A Resa Rational Mystery
### Chapter One: Arrival in Munich
The Mercedes S-Class glided through Munich's morning traffic like a shark through calm waters, its black paint absorbing the autumn sunlight that filtered between the neo-Gothic spires and modern glass facades. Resa Rational sat in the back seat, her laptop open, scanning the encrypted files her contact at INTERPOL had sent through that morning. The photographs on her screen showed the same object from multiple angles: a fourteen-inch bronze plaque from the Kingdom of Benin, depicting a warrior chief in ceremonial regalia, his features rendered in that distinctive style that had captivated European looters in 1897 and continued to haunt the art world 130 years later.
"Estimated value?" she murmured to herself, running a finger along the edge of her screen. "Priceless to the Nigerian people. Maybe four million euros to the right collector. Zero to anyone with a functioning conscience."
The driver, a taciturn Bavarian whose name badge read "Klaus," glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "We are approaching the hotel, Frau Rational. The Rosewood Munich is just ahead."
Resa closed her laptop and looked up. The hotel rose before them, a masterpiece of architectural marriage—the century-old stone facade of Munich's former publishing house preserved like a fossil, with floor-to-ceiling glass additions that made the building breathe with modern life. This was her kind of place:表面上 respectability masking undercurrents of something more interesting.
She had come to Munich under the pretense of consulting for an insurance company reassessing their fine arts coverage. The reality, known only to her and a handful of officials at INTERPOL's Works of Art division, was that she was hunting a ghost. The Benin bronze plaque in her photographs had vanished from a private collection in Brussels three months ago, and the trail—what little existed—had gone cold in a warehouse district outside Frankfurt. Then, seventy-two hours ago, a low-resolution image had appeared on a dark web auction site, the distinctive bronze visible in the background of a photograph ostensibly selling a 1970s Rolex. The metadata had been scrubbed, but Resa had found what the sellers missed: a reflection in the watch's crystal that showed a uniquely Bavarian architectural detail—a very specific gargoyle that ornamented exactly one building in Munich.
The Rosewood had been built around that gargoyle.
"Your luggage will be taken to your suite, Frau Rational," Klaus announced as he opened her door. The brisk October air carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant pretzels from a street vendor. "The manager, Herr Weber, is expecting you."
Resa stepped onto the sidewalk, her low heels clicking against the polished stone. She wore a charcoal trouser suit that cost more than Klaus's car payment but looked anonymous enough to blend into any European business district. Her only concession to personal style was a vintage pocket watch she wore as a pendant—an 18th-century French piece that kept perfect time and concealed a miniature camera. She'd learned long ago that the best accessories were both beautiful and functional.
Herr Weber met her in the lobby, a tall man whose smile seemed genuine but whose eyes scanned her with the practiced assessment of someone who dealt with the ultrawealthy daily. "Frau Rational, welcome to the Rosewood Munich. We understand you're here on insurance business?"
"Yes," Resa said, shaking his hand. Her grip was firm, her nails trimmed short—no varnish, no jewelry. "Reassessing coverage for several of your guests' collections. The Gardner Group has new underwriting standards. We prefer to examine locations personally rather than relying on paperwork."
"Of course." Weber nodded, though she caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "We pride ourselves on discretion and security. Many of our guests store valuable items in our safes."
"I'm sure." Resa let her gaze sweep the lobby—Marquina marble floors, contemporary art that was probably genuine, a concierge desk staffed by three people in perfect suits. "Discretion is the better part of valor, particularly when insuring valor."
Weber's smile flickered, unsure whether she'd made a joke. Resa gave him nothing, maintaining the neutral expression that had earned her the nickname "The Sphinx" in certain European investigative circles.
"Your suite is ready—the Presidential, as requested. I hope you'll find it comfortable for your work."
"I'm sure it will be adequate." Resa accepted the key card he offered, noting the slight tremor in his fingers. Nervousness? Caffeine? Or something more interesting? "One question, Herr Weber. Do you have many guests who use the spa facilities late at night?"
