Jeffrey’s apartment was a wreck, just like Jeffrey’s life. His girlfriend had left him and taken the kids, and all he could think about was blow. Brian had expected to hit the jackpot at Werner Möhring’s house, and now Brian was dead. Even an absolute hero like Tupac lived to be only twenty-five.

Ralf didn’t want to die.

And he didn’t want to go to jail.

It was dark at this end of the parking lot. The fall leaves rustled around him. He looked across at the back of the restaurant. The lights in the dining area had been turned off an hour ago, but the kitchen was still brightly lit. Ralf heard the clink of glasses, the scrape of metal against metal. By the back door stood a few bikes and scooters, along with two small, older cars.

Strangely enough, Werner Möhring’s Mercedes was parked all the way over at this end, a good distance away from the rest of the vehicles. Ralf had no idea why.

He peered at the building. On the left was a wired-glass door with an illuminated plastic sign next to it: “The Horn of Plenty Ltd.—Office.” The lights behind the yellowish glass were still on. He was banking on Werner’s being inside, counting his money—maybe even bundling it up into convenient packages. Ralf couldn’t enter the building; there were cameras trained on every door. He had to wait until Werner came out to his car.

Ralf had come up with a rough plan, but a lot could go wrong. He needed to approach him from behind somehow; despite his balaclava, hoodie, and thick coat, he was a little worried that Werner would recognize him.

Behind the wired glass, the light went out. The door swung open, and a dark figure emerged. Immediately followed by another, like a thinner shadow.

Ralf’s grip tightened over the gun. He forgot to breathe—every fiber in his body was at maximum tension. He heard the quiet jingle of a key ring, footsteps, then nothing more.

The figures didn’t speak but moved quickly toward him. Nervously, almost. The smaller one kept its head down as it trotted after the other. There was something strangely surreptitious about the scene. As they came closer, he saw that the smaller figure was wearing heels. A pencil skirt. Shapely legs underneath it. Once out of range of the security cameras, the man threw his arm around the woman and drew her toward him. They were close now, lit by a small lantern. The man was Werner Möhring. He unlocked his car remotely and the lights flashed, illuminating the couple in front of the vehicle.

Ralf’s jaw fell open. The woman walking beside Werner, cooing under his kisses, was Brian’s mother.

Sunday

Sunday

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