“I hear this new government might not last,” said Sascha, who was seated by his father. The boy was brazen enough to say it, though not yet sure enough of himself to look up from his plate when he did.

“That’s quite a statement,” said Gisella. Her entire torso shook when she laughed. “Do we have a young politico in the family?”

“Sascha has no taste for the socialists,” said Hoffner. He licked at his spoon. “Even the democratic kind.”

Gisella tilted her square head at the boy. “You could do a lot worse, Alexander.” Like all good aunts, she never forgot what he liked to be called. “It’s an exciting time to be young.”

Sascha nodded quietly. He felt the starch in his collar grate against his neck.

The conversation might have droned on and on-with a few more test flights before dessert-had the telephone not interrupted: Sascha and Georgi perked up; Martha looked to Nikolai for guidance; Gisella and Eva simply looked confused.

Hoffner stood. “I’m expecting a call,” he said. “About a case.” This managed to settle the table. Of course, the call was meant for after sundown-and back at the Alex-but maybe Herr Kepner had grown impatient, so impatient that he had tracked down the telephone number to the flat. Points tudes were rare things, after all. Hoffner excused himself and moved through to the living room.

“Hoffner here,” he said when he picked up.

Sadly, Kepner had not been so resourceful: it was the duty sergeant at the Alex. The man apologized for the intrusion. They had found another body, number seven, this one just west of the Tiergarten. Hoffner listened to the details, then hung up.

The zoo, he thought. Over five kilometers from any of the other murder sites. And just a day after Herr Braun’s press briefing. How convenient.

Hoffner considered phoning Fichte, but knew that would be pointless. A call to Lina’s would be equally ill-advised. He was about to start back to the dining room when he saw Sascha standing in the doorway.

“Yes?” said Hoffner.

“Mother wants to know if everything’s all right.”

Hoffner could see the total indifference in the boy’s eyes. “I need to go out to the Tiergarten,” he said. Sascha nodded and started to go. “You can come with me, if you want.” Hoffner momentarily allowed himself to forget what it was that he was going to see out at the zoo. The boy turned back. He said nothing. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer locking horns with Auntie Gee all afternoon?” Hoffner thought he saw the hint of a smile. Sascha, however, managed to keep it in check.

“All right,” said the boy.

“Good. Get our coats. I’ll tell your mother.”

The first streetcar took them out west, the second up north. It was a pleasant little ride, the pockmarks of Kreuzberg-those nice thick chips gouged out by stray bullets-giving way to the smooth porcelain-white complexion of affluent Berlin. Even the advertising posters here loomed more gently: docile pinks and yellows infused the tight skirts of the ladies’ dresses and men’s handkerchiefs. There was a joy in the painted faces that belonged only in the west.

Sascha peered out with contempt. “They got by without so much as a scratch, didn’t they?”

Hoffner hardly noticed; he had been watching Sascha for the last half hour. The boy’s gaze reminded him of another face, smaller, pressed closer in to the tram window, those distant Sundays when father and son had headed up to Potsdamer or Alexanderplatz to choose a line-a new one each time-before settling in for an afternoon’s expedition: twenty pfennigs, and the city had been theirs. He remembered how intently Sascha had listened to all of his stories about the bridges and statues and monuments, Berlin brought to life in a child’s gaze; how he had always insisted that they get out-somewhere in the city’s remote corners-to sample a chocolate or a cake at some unknown cafe, only to stash most of it away in a pocket for Martha; and how those remnants had always arrived back at the flat, more lint than chocolate, to Martha’s absolute delight.

Hoffner had no reason to blame Sascha for his contempt. Like the boy, that city no longer existed.

“They’re going to be governed by socialists now,” said Hoffner. “Far worse than any bullets could have done to them.” He saw a momentary slip in Sascha’s otherwise grim expression. “You like that, do you?” The tram came to a stop, and Sascha gave a shrug. The two stepped off and into the freezing rain. “So do I.”

The group outside the Gardens was far larger than Hoffner had expected. He had been anticipating a few shopkeepers, maybe a building porter or two: a body in daylight always brought out the true devotees, no matter what the weather. This, however, was actually a crowd. Moving closer in, Hoffner noticed a small unit of patrolmen. They had set up an improvised barrier and were trying to keep order. Braun’s promised hysteria had begun.

With Sascha in tow, Hoffner pushed his way through and up to the nearest of the Schutzi officers. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked as he pulled out his badge.

The patrolman recognized the name at once; he, too, had seen this morning’s papers. “Kriminal-Kommissar Hoffner!” he said in a loud, enthusiastic voice.

Everyone within earshot turned at the mention of the name: evidently, no one had missed today’s news. “The man in charge,” Hoffner repeated as he ignored the stares. “Obviously that’s not you.”

The man snapped to attention. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Right away, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Still keeping the crowd back, the patrolman tried to locate his sergeant.

Hoffner peered past him. Set against the growing herd, the plaza looked desolate. The few who were wandering outside the gate to the zoo had turned up their collars against the wind; fists were pressed deep inside pockets, some in uniform, some not. Hoffner recognized several of the faces from yesterday’s briefing: the press had managed to get through. He was about to say something to the patrolman, when he noticed Polpo Kommissar Walther Hermannsohn among them. Hoffner wondered if he was meant to be surprised by Hermannsohn’s presence. The man was taller than he remembered-no Tamshik, this time, to dwarf him. Truth to tell, Hoffner would have preferred Tamshik. At least there he knew what to expect. Here, even within the small gathering, Hermannsohn seemed to stand alone. “Never mind,” said Hoffner as he stepped over the barrier and out into the plaza. “I see who I need.”

With a surge of authority, the patrolman reached over and grabbed Sascha by the shoulder. “Not so fast, my young friend.”

Hoffner turned back. Again, Sascha’s size startled him: the boy was as big as the man clutching him. “He’s with me, Patrolman,” said Hoffner. His impatience had little effect. “You’ve never seen a junior detective, is that it?” The man’s conceit gave way to confusion. Hoffner spoke with greater precision. “Any chance I can get my detective back?”

Confusion turned to helplessness. The man suddenly snapped to attention and released Sascha. “Yes, of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Don’t let the age fool you, Patrolman. The good ones always start young. At least in the Kripo.”

“Of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. My apologies.” He turned nervously to Sascha. “My apologies, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.”

Hoffner was about to answer when Sascha said, “Just don’t let it happen again, Patrolman.” There was a surprising weight to Sascha’s tone. Hoffner bit down on his tongue to keep from smiling.

The man offered an efficient nod. “No, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.”

Without acknowledging his father, Sascha pulled up his collar and headed out into the plaza. Hoffner gave the man a reproachful nod, then followed Sascha out. “A little hard on him, weren’t you?” he said when they were side by side.