The question seemed to catch him off-guard. "Our spa is available twenty-four hours for premium guests, though usage after midnight is... uncommon. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Resa said, already moving toward the elevators. "Just establishing patterns. It's part of the assessment."
As the elevator ascended, she reviewed what she knew. The Rosewood's spa was located in the lower levels, partially occupying a renovated bomb shelter from World War II. The original architecture remained in places—thick concrete walls, narrow corridors, ventilation shafts that ran throughout the old building like artificial arteries. And somewhere down there, if her instincts were correct, was a steam oven large enough to service a small army, installed during a 2021 renovation that had supposedly updated the hotel's kitchen facilities.
The elevator doors opened onto the sixth floor. Resa's suite occupied the entire eastern wing, but she barely glanced at the luxurious furnishings, the view of Munich's old town, or the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket. Instead, she went straight to the bathroom and ran the taps, letting the sound of running water mask her real activities. From her Hermès briefcase—which was genuine, but had been modified with several interesting compartments—she withdrew a device that looked like a smartphone but was actually a sophisticated RF detector and spectrum analyzer.
She walked the perimeter of the suite, scanning for surveillance devices. In the bedroom, she found one— a tiny microphone embedded in the frame of an abstract painting. In the living area, another, this one in the base of a table lamp. The bathroom was clean, which told her that whoever was watching considered bedroom and living activities more interesting than hygiene.
Resa left the devices active. Let them listen. She had nothing to hide—yet.
Her real work would begin downstairs, in the places where hotel guests didn't go.
### Chapter Two: Patterns of Steam
The spa reception was empty at 2:47 AM, which suited Resa perfectly. She'd changed into the hotel's branded robe and slippers, her hair tucked under a swimming cap that concealed her pocket watch camera. A laminated sign announced that the sauna, steam room, and relaxation areas were open, but the treatment rooms closed after 11 PM. The sign didn't mention the steam oven. That was for staff only.
According to the architectural plans she'd acquired through less-than-legal means, the steam oven was located in a service corridor behind the spa's kitchen area. It was a rational addition for a luxury hotel—a commercial-grade appliance that could produce restaurant-quality steam cooking for room service and the main restaurant. But the plans also showed something odd: an unusually thick wall behind the oven, one that didn't correspond to the building's original structure or any load-bearing necessity.
Resa moved through the spa like a ghost. The pool area was dark, the water surface perfectly still except for the gentle ripple from the filtration system. The sauna was empty, the cedar benches releasing their distinctive scent in the dry heat. The steam room was likewise deserted, its glass door fogged with condensation.
She found the service door marked "Mitarbeiterbereich — Nur für Personal" and tried the handle. Locked, as expected. From her robe pocket, she withdrew a card that looked like a standard hotel key but had been encoded with the master sequence used by housekeeping. The lock clicked open.
The service corridor was a different world from the luxury upstairs—utilitarian tile floors, exposed pipes painted institutional beige, the smell of industrial cleaning products. Resa moved silently, her slippers making no sound. She passed the laundry room, the chemical storage area, and then found what she was looking for: a large stainless steel door with "Dämpfofen — Steam Oven" stenciled above it in German and English.
The oven was massive, built into the wall, its digital display dark. Resa ran her fingers along the seam where it met the tiled surround. The fit was perfect—too perfect. In a building this old, even the most careful renovations left gaps, slight misalignments. This installation looked like it had been placed by watchmakers.
She knelt and examined the base. There, almost invisible against the stainless steel, was a scratch—fresh, maybe a few days old. It ran parallel to the floor, as if something had been dragged out recently.
Resa stood and stepped back, studying the wall. The oven was set into a recess that was at least three feet deep. According to the plans, that put the back of it directly against the mysterious thick wall. She glanced up at the ventilation system—standard commercial ductwork, large enough for airflow but not human access. But at the base, where the wall met the floor, she noticed something: the grout lines in the tile didn't quite line up. One section, roughly two feet square, was fractionally different in color and texture.
