Desmond glanced behind him, out the large front window, just in time to see a police patrol car roll by. He turned, waiting for it to pass.
He wouldn’t get anything else from the dry cleaner. Maybe it was just a random coupon and had nothing to do with who he was or what was going on. Finally, he said, “Okay, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
On the street, he moved with the throngs of people, trying to stay out of the line of sight of cars passing by. Two blocks from the dry cleaner, he spotted a mobile phone store, where he bought a disposable smartphone. They were common in Europe; tourists and temporary workers often used them to avoid roaming charges for calls and data. The phone and a prepaid GSM SIM card severely depleted his cash supply. Money would become a real problem soon. He made a note to only use the mobile data in an emergency until he solved his cash problem.
He bought a d?ner kebab from a street vendor, wolfed it down, and slipped into a crowded coffee shop with free WiFi. He locked himself in the single toilet bathroom, ensuring no security cameras could see his actions or record his conversations. His first instinct was to search the internet for himself, to dig into the mystery of who he was—and to look up Peyton Shaw. But he had to cover the bases of survival first. He needed to get off the street as soon as possible.
The cab driver was right. There were tons of flats and rooms for rent on a nightly basis in Berlin, but many of the listing sites, like Airbnb, required him to register and pay with a credit card in order to rent. That wouldn’t work. He found a site that required landlords to pay-to-list, and began bookmarking suitable accommodations. Luckily there were quite a few studio flats available in Wedding. Most were run-down, but they were cheap.
He dialed the number listed for a promising flat nearby. Without thinking about it, he spoke excitedly, with a New England accent far different from his neutral, Midwestern accent.
“Oh, hi, do you have the flat for rent on Amsterdamer Stra?e?”
“Yes, that is correct.” The woman’s voice held little emotion.
“Is it available for the next three days?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful, wonderful. Listen, I’m in Berlin for business, and I could really use some help. I took the train in and when I woke up it was all gone—I mean everything: my luggage, laptop, wallet, passport, money, credit cards, you name it, gone. The rascals even slipped my wedding ring off!”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” the woman said with a little more sympathy.
“My wife wired me some money, and I’m looking for a place to rent. Can we meet? You’ll see I’ve got an honest face!” Desmond let out a goofy, nervous laugh that matched the fake exasperated accent he had affected.
“Ah, well, okay.” The woman said it would be three hours before she could get to the flat. Desmond agreed and ended the call. Assuming it worked out, he’d be off the street soon.
He opened a web browser and scanned the top German news sources. Bild carried no news about him, but a breaking news banner at the top of Spiegel Online read: Berlin police launch citywide manhunt for American man wanted for murder and assaulting two police officers.
Desmond clicked the link and scanned the article. The hunt was being run by the Landeskriminalamt, also known as the LKA—the police division charged with investigating major crimes and conducting special manhunts. The LKA would be coordinating a number of units. Reading the list gave Desmond pause about staying in the city.
The Spezialeinsatzkommando—the state police’s SWAT teams—were on standby for locations to raid. Mobiles Einsatzkommando—the special operative agents of the LKA—were being deployed to every borough to conduct a manhunt. Wasserschutzpolizei—the river police—were monitoring all the city’s waterways. Zentraler Verkehrsdienst—the traffic police—had engaged local and highway patrol units (Autobahnpolizei) to search for him. They even had Diensthundführer—K9 units—at the Concord, picking up his scent.
They were about to turn the city upside down looking for him.
Despite naming him, the article didn’t have any details about who he was or his background. This was both a relief and a disappointment. It would make it harder for them to find him—but it told him nothing about who he was.
Desmond opened the phone’s map application and found what he needed. Despite the citywide manhunt launching, Wedding looked like it would be a perfect place to hide. But Desmond still had the sense that he was missing something—and that the dry cleaner was somehow part of the puzzle.
Three blocks away, Desmond sat in the changing room of a secondhand thrift shop. Two outfits hung on the inside of the door, both Turkish-made and more casual than his button-up shirt and khakis.
When he slipped his pants off, what he saw took his breath away. Burn scars spread from his feet to his knees. The mottled flesh looked like creamy-white tree roots growing across his body. They were old scars, remnants of a horrible event. The feeling was unnerving—not being able to remember the fire that had torched his legs. He searched the rest of his body. Above his pelvis on the right side, he found a puckered, rounded scar below his ribs. A healed gunshot wound? Scattered about his torso and arms were smaller, straight scars where knife wounds had likely healed. In the hotel room, he had been so focused on the aching black and blue bruise on his left side that he hadn’t noticed anything else. Now he longed to know where he’d come from, what sort of life he’d led—what sort of person he was. Or at least, had been.
As he stared at the floor, something inside the crumpled-up khaki pants caught his eye: a pink tag stapled to the garment’s care instructions. He had seen similar tags before, only hours ago, attached to clear plastic bags hanging in rows… in the dry cleaner.