Lost and Found in Prague (10 page)

Everyone disappeared. Dana was alone in the church. She ran from altar to altar. Princess Polyxena appeared. She presented the little statue to a Carmelite priest, wearing a white cloak, sandals on his feet. Now Dana stood with Father Cyril. They were digging through a pile of rubble, side by side. The priest pulled a small bundle from the mound of garbage and held it up. Then, in a shrill, high-pitched voice, as he handed it to Dana, he screeched, “Your turn now.” He slapped her shoulder. “You’re it.”

She was alone again, trembling, standing at the altar of St. Joachim and St. Anne. Her eyes darted, scanning paintings of angels and saints, then she moved toward the Infant’s altar.

The little King stood above her in his protective glass box, though he wasn’t an infant at all—he was a boy. He wore a white and gold embroidered gown and held an orb in his hand, a shape that slowly morphed into a lopsided sphere, the form of an egg. Reaching out, he opened the box and stepped onto the altar. Then he flew as if he had wings, down toward the floor. It was covered with a slippery, deep red blood. The Child King floated over the floor, not even touching it. Then he alighted in the wide central aisle. He marched toward the back. Others had joined him. A series of little kings, some large, some small. Dozens and hundreds and thousands of kings.

Dana sat up in bed, her head and chest damp with sweat, awake again but confused. She glanced at the digital bedside clock. Two hours had passed. She’d been dreaming. Recurring dreams—nightmares, again. But something new now. Marching down the aisle of Our Lady Victorious. Along with hundreds of imposters, like the figures she had seen in the gift shop, like the little replicas of the Holy Infant that graced churches and classrooms around the world, and she knew the statue she had seen in the church was not the authentic Infant gifted to the Carmelites in the seventeenth century by Princess Polyxena.

The statue she had seen on the altar of Our Lady Victorious was a replica, like so many all over the world. Just as Caroline had written in her note, the Holy Infant of Prague was missing.

It wasn’t yet 6:00
A.M.
Investigator Dal Damek sat in his office. He’d left his apartment early, unable to sleep. The pull-out sofa in the room above the florist’s shop he’d been renting for the past two and a half months, since he and Karla separated, was about as substantial and comfy as a piece of toast. Sometimes he ended up sleeping on the floor, though
sleeping
was an exaggeration. He didn’t feel like he’d slept in weeks.

He missed his wife; his son, Petr; his home; his bed. Often when working a case he went without adequate sleep, but this morning he wondered if the emotional turmoil of this separation combined with his lack of sleep was affecting his work. He’d screwed up with the way he’d handled the situation at Our Lady Victorious. He realized this now, particularly after those two foreigners came inquiring. He knew the minute Dana Pierson sat down in his office that she wasn’t being honest about her reason for the visit. He generally didn’t invite reporters into his office, unless he initiated the meeting, but the unexpected appearance of this American both puzzled and concerned him. It wasn’t until she left and he picked up the file to replace it in the cabinet that he suspected she’d come with the intention of learning more about Sister Claire’s death. Her presence at the Laterna Magika confirmed it.

Now he wondered if he’d become so caught up in his “high-profile” case of Senator Zajic, his revisiting the murder of Filip Kula, as well as the accidental death of Hugo Hutka, that he had missed something. Overlooked an important piece of evidence in his investigation of the nun’s death? Yet there was absolutely nothing to point toward murder.

When he’d arrived at the church, summoned by a personal call from Father Ruffino, Dal’s first thought was that the nun’s death had to be considered suspicious. But he could see as he examined the gash on her cheek that it hadn’t come from someone stabbing her—a person would have had to be less than two feet tall to inflict that wound. She’d obviously tripped or suffered a stroke or heart attack and fallen on those shears. He could tell from the angle, the thrust, and the depth of the wound. And he could see it wasn’t the gash that had killed her. His theory had been substantiated by the autopsy. She hadn’t been murdered.

