"He shot him on purpose! I'm sure of it! And only him!" Ashlyn was standing at the grill on her roof terrace, turning the large rib-eye steaks, which exuded an appetizing aroma in the heat of the fire. Then she reached for her beer, which she had placed on the balustrade facing the courtyard, where more and more of the plaster was beginning to flake off, and took a big gulp. "Eric Sanchez had to die. Brandt really did execute him. Exactly as Wieczorek stated at the BPD. Literally executed! And if we're being honest, that's exactly what happened. It couldn't have been a coincidence. Wieczorek didn't just let that slip. He was way too easily rattled by me during the trial. And then he only broke down, so I couldn't question him further. It was all fake. I'm sure he must have had something to do with the shooting. And the other two victims were just a distraction; I'm a hundred percent convinced of that after talking to my mother." She paused and looked down at her cousin Jalen, who lounged casually in one of the deckchairs. "The question is," she continued, 'why did Eric Sanchez have to die? Or rather, what did he have to die for?'

Jalen held a hand before his eyes as he looked at his cousin. The setting sun was shining directly into his face and blinding him. 'Okay. Let's go over everything again from the beginning,' he said. "Then we'll see what we're missing and need next."

Ashlyn took a deep breath and nodded.

"So," the young man began. "Brandt rides his bike to the bakery in the morning because he wants to shoot Sanchez."

"Exactly. So he has to make sure that Eric Sanchez is there. And he needs a gun," the lawyer added with a frown.

"First point: Sanchez! Let's assume that the two knew each other. So he called or messaged him, and they agreed on a place and time. As the records show, Eric Sanchez was neither armed nor expecting an attack. Otherwise, he wouldn't have just been reading the newspaper and drinking an espresso while waiting for the shooting to start."

She licked her lips and raised her eyebrows briefly. "Okay, we still have to prove that, but let's leave it at that. Item two: the weapon!"

Jalen pointed to the printout on the table that he had received from the cell phone shop that afternoon. "Exactly. Brandt had it delivered to the scene. Very clever. He got a SIM card in the city and sent the anonymous message to Sergeant Bailey."

"Right. So he sent the message to the sergeant, knowing he would come to the bakery. Armed, of course. He also chose Bailey deliberately. The poor guy is getting a bit long in the tooth, so it wasn't too difficult for Brandt to overpower him and take his service weapon."

"You better not let Liz and my father hear that," Jalen replied with a knowing grin, but when Ashlyn rolled her eyes, he became serious again. "Right. And then he went to the bakery with the gun and shot Eric Sanchez. And so that no one would notice that he was targeting Sanchez, he also hit the other two as a distraction."

"We also still have Wieczorek," Ashlyn interjected. "After his pathetic performance in court and the evidence in the file, we must also consider that he could be involved. The fact is that he was also in the bakery. All the time. All three of them. Sanchez, Brandt and Wieczorek."

Jalen scratched his chin and frowned a little. "That's right. The only question is what role he played and whether there is a reason why Brandt didn't target him too."

Ashlyn nodded slowly and turned back to the grill. She took the two rib-eye steaks off the grill and placed them on a wooden board to rest. "Good point, we still have to figure that out. But at least we know what happened here and how Brandt did it." She opened two new bottles of beer. With an inviting gesture, she handed one of them to her cousin. "Therefore, Jalen, we have to answer one question: What do Nicholas Brandt, Eric Sanchez, and Norman Wieczorek have to do with each other?"

xxx

Kamil Gazal was a businessman through and through. Not in the usual sense, of course. He ran a commercial enterprise and served the demand that had always existed. And that would always exist. He hadn't invented drugs. Or prostitution. And he, indeed, hadn't invented gambling. Quite the opposite. He had only reorganized it. Better than anyone before him.

He contemptuously crumpled up the tabloid newspaper, which reported on a sensational article about a local politician's fight against organized crime in Boston. Gazal's name was also printed in the report. All distorted! All exaggerated! All lies! For a moment, he considered leaking some information about this politician to the newspaper that would expose his commitment as mere hypocrisy. But then he thought better of it. It could wait, and he would only play this trump card when the time was right. Now he had a much more pressing problem. A problem that was getting bigger every day. All the cash he was making from his ventures. He had found a way to invest the money. Profitably. Very profitably. And legally. At least by his standards. This path had been closed to him for half a year. But not only that. If his method was discovered, he would lose all of it. They could confiscate it. Just like not too long ago, the apartment and then a villa of another clan family. That must not happen to him. He had to prevent it. And he would prevent it.

Kamil Gazal reached for his smartphone and dialed the number of his only confidant. After the second ring, the call was accepted. Without much preamble, he got straight to the point: "Habibi. It's good that I reached you. I need your help. We have to act."

"Hello, Kamil. What's up, my dear. Where do we have to act?" replied Sair Gazal, Kamil's younger brother, and number two in their company.

