Lost and Found in Prague (8 page)

Dana sat at an outdoor café sipping a lemonade, an order placed simply to have somewhere to sit. Caroline’s note lay open in front of her on the table.

SISTER CLAIRE MURDERED IN

CHURCH INFANT MISSING

POLICE NOT DOING PROPER INVESTIGATION

NEED YOUR HELP

She had read the note a dozen times now, but her heart still jumped at every word.
Need your help
? Dana’s help? Who needed her help? The nuns? Were they in danger? Or the police? Did
they
need her help?

Why did Caroline believe Sister Claire—obviously the old nun being buried this week—had been murdered? Her words concerning the Infant puzzled Dana, as she’d seen the small statue in the church that very morning. It appeared to be authentic, though the glass box sat on such a high perch it was difficult to know for sure.

She took a swallow of lemonade. Looking out to the square, she attempted to remain calm, trying to determine what to do now. Hundreds of tourists strolled about the Easter market. Carved wooden Easter eggs hung on pastel ribbons from the booths. Real eggs, hollowed out and painted with intricate designs, filled wicker baskets. A pair of live, fluffy ducklings nuzzled inside a wire fence.

Again she stared down at the note. Why couldn’t Caroline, or the prioress, or Father Ruffino, do something? Dana envisioned Caroline’s nervous, guarded glances toward the main altar and wondered if the priest was somehow involved, if he posed a threat to the nuns. The same priest who had spoken so kindly to Dana.

She needed to go back to the convent and speak with Caroline again, yet Dana wondered if she could even get inside. She’d received no confirmation to reschedule their lunch for Sunday, other than a guarded nod from Caroline when Dana whispered, “Sunday?” as they stood at the votive candles.

She considered returning to the church. Because of her uneasiness about the priest, she should probably stay away from the church until she knew more.

The note contained very little useful information; most likely Caroline had written it in a hurry. Perhaps someone inside the convent was watching over the nuns’ every move.

Surely, if the Infant of Prague had been taken this information would have gone out to crime units around the world. An Interpol report would have—
should have
—shot out of that office. Maybe no one would care about an old nun’s passing, but there would be serious concern if one of the most famous religious icons of the Catholic Church had been stolen. She hadn’t read a newspaper, and had barely glanced at an English-language newscast in her hotel since leaving home, but surely a nun’s murder, the theft of a valuable religious icon, would have been reported in the press.

Maybe she
should
go to the police. She wasn’t sure what Caroline meant by her accusation that the police were not doing a proper investigation
.
Did this refer to corruption or incompetence?

She stood, made her way around the other tables, and walked out into the square, threading her way through the crowd. Hand-carved puppets—trolls and fairies—perhaps too sinister for children, hung from lines strung along the front of one of the booths. The vendor, who appeared to have been created by the same artist as his trolls, grinned at Dana. “Is the missy in need of a little magic?” Returning his smile, she shook her head and moved along. She skirted the outside of the market and stopped at a newsstand to pick up an English-language Czech paper. Standing in front of the news kiosk, she skimmed over the headlines on the front page. An article about the European Union, the tug-of-war going on between the prime minister and Senate in adopting the Lisbon Treaty. A story on the worldwide banking crisis, another on the global financial markets. The newspaper appeared to be printed weekly and was dated just the previous day, so anything that had taken place over the weekend would likely be covered in this edition.

On the second page, she found an article about the influx of visitors to Prague during the Easter holidays, which were generally considered the beginning of spring and the tourist season. The gist of the article appeared to be that Prague was a very safe city with little crime, though the story offered a number of statistics pointing out that minor crimes such as pickpocketing had increased since the city had become a popular tourist destination. A sidebar suggested ways to avoid such unpleasantness.