From another pocket in her robe—she'd had it modified with more compartments than a magician's suitcase—she withdrew a small, powerful magnet. She pressed it against various points on the wall, feeling for the telltale attraction of a metal locking mechanism. The magnet clicked against the tile in four distinct points, forming a square.
A hidden access panel.
She was about to investigate further when she heard footsteps in the corridor. Quick, light—a woman's stride, wearing practical shoes. Resa slipped into the space between the steam oven and the wall, pressing herself flat as the footsteps approached.
A woman entered, speaking softly in German into a phone. "Ja, alles ist bereit. Der Käufer kommt morgen Abend. Die Bezahlung sollte bis dahin überwiesen sein." (Yes, everything is ready. The buyer comes tomorrow evening. The payment should be transferred by then.)
Resa held her breath. The voice was familiar—a cultured Munich accent, probably native. The woman moved to the steam oven, opened the door, and reached inside. There was a soft click, then the sound of the hidden panel opening. Resa risked a glance.
The woman was in her fifties, with silver-blonde hair in a severe bun and the bearing of someone used to command. She wore a tailored suit under a lab coat—an odd combination that suggested she was either a very well-dressed scientist or a corporate executive who'd borrowed medical attire. The panel had opened to reveal a small vault, and from it, the woman withdrew a package wrapped in acid-free paper.
Resa's heart rate increased. The wrapping was standard for archaeological artifacts. The dimensions were exactly right for the Benin bronze plaque.
The woman's phone rang again. She answered, her tone shifting to one of deference. "Ja, Doktor? Nein, keine Probleme. Die Temperaturkontrolle ist stabil, die Feuchtigkeit bleibt konstant bei 45 Prozent." (Yes, Doctor? No, problems. The temperature control is stable, the humidity remains constant at 45 percent.)
Humidity control. The steam oven would provide perfect cover—anyone who detected unusual moisture would assume it was from the appliance, not climate control for a priceless artifact.
The conversation continued, but Resa was already calculating her next move. The woman was clearly the custodian, not the mastermind. The "Doctor" on the phone was the key. And tomorrow evening, a buyer would arrive. She had roughly eighteen hours to confirm the artifact, identify the players, and arrange for INTERPOL's intervention.
The woman rewrapped the package, returned it to the vault, and closed the panel. She ran a finger along the seam, checking it was flush, then left the way she'd come, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
Resa waited a full five minutes before emerging. She approached the steam oven and pressed her palm against its cold surface. The metal was smooth, but along the bottom edge, she felt a slight irregularity—a button, flush with the surface, designed to be pressed with a specific tool.
She wasn't going to open it now. That would alert them. But she had enough.
Time to make a phone call.
### Chapter Three: The Doctor and The Cook
Resa spent the rest of the night in her suite, though she didn't sleep. Instead, she worked through the hotel's digital infrastructure, using a suite of tools that existed in the gray area between legitimate security testing and outright hacking. The Rosewood's guest WiFi was isolated from their internal systems—basic cybersecurity—but the housekeeping and maintenance networks shared infrastructure with the spa's environmental controls.
That was the weakness she'd exploit.
By 6 AM, she knew the identity of the woman from the service corridor: Dr. Karin Hoffmann, the hotel's "Chief Wellness Officer"—a modern title for someone who managed the spa, fitness center, and "guest experience optimization." Her credentials were impressive: a PhD in preventive medicine from Heidelberg, published research on thermal therapy, and fifteen years managing luxury spa facilities across Europe.
But Resa's deeper search revealed another pattern. Wherever Hoffmann had worked, small artifacts had vanished from nearby museums or private collections. A Roman silver bracelet in Vienna. A Byzantine icon in Budapest. Never anything large enough to make international headlines, always items that could be hidden in a handbag, always artifacts that required specific climate control.
Now the Benin bronze.
Resa cross-referenced the hotel's employment records and found another interesting connection: the head chef, a man named Stefan König, had started working at the Rosewood six weeks after Hoffmann's arrival. Before that, he'd been the sous-chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Berlin that had closed under mysterious circumstances—specifically, after the head chef was arrested for insurance fraud involving falsely reported equipment thefts.
