Schäfer was about to push the intercom button again out of childish spitefulness when Lisa Augustin grabbed his arm.

“Come on,” she said. “She’s not home.”

“Let’s stop by the paper and see if she’s at work.”

The car was parked farther down the street. Schäfer unlocked it remotely as they started walking toward it.

“Do you really think she’s back at work already?” Augustin asked. “After such a violent attack?”

Schäfer shrugged. “Why not?”

“Uh, maybe a person should take a little break after an experience like that? You know, take a week or two off to recover, maybe talk to a crisis counselor?”

“Yeah, maybe if you’re a hair stylist or an English teacher at the University of Copenhagen, but someone like Kaldan? She’s like us. Her job isn’t just a necessary evil that she does to pay her bills—she is her job.”

Augustin raised one eyebrow and nodded. “That explains why she’s single.”

“No, that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, it does. You and Connie are just the exception that confirms the rule, that people who live and breathe their jobs aren’t able to maintain healthy romantic relationships.”

Augustin glanced over at Schäfer and discovered that he was no longer paying attention to her. His eyes were focused on something at the end of Olfert Fischers Gade.

“Aha,” he said, pointing ahead of them. “And another exception is walking right over there. With a bakery bag in his hand and what looks like a postcoital smile on his lips. Wonder if he can maintain a healthy romantic relationship?”

Augustin looked to see where he was pointing, and her eyes landed on Martin Duvall, who was heading toward them. He was pulling a pastry out of the brown paper bag he was holding and hadn’t noticed them yet.

Schäfer called out to him. “Duvall!”

Martin Duvall’s head jerked up like a frightened horse’s, and something undefinable—was it hesitation?—flicked over his face as he spotted Augustin and Schäfer. But he didn’t break the rhythm of his gait. Instead he gave them a friendly nod and continued toward them.

When he reached them, he held out his hand. “Good morning!”

Schäfer took his hand and squeezed, not so the knuckles turned to dust between his fingers but far harder than he would have normally. It was a bad habit, a way of asserting himself when dealing with suits and suspects, a sort of mine-is-bigger-than-yours machismo.

“Good morning,” he said. “Funny to run into you here. I thought you lived down by the harbor.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Maybe you were on your way over to Heloise’s?”

Duvall nodded. “I was.”

“Great, then we’ll join you. We just have a few questions for her.”

“She, uh … she’s not home,” he said, slowing down.