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made him grin. He’d seen somebody do that in a movie once, and he thought it was cool.
    “Could I borrow your cell for a minute?” he asked the bartender, noticing that he was having trouble speaking clearly.
    “Use your own,” she replied pertly, pulling another beer without looking at him. But unfortunately, he no longer had it. What a bummer. It must have fallen out of his pocket somewhere.
    “I lost it,” he slurred. “Don’t give me that look. Come on.”
    “No way.” Then she moved past him and, carrying a full tray, went over to the guys at the dartboard. Looking in the mirror, he saw the door open. Kurti. Finally.
    “Hey, man.” Kurti slapped him on the shoulder and sat down on the bar stool next to him.
    “Order whatever you want; I’m buying,” said Robert magnanimously. The dough from Uncle Jossi would last for a couple of days; then he’d have to look around for a new source, and he already had a good idea. He hadn’t visited his dear Uncle Herrmann in quite a while. Maybe he should let Kurti in on his plans. Robert twisted his face into an evil smile. He was damn well going to get what he was entitled to.
    *   *   *
    In Henning Kirchhoff’s office, Bodenstein was searching through the contents of a carton that Pia had taken from Goldberg’s house and brought to the Institute of Forensic Medicine. The two used glasses and the wine bottle were already on their way to the lab, as well as the mirror, all the fingerprints, and everything else the evidence techs had collected. Meanwhile, downstairs in the basement of the institute, Dr. Kirchhoff was performing the autopsy on the body of David Josua Goldberg in the presence of Pia Kirchhoff and an assistant district attorney who looked like a second-year law student. Bodenstein scanned a few thank-you letters from various individuals and institutions that Goldberg had sponsored and supported financially. Then he glanced at several photos in silver frames and some newspaper articles that had been carefully clipped out and meticulously mounted. A taxi receipt from January, a worn little book in Hebrew. Not much. Apparently, Goldberg had kept the majority of his belongings elsewhere. Among all the things that must have had some meaning for their original owner, only an appointment diary was of any interest to Bodenstein. Goldberg exhibited amazingly clear penmanship for someone of his advanced age, with no shaky or wobbly letters. Bodenstein turned to the previous week, in which there were notes for each day. He was disappointed by what he found: nothing but names that were almost all abbreviated. Only on today’s date was a full name written: Vera 85. Despite the meager results, Bodenstein took the appointment diary to the copier in the administrative office of the institute and began copying all the pages since January. Just as he reached the last week of Goldberg’s life, his cell phone buzzed.
    “Boss.” Pia Kirchhoff’s voice sounded a little broken up because of the less than optimal reception in the basement of the institute. “You’ve got to come down here. Henning has discovered something strange.”
    *   *   *
    “I have no explanation for this. Absolutely none. But it’s quite clear. Utterly unequivocal,” said Dr. Henning Kirchhoff, shaking his head as Bodenstein stepped into the autopsy room. The ME had lost all his professional composure and cynicism. Even his assistant and Pia seemed stunned, and the assistant DA was nervously chewing on his lower lip.
    “What did you find?” Bodenstein asked.
    “Something unbelievable.” Kirchhoff motioned him closer to the table and handed him a magnifying glass. “I noticed something on the inside of his upper left arm, a tattoo. I could hardly see it because of the livor mortis on his arm. He was found lying on his left side.”
    “Everybody who was in Auschwitz had a tattoo,” Bodenstein replied.
    “But not one like this.” Kirchhoff pointed at Goldberg’s arm.