Rogue Angel 53: Bathed in Blood (11 page)

17

“Good morning. Can you help me?”

Annja was standing in the local library, where she’d gone soon after waking up. She wanted to independently verify the information Novack had supplied to her by going through back issues of the local newspaper for any and all reports relating to the various tragedies that had been contained in the files.

The woman Annja was speaking to was in her midfifties, with a bright smile and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses with thick lenses that gave her features an owlish cast.

“I’ll certainly try,” the librarian said in excellent English. “What are you looking for?”

When Annja explained that she wanted to go through every issue of the local paper for the past five years, the librarian smiled politely and said, “That’s a lot of issues.”

“I’m sure it is,” Annja replied, “which is why I need your help.”

She could imagine what was going on inside the woman’s head—“are you nuts?” likely being the most prominent refrain—and she was thankful for the librarian’s professionalism. The woman led Annja through the stacks and down two flights of stairs to a room in the basement where the bookshelves were lined with thick binders containing print copies of all the newspaper issues for the past two years.

“Anything older than this gets shipped off to the media center, where it’s digitized and stored on the library’s network. You can access those files at any of the terminals on the second floor. If you need anything, press twenty-eight on that phone over there,” she said, pointing at a white telephone hanging on the wall in the corner, “and that will connect you to the circulation desk.”

Annja waited until the librarian had left the room, and then she checked her notes to find the date when the most recent “victim” from Novack’s files was found. Once she had that, she pulled down the binders containing the issues from that month and began to leaf through them, page by page.

It was time-consuming work, made more difficult by the fact that many of those involved were on the fringes of society and often not mentioned by name, if at all. People died every day under a variety of circumstances, and often they got no more than a line or two of commentary in the press. Annja’s job was to sort through all of these, trying to match the details of the deaths she had in the files with those listed in the newspaper. Her goal was twofold, to verify that the report was accurate—that someone had died in the manner specified—and then to see if the press reports on the victims had anything to add to Novack’s reports.

She took a break for lunch, grabbing something to eat in a small outdoor café not far from the library, and then she returned to continue her search. This time, however, she took her work back up to the main floor, tired of feeling as though she was hiding away in the basement.

She’d been back at it for almost an hour when she realized someone was standing in front of her table, waiting. Annja looked up from the newsprint she was studying to find Detective Tamás. He still had his coat on, which meant, given the warm temperatures in the room, that he’d just come in from outside. In his right hand he was carrying a slim briefcase.

“Hello, Ms. Creed,” Tamás said.

If he’d come here directly from being outside, this visit was no accident. He was looking for her.

“Good afternoon, Detective.”

Tamás pointed at the chair on the other side of the table from her. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“It’s a public building.”

Tamás hesitated, and Annja regretted her remark. There was no need for rudeness.

“I’m sorry, Detective, it’s been a long day. Yes, of course, join me.”

Tamás took off his coat, draping it over the back of the chair, and then sat, placing his briefcase on the table next to him, within easy reach. He glanced at the pile of ledgers holding the newspaper’s back issues.

“I don’t think you’re going to find much information on the countess in the local paper,” he said, smiling.

Annja smiled back at him as she said, “No, you’re probably right. But the paper does have some fascinating things to say about several recent murder cases.”

Tamás cocked his head to one side, seemingly uncertain how to take her comment. “I’m sorry. Did you say murder cases? Why on earth are you interested in something like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, her gaze never leaving his own. “Maybe because several of them are quite similar to the Vass killing. Was Csilla Polgár traveling with all of them?”

Tamás scowled at her and opened his mouth to say something sharp, but then understanding flooded his features and he sat back in his chair, rebuke unspoken. He watched her closely and then, with a faint smile on his face, said, “You’ve been talking to Novack, haven’t you?”

Annja kept her face impassive. “Who?”

“Havel Novack?”

Play dumb.

“I don’t know who that is.”

Tamás laughed. “Right. And you just happened to come across information on the Cynthia Bardecki case on your own?”

Annja glanced down and saw she’d written Bardecki’s name on the pad of paper in front of her at some point earlier that morning.

Watch it, she told herself. He was not only smart, he was observant, too. He’d read that upside down with just a glance.

She shifted position, sliding her arm casually over the top of her pad as she said, “I’m afraid you have me at a loss, again, Detective. Who?”

“I suppose the names Lenka Burget, Kate Cérna, Liv Frank and Adriana Moravec mean nothing to you, as well?”

