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people out of a pure love of killing.”
    “Or maybe Ingeborg Rohleder had some dark secrets that nobody knows about,” replied Pia. “We should do a complete rundown on the victim’s circle of acquaintances and past history.”
    “Agreed,” Bodenstein said with a nod, and stood up. “Let’s drive over and see Renate Rohleder. Then we’ll stop by forensics. The autopsy is scheduled for eleven fifteen.”
    *   *   *
    Renate Rohleder seemed almost as distraught as she’d been yesterday. She sat red-eyed at her kitchen table, kneading a handkerchief in her left hand and with the other mechanically petting her Labrador, who was nestled at her feet. Her blond hair, which yesterday had been artfully pinned up, now hung limp over her shoulders. Her face was puffy and bare of makeup, as if she’d been crying the whole night.
    “Why isn’t there anything in the paper?” Renate asked with a reproachful undertone instead of responding to Bodenstein’s polite greeting. She tapped her finger on an open newspaper. “Nothing on the radio either. Why not? What are you doing to find the person who murdered my mother?”
    Visits to the loved ones of a murder victim were always difficult, and Bodenstein had experienced every kind of reaction in his twenty-five years at K-11. When a murder happened in a family, most people eventually managed to regain some semblance of a normal life, but the early days were always marked by shock, chaos, and breakdowns. He and his colleagues often served as lightning rods in this emotional state of emergency, and Bodenstein had long since acquired a thick skin.
    “It’s still too early to involve the media,” he replied calmly. “We don’t have enough facts to ask the public for help. News reports filled with pure speculation would not be in your best interest.”
    Renate Rohleder shrugged and looked at her smartphone, which was beeping melodiously every few seconds.
    “I suppose so,” she whispered. “I can’t even go to the shop. People mean well, but I … I simply can’t stand hearing all these expressions of sympathy.”
    In a glance, Bodenstein took in the state of the kitchen and assumed that Ingeborg Rohleder had kept the house in order while her daughter ran the flower shop. After twenty-four hours, her absence was already noticeable. Still on the table were the remains of a breakfast: a plate full of crumbs, an open jar of marmalade with a spoon stuck in it, and soggy tea bags lying on a saucer. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink along with a pot with burnt food stuck to the bottom.
    “We’re very sorry that we have to disturb you in your grief,” Pia said. “But we need to know more about your mother and her circle of friends. Where was she from originally? How long did she live here in Eschborn—?”
    “Niederhöchstadt,” Renate Rohleder corrected her, blowing her nose again and glancing at the display on her phone.
    “In Niederhöchstadt. Did she have any enemies, or were there any difficulties in the family? Had she changed recently, was she nervous or feeling threatened?”
    “You don’t seriously mean that someone shot my mother on purpose!” She sounded almost hostile. “I already told you: She didn’t have any enemies. Everyone liked her. She came here in the early ’60s from Sossenheim, opened the flower shop and nursery with my father, and she has lived here ever since. Happily and peacefully, for more than fifty years.”
    She picked up her cell phone, which kept on chirping and lighting up, and held it out to Pia.
    “See? Everybody, absolutely everyone is offering their condolences, even the mayor.” Her eyes swam with tears. “Do you think that would be happening if my mother wasn’t well liked?”
    “It’s possible that your mother had some kind of secret in her life, something that happened a long time ago,” Pia persisted. Bodenstein knew that she was thinking of the Kaltensee case. The idea wasn’t that far-fetched. At the very