Lost and Found in Prague (19 page)

Dal’s mind jumped from one thought to another as he scrolled down the computer screen. He was scheduled to fetch Petr at quarter to nine. He also knew he must confront Father Ruffino. Soon. He couldn’t believe the priest had taken the Infant, and he found it impossible to believe he knew of this theft and had remained silent.

The ladder had not been at the altar when Dal arrived at the church. He realized that Father Ruffino had knelt beside the nun, his cassock grazing the floor, possibly sweeping away ladder tracks in the blood that would have alerted Dal. He would go to the church before the early Mass and speak to the priest, ask to examine the statue now on the altar and also the ladder he’d seen in the sacristy closet. Dal thought back to the lapse in time between the old nun’s death and the priest’s call.

His cell phone rang. Branislov Cerný, who probably had no idea Dal was sitting in his office now.

“There’s been a theft,” Cerný said, then paused. Through the fogginess in his mind, Dal wondered why Cerný was reporting a theft to him, and then again why he himself was spending his valuable time on another theft, something that should immediately be assigned to another unit.

“He’s loaded it on his hard drive,” Cerný explained tentatively as if expanding on something he’d already shared, “but someone broke into Kristof’s apartment and took the laptop.”

“He’s okay?” Dal didn’t bother to ask why the young detective had taken the laptop home and didn’t bother to ask Cerný if they were speaking of Hugo Hutka’s laptop.

“He’s fine, though he said you’d be pissed he took it home. Went out for coffee and came back, locks broken, laptop gone. Officers doing a crime scene investigation now. I know you’re taking some time off, but I figured you’d want to know.”

“He loaded it on his hard drive?” Dal asked, at the same time thinking,
Kristof doesn’t drink coffee.

“Yes,” Cerný said defensively, “the information isn’t lost. The building has a surveillance camera, but someone had tampered with it. Nothing there.”

“I’m here. In my office. For a while,” Dal clarified. “Then later this afternoon.” He wasn’t going to let Petr down. His officers could go over any evidence uncovered at Kristof’s apartment. “Get another technician on those files.” Dal knew many were still locked, but the theft surely indicated there was something important in Hugo Hutka’s files. “Have Detective Sokol give me a call.”

“I will,” Cerný came back. “As soon as I figure out where the hell he’s taken off to.”

•   •   •

“You’ll have him back home for dinner?” Karla asked. Dal stood just inside the living room. He smelled sausage and the comforting aroma of fresh bread coming from the kitchen. Karla’s floral-scented body lotion. She wore her silk robe over her nightgown, and he caught a glimpse of her breasts as she bent to kiss their son on the forehead then adjust the collar of his shirt. A thick blond strand of hair curled along her neck just above a familiar mole below her clavicle.

“Yes, I’ll have him home for dinner.” It hurt Dal to say
home
. It seemed strange, picking up his son at his own house. He realized how little time he’d spent alone with his boy prior to this separation. When they were all living together, he seldom took Petr out; he couldn’t even remember when he’d spent a day with his son, just Petr and himself, without Karla. It seemed unnecessary when they were living together, and when he was off duty, he liked to just hang around home.

In addition to their fights over the boy, Karla had accused him of not paying much attention to either of them. He knew she was right. Sometimes he’d be sitting at home at the dining table with his family, on one of the rare times they could actually schedule a meal together, not even aware of what his wife had prepared, something Karla might later point out she’d put some effort into, and she’d say, “Would you like to join us for dinner?” He’d pull himself back, try to be more engaged, talk to his wife and son. She’d known what she was signing on for, even when they were young and he’d told her he wanted to join the Czech police force, but lately, she’d told him, it seemed as if he’d disappeared completely.

“What would you like to do today?” he asked Petr as they hopped in the car, Dal checking to make sure the boy was strapped in his seat belt.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Mama made breakfast.”

Yes, of course; he’d smelled the remnants of the meal as he’d stood waiting to collect his son. He knew Karla would not send the boy out into the world hungry. A scent hovered about Petr even now, the warm aroma of breakfast, but also of his mother, her natural perfume. Dal had a sudden urge to bend over and kiss him on the forehead in the exact place where his mother’s lips had brushed his face, to taste his wife, his son, to be a family again.