According to the article, more serious offenses occurred infrequently, and the percentage of these solved was impressive. The recently appointed chief investigator of the homicide department, Dal Damek, was quoted as saying that most serious crimes, such as murder, generally involved domestic disputes and organized gangs. The story referred to a recent unsolved murder at the Old Town Square just before Easter, the victim a member of the Czech Parliament. Dana gazed around, realizing she was standing near that very spot. Investigator Damek was again quoted as saying all resources were being used to solve the crime and the investigation was moving forward. The article did not mention the murder of a nun, and Dana discovered nothing concerning an incident or theft from the church elsewhere in the paper. She thought of the children she’d met near the convent, of Maria’s reference to the
very, very
old nun. Perhaps the death of an elderly member of a religious order would be less than a headliner. Unless foul play was suspected, which didn’t appear to be the case.

She stuffed the paper in her bag and walked resolutely across the square. Suddenly an idea came to her.

•   •   •

“Coffee?” Investigator Damek asked Dana as she sat in front of his desk at police headquarters.

“Please.”

He picked up the phone, said a few words, asked Dana if she needed milk or sugar. She shook her head, and he replaced the receiver.

“You have come all the way from Boston,” he asked, the words spoken carefully and precisely, his heavily accented English easily understood, “to interview me?” He leaned back in his chair, a slow, smug grin spreading over his face. He was about her age—early forties, she guessed. His demeanor, his voice, reminded her of her older brother, Jeff. He looked nothing like Jeff, and he certainly wasn’t as tidy as her big brother. He wore a wrinkled, white, long-sleeved, button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows. No tie.

Slightly disheveled, she’d thought when he introduced himself and invited her to sit. With broad shoulders and thick brown hair, he wasn’t a bad-looking fellow. Married? If he had a wife, surely she wouldn’t have let him out the door like this.

“I’m also on holiday,” she said.

He nodded thoughtfully as if he wished her to continue.

She’d been amazed that he’d agreed to talk to her without an appointment. She’d explained she was an American reporter doing a story comparing crime rates in the Eastern European bloc before and after the fall of Communism. She’d come armed with few facts or statistics, which wasn’t her style. She always did her homework. But she knew she had to work quickly. She’d quoted some of the facts she’d just read in the article, to give the impression she wasn’t a flake, but she now had the feeling he could see right through her, that he knew exactly where that information came from, that she’d picked it up on the fly.

“You join business to pleasure?” he asked, examining the card she’d given him, which identified her as a reporter for the
Boston Globe
. He studied it for a moment and then placed it faceup on his desk.

“Yes, taking the opportunity to see the sights.” She glanced around quickly. Certificates and landscape photos hung on the walls. There was something about the room that made her think the occupant hadn’t fully settled in yet. Several boxes were stacked on the floor.

“First visit to Prague?” he asked.

“I was here in the late eighties, just as the change in the government was about to take place. I suppose that’s why I’m interested in what this has meant in the area of crime.” The room was very stuffy and smelled of bug spray. No windows to let in fresh air, she observed. File cabinets lined the wall, one pulled partway open, filled with old manila files, papers sticking out like lettuce in a sandwich.

He turned, the wheels on his chair rolling, so he could reach one of the glass-fronted cabinets. As he rummaged around, Dana noticed a stack of files on his desk. A surprisingly neat, organized stack. She straightened her back, craned her neck to get a peek, attempting not to appear too obvious, in case he suddenly turned around. She could make out some of the typed letters on the top folder, first line of the file label—
P-A-N-N-Y
 . . .
Panny Marie Vítezné?
Her heart jumped. She knew this was the Czech name for the Church of Our Lady Victorious! Could this possibly be Sister Claire’s file? Right on top of his pile. Had he been studying the file before she arrived? She wondered if someone had been here just a short time ago inquiring about this very case.

Borelli?

Investigator Damek swiveled around and placed a sheet of paper on the table. From the columns of numbers, the dates—all in the 1990s and after—Dana guessed it listed crime statistics, but it was useless to her because she couldn’t translate the words.

“I go to check on the coffee.” Damek stood.