He and Father Ruffino had done a thorough search of the church, going through the sacristy, altars, museum, and gift shop, finding nothing missing, nothing out of order. At Father’s request, he’d come alone, then called in a scaled-down team, using his latitude as chief investigator. No fingerprints were found on the shears, other than the old nun’s. The postmortem verified what he believed had happened. She’d suffered cardiac arrest and fallen on her shears. Father Ruffino had requested no media alert, a request that wasn’t difficult to grant. The press hadn’t even come inquiring. The death certificate, a public record, listed cardiac arrest, and the demise of a very old woman generated no interest. But now, Dal wondered if he’d let his emotions, his sense of gratitude, get in his way.

He would always be indebted to Father Ruffino. A debt he would in no way be able to repay. And, years ago, Father Ruffino had granted Dal the same request—no media alert.

Dal glanced at his watch. He probably didn’t need to rush over to her hotel, but he wanted to be nearby, within viewing distance, when Dana Pierson stepped out. She’d most likely eat at the hotel buffet, giving him plenty of time, even if she was an early riser. He’d be more discreet than he had been the night before. This time he didn’t want her aware. He guessed she’d be contacting this Pavel Novák. When Dal had mentioned the name he saw the tension in her eyes, the flush of her face. Dana Pierson knew this man, and Dal suspected he had something to do with Sister Claire’s death. After doing a search that morning, checking out a number of possibilities, he’d determined the most likely person to be involved in any wrongdoing—if that was what he was looking at—and who might also be an acquaintance of Dana Pierson, had been a student dissenter back in the 1980s. But that Pavel Novák had disappeared over fifteen years ago.

Dal envisioned her rushing down Nerudova the previous night, the street a muddy mess from the evening’s storm. It had been torn up for several months and the inconvenience couldn’t be good for business, especially this time of year. The city was jumping with tourists.

A dead nun in a church couldn’t be great for business, either. Particularly during Holy Week. This thought fused with another, something else he couldn’t shake from his mind, a concern that had been stirring inside him since he’d knelt beside the lifeless body of Sister Claire.

Though Father Ruffino had told him she was still alive when he found her, according to the autopsy report, and Dal’s own observations, he was sure the old nun had died several hours before the priest had bothered to place that call.

Shortly after eight, as Dal was about to leave, he heard a knock on the door and Detectives Reznik and Beneš appeared, the younger man with file in hand.

“I believe,” Reznik announced, “I’ve found something of interest in the Filip Kula case.”

The two detectives had already obtained phone records, finding nothing of interest other than calls to his dealer. So far, no motive for his murder related to his drug usage, though his bank account might indicate he was dealing, rather than using. Doubek had located an account, the source untraceable. A regular deposit went into Filip Kula’s account each month. But a deposit scheduled, if the pattern was to continue, for the morning he died was never made. Whoever had orchestrated these deposits knew Kula would not live to spend it. None of this had been considered in the very short investigation leading up to the Romany’s arrest for Kula’s murder.

Dal motioned Reznik to sit as Beneš pulled up another chair. “We visited Kula’s apartment and a coffee shop where he often hung out,” Reznik explained. “Rather shady neighborhood. Seems he was meeting someone there, a couple times over the week before his murder. The owner said it was a woman, not the type he generally served, not a woman who might hang out with a drug addict. He said she wore a plain gray suit, rather dour. He pegged her as government right away. Did a little research, on a hunch.” Reznik smiled. “Determined there were only three women on Senator Zajic’s staff. And here we go.” He placed a photo of a thin, middle-aged woman with a pinched look about her on the table. “Fiala Nedomová.”

Dal knew that members of the senator’s staff had been interviewed, but this was not a name that had come up in any of the information passed on to him. He’d never heard of Fiala Nedomová. Obviously something important had been missed.

“She’s been on Senator Zajic’s staff for the past seven years,” Beneš explained. “Dedicated worker, never takes time off.”

“Interestingly”—Reznik jumped back in for the final word—“Fiala Nedomová’s been on holiday since before Easter. No one seems to know where she’s gone.”