"Brandt! So far, he's kept his mouth shut. And that was good while he was alone in jail. But now that the trial has started, I'm worried. The media are sniffing around, and his lawyer seems a bit overzealous. I didn't like how Wieczorek, or whatever his name is, was interrogated. The newspapers have jumped all over it. We can't take any chances. It could go well, but someone could also offer him a deal if he talks. We have to make sure that doesn't happen. But in a way that he doesn't immediately notice. Just stay close to him and find out what he's thinking."

"Okay, I see. And how do you imagine that?"

"He urgently needs new friends. Who do we have in the MCI?"

xxx

Frustrated by his so-far fruitless inquiries into Norman Wieczorek's role in the matter, Jalen entered the small laundry not far from Nicholas Brandt's apartment. Since Wieczorek also lived nearby, he hoped to get more clues here.

The cramped room's air was stuffy and smelled of detergent. The walls were lined with numerous racks on which hundreds of shirts and other garments were hanging in thin plastic wrap. In addition to the employee ironing a pair of trousers at a breathtaking speed to the side of the sales counter, two customers stood in the small room. All three were engaged in a lively conversation.

An older woman with short gray hair dressed in a simple summer dress looked at Jalen briefly, then turned to the other two: "I wouldn't have thought that about Nicholas Brandt. Such a nice man. He was always with his daughter, Lily. He always seemed really nice to me."

"That's right," replied the other customer, a man in his mid-forties wearing shorts and a red T-shirt. He shook his head. 'I can't understand it either.' With a smile, he added, 'Nice girl, the little one, didn't say much, but she always seemed kind of happy.'

The laundry employee now looked at Jalen. "Excuse me, can I help you?"

Jalen thought for a moment before answering. He felt he could get some vital information here because it was evident that the three of them knew Nicholas Brandt. "Oh, please don't let me disturb you," he said. "I just wanted to know how quickly you could clean a suit and how much it would cost." Then he looked at his iPhone. "One moment, please," he said, holding the phone to his ear as if he were taking a call. He didn't want to interrupt the conversation but decided to simply eavesdrop while pretending to make a call.

His plan worked because the older lady picked up her thread again. Paying no further attention to Jalen, she continued her conversation with the other two.

"But that thing with Brandt is pretty strange, isn't it? Just like that, out of the blue," she said.

The other customer nodded. "And you know what, the guy, this Sanchez, who was shot by Brandt, I've seen him around too. At the bakery, I mean."

Jalen listened intently, trying to maintain the impression that he was making a phone call.

"That's right," the laundry employee replied, putting his iron in front of him and hanging the trousers on a coat hanger. 'And the other one who was in the newspaper. The one who collapsed in court, he was there often. What was his name again?'

Jalen had to make a great effort not to call Wieczorek and almost fell out of his role.

But at the last moment, he managed to control himself and did his best to hide his joy at what he was hearing.

"I don't know either," the older lady replied. "But you're right. I've seen him there quite often. All three of them. And wasn't there something between this witness and Brandt? They didn't really like each other either, did they?"

But she looked at her watch before anyone could answer her question and shrugged. "Who knows what's behind it all?" she said with a conspiratorial tone. "But I have to go now." She grabbed some clothes from the counter, waved briefly, and disappeared the next moment.

The other customers also said goodbye, leaving only Jalen and the laundry employee.

Jalen ended his fake conversation. "Sorry," he said, smiling, "My wife."

The employee laughed and just said, "That's always important." With a wink, he added, "Happy wife, happy life." Then he grabbed another pair of trousers and spread them on the ironing board before him. "Fifty dollars and two days," he said.

Jalen, momentarily at a loss for words due to all the unexpected information he had received, nodded. "All right, I understand," he replied. I'll bring something over tomorrow."

Before stepping through the laundry door outside, he turned around again. "What was your name again, please?"

"Moran, Henry Moran."

xxx

Martin Schaefer was by no means a friend of Nicholas Brandt. Brandt had taken the job from him that was rightfully his.

With his left hand, he shooed away a fly that had just landed on the sleeve of his plaid shirt and looked around the office of his former colleague.

Large framed pictures of current construction projects in their community adorned the walls of the white-painted room. The new True-Light tubes created a pleasant atmosphere, almost identical to the midday daylight, and the light-colored office furniture had replaced the decades-old wooden desks and chairs just three years ago.

Schaefer thought of Brandt. When the old department head retired six years ago, he should have taken his place. And he could have used the money the promotion would have earned him. Then, he could finally have afforded his lifelong dream, a small house for himself, his wife, and two children. With a garden. And a swing and a sandbox. They could have done with a bit more space, especially now that the third child was on the way.

Instead, along came Brandt. A typical career official, Brandt was put right under his nose. He had always suspected that something about the whole affair was fishy. Not only that, Brandt wanted to throw out everything he had built up with his old boss in the years before, all the processes and the structure they had created. But he knew Schaefer was much more familiar with all the processes and situations.