König had no criminal record himself, but his timing was suspect. And his domain included the steam oven.
By the time room service delivered her coffee and croissants at 7 AM, Resa had constructed a working theory: Hoffmann was the specialist, providing the expertise in artifact preservation. König was the logistics, using his kitchen domain to hide the stolen goods in plain sight. The steam oven provided perfect cover—temperature and humidity controlled, masked by the legitimate presence of a commercial kitchen, and accessible only to staff.
But who was the "Doctor" Hoffmann had spoken to?
Resa dressed in a fresh suit—navy this time, with a silk blouse the color of clotted cream—and went downstairs for breakfast. She chose a table in the main restaurant where she could observe the kitchen entrance, and ordered the traditional Bavarian breakfast: weißwurst, pretzel, and wheat beer. The waiter seemed surprised by her choice—most female guests ordered continental—but Resa had learned that the best way to disappear in a foreign country was to embrace the local customs with slightly excessive enthusiasm.
At 8:30 AM, Chef König emerged from the kitchen. He was younger than she'd expected—mid-thirties, with the general's bearing that good chefs develop, but with softer hands than most. Resa noted the absence of the usual calluses and scars. This man didn't spend his days at the stove; he was an administrator, not a cook.
She caught his eye and gestured him over. "Chef? I'm doing a story on Bavarian cuisine for a travel magazine. Could I possibly speak with you about the traditional preparation of weißwurst?"
His smile was professional but cool. "Of course. We serve over two hundred weißwurst weekly. The secret is never letting them boil, only simmer."
"And what about your steam oven?" Resa asked, watching his reaction. "I understand you have a very advanced model. Does it help with the preparation?"
Something flickered in his eyes—just for a fraction of a second, but Resa logged it as surprise, quickly suppressed. "The steam oven is for vegetables and fish. Traditional wurst requires traditional methods."
"Of course," Resa said. She let him see her recording an imaginary note on her phone. "One last question—do you find the humidity control in the kitchen adequate? I've heard some chefs complain about Munich's climate affecting their equipment."
This time, his reaction was more pronounced. A slight straightening of the spine, a narrowing of the eyes. "Our climate control is excellent. The Rosewood uses the most advanced systems available. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have preparations for lunch service."
He retreated to the kitchen with the haste of a man who'd said too much.
Resa finished her breakfast slowly, watching the staff patterns. The restaurant manager, the waiters, the sommelier—all moved with practiced efficiency. But there was a tension in the kitchen staff, a certain stiffness in their movements when König was present. He ruled through fear, not respect.
She paid her bill and made her way to the spa. Dr. Hoffmann was giving a tour to a group of new employees, pointing out the features of the sauna, the steam room, the experience showers. Resa waited until the tour ended, then approached.
"Dr. Hoffmann? I'm Resa Rational, with the Gardner Group. We're reassessing insurance coverage for the hotel's art collection and high-value guest property. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?"
Hoffmann's expression remained professionally blank, but Resa saw the micro expression—a tightening at the corners of the mouth, a slight dilation of the pupils. Recognition, maybe. Or fear.
"Of course, Frau Rational. Though the spa doesn't house any art, aside from the paintings in the relaxation room."
"It's the environmental conditions I'm interested in," Resa said, letting her voice drop to a more confidential tone. "Humidity control, temperature stability. These things matter for delicate materials."
"I see." Hoffmann led her toward her office, a glass-walled room that looked out over the pool. "Our systems maintain 45-50% humidity and 20-22 degrees Celsius throughout the spa. The pool area is slightly higher, naturally."
"What about below the spa? In the service areas?"
Hoffmann paused, her hand on her office door. "The service areas have independent ventilation. They're not climate-controlled in the same way. Why do you ask?"
"Just thoroughness," Resa said. She let her gaze drift toward the kitchen service corridor, visible through a glass panel. "Tell me, does the steam oven affect the humidity in the adjacent storage areas? It's a large appliance."
