Then the ceiling light turned on. The intruder had been trying to reach the switch.

“Grens, calm down, for fuck’s sake! It’s me. Piet Hoffmann.”

Ewert Grens took the very last step into his kitchen.

“I know what Piet Hoffmann looks like. You two couldn’t even be cousins.”

The detective superintendent stood close to the table now, less than a meter between his gun and the intruder’s head, who had dark hair and brown eyes and puffy cheeks and a slightly crooked nose.

“So whoever the hell you are—move again, and I’ll shoot your head. You made a big fucking mistake when you broke into a police officer’s home.”

Chapter 19

It was an inviting kitchen. Grand. High ceilings with sturdy, white wooden cabinets, dual ovens and shiny knobs, and in one corner there was a narrow hall whose beautifully carved wooden moldings led into a maid’s chamber. But neither visitor was thinking of that—their eyes were only on each other. Ewert Grens was staring angrily at the stranger who’d broken into his home. And the stranger continued to make small gestures to the detective superintendent without wanting to provoke the finger resting lightly on the trigger.

“Grens—listen: I am Piet Hoffmann.”

“You don’t look like Piet Hoffmann. You don’t sound like Piet Hoffmann. But you are guilty of breach of domiciliary peace. Unlawful intrusion into another person’s living quarters. Criminal law, chapter twenty-four, first paragraph.”

“Grens, if you’ll just let me show you my hands . . .”

“Keep them where I can see them, goddamnit! Palms on the table!”

Grens hadn’t fired his service weapon very many times. He wasn’t even sure he was particularly good at it anymore. But right now he was ready to shoot, wouldn’t hesitate.

And the man who had broken into his home had no one to blame but himself.

“I have to be able to move my hands, Grens, so I can make you understand.”

“Go ahead. And I’ll shoot you in the shoulder first. And if that’s not enough to stop you, I’ll aim for the heart.”

The stranger with the crooked nose and puffy cheeks inhaled, slowly, exhaled, as if trying to slow his pulse, stabilize his voice.

“Okay. You see, right? I’ve got my hands on your kitchen table. Just the way you want. No reason to shoot. And if I can’t show you my hands, we’ll try another way. Let’s talk.”

“Oh you’ll talk. In court. With a defense lawyer at your side.”

“The first time we met, Grens, was during a hostage negotiation in a maximum security prison. And you did exactly what you’re doing now—pointed a gun at my head. You even fired it! A shot that took exactly three seconds.”