Page 33 of Nothing Watching

“He will be here this afternoon,” one of them said tersely.

“Thank you,” Juliette said, and hastily moved away from the door, retracing her steps back to outside. He wasn’t in and that meant they were going to have to go to his home.

“We need to find out his address,” she said, as soon as she rejoined Wyatt and Sierra.

“I’ve already done that,” Sierra said, “but I should probably warn you that he’s not there.”

Juliette blinked. “He’s not?”

“I found his personal cellphone number. It seems he shares it quite freely,” she explained. “Just to save time, I tracked it, using a program that I found online and which a group of hackers have tweaked further. It works brilliantly. I can tell you exactly where he is. He’s not home, but he’s at an apartment building a few miles east of here.”

“Great work, Sierra,” Juliette said, impressed. “Let’s go there and see if we can talk to him.”

Piling into the car, they headed out, and Juliette felt relieved that because they were driving out of the city, they were in the opposite direction to the morning traffic still streaming in, and could make good time. It was a surprisingly short drive, zigzagging through the streets of Berlin, with the sun starting to peek through a layer of gray cloud that hugged the horizon, promising rain later.

The apartment building was another one of Berlin’s grimmer structures, a low, gray stone building that had three floors, containing small, closely packed apartments. The doorman at the desk glanced at them disinterestedly when they entered, busy texting on his phone. Deciding to capitalize on this lack of motivation, Juliette marched straight past as if she was a legitimate tenant and made for the stairs. They all walked up a flight, and then, on the landing, clustered together and checked the map.

“Can you still see where it is?” Juliette felt worried that the location program might lose its accuracy in this warren of apartment buildings.

“Yes. I can still see,” Sierra said confidently. “It’s along this corridor, up another flight of stairs, and then around a corner. Let’s see where that takes us.”

Juliette led the way as they followed the trail around the corner and up the stairs. Now they were all stepping quietly and moving more slowly, with Sierra glued to her phone.

She indicated an apartment door ahead.

“It’s here,” she whispered. “The phone’s in here.”

Juliette tensed.

From inside, she could hear the sounds of a struggle. A thumping noise, and then, moving closer to the door, she heard a sound that chilled her blood—a woman’s shrill, breathless scream.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Juliette’s adrenaline surged. What was happening in there? She’d heard the professor slept with his students, but this didn’t sound like that was going on. There had been real fear in the woman’s tone.

She rushed up to the door and hammered on it. The sound resounded in the corridor. “Police! Open up!” Juliette shouted, pounding on the door again.

The sounds of the struggle stopped abruptly. Then, a moment later, footsteps approached the door.

Juliette tensed as it opened, not knowing what to expect.

It was the professor himself who stood there. His hair was more disheveled than it had been in the photo, and two shirt buttons were undone. He didn’t look smug and smarmy. Instead, he looked suddenly alert and watchful as if he was preparing to give her a story she’d believe.

The apartment was very small and neat. The narrow hall didn’t give a clear view of what lay beyond the two doors at either end.

Juliette felt a wave of unease wash over her. There was something about the way he was looking at her, with those cold, calculating eyes, that made her skin crawl.

“Professor Dietrich?” she asked, showing her badge. Behind her, in the apartment, she could hear more noises. Someone was hurriedly moving around. She thought she picked up a muffled sob.

“Yes, that’s me,” the professor said, his voice even and controlled. “What brings the police to this door? And how were you aware I was here? Did you track me here?” He spoke with a calm, cold intelligence in his voice.

“We need to ask you a few questions about the recent murders,” Juliette said, making sure she didn’t show that her suspicion of him was spiking with every minute that passed. “May we come in? Whose place is this?”

Dietrich hesitated for a moment, looking from Juliette to Wyatt and Sierra, and back again. Finally, he stepped back.

“This apartment is owned by a friend of mine. I am here helping her with a work assignment,” he said.

Dietrich led them into the living room where a woman sat on the couch, her face swollen with tears. She had streaky chestnut-blond hair that had come loose from its braid and was wisping around her face. The relief on her face at seeing the police was evident.

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