After he was out of the room, she reached over and, hand shaking with nerves, grabbed the top file off the pile. A photograph slipped out and floated to the floor. Dana gasped and took a deep breath. A woman, obviously a Carmelite, evidenced by the dark habit spread about her legs, the sandals sticking out below at an odd angle. A gash slashed her face, and dark red streaks flared from the side of her head on the floor like rays of a half-lit halo. Dana knew this was no halo. It was blood.

She picked up the photo and opened the file. The first page, a printed report. Dated April tenth. Dana couldn’t decipher the Czech. Quickly she examined a second photo. A garden shears. The murder weapon? Then a third photo, taken from a distance. The nun on the floor, inside the communion rail in front of the altar. The Infant’s altar. A glare on the glass box, a barely discernible figure inside. She replaced the photos in the file, praying they were in the correct order, guessing the photo that had slipped out was right behind the written report. She heard a movement in the hall. Just as she closed the file, the last line of the report came into focus.

Laterna Magika.
These words she knew!

File replaced, she glanced back as Damek closed the door with one hand, holding two cups of coffee in the other.

“You read Czech?” he asked as he set one cup in front of her.

She forced herself to keep her eyes from sliding to the side of the desk, the pile of files. For a moment she felt light-headed, then her entire body felt on fire, but then she realized, of course, he was asking if she was able to read the report he’d left on the desk for her to examine.

He stepped to the opposite side of the desk, gulping a drink from his coffee as he sat.

She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, to collect her thoughts. She picked up her cup, but set it back down quickly, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor of her hand. “I wasn’t really here long enough to learn the language, but I’m sure I can get some help with that.”

“You have friends in Prague?”

“Yes, well . . .” She didn’t want to mention Caroline and realized with this thought that she probably wouldn’t be able to rely on her cousin for help anyway, not that she had any true interest in these statistics, unless they included Sister Claire’s. “Do you have additional statistics from back before the late eighties?” She could hear a nervous twitter in her voice. Her head throbbed with the vision of what she’d just seen in the file, and she wasn’t sure how long she could maintain this charade.

“Such statistics,” he said, “more difficult to . . .” He stopped for a moment as if searching for the correct word. Though his English was good, now and then she detected a hesitation as if he were thinking in Czech, translating in his mind. “The Communist police were not particularly . . . how to say . . . when one sees easily and clearly?”

“Transparent?” she offered.

“Yes, transparent.” He nodded and took another swallow of coffee.

“And now?” she asked.

“Much improved.”

“From what I understand, your rate of closure on murder cases is admirable.”

He smiled, but the smugness had returned, and she got the impression he suspected she was playing a flattery game.

“I understand there’s an open case,” she said, steadying her voice, “regarding a murder of a senator at the Old Town Square.”

“It will be solved.” His voice betrayed some irritation.

She proceeded carefully. “Are there other unsolved recent murders, or unexplained deaths?”

He paused for a long moment. “Nothing notable.” He leaned in, folding his arms on the desk, and then picked up her business card, tapping the edge, slowly, rhythmically on his desk. His fingers were thick, his nails clean and trimmed to the quick. He stared at her. His eyes were very blue. “I will ask for one of my staff to search for these statistics. Such records are not readily available. You stay with friends here in Prague?”

“No, I’m on my own. Could I call later this week?”

“Yes, please.”

Dana shifted in her chair, trying to come up with something to move the conversation forward.

“You are more interested,” he asked after several strained moments, “in unsolved crimes, than solved?” Did she just imagine a quick sideways glance, brief as a blink, toward the pile of files on his desk? Her heart stopped for a moment. Did he notice a shift in the stack? Had she replaced the folder a centimeter off? Were the photos in the proper order? A person trained as an investigator might notice such small details.

“Well, as a journalist . . .” She laughed nervously. “Those unsolved crimes do make better stories.”

“Yes.” He laughed, too. “Solved crimes are no longer stories.”

Minutes after the American reporter left Dal’s office, Kristof and Cerný entered, the younger man with a wide grin slapped on his face that made him look like he was ten years old. He carried a briefcase. The older detective was shaking his head.