•   •   •

Dana held her broken glasses up to her eyes as she nibbled a fresh croissant and studied a pamphlet from the Church of Our Lady Victorious spread out on the table before her. She’d come down to the breakfast room early, starving, unable to sleep. According to the pamphlet, the gift shop closed just two days a year, Christmas and Good Friday. Mass was celebrated at least once each day. Except on Good Friday, when there was no Mass.

The report on Sister Claire’s death in the police file was dated two days before Easter—Good Friday. This was also the first date listed on the note attached to the convent door, which meant Sister Claire probably died early that day. Whoever had taken the statue came in early Friday morning—they knew the priest would not be in for the 9:00
A.M.
Mass. With the gift shop closed all day, the thief would have plenty of time. Good Friday would be the perfect day. The one day of the year when there would be little if any activity in the church until late afternoon or evening. Damek had said Sister Claire was there to tend the altars. Dana wondered if the thieves would have been aware of this, and if she had been alone. Again Dana envisioned a frightened Caroline in the church at the votive candles, her eyes darting back and forth from her task to the priest at the altar.

Dana studied a photo of the Infant’s altar. A person would need a ladder to remove the statue. And most likely a key. Surely the box must be locked. Shatterproof glass, she imagined. The box was intact when she saw it—no broken glass—and even if the glass had been broken it was likely custom-cut and could not have been replaced so quickly as to go unnoticed. The nuns changed the costumes on the Infant, she reasoned, so they would have access to the box. As would Father Ruffino.

The costume would have been scheduled for a change sometime Saturday, before the Holy Saturday services. If a replica had been substituted for the authentic statue, it would have been discovered then. Surely the nuns would recognize it as a fake. They would tell the priest.

An image came to Dana—the final photo in Sister Claire’s police file. Though it was difficult to make out because of glare on the glass, she thought the Infant was in the altar box. And the box was intact. She’d had such a short time to look through the file, and now she wasn’t even sure what she’d seen. Other than a dead nun.

Dana thought again of Damek’s mention of Pavel Novák and wondered what this man could possibly have to do with all this. And was it the Pavel Novák she knew? Caroline’s long-ago love, Pavel? She plucked red grapes, one by one, from a small bunch and slid them into her mouth as she considered her growing suspicion that somehow Father Ruffino was involved. Yet for some reason he had called on his friend Father Borelli for help? Or had he enlisted his fellow priest to aid him—in what?

Dana thought back to the events in Boston when the abuse of children by the Catholic clergy first came to light. Soon after Borelli’s visit, new guidelines were set in place to protect children, to immediately remove offending priests from duty and report them to secular authorities. Classes were set up to increase awareness by training the laity as well as the clergy.

She sensed that Borelli was honest. He’d served as the Devil’s Advocate at one time. Denying sainthood to those found unworthy. He was a truth teller. Though unsure that she cared for the man, she felt she could trust him. She would find Borelli and confide in him. She would share what Caroline had told her and what she had written in the note slipped under the votive candle. Maybe Borelli could get into the convent to check on the nuns, to assure Dana of their safety.

Folding the single stem of her broken glasses, she slipped them, along with her pamphlets, into her bag and stood to leave the breakfast room. As she started up the narrow staircase, a large, bulky figure suddenly appeared at the top. Slowly the body descended, step by step. Without her glasses, she could not make out the details of his face, but the girth of the form, the way he moved, were becoming very familiar.

“I’ve arrived too late to buy you breakfast?” he said in his rough, smoky voice.

“I just finished,” she replied. They both stopped in the middle of the staircase.

“You look different,” he said. “New hairstyle?”

She grimaced. “I broke my glasses.” She touched her head. She’d combed her hair a little differently, adjusted the part in an attempt to cover the bump. Maybe this was why he thought she had a new hairstyle. He was very observant for a man. “I fell,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he replied sincerely. He wore a black suit with white shirt, no clerical collar, today. “Let me buy you coffee,” he added sympathetically. “There’s a place close by. You can tell me about your fall. I can commiserate.”