"I wouldn't know. I'm not involved with kitchen operations." Hoffmann's voice had cooled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a conference call."
Resa let her go. She'd planted the seed of doubt, and she could see it taking root. Hoffmann was too controlled, too practiced at deception to give anything away directly, but the fact that she hadn't immediately dismissed the question about the oven told Resa everything she needed to know. The woman was aware of the artifact's location and worried about discovery.
Back in her suite, Resa made the call she'd been delaying. The voice on the other end was crisp, British, and belonged to Inspector James Callahan of INTERPOL's Works of Art division.
"Resa. Tell me you've found it."
"I have. It's at the Rosewood, just as we suspected. Hidden behind a commercial steam oven in the kitchen service area. There's a vault built into the wall, climate-controlled using the oven as cover."
"Brilliant," Callahan breathed. "Absolutely brilliant. We can get a German warrant in four hours. Who's involved?"
"The spa director, Dr. Karin Hoffmann, and the head chef, Stefan König. There may be a third party—a 'Doctor' that Hoffmann reports to. The buyer arrives tomorrow evening."
"Then we'll move tomorrow afternoon. Catch them red-handed."
"No," Resa said sharply. "That's what they'll expect. We need to move tonight, before the buyer arrives. If we wait, they might move the artifact or destroy evidence. And I want the Doctor."
There was silence on the line. "Resa, we don't have enough for an international warrant on this 'Doctor.' We need to catch the handoff."
"Give me twenty-four hours. I'll get you the Doctor."
"Resa..."
"Twenty-four hours, James. You know my track record."
Another pause. "Fine. But I'm sending backup. German Federal Police will have officers on standby. You don't go into that vault alone."
"I won't be alone," Resa said, and hung up.
She looked at her reflection in the window. The woman staring back at her had dark circles under her eyes and a tightness around her jaw that came from too much adrenaline and not enough sleep. But her eyes were clear, and her mind was sharp.
Time to set the trap.
### Chapter Four: The Handoff
Dr. Hoffmann left the hotel at 8 PM, her Mercedes sedan headed toward the Bavarian countryside. Resa, in a rented BMW, followed at a discreet distance. The drive took them through rolling hills and dark forests, past villages where the windows glowed with golden light. Hoffmann's destination was a private clinic—a rehabilitation facility for the ultrawealthy, set in a renovated castle.
Resa parked down the road and approached on foot, using the trees for cover. The clinic's security was good but not exceptional—this was a medical facility, not a fortress. She found a service entrance and used her lockpick set. Inside, she navigated by the sound of Hoffmann's voice, echoing down a marble corridor.
The woman was speaking German, her tone respectful but urgent. "The buyer is confirmed. He's flying in from Dubai, bringing the funds in cryptocurrency. We need to move the piece tonight."
A male voice answered, older, frail but still commanding. "The humidity control? No fluctuations?"
"Perfectly stable, Doktor. The steam oven provides excellent cover. Even if someone suspects, they'll think it's kitchen equipment."
"Good. And König?"
"He's nervous. He thinks the insurance investigator is asking too many questions."
There was a dry chuckle. "An insurance investigator. How quaint. Have him killed. Make it look like a robbery."
Resa's blood went cold. Hoffmann's response was equally chilling in its matter-of-factness. "That will cost extra. And it will complicate the handoff."
"Then wait until after. But he dies. Loose ends are unacceptable."
Resa eased back the way she'd come, her mind racing. König was a dead man walking, which meant he was also a potential asset. If she could turn him, get him to cooperate, she might save his life and get the evidence she needed.
She returned to her car and drove back to Munich at speeds that would have gotten her arrested in any other circumstances. At the hotel, she went straight to the restaurant kitchen. König was there, alone, checking inventory sheets. He looked up, fear plain on his face.
"Frau Rational. What are you..."
"You're going to die tonight," Resa said flatly. "Or tomorrow, depending on how useful they think you are. Your partners have decided you're a liability."