“The answer’s right here,” Kristof said, tapping the briefcase, which Dal now realized was a laptop computer case. “Hugo Hutka’s,” he said.

Dal was aware that the two detectives’ trip the previous morning to visit the widow of the man whose phone number had appeared several times on Senator Zajic’s phone records had turned up nothing, the woman having moved out several weeks earlier.

“We followed some leads, found the widow living with her brother’s family. She told us she’d reported her husband’s accident to the police as suspicious, but they’d basically brushed her off.” Dal thought it interesting the way Kristof referred to “they,” when the “they” was actually “we,” including the detectives presently standing in the office of the chief investigator of homicide.

Not on my watch,
Dal thought, though this just didn’t work. He had inherited everything that had come before him, which he was learning day by day was a lot of crap. He’d recently heard, just rumors at this time, that his predecessor was being considered for a position heading the security of a large Czech media conglomerate, earning, Dal would guess, substantially more than chief investigator. One hell of a reward for incompetence. Or was it corruption?

“You checked?” he asked. “Did she file a report?”

“No record,” Kristof replied, “but I believe her.”

Dal glanced at Cerný, who nodded. “You think there’s something suspicious about her husband’s death?” Dal asked, directing his question to both detectives. Dal had reviewed the death certificate himself. Nothing seemed amiss. An accident. Yet, if that was the assumption from the beginning, if something was being covered up . . . Dal had investigated “accidents” before.

The old detective motioned toward Kristof as he unzipped the case, pulled out the laptop, set it on Dal’s desk, turned in on, signed in, and typed in a code. A list of files appeared on the screen.

“Explain,” Dal said impatiently.

“The widow said her husband had been working on this for the past six months, spending all his spare time in state archives, going over records kept by the Communist secret police prior to 1989. . . .” Kristof’s fingers pecked at the keyboard, a two-finger technique. When nothing on the screen changed, he shook his head. “It might take a while to get through it—we still need to come up with some passwords—but basically what he was doing was cross-referencing records, attempting to set up an online index where anyone could type in a name and access the relevant files.” Dal scanned the list, everything apparently coded or abbreviated. None of it made any sense to him.

“Files in archives, dating back to the forties,” Cerný said, his voice skeptical, “said to contain somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred million pages.”

“Isn’t a similar system being compiled by the USTR?” Dal asked.

“Institute for the Study of Totalitarian Regimes,” Cerný replied, “government agency, which many believe won’t truly make this information available to the public.”

Dal sensed that Kristof’s excitement over this discovery could be valid. The senator had chaired a committee set up by the Civic Forum to investigate possible connections and collaborations with the Communist regime and StB, the era’s secret police. Public officials and others in government positions, such as Professor Kovár, had been removed when such connections were revealed even years after the revolution. If Hugo Hutka had been trying to construct an index that could be helpful in uncovering such information, did Senator Zajic’s recent communications with Hutka point to a possible motive for his murder, as well as Hutka’s suspicious death? Was a clue hidden somewhere in thousands of files spanning a period of over forty years?

“Without some type of index,” Kristof said, “opening the records has little value unless you want to sift through millions of pages. Without a key, if someone was looking for something, say, a particular name, it might take months. . . .” He glanced back at the two older detectives.

“Or years,” Cerný added.

•   •   •

As Dana sat on the bus after leaving police headquarters, an irregular pulse throbbed behind her rib cage, and then it felt as if her heart were jumping about in her body, unattached, moving from chest to throat, then sliding back down to her gut. She had to talk to Caroline as soon as possible.

She walked from the closest stop to the convent. After several attempts to get someone to respond to her vigorous knocks—nothing. As she turned to leave, thinking maybe she
should
go back to the church, a group of noisy children appeared on the opposite side of the small square. They must be just getting out of school, Dana thought, realizing these children probably passed by the convent several times a day. Morning, noon—yes, this was when she had seen them before—and now, late afternoon.

She spotted the pretty little blonde, the girl she had spoken to just the day before.