As they walked from her hotel to the restaurant, Dana Pierson and Father Giovanni Borelli agreed to share what they knew. They each admitted they’d gone to see the chief investigator, then to the Laterna Magika, that each had been asked by their respective friends to look into the circumstances of the old nun’s death.

“Did you discover anything at the theater?” Borelli asked.

“Nothing. You
do
know Damek was there? He followed me back to the hotel. He told me Sister Claire died of natural causes, that she had a heart attack and fell on her shears.”

“He implied something similar when I met with him. And, yes, I’m aware he was at the theater.” He smiled knowingly.

“Do you believe him?”

Raised shoulders from Borelli.

Dana envisioned Caroline’s troubled glances toward the altar, toward the priest who had approached Dana with such kindness just minutes before. She couldn’t let go of the thought that Father Ruffino might be involved in whatever had happened at Our Lady Victorious. She’d said nothing of this to Borelli, aware that they were close friends with a relationship dating back many years. Neither Dana nor Borelli had yet mentioned the possibility that the Infant of Prague had been taken from the church and replaced with a fake.

They arrived at the coffee shop and Borelli suggested they sit out in the sunshine, though the sun was almost nonexistent and provided little warmth at this early hour. They were the only customers seated outdoors. Dana suspected he wanted to smoke, her suspicion confirmed as he pulled out his silver cigarette holder and lit one up. He requested that a double espresso and a coffee for Dana be brought right away.

“I think much better on a full stomach,” he told her as he scanned the menu. When the waiter returned with their coffee, the priest ordered, and then added a generous scoop of sugar to his cup and stirred.

“Laterna Magika?” she asked as the waiter left. She shivered and wrapped her hands around her warm cup. “These words were handwritten at the bottom of Sister Claire’s file.”

“Investigator Damek showed you the file?” Father Borelli’s nostrils quivered with the slightest agitation. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, balancing it in its elegant holder, one plump finger wedged awkwardly through the small espresso cup handle. He exhaled slowly, then tipped the tiny cup, draining the thick liquid.

“No, he didn’t show me. I took a quick glance when he left the room for a moment.”

Borelli wiped his mouth with a napkin, his lips lifting into a smile, his agitation replaced with a hint of admiration.

“Then last night,” Dana added, “when he followed me to my hotel he asked if I knew a Pavel Novák. Do you?”

“No, but . . .”

“But?” She sensed that Father Borelli was still reluctant, still not sure about
her
.

“Laterna Magika
and Pavel Novák.” Borelli looked directly at her as he spoke. “This is what Sister Claire told Father Ruffino just before she passed.”

“With no further explanation?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“What do you think Sister Claire meant by these words?”

“I believe this is what we are attempting to discover.”

“She was still alive when Father Ruffino arrived at the church?”

Borelli nodded.

“She told him someone was in the church? Pavel Novák? She saw someone?”

“Sister Claire was blind,” he said as if reminding her of something she already knew.

Well, that’s important,
Dana considered, too surprised to even comment aloud. She added this to her mental file of facts. “Father Ruffino told Investigator Damek what Sister Claire said?” she asked Borelli.

“I don’t believe so,” the priest replied. “I believe I was the original source of that information, though Investigator Damek is not aware these words came from a dying nun. As I said, I do not believe Father Ruffino trusts the man.”

“Do you?” Dana asked.

“I’m not sure what or who to believe.” She guessed he was referring to his friend Father Ruffino as well as the police investigator.

The waiter arrived with Father Borelli’s breakfast rolls, a plate of cheese, another with fruit. They sat silently for several moments as Borelli broke a roll, lathered it with butter, and stuffed a piece in his mouth.

“I’m inclined to believe the investigator,” she said. “How difficult would it be to kill an elderly, blind nun? One with the intent to murder would certainly find a more vital spot to place the shears. The heart? The gut? Not the face. And I don’t believe a woman of Sister Claire’s years would put up much of a fight. If someone intended to kill her, they would have finished the job.”

Borelli seemed to consider this. “There was something else in the missive Sister Agnes slipped under the votive candle?” he asked, as if testing their agreement to share.