“You’ve gone to Mass?” Dal asked, realizing it was Sunday, this reflection accompanied by a fleeting thought of Father Ruffino. That would all have to wait.

“Mama took me yesterday evening.”

Yes, of course she’d make sure his obligation was fulfilled, aware that Dal didn’t always make it to Mass.

“What should we do today?” Dal asked again. “Where do you want to go?”

“Could we go to the arcade?” Petr asked. He liked to play video games and he liked to watch movies, none of which Dal had at his apartment. They went to the arcade last time Dal had picked him up. Maybe a movie? But it was not a day to spend indoors. Finally, after several days of cloudy skies and rain, the sun had come out. A youngster his age needed more physical exercise; even the priest they’d met with told Karla this. He suggested they introduce the child to activities that both parents could agree on, that the boy had expressed an interest in. Karla had suggested swimming, something Petr had always loved when he was small. Before the cancer. He’d really taken to the water.
As long as it’s in a pool,
she’d said. No lakes. No rivers.

“Would you like to go swimming?” The gym where Dal worked out had a pool.

“Mother and I went Friday afternoon.”

Dal noticed how the boy went back and forth—referring to Karla as Mama one moment, Mother the next. He was growing, changing. Within a few years he’d be into his teens, perhaps defying both his parents. Doing whatever he pleased when he was away from them. Dal had been such a boy. He’d had little parental supervision as a child and he swore when he and Karla married he would be a good father. Now he often doubted he’d kept this promise.

Soon Petr would make his own decisions, and they would have little control. Dal knew this. He didn’t think Karla realized she could not shelter the boy under her wing for the rest of his life.

“I don’t have my swimming suit, anyway,” Petr said, reminding Dal he’d have to plan things better. But it wasn’t like he had an abundance of time to set out a recreational schedule, having spent the better part of the night chasing after Father Borelli and Dana Pierson, then the morning attempting to get a lead on Pavel Novák, followed by his call from Cerný, a new twist in his murder case. Where the hell was Kristof? The thought was laced with both anger and concern.

Dal hadn’t made it over to visit Father Ruffino, but he’d found some basic information on Lenka Horácková and her son, Václav, before Cerný’s call. He now knew she lived in an apartment near the Havlíckovy sady in an upscale residential neighborhood. He wondered how an unemployed actress, or dancer, or whatever she was, could afford such a place. She had a son named Václav Horácek, just as he and Dana had learned the previous night. He didn’t appear to have a current driver’s license. He was a musician who’d once been issued a citation for performing on the bridge without a permit. Last year he’d had a legitimate permit as part of a group, but Dal was unable to access the most current information to see if he’d renewed it.

Dal couldn’t find any evidence that the woman had ever used a name other than Lenka Horácková. He glanced at Petr, who grinned up at his father with undeserved admiration. Dal attempted to push all these thoughts aside.

“How about renting a boat?” Dal suggested.

The way the child’s face lit up, Dal wondered if this was something his mother had forbidden. With a life jacket it would be perfectly safe.

He patted the boy on the head. The way the river was dammed up there weren’t any strong currents. They could paddle around the island. It would be fun. But his mind was reeling again, with what he’d learned from Cerný, what he’d learned from Dana and the priest, then what Dana had shared with him in front of her hotel. He could, maybe
should
, take Petr home—
home
, he thought again with a stab to his gut.

“Do you have to go back to work?” Petr asked and Dal realized the kid could sense his dad’s inattention.

“Nope,” he said, patting the boy’s head again, ruffling his hair, mussing the neatly combed curls. “Let’s go get that boat.”

“May I buy you breakfast this morning?” Father Borelli asked his friend as he removed his vestments.

“A splendid idea,” Father Ruffino replied.

Giovanni didn’t want to confront Beppe here in his own church, and Father Borelli himself would feel much better out in the sunshine, the fresh air. He could have a cigarette. He couldn’t light one up here in the sacristy. He thought about his being in this very room behind the high altar just last night with Dana Pierson, examining the bottom of the ladder in the adjacent supply closet. He knew he had to confront Beppe, to know if he was involved in the disappearance of the Infant of Prague.