But Brandt wanted to change all that, whether it was good or bad. The main thing was to change it and make it how he liked it.

All right, he was hardworking and determined. Schaefer had to give him credit for that. And they have achieved a lot of good things for the community. Of course, Brandt didn't deserve all the credit for that; most of it was Schaefer's. But then, at some point, Brandt started to isolate himself from his colleagues. He increasingly worked outside the office, no longer attended his appointments at the agency, and talked less and less about his family and his daughter Lily, around whom everything had revolved before. At some point, he had changed. And then, out of the blue, he shot three people in the bakery. What a disaster. He, Schaefer, had always suspected that something was wrong with Brandt.

Since he had provisionally taken over from Brandt and led the small team, he had finally got the job he felt he had long deserved. Only the official promotion and the salary that was so important to him were still pending. But hopefully, that would change soon. He didn't shed a tear for his ex-boss and wouldn't have a problem if he didn't return.

xxx

Nicholas Brandt was brutally pushed from behind and fell onto the hard, rough floor of the prison yard. The attack was so unexpected that he couldn't brace himself in time and now lay face down in the dirt. He slowly rolled onto his side and looked into the face of a large man who would have passed as The Beast in the wrestling league. The digits 88 were tattooed on the right side of his massive, clean-shaven skull. The letters H-A-T-E were emblazoned on the knuckles of the fingers of his huge fist, which he held threateningly out towards Brandt. With a contemptuous expression on his face, the thug looked down at Brandt.

"Well, you fag, too stupid to walk straight, what?" He laughed.

The two men who flanked him on the left and right and obviously belonged to him joined in the laughter. One leaned down to Brandt and spat at him. Instinctively, he held his hands protectively in front of his face. Still lying on the floor, he pushed himself slowly back with his legs away from the men. What had he done to them? He didn't know the three of them at all. Sure, he had seen them occasionally over the last few months. They were part of the Nazi group here in prison, but they mostly kept to themselves. He had no idea why they were attacking him now. So far, no one had bothered with him. He didn't know what to do. He was utterly overwhelmed. He looked around anxiously. Why didn't a guard come to his aid? Had they not noticed how he was being threatened? Perhaps they couldn't see him because the three men stood before him, blocking their view.

"Well, you want a beating?" the trio leader asked mockingly, swinging his fist.

Brandt closed his eyes. But the expected blow did not come. Instead, he heard a different voice with a foreign accent.

"Hey, what's the matter with you, you nut? Leave the man alone. He hasn't done anything to you."

Brandt opened his eyes, and it took him a few seconds to grasp the situation. The three Nazis were surrounded by a group of about seven dark-haired, Arabic-looking men. Their leader was the equal of the Beast in stature. He held the Beast's fist in an iron grip and stared at him with a piercing gaze.

"Three against one. You call that fair? If anyone here is a fag, it's you!"

The Nazi lowered his fist and backed away. He looked around briefly and concluded that he and his two cronies were outnumbered and that a further confrontation was not worthwhile.

He raised his hands apologetically. "All right, man, don't get worked up." He nodded at his friends and pointed in the other direction of the courtyard. But before he left, he turned around to Brandt one more time. "We're not done with you yet, you pussy."

Brandt winced, and the Nazis laughed contemptuously.

The man who had helped him held out his hand. "Hey, don't let that asshole bother you. He's just an idiot. Come on, I'll help you."

Brandt was surprised. He didn't know what to think. Why had he been attacked? And how had he earned the help?

"Come on, give me your hand," the man repeated, looking at Brandt kindly. "I'm Bassem."

Brandt grasped the man's hand and allowed himself to be pulled up from the ground. Bassem brushed the dirt off his shoulders.

A moment later, one of the guards approached the group. "Hey, what's going on here? Break it up! What happened here?"

"Nothing, I just tripped, and they helped me up," replied Brandt, who wanted to prevent Bassem and his friends from getting into trouble. He felt he owed them a favor.

The guard looked at him skeptically. But then he nodded and walked on.

"Thank you," said Brandt, searching for the right words. "Thank you for helping me. I don't know what else they would have done to me."

"It's a matter of honor. We'll take care of you now. You don't have to worry. Those bastards won't hurt you anymore."

Brandt nodded. He was as surprised by the Nazis' attack as he was by the Arabs' help. But it felt good to know that someone was standing by him. They probably couldn't stand the Nazis, and that's why they helped him.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," or something like that, Brandt thought.

Whatever it was, it couldn't hurt to have allies here in jail.

Bassem smiled and patted Brandt on the shoulder. But before he walked on, he looked at him again penetratingly. "It's always good to know whose side you're on," he said. And with a tone that left no doubt as to the seriousness of his words, he added, "And it's also always good to know when and where to remain silent."

Brandt winced again. It suddenly occurred to him that the whole incident was no coincidence but rather a clear message to him.