“Maria,” Dana called out.

The girl twirled around gracefully, giggling over something one of the boys had just said to her. Eyes wide with recognition, she called back, “I help you?”

“I spoke to you yesterday,” Dana said as the girl made her way across the square. The others stood silently, watching.

“Yes,” Maria said, smiling, “I remember you.”

Dana stepped outside the gate and extended her hand. “My name is Dana Pierson.”

“You the American stay at hotel on Nerudova!” Maria said proudly.

How would the child know this? Dana wondered. “Yes, how did you—”

“I take to you the . . .” The girl squinted and pursed her lips as if this might help in finding the correct word. “The sign!” Her eyes flashed brightly.

“The sign?” Dana glanced back at the handwritten sign on the door below the peephole. “The sign?” She motioned.

“No. Different sign.”

How did the child know her name? Then Dana realized the girl was talking about the message that had come from Caroline, delivered to her hotel. It was sealed, Dana’s name on the outside of the envelope. Maria had delivered it.

“The note from Sister Agnes?”

“Yes, yes, Sister Agnes,” she replied excitedly. “Yes, the very pretty
nun.
” She pronounced the word
nun
clearly, as if demonstrating she remembered the word Dana had taught her the day before. “Yes, the
note
.”

“She gave it to you?” Dana asked, motioning as if handing the girl another note.

“Yes, she gave to me.”

“Do you see the nuns often?”

“Yes, they come out. They go back in.”

The sisters operated on a very strict schedule, much of their time spent in the convent in prayer and meditation. But Dana knew their work took place outside, mostly caring for the Church of Our Lady Victorious. If she just waited, maybe Caroline would leave the convent.

“They come out here?” She pointed to the door, then tapped her watch. “What time?”

“Many time,” the girl replied. “Different nun, different time. But, no, they come that door.” Maria made a wide half-circle motion with her hand.

“Back door?” Dana repeated the same motion.

“Yes.”

A girl shouted from across the square. The others had already moved on.

“Your friend is waiting for you,” Dana said.

“Yes, I go now.” She backed away with a little bow, turned, and ran toward her friend. “Bye-bye,” she said, glancing back with a wave.

“Thank you, Maria,” Dana called out as she watched the two girls disappear at the corner. She made her way to the back of the large stone structure and found a single door, most likely the one the girl was referring to, and waited, hoping Caroline might come out.

About fifteen minutes later, Dana realized this was a waste of time. Even if they stuck to a schedule, the terrible loss of Sister Claire had most likely rearranged everything. Caroline hadn’t exactly been on time for their date at the votive candles.

Were the nuns in chapel right now, observing extended hours to pray for one of their own? “May she rest in peace,” Dana whispered, as a vision of the blood-soaked scene from the photograph flashed in her mind.

She walked up to the door and knocked. She waited. No one answered, and she knocked again, knowing instinctively there would be no reply. A knot tightened in her stomach, a mixture of frustration and fear for Caroline and the other nuns. What would it be like to have so little control over your own life? She’d never understood how Caroline, once a free spirit, could live under such restrictions. Dana gave the door one more forceful knock. Nothing. Reaching for the door handle, she gave it a twist, having no plan as to what she’d do if she found it unlocked. She was not forced to make that decision.

She couldn’t wait around at the convent any longer; there was something else she had to do. After a quick sandwich, eaten outdoors as clouds gathered and the sky darkened toward evening, Dana ran back to her hotel to freshen up, change, and pick up her raincoat, before taking off for the theater.

•   •   •

The Laterna Magika was a well-known attraction in Prague. The performances, presented without dialogue, mostly dance and music and black lights, appealed particularly to tourists as there were no words to decipher. A modern-looking glass edifice near the National Theater, the structure contrasted so drastically with the traditional style of the surrounding buildings that it looked like an adopted child in a family of look-alikes.

Back in the late eighties, as the revolution began, the basement rooms provided a gathering place for students, artists, and theater people, active members of the movement. The leader and later president of the new Czech Republic, Václav Havel, was a playwright, the stage they were setting replete with drama and emotion.