Earlier that morning, just before leaving to meet Father Ruffino, he’d heard back from his acquaintance in Rome, who said he’d poke around and see what he could discover. “A valuable, well-known icon would most likely be stolen for a specific buyer. It would be almost impossible to sell on the open market,” he’d told Father Borelli. “Years ago I had some dealings with a . . . well, let’s just say a Russian living in Prague, his specialty religious icons, not always legitimately obtained. If something is being offered, he would know.”

Again Father Borelli thought,
No fear of God.

“How wonderful,” Father Ruffino said as he hung his chasuble neatly in the vestment wardrobe, “that we’ve been blessed with this wonderful sunny weather after last evening’s big storm.”

The big storm,
Father Borelli mused. The big storm was yet to come. They headed toward the side door, the very door he had entered under cover of darkness just hours earlier.

“I have a group coming in at eleven thirty,” Beppe told him, and Giovanni guessed he spoke of one of his troupes of tourists lured by their devotion to the Infant of Prague. What would they think if they knew they were paying homage to a little fake?

“That should give us plenty of time,” Father Ruffino added. He smiled as if neither priest had anything to do but sit, drink coffee, and eat pastries. It was almost as if Beppe had blocked out the reason he’d asked his friend to rush to Prague, perhaps thinking he’d passed off the imitation for the real Infant, and he could relax now. Giovanni wondered if he now regretted his initial call, obviously in a state of panic, if he wished that Father Giovanni Borelli would simply go home.

The two men started out, Giovanni stuffing a cigarette in his holder within the first three steps, lighting it within the next two.

“I’m very fond of the spring,” Beppe said, “this time of renewal.”

“Yes, particularly after a harsh winter. With each year, it seems I have less tolerance for the cold.”

“Yes, so true. How did we get so old?” Beppe laughed.

“By not dying,” Giovanni replied dryly.

They continued on in silence. Though the sun was out, they had to step over several puddles, evidence of the recent rain.

Finally Father Borelli said, “We’ve made little progress in determining if there was someone in the church that morning.” If he was going to have it out with Beppe, he would tell him about Dana Pierson, about working with the Czech police officer. Yet, now, in addition to feeling betrayal from his oldest and dearest friend, Father Borelli wondered if he had been betrayed by his new friends, Dana Pierson and Investigator Damek.

“I’m afraid I might need additional information to solve this . . .” Father Borelli hesitated, trying to bring up the words he had rehearsed. He knew he should just come right out and say
theft
. He didn’t think they were dealing with a murder. Sister Claire was not a victim, but perhaps a witness. “We’ve made an additional discovery,” he continued, taking a long, comforting drag on his cigarette. He waited, fully expecting Beppe to catch on to the fact that he’d said
we.

Silently they walked along Karmelitská, past an elderly couple out for a Sunday morning stroll. Both nodded and offered respectful smiles, the two cassock-wearing priests easily identified as clergy.

Finally Beppe replied, “You’ve enlisted help?” His voice remained steady.

“I’m working with an American woman who has considerable investigative skills.”

“I thought you understood this should be kept in the greatest confidence,” he said, and Giovanni recognized the calm as pretense. Fake, just like the statue. There was now an unmistakable tentative tone in Beppe’s voice, a quiver in the word
confidence.
After a long pause, he said, “An American?”

“She has a close relationship with one of the nuns.”

“Sister Agnes.”

Of course,
Giovanni thought,
Father Ruffino is aware that Sister Agnes is American.

“We believe the Infant of Prague has been stolen.” He would not accuse, but he would open this up for Beppe to admit his part, if indeed he had a role in the statue’s disappearance or replacement.

Father Borelli stopped walking, as did Father Ruffino. Giovanni turned toward his friend. They had reached a major intersection, though traffic was light and there were few pedestrians out, none within hearing distance.

“It would be much easier to find the Infant,” Giovanni said, staring directly into Beppe’s eyes, then placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “if you shared with me everything you know.”