She knew she should reveal the entire contents of Caroline’s note if they were to work together, yet a trace of doubt still tapped along her spine. She glanced around, everything fuzzy without her glasses. The scent of strong coffee as well as smoke grabbed the air. Dana sensed the movement of a man who’d arrived shortly after they were seated, the rustle of his newspaper. It seemed, without her glasses, her other senses were on alert. She thought of the old blind nun, how senses dimmed often increased the power of others. Had Sister Claire
heard
something in the church that morning?

Finally, after a long silence, she said, “Sister Agnes believes the Infant of Prague is missing.”

Borelli remained very still and then, under his breath, he muttered something in Italian. A curse, she thought. Or maybe a prayer.

“This belief is expressed in the note?” he asked and Dana nodded. Obviously neither Father Ruffino nor Investigator Damek had mentioned the possibility that the Infant had been stolen. “The statue on the altar is a fake?” Borelli took another deep drag on his cigarette, a slow exhale. He pinched his bottom lip in a nervous, agitated gesture as if removing a speck of tobacco.

“Is there any way,” she asked, “we could get a closer look at the Infant, the one now standing on the altar? The statue consists of a wooden core covered in a layer of wax. If the one in the box is fake, I don’t imagine the body is wax.”

Again Borelli appeared as if he were thinking this all over, still stunned by what she’d just told him. He ran his fingers along the top of his balding head, then scratched his crown.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he finally said. “And I’m not sure if, at this point, we should ask to examine the Infant.”

“Well, someone certainly should,” she replied.

Nothing from Borelli.

“What else did Father Ruffino tell you?” Dana asked. “He didn’t mention the missing statue?”

Borelli ground the cigarette stub in the ashtray with very deliberate force as if he were attempting to smash the life out of it, pulled another from the pack he’d set on the table, inserted it into his holder, and lit up. He shifted his bulk in the chair and gazed out across the outdoor seating toward a man in a business suit hurrying by.

“Maybe he’s involved,” Dana said.

“No, no, no,” Borelli came back quickly. “That’s impossible.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know.” But the nuns knew, she thought. Surely they would have shared this discovery with their priest. “Or maybe—”

“Why would he have asked for my help,” Borelli broke in, “and why would he lead me to believe it was murder, when the police report clearly indicates it was not?” She realized Borelli was leaning toward the police investigator and away from his friend.

“Because he wants you to locate this Pavel Novák, who he believes took the statue. I’m not sure why he didn’t share this with the police.” She paused. “Or you.”

Borelli forked a piece of melon and stuffed it in his mouth.

“
When
did he call you?” Dana asked. “Maybe he wasn’t aware at the time that the statue on the altar was not the original. It’s up so high and the features are difficult to make out. It wouldn’t have been noticed until . . . when? Late Friday or early Saturday when the nuns took it down to dress it?”

“But he would have shared this with me when we met here in Prague.”

“Maybe a demand for ransom came after that initial call and he was told not to tell or—”

“Or what?” Borelli’s eyes flashed—with fear or anger, Dana wasn’t sure.

“Would the Church be willing to pay for its return?” she asked.

Borelli spread a second roll with butter and took a bite, though Dana sensed he was losing enthusiasm for his breakfast. “The Vatican?”

She nodded.

“The statue is owned by the Carmelite community and they would have little to offer in the way of ransom,” he told her. “Father Ruffino has mentioned several times how in need of repair much of the church is, the attic, the lower crypt. The tourists have certainly helped with the upkeep, but Our Lady Victorious also supports an African mission. No, not a ransom. And, if later, after his initial call to me, it was discovered that the Infant was missing, surely Father Ruffino would have shared this with me.”

Dana could see that Borelli was having a difficult time grasping the possibility that his friend wasn’t telling him the truth, or at least not the whole truth.

