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“Federal Criminal Police, Mr. Krüger,” he says. “Thanks for the helpful clarification, but we are well aware that you are not a parcel store. Now why don’t you go back into your apartment and close the door from the inside.”
Jens Krüger’s jaw drops. He is still staring after them when they reach the third floor.
On the fourth floor, Yasira rings Messerschmidt’s doorbell. Michael next to her is panting heavily.
“You should get back into more exercise,” Yasira says.
“Ugh. There’s no point,” grumbles Michael. “Too old anyway.”
Yasira rings again. Messerschmidt doesn’t answer. So Yasira knocks. Police style. With the flat of her hand against the door. Maximum vibration.
“Mr. Messerschmidt!” Michael calls out. “Please open the door. This is the Federal Criminal Police.”
Yasira knocks on the door a second time. “We just want to talk to you, Mr. Messerschmidt. It’s about your expertise.”
Nothing stirs in Messerschmidt’s place. Instead, the door of the neighboring apartment opens.
“Federal Criminal Police?” asks the blonde woman who opened it. Yasira estimates her to be in her mid-thirties. Two little blond boys cling to her legs.
Michael puts on his most charming smile. “That’s right. We’re looking for your neighbor.”
“Well... well... I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“How long is in ages?” Yasira inquires.
“Um... er...” the woman ponders.
“Mom, are these police officers?” asks one of her little boys.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“But they don’t look like that.”
“They’re from the BKA.”
“What’s the BKA?”
Michael bends down to the boy. “The BKA is something similar to the FBI,” he says. But unlike the dark-haired Emily, this doesn’t help the little boy one bit.
The mother turns to Yasira again. “Sorry about that. So, I think the last time I saw him was about half a year ago. Can’t date it exactly, of course. But I think it was in spring. Mr. Messerschmidt was just leaving his apartment when I came back from shopping, or was it from the hairdresser or maybe from work, anyway I had just come home and he was leaving his apartment. We greeted each other. Nothing more. We hardly have any contact. But if you find him, I got an Amazon package for him shortly after I last saw him, I think it was actually the day after. It’s still in the hallway...”
She disappears for a moment and hands Yasira the package. With a grin, she points to Michael. “He’s the Amazon man.”
Her partner takes the parcel.
They then walk through the house and talk to the other residents. No one has much to say about Messerschmidt. Apparently he is a quiet guy. So quiet that he’s probably not even present most of the time, Yasira thinks. No one has a key. That would have been too easy.
Something is definitely wrong here, Yasira concludes in the car.
While Michael is driving her back to the office, she calls Cyber-Chris and asks him to track down Claus Messerschmidt.
“How so?” is the reply.
“What do I know?” says Yasira. “Hack into his Amazon account and tell me where his parcels are delivered. Messerschmidt’s mailbox is empty. So he probably has a forwarding order too. Check with the post office. I want to know where he really lives, not where he’s registered.”
She hangs up. There’s obviously a book in Messerschmidt’s package.
“So there are actually people who still order books from Amazon and not hand blenders or large packs of condoms,” she says.