Beppe did not reply; he wasn’t surprised at Giovanni’s words.

“Has there been a demand for ransom?” Giovanni asked, his voice tight.

“No,” Beppe replied, lowering his eyes.

“It’s been over a week now, substantially reducing the possibility of return. Why did you not share the truth with me?” Giovanni fought to keep his voice calm. “Have threats been made to anyone—you, the other priests or brothers? The nuns?”

Beppe hesitated before speaking, his voice subdued as the halting words came forth. “I . . . I often tell those who come to the Lord in my confessional that a lie can take on a life of its own. That it can grow and expand. I . . . I . . .” They had started to walk again, crossing the street with the pedestrian light. Father Borelli could tell that his friend did not wish to look him in the eye.

They had arrived at the café and entered, distancing themselves as far away from other patrons as possible. They ordered coffee.

“I’m sorry, Gianni,” Father Ruffino said, calling him by his childhood name. His voice trembled and he seemed on the verge of tears. “Now, something else . . .” He stopped as if afraid to continue. He glanced around. A mother, who was attempting to settle her two small children at a nearby table, appeared too busy folding a stroller, encouraging her children to sit, to take notice of the two priests.

“Do you know what happened to the Infant?” Father Borelli asked in a low voice.

Beppe shook his head. “I hoped you might find Pavel Novák, that the Infant might be returned quietly.”

Father Borelli was so angry now, he could barely speak. Beppe had lied to him. He had not believed the man capable of such deception.
Thou shalt not bear false witness
. Strangely, he had often seen Beppe as an extension of himself—the better half. The good Italian boy who had answered God’s call and become a saintly priest. Perhaps this was one of the reasons Giovanni Borelli had feared this confrontation. His entire world was about to shatter. Beppe was no better than he himself. The man was a liar.

“You told me you come to the church each morning before your servers,” Giovanni finally said, “but this was Good Friday, and there was no Mass that morning.”

The mother was attempting to order, balancing the smallest child on her lap, the other fussing.

“It is true, there was no Mass,” Father Ruffino said. “But I did come to the church early. After the services on Holy Thursday, I meditated on the Passion of our Lord. I thought about his praying in the garden. How Peter promised he would not betray him. And here I was, preparing for the Friday services, the day our Lord died, thinking about Easter Sunday, about the altars, the festivities, counting in my head how many tourists were in the city now, how we could draw them to the church. How the offerings would swell. I was counting the silver in my mind.” Father Ruffino breathed heavily, rubbing his eyes. “I was ashamed at these feelings. Good Friday, and I felt that I, like Peter, had denied our Lord. Or perhaps, like Judas, given him up for a handful of silver. I was thinking about drawing the crowds. Like a huckster, I was trying to entice them to come to my church.
My church
.” He looked away, again unable to meet Father Borelli’s gaze. “Yes, I went early to the church. I went to pray, to sit with our Lord that night, the night he was handed over to be crucified.” Again, Beppe took in a deep, ragged breath.

Giovanni waited for him to go on.

“When I arrived at the church, I found the door unlocked. I entered cautiously and glanced about the church. I heard a murmur, a child, I thought. When I came to the altar of the Holy Infant, I found Sister Claire. I knelt down beside her, taking her hand in mine. There was a gash across her face. She lay shivering. She told me to look up. The altar box was opened, empty.” Father Ruffino rubbed his head. His hand jerked fitfully. “Blood on the floor. When I asked Sister Claire who had done this, she pressed her hand to her heart. She told me someone had been there, but they were unaware of her presence. It was not an intruder who had hurt her; she had fallen. Again she touched her heart, and I noticed the garden shears on the floor. She told me she had heard him speaking . . . near the exit. She uttered words I could not understand. I told her I was going for help, and she said, ‘No, stay with me.’ I said I would go to the sacristy for the holy oils, but she begged me to stay. I knew she was dying. We prayed. She asked for a final confession. We prayed again. Then her mumblings became more clear, though the words she spoke made no sense.”

