Free A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) by James Craig Page B

till. Finding a well-thumbed copy of ‘Oder was?’ he happily began flicking through a selection of the Werner comic strips. After a few minutes, he reluctantly put the comic book down and moved to a bookshelf by the window. Picking up a couple of hefty biographies of politicians who were so totally boring that they didn’t merit two hundred words between them, he shook his head. ‘Idiots,’ he scoffed, putting the books to the back of the shelf. ‘If this is what you’re trying to sell, no wonder you’re losing so much money every month. Give the public what they want. You need more Werner and fewer suits.’
    Hidden underneath the hagiographies, he found a small paperback with a picture of a male model on the front. Head bowed, naked from the waist up, the guy’s perfect abs were displayed to great effect. Max gave an appreciative grunt. Then he noticed the title: Dealing with HIV – A guide for the newly diagnosed .
    ‘Anything interesting?’
    Without thinking, Max stuck the book into his pocket. He turned to face Michael, who was standing by the door. ‘Nah,’ he shrugged, gesturing at the heaving bookcases. ‘Just books. Rows and rows of boring bloody books.’
    If the sergeant had noticed his boss’s shoplifting, he said nothing.
    ‘How about you,’ Max asked, ‘find anything?’
    ‘Nothing.’ Michael Rahn unlocked the door and pulled it open. ‘Leicht is going to send a couple of the forensics guys down this afternoon, but I don’t think we’re going to find much here.’
    ‘Nope,’ Max agreed.
    ‘I’ve told Suzanne Suzuki we’ll let her know when she can re-open.’
    Why would they bother? Max wondered. He eyed the Werner comic book by the till, reluctantly deciding to leave it where it was. He already had one book stuffed down his trousers, to steal a second would be a bit much.
    Michael hovered by the door. ‘Let’s go.’
    ‘Sure,’ Max sighed. ‘Let’s go.’
     

11
     
    Having packed Michael Rahn off to Charlottenburg, Max made his way to Adalbertstrasse. Slipping into the Rote Rose bar, a nondescript haunt of low-level civil servants and other office workers, the Kriminalinspektor ordered a black coffee from the barman and took up residence at a table by the window. After a few moments of half-hearted people-watching, he retrieved his cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. A waiter arrived with his coffee and small glass of water, placing the bill under Max’s nose just in case he missed it. 
    Don’t be so pushy, pal, or you won’t get a tip. Taking a sip of the water, he lit up an HB and glanced at his watch. ‘How late are you going to be this time?’ he wondered.
    As if by magic, Clara Ozil appeared at his shoulder. She gave him a peck on the cheek and called to the hovering waiter to bring her a pot of green tea. The man nodded and skipped behind the bar, happy to have at least a couple of customers during the post-lunch lull.
    ‘You’re late,’ Max grumbled.
    ‘So were you,’ Clara grinned, pulling up a seat and sitting down. Illuminated by the mid-afternoon sunshine, she radiated vitality. Her modest attire, a white blouse underneath a cheap grey business suit, seemed only to enhance her beauty, all pale skin, firm lines and raven black hair.
    She was a truly magnificent woman, there were no two ways about it.
    Not for the first time, Max reflected on the fact that Clara was simply far too sexy to be a lawyer. Catching him staring, she gave him an amused grin. ‘What are you looking at? If I didn’t know better, I might think you are checking me out.’
    ‘You know better,’ Max laughed.
    ‘Yes, I do, fortunately for you.’ The waiter appeared with her pot of tea, along with a cup and saucer. Clara quickly handed over a 10DM note, waving away the offer of change.
    ‘Are you in a hurry?’ Max asked.
    ‘A bit. How much time do we need?’
    ‘I dunno. Not much, I suppose.’
    ‘Okay.’ Clara carefully poured some of the tea into her cup. ‘So what