All the color drained from his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Save it. I know about the bronze. I know about the vault. I know Dr. Hoffmann reports to a doctor at a clinic outside town, and I know that doctor just ordered your execution."
König swayed, catching himself against a stainless steel counter. "That's... that's not possible. We have a deal."
"The only deal criminals honor is the one that benefits them. You were useful for logistics. Now you're a witness." Resa took a step closer, her voice dropping. "But I can help you. Work with me, and you live. Maybe even keep some of your freedom."
"What do you want?"
"Everything. Names, dates, how you did it. And I want you to open the vault when I say so."
He hesitated, but Resa could see the calculation in his eyes. Self-preservation was winning. "The doctor—his name is Klaus Richter. He runs the Bergkristall Clinic. He was a medical examiner for the Bavarian police for thirty years. He knows how to make deaths look natural."
Resa filed that away. A corrupt coroner—perfect for a forgery and smuggling operation. "And the bronze?"
"It came from a collection in Brussels. Richter has a network—museum workers, private collectors, customs officials. They identify pieces that aren't properly catalogued, items that can be stolen and resold without immediate detection. Hoffmann provides the expertise in preservation. I provide... cover."
"The steam oven."
König nodded. "The vault is temperature and humidity controlled, disguised as part of the oven's ventilation system. Even if someone opens the oven, they won't see anything unusual. The access panel requires a specific sequence—press the bottom right corner, then the top left, then enter a code on the temperature display."
"Show me."
"Now? But Hoffmann—"
"Hoffmann is at the clinic. We have maybe two hours before she returns."
He led her to the service corridor. At the steam oven, he pressed the sequence—bottom right corner, top left, then a six-digit code on the digital display. There was a soft hiss, and a section of the wall, perfectly disguised as tile, slid back to reveal a vault door.
König entered another code, and the vault opened.
Inside, on a custom foam mount, was the Benin bronze. Even in the dim light, it was magnificent—the warrior chief in profile, his elaborate headdress rendered in exquisite detail, the bronze showing the patina of five centuries. Next to it were other items: the Roman bracelet, the Byzantine icon, and three more pieces Resa didn't immediately recognize.
She photographed everything with her pocket watch camera, then stepped back. "Close it. We want them to think everything is normal."
"What now?" König asked, his voice trembling.
"Now we wait. And you make a phone call."
### Chapter Five: The Trap
At 10 PM, König called Hoffmann. Resa listened on a conference line, recording everything.
"Dr. Hoffmann? It's Stefan. We have a problem. The insurance investigator—she came to the kitchen tonight. She knows about the vault."
There was a long silence. "What did she say?"
"She said she was doing her final assessment. She had a device, some kind of scanner. She was examining the steam oven. I think... I think she found the access panel."
Another pause. "Stay there. I'm coming back. Don't let anyone near the kitchen."
"Should I move the pieces?"
"No. We'll handle her. Just wait."
The line went dead.
Resa looked at König. "You did well. Now get out of here. Go to the lobby and wait for the police. Tell them everything. It's your only chance."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine. I've done this before."
She watched König leave, then settled in to wait. She'd chosen her position carefully—a storage alcove across from the steam oven, with a clear line of sight but good cover. She had her phone ready to stream video to both Callahan and the German Federal Police, who were standing by in unmarked vehicles three blocks away.
Hoffmann arrived at 11:15 PM. She wasn't alone. With her was a man built like a rugby player, with the flat expression of professional muscle. They moved down the service corridor quickly, Hoffmann leading the way.
At the steam oven, she entered the sequence and opened the vault. She removed the Benin bronze and two smaller pieces, wrapping them carefully. "Put these in the bag," she ordered the muscle. Then she turned to close the vault.
Resa stepped out of the alcove, her phone held up to record. "Dr. Hoffmann. Going somewhere?"
The muscle went for his gun. Resa was faster—she'd palmed a small canister from her pocket and sprayed it in his face. Pepper gel, military grade. He went down screaming, clawing at his eyes.
Hoffmann was smarter. She grabbed the bronze and ran.
