Chandu drove at a snail’s pace, eyeing each girl closely. “There,” he said finally. “The blonde.”
    After a moment, Jan spotted a fair-haired woman leaning against an old plane tree. She wore a white skirt, a bright tube top, and knee-high boots with spike heels. Her tired stare was directed at the roadway.
    Chandu stopped the car next to her. The girl tossed her cigarette, came out to the street, and forced a smile.
    “Hi,” Jan said, returning the smile.
    “Youse a pig?” she asked in thick Berlin dialect.
    “U h . . . ” Jan hesitated.
    The woman rolled her eyes.
    Chandu leaned to Jan’s side. “Get in, Sarah.” He held out a hundred-euro bill for her. “We just want to chat.”
    The woman looked around warily, as if no should see her talking to them. Then she tugged down her skirt, grabbed the bill, and climbed into the back.
    “My pimp catches me talkin’ to pigs, I’m dead.”
    “We won’t keep you long,” Chandu reassured her as he drove off. “You can be back hooking in five minutes.”
    “Whatever.”
    Jan said, “Miss, we just have a few questions about how long you’ve been working here.”
    The woman snickered. “Youse really are a pig.”
    “How can she tell?” Jan asked Chandu.
    “There’s a sign on your forehead,” he said. “You can’t help it.” Chandu adjusted the rearview mirror so he could look the girl in the eye. “I’ll answer the man’s question, if you don’t mind.” He turned to Jan. “She’s been around for going on five years.”
    “How old are you?” Jan asked her.
    “Twenty-four.”
    “Sarah,” Chandu warned.
    “Nineteen,” she corrected, her voice dropping an octave.
    Jan shook his head. The girls were getting younger and younger. What a life they must have had to be tossed out onto the street at fourteen. He hated to imagine the kind of horrible parents they’d dealt with or the twisted scumbags they’d gotten to know.
    He would’ve liked to have given Sarah another chance, found her somewhere to live, sent her back to school, and made a new life possible. But from his time as a patrol cop, he knew that that was just a romantic dream. The streets pulled these girls back in.
    “You know Judge George Holoch?”