“Pavel Novák?” Father Borelli asked. “Laterna Magika?”

Beppe nodded. “I held her until she was gone. Then I went to the sacristy and got the oils to anoint her.” Father Ruffino fell silent. Father Borelli suspected he was praying.

“But it was not the thief,” Giovanni asked, “or thieves, who replaced the authentic Infant with a fake?”

“No.” Beppe lowered his head, hands trembling as they rose to cover his eyes. “I didn’t want to leave her, but she had passed already into the good Lord’s hands. I knelt and prayed for guidance, but I heard nothing.”

“Perhaps you were not listening,” Giovanni said, his voice cutting as deeply as his anger.

“I knew what would happen if the world became aware of the Infant’s disappearance. It represents the Lord, who died for our sins. But it is not our Lord. Our Savior, who should be the focus of all on Good Friday. Easter Sunday . . . it was . . . I was . . .” The priest was blubbering now, his shoulders shaking with shame as tears fell.

Giovanni waited, too angry for words.

“I climbed the stairs to the museum,” Father Ruffino continued, “and I unlocked the Infant’s wardrobe case, took out one of the garments in the colors of Lent, similar to what the Infant had been wearing that day. Do you know that we have over eighty now, all gifts, dating back centuries, presented by royalty, by believers, good devout men and women. We’ve a very nice little museum. We have many visitors each year. We’ve attempted to do it tastefully, to encourage a devotion to the Infant.”

Beppe was rambling, and Giovanni wanted to get to the point, to the truth. “You took one of the statues?” The word
fake
stuck in Father Borelli’s mind but he didn’t say it. “From the museum, or the gift shop?”

“I knew then what I was doing was not right, but in part of my mind I—now, it makes no sense, but I knew what would happen in my church.” He stopped and corrected himself. “God’s church. The people’s church. On this most holy of days . . . the police, the press, the disruption—which would have been the result had the theft been reported. I thought, later when my friend Giovanni arrives, he will . . .”

“You took it to the Infant’s altar?” Father Borelli encouraged him.

“Yes, I got the ladder, went back to the altar, placed the replica in the Infant’s box, and locked it. I returned the ladder to the sacristy, and I used the phone in the office to call Investigator Damek. Then I called you.”

Father Borelli remembered now, the sound of Beppe’s voice. Shaky, fearful. He would not tell Giovanni exactly what he wanted at that time, but asked that he come immediately. Giovanni had come as soon as he could—no, it had taken him four days—it was the Easter weekend and he had obligations, visitors, his sister and nephew with his family, and there were festivities in Rome for the holidays. He had to make arrangements, to book a flight, which hadn’t been that easily done. To arrange for his . . . the thought of his concern for his freshly laundered garments now made him feel petty and vain. Perhaps he—Giovanni Borelli, professed friend—did not deserve the truth. Beppe had called him, and Giovanni had taken his time in getting here. Why should he have expected his friend to trust him, when he could not drop everything and come immediately?

“When the investigator arrived, you said nothing about the missing—”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you tell Investigator Damek?”

“I . . . I . . .” He breathed with a heaving rhythm, like a small child who had just had a fit of weeping, unable to control his emotions.

“You don’t trust him?”

“No, he is a good man. I knew if I told him the truth about the Infant’s theft, he would be obligated to involve those who investigate such matters. I didn’t feel the police needed to get involved. I knew he—”

“But Investigator Damek is chief of homicide. You obviously reported this as a possible murder.”

“No, no.” Beppe shook his head.

“You called him because he is a personal friend?” Father Borelli remembered Investigator Damek’s odd reaction to the mention of the priest.

“Yes.”

“And you knew he would not suspect you of such deception?”

Beppe nodded. “I imagined the press, reporters flooding into the church, the circus, the carnival. It was Good Friday, and I had just promised our Lord that I would maintain the sanctity of the church. I told myself, unrealistically, the Infant would return. Miraculously the Infant would find his way home. At first, I thought, after Easter Sunday . . . then I will speak again with Investigator Damek, I will tell the truth . . . by then my friend Giovanni Borelli, the solver of puzzles, will be here and . . .”