Resa pursued her through the service corridors, up a flight of stairs, into the main kitchen. Hoffmann was fast, fueled by adrenaline and desperation. She burst through the kitchen doors into the darkened restaurant, Resa close behind.
"Give it up, Karin!" Resa called. "The police are already here. There's nowhere to go."
Hoffmann spun around, her back to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the hotel's courtyard. She held the bronze like a shield. "You have no idea what you're interfering with. This is bigger than one artifact."
"It's a five-hundred-year-old masterpiece stolen from its rightful owners. That's exactly the right size."
"You think the Nigerians will get it back?" Hoffmann laughed, a bitter sound. "It will disappear into a warehouse, just another piece in a collection too large to display. At least with Richter, it was appreciated. Studied. Preserved."
"Like the Roman bracelet? Like the Byzantine icon? You're not preserving history, you're selling it to criminals."
Hoffman's shoulders slumped slightly, but her grip on the bronze didn't loosen. "And what are you preserving? Bureaucracy? Paperwork? I know who you are, Rational. INTERPOL's pet detective. How many artifacts have you recovered that are still sitting in evidence rooms? How many have actually been returned?"
Resa took a step closer. "That's not my job. My job is stopping thieves. And you're a thief."
"I'm a preservationist!"
"You're a profiteer who dresses up theft with philosophical justification. Now put down the bronze."
For a moment, Resa thought she might comply. Then Hoffmann's expression hardened. She turned and threw the bronze at the window with all her strength.
Time seemed to slow. Resa lunged forward, her fingers brushing the bronze as it left Hoffmann's hands. The window shattered, the sound like a cannon in the quiet restaurant. The bronze tumbled through the air toward the courtyard below.
Resa didn't think. She dove through the broken window.
### Chapter Six: The Fall
She'd played rugby at university, decades ago, but the instinct remained—tuck, roll, protect the ball. She twisted in midair, clutching the bronze to her chest, and hit the courtyard's manicured lawn shoulder-first. The impact drove the air from her lungs, and she felt something give in her shoulder—a dislocation, maybe a fracture. She rolled, the bronze held tight against her body, and came to rest against a stone planter.
Above her, Hoffmann stared down from the broken window, shock on her face. Then she disappeared back into the restaurant.
Resa lay there, gasping, her shoulder screaming. But the bronze was intact. She cradled it carefully, checking for damage. There was a small scratch on the edge, but it was superficial. Five centuries of history had survived a four-story fall.
Footsteps pounded toward her. The hotel's security, followed by German police in tactical gear. Inspector Callahan was with them, his normally composed face showing real concern.
"Resa! Are you insane?"
"Probably," she managed, her voice a wheeze. "But I've got the bronze."
Callahan helped her sit up while an officer took the artifact, placing it in a protective case. Another officer was reading Hoffmann her rights as they led her out in handcuffs. König was already in a police car, giving his statement.
"The Doctor," Resa said, clutching her injured shoulder. "Klaus Richter. Bergkristall Clinic. He ordered König's murder."
"We've got a team on the way," Callahan assured her. "GPS from Hoffmann's phone puts her there tonight. We've got recordings of the call. We'll get him."
An ambulance arrived. Paramedics strapped Resa to a backboard, immobilizing her neck despite her protests. As they loaded her in, she saw Herr Weber standing in the hotel entrance, his face pale in the flashing lights.
"Your insurance assessment," he called out. "Will this affect our premiums?"
Resa would have laughed if her ribs didn't hurt so much. "I'd say you've got bigger problems, Herr Weber."
### Chapter Seven: Aftermath
The hospital room at Klinikum Großhadern was private, courtesy of INTERPOL, and had a view of the Isar River. Resa's shoulder was immobilized in a complicated harness, her ribs wrapped tightly, and she had a concussion that made the room tilt if she moved too quickly. But she was alive, and so was the Benin bronze.
Callahan visited the next day, bringing coffee and a newspaper. The headlines were already running: "Priceless Benin Bronze Recovered in Munich Hotel Sting." Below the fold: "Corrupt Coroner Arrested in International Art Theft Ring."
