A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 10
July 28, 2008
“I am a crime reporter,” I answered, looking up. “Under the name of Peter Weill.”
“The Peter Weill?” His tone shifted. He was a fan.
“For the past several years,” I said. “I have worked closely with the police all that time.”
I pulled my press pass out of my satchel and handed it to him, then flipped open my sketchbook to a courtroom sketch published in the paper a week ago.
His face creased in a smile. “I remember that picture. Your line work is quite accomplished.” He returned my press pass, and I tucked it into my satchel.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s so rare that anyone notices. You have a discerning eye.”
Fritz suppressed a smile when the man stood up even straighter and held out his hand.
“Kommissar Lang.”
I wiped my palm on my skirt before shaking his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Kommissar Lang rocked back on the heels of his highly polished shoes. “Your articles have astute insight into the criminal mind. And the measures we must take in order to protect good German people from the wrong elements.”
“I try to do a good, fair job by getting my information from the source.” I glanced at the reports in his hand.
He bowed and handed them to me. “So many reporters these days speak only to victims. Or criminals.”
“They are important sources as well.” I took the reports with a hand that trembled only slightly. “One must be thorough.”
A Trace of Smoke, Excerpt 9
July 20, 2008
NEWS: I have a short story coming out in an anthology in October. More details as I receive them.
EXCERPT: Fritz turned and walked to a large oak file cabinet. As he sorted through folders I took a few steadying breaths.
“Here we go.” He pulled out a stack of papers.
I leaned against the counter and tried to look composed.
Fritz passed me the incident reports with his short, blunt fingers. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Hey!” called a high pitched male voice behind Fritz. “You must not give her those reports.” A small man with erect military bearing rushed over to us and snatched the papers from my hand. “Who are you?”
Fritz looked worried. “She’s Hannah Vogel, with the Berliner Tageblatt.”
“You have identification?” He stared at me with dark crow’s eyes. His thick black hair was perfectly in order, his suit meticulously pressed.
“Of course,” I said. My identification rested in Sarah’s purse in the middle of the ocean. I rummaged through my satchel, for show, grief replaced again by fear.
“I’ve known her since she was seventeen years old,” Fritz said.
The man ignored him and snapped his fingers at me. “Papers, please.”
“They must be here somewhere.” My knees threatened to collapse. I took things out of my satchel, a green notebook, a clean handkerchief, a jade colored fountain pen that Ernst bought for me after he left home.
“What do you do at the Tageblatt?” His tone sounded accusatory. He leaned closer to me. I yearned to back away, but forced myself to remain still, like someone with nothing to hide.