“Ransom,” the priest said, with a dismissive wave, again muttering something in Italian. “More likely it’s out on the black market now, possibly stolen to order. This is happening more often than one might expect. Religious icons, artwork, disappearing from churches. What a godless world we live in.” His voice was growing louder. “Thieves going right into a church. Museums have increased the security, but churches . . .” He paused for a moment as if to collect himself. “Churches, with equally precious treasures in the form of paintings, sculptures, religious manuscripts, golden chalices, and ciboriums, seem to think the only security necessary to discourage a thief is the fear of stealing from God. No one fears God anymore.” Borelli worked over a crease in the tablecloth with his thumb.

“I know—or knew”—she corrected herself—“a man named Pavel Novák.”

Father Borelli’s eyes rose up—startled again. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” he said in a demanding voice. “I told you what I know.” A tone of childish petulance wrapped his words.

“He was a friend of Caroline’s. More than a friend, actually. Years ago, during the revolution. We were very young and became involved with the students, the artists, the actors, who took part in the demonstrations. We met Pavel at one of the rallies. He was a handsome young man, tall, athletic. Dark curly hair, piercing black eyes. The big romance really started after I left for home.”

“You went home before your cousin?” Borelli asked. “Well, yes,” he added thoughtfully, “of course. She stayed.”

“Yes, which is rather ironic. It was my idea to visit Prague. I thought maybe I’d get a great story to launch my career. As it turned out I had a job offer back home, one I couldn’t pass up. By then, Caroline was caught up in the cause and she decided to stay. She’s a good person, though it surprised me when she joined the convent.” Dana thought back to those days after she left Prague, and then later, learning that Caroline had entered the convent. Dana didn’t understand, and even now, years later, she suspected Caroline had not revealed her true reason for becoming a nun. It seemed some type of wall had been placed between the two women. Was it merely a religious conversion that Dana would never understand? “It’s difficult to envision my beautiful, adventurous cousin cooped up in a convent,” she told Father Borelli.

“There is great need for those who lead a life of prayer, contemplation, and simple acts of service,” the priest replied. “St. Teresa founded the Order of the Discalced Carmelites on this very principle, a simple and total dedication to Christ.”

There was a sweetness, a reverence and sincerity, in the way the man spoke, a side of him Dana had not seen until now.

“This Novák and your cousin,” Borelli asked, his voice businesslike again, “they were romantically involved? What happened? She became a nun. Unrequited love?”

“No, not that at all. Pavel adored her. Simply adored her, and she was madly in love. But then she discovered that his girlfriend—a woman he was with before Caroline entered the picture—was pregnant. He didn’t bother to tell her himself. It broke Caroline’s heart, this lack of honesty. She called it off. The relationship ended.”

“She went to the convent? This sounds almost medieval.”

“No, not right away.” Dana thought this reaction a little odd, coming from a celibate priest. “But she felt he had an obligation to the girlfriend. I think her name was Lenka. Caroline said she couldn’t be with a man who would abandon his own child, his responsibility to the child’s mother. She was a performer, an actress or dancer or something, although I don’t really know much about her.”

“Lenka?”

“Yes, and Pavel was a musician. He composed and performed a number of pieces about the revolution and the fight for freedom.”

“Did Novák marry the woman?” Borelli shifted a piece of cheese around on the plate with his fork.

“I don’t know.”

“She wasn’t one of the players in the performance at the Laterna Magika?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. I looked over the program this morning, and—”

“But maybe this is the connection,” Father Borelli said, his voice again growing in volume, “with what Sister Claire told Father Ruffino.”

“It might be,” Dana commented pensively, “but there
is
, or at least there might be,
another tie-in with Pavel Novák and the Laterna Magika.”

“You
did
discover something at the theater?”

“I hadn’t yet heard his name when I went to the theater, so I wasn’t looking for a connection. Even later last night, after the performance, when Damek asked me if I knew a Pavel Novák, I didn’t put it together just then, either. But now I wonder if there is a connection somewhere. The gatherings of students, actors, dissenters—many of them took place in meeting rooms in the basement of the theater.”

“The Laterna Magika?” Borelli asked. “Ah, yes, I recall now. The president of the new republic, a playwright, Václav Havel. Perhaps we need to revisit that time . . . the Velvet Revolution.”