"Richter confessed," Callahan said, pulling up a chair. "Once he knew Hoffmann was in custody, he folded completely. He gave us names, dates, everything. The network extends to twelve countries. We've already recovered seven more artifacts."
"And the bronze?"
"On its way back to Nigeria. The ambassador personally thanked you. The Nigerian government wants to give you some kind of medal."
Resa sipped her coffee, made a face at the hospital-grade brew. "Tell them to put the money toward museum security instead."
"Hoffmann wants to see you. She says she has information about other thefts, but she'll only talk to you."
"Of course she does." Resa shifted, winced. "Tell her I'll consider it—after she's served five years of her sentence. Let her stew."
Callahan smiled. "You're a hard woman, Resa Rational."
"I'm a realistic woman. Hoffmann's justification was bullshit. She wasn't preserving history; she was stealing it. The fact that she had a doctorate just made her better at rationalizing it."
"What about König?"
"He cooperated. He'll do time, but less. Maybe he can learn to cook for real in prison."
There was a knock at the door. A hotel employee in a Rosewood uniform entered, carrying an enormous bouquet of white roses and a bottle of champagne.
"From Herr Weber," the young woman said, setting them on the windowsill. "He says to please consider the Presidential suite complimentary for the remainder of your stay, whenever you're ready to return. Also, he asks if you could perhaps provide a list of security recommendations."
Resa looked at Callahan, who was trying not to laugh. "Tell Weber I'll send him my report. And my consulting fee."
After the employee left, Callahan stood. "You should rest. The doctor says you can travel in two days. Back to London?"
"Eventually. First, I think I'll take Weber up on his offer. Munich is lovely in autumn."
"You're going to stay at the hotel where you were just thrown through a window?"
"Why not? The bronze is safe, the criminals are caught, and I've earned a vacation. Besides," Resa adjusted her pillows with her good arm, "I never did get to try their spa. I hear the steam room is excellent."
Callahan shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're impossible."
"I'm rational," Resa corrected him. "There's a difference."
After he left, she lay back and watched the river flow past her window. Her shoulder throbbed, her head ached, and she knew she'd be feeling this particular adventure for months. But the bronze was going home. That mattered more than her temporary discomfort.
Somewhere in Berlin, a Nigerian curator was probably crying with relief. Somewhere in Lagos, a museum was preparing a display case. And somewhere in the world, another artifact was being targeted by thieves who thought they'd found the perfect scheme.
Resa Rational smiled. Let them try. She had a list of hotels to review, a new set of contacts in Munich, and a reputation that would make art thieves think twice about using high-end hospitality as cover.
The game was endless, but so was she.
And somewhere in the Rosewood Munich, a steam oven stood empty, its secret revealed. The chamber behind it would be sealed, the vault removed, the space returned to normal use. But for those who knew the story, it would always be the place where five centuries of history had almost been lost forever.
Resa reached for her phone and began typing notes for her report. She had security recommendations to write, invoices to send, and a medal ceremony to politely decline. The work of a rational woman was never done.
But first, she thought, closing her eyes against the afternoon light, she might just take a nap.
After all, even the most rational detective needed her rest.
Especially when there were more thieves to catch, more bronzes to save, and more luxury hotels that needed to learn that some insurance investigators were more than they seemed.
The Rosewood Munich had learned that lesson the hard way.
And Resa Rational was just getting started.
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**Author's Note:** The Benin bronzes are a collection of thousands of metal sculptures and plaques that were looted from the Kingdom of Benin (in modern-day Nigeria) by British forces in 1897. Many are currently housed in museums and private collections around the world. The Nigerian government, backed by international cultural heritage organizations, continues to campaign for their repatriation. While this story is fictional, the trafficking of cultural artifacts remains a very real and profitable criminal enterprise, often ranking third behind drugs and weapons in international crime statistics. If you're traveling and see something that looks out of place in a hotel or private collection, remember Resa Rational—and report it.