Dana wondered why the words
Laterna Magika
had been entered in Sister Claire’s file. And she wondered if Damek was aware she had opened it.

A half dozen people stood at the will call booth, while the line waiting to purchase tickets was at least double that. Dana feared it might be difficult getting in without having already purchased a ticket. As she waited, she admitted she had no idea what she was looking for, what she might possibly find relating to Sister Claire’s death. A nun who’d been in a convent for the better part of a century would have no idea about the cultural life of the city.

The woman at the box office held up one finger and pronounced clearly and, Dana thought, almost apologetically, “Just one?”

“Yes, one,” Dana answered.

“You have luck tonight,” the woman replied.

The woman told her it was in the back, but with the show sold out she was fortunate to get this one remaining seat.

Inside, an usher directed her to the last row on the right. Dana was early, many of the seats throughout the theater still empty. In keeping with the modern design, the interior of the building was rather stark, lacking the architectural embellishments of many of the older theaters throughout Europe. A few people sat scattered about, chatting quietly, perusing programs. Sitting in the back she had a good view of those arriving. She watched as patrons strolled in, some dressed in evening wear, others in jeans and sneakers. As the hall filled, Dana studied the program, searching for an unknown, looking for a hint as to why she was here.

With just a few seats empty, the show about to start, she saw him. Sashaying down the aisle, conversing with the pretty blond usher, he moved with that sense of entitlement up to a row just a few back from the stage, where he would enjoy a perfect view of the performers. Not too close, but close enough to see the expressions on the faces of the actors, the sheen and sparkle of their costumes. She wondered what kind of tip he’d offered for this. The others seated in his row had arrived in a timely fashion, which necessitated several having to get up and out of their seats to make way for the bulk of the priest, who, Dana noted, wore a suit and collar tonight.

His presence here was more than a coincidence. She wondered now if that last entry in the police investigator’s file had something to do with Borelli, who had, without doubt, paid a visit to Police Central just before Dana.

The lights dimmed as the music started up. A large three-screened background with pulsing kaleidoscope splashes of color appeared, along with gliding, dancing figures that seemed to step in and out from stage to film, from reality to fantasy and illusion. Large clown faces, wild beasts—a tiger, a lion, a giraffe—one ringmaster, then another, flashed and faded on the screen, keeping time to an untamed beat, then to a tune that rose and fell with the false merriment of a carnival calliope. Acrobats tumbled across the stage, unattached body parts twisting and turning to the rhythmic beat of bright lights. The performance was both beautiful and disturbing. As she sat alone, enthralled with the trickery of light and color, enjoying the performance, a wordless tale of reality and dream told through movement and music, Dana saw nothing that connected in any way to the church, the convent, Sister Claire, Father Ruffino, or the Infant of Prague. The only connection seemed to be Borelli.

She remained in her seat during intermission, peering over her program until the priest made his way to the lobby. Then she rose and followed, keeping a discreet distance. He disappeared into the men’s room, and then came out, purchased a drink, which he downed quickly, and returned to the theater, Dana watching behind a lobby column. Nothing unusual in his behavior. She went back to her seat.

As soon as the performance ended she left the theater and stood out front, away from the crowd waiting for cabs. The air was balmy and damp. It felt like rain. She put on her raincoat as she watched for Borelli, concluding after about ten minutes that he must have taken a side exit that she was unaware of, or perhaps he had a backstage pass and was chumming around with the performers right now. Searching for a cab, she saw none. Most of the theatergoers had already left. She walked down the block, past the National Theater, which appeared to be just letting out, patrons emptying onto the street. She walked another block. The crowd was thinning. It had started to sprinkle. She shouldn’t get too far out of the area where the after-theater crowd gathered at restaurants. As the rain continued to fall, showing no sign of letting up, she thought about going into one of the coffee shops, but instead stood under the eaves of a building, watching for a cab.