Annja stared at him. Novack had given her a file last night for each and every one of the names Tamás had just mentioned. There were quite a few others, of course, and Annja suspected that Tamás could have named them all had he chosen to do so.

What was going on here? she wondered. Novack had said only a few people knew about his theory; was Tamás in on the cover-up? Was that why he had come here?

Tamás must have sensed her anxiety because he said, “You are perfectly within your rights to access public information in any way you see fit. Please understand that I’m not trying to interfere with your research.”

She sensed a “but” coming...

“But before you continue and get yourself involved even deeper in what is already a mess, I’d ask that you read this.”

He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick file folder and pushed it across the table toward her.

Annja glanced at it but made no move to touch it.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Havel Novack’s personnel file. He reported to me for several years before he retired.”

“Isn’t that confidential?”

“Normally, yes. But I’m bending the rules in this situation.” His smile was both ironic and a bit sad. “You seem to think I’m doing everything I can to railroad Miss Polgár, but I assure you that I’m just following the evidence as I see it. I think you’d do the same in my case, which is why I brought you the file. You might want to have a look at it before wasting any more of your time. I trust that you’ll return it when you’re finished?”

Annja stared at the file for a moment, not touching it, and then she nodded, not sure what to say. He sounded so believable, and yet...

“Good day to you, then, Ms. Creed.”

Tamás got up, retrieved his jacket and case, nodded to her once and then left.

Annja waited until he was out of sight before reaching for the file. It felt as though it weighed ten pounds as she dragged it across the tabletop.

Just my imagination, she told herself.

Inside was a written testament to Havel Novack’s life on the force. Evaluations. Commendations. Records of the cases he’d worked and the collars he’d made. Firearms qualifications. Public service projects. You name it, it was in there. Annja read through the file with fascination, learning that Novack was a dedicated officer who took his job seriously and worked hard to live up to his role as a figure of truth and justice.

Everything supported her own conclusions about the man and his behavior until she got about three-quarters of the way through the file.

That was when things started to go downhill.

According to the documentation, Novack had suffered through a long and bitter divorce, like so many police officers before him. Following the divorce, he’d started drinking, a little here and there, until the pressure got to be too much, it seemed, and he began to do it more regularly.

Annja read on with increasing dismay, through reports of botched arrests and compromised investigations. Novack’s downward spiral was all documented there in black-and-white.

Then came the final straw.

Novack had begun poking into cases that were not his own. He had been reprimanded twice for interfering in the work of other officers and had been placed on two weeks’ leave to try to sort himself out. According to the paperwork, Novack had come back from his time off with the paranoid idea that a serial killer was loose in Nové Mesto and the surrounding communities. The killer was had supposedly targeting young women and draining the blood from their bodies in the manner of the Blood Countess.

The more Annja read, the more dismayed she became.

Novack had finally confronted the divisional captain, demanding that someone pay attention to the killings he’d uncovered and threatening to go to the press if they did not. At that point Novack was declared unfit for duty and retired on a medical pension.

There was no mention of a knee injury, which was the reason Novack had given her for his being drummed off the force.

Annja finished reading the file, closed the folder and sat back in her chair, wondering what the heck she was going to do next.

Had all this been for nothing?

She tried to consider the situation dispassionately, just as she did when evaluating an artifact or a dig site. What did she really know? Not think or believe or suspect, but know.

Marta Vass was dead, killed by person or persons unknown. Her body had been drained of blood before being dumped on that ridgeline. Csilla Polgár had been arrested for the crime. Both Annja and Havel Novack believed Csilla to be innocent. Novack also believed a serial killer was preying on vulnerable members of the local community.

Those were all facts.

Now Annja believed that Csilla was innocent, but she couldn’t say for sure. Not 100 percent. After all, what did she really know about the woman anyway?

Very little.

Maybe Tamás was right; maybe Polgár and Vass were traveling together and got into an argument that ended in tragedy. She didn’t think it was true, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. Fact was, she really didn’t know.

All she had to go on was her gut feeling.

And her gut told her that Csilla hadn’t done it.

But that was where her problem arose. Her gut was also telling her that the information Novack had supplied her with was on the up-and-up—that women were being targeted by a smart killer who had managed, either with the police’s help or without it, to keep his or her activities under the radar.

And yet Novack’s personnel file was pretty damning. Both to Novack and his theory. The former officer had made no mention of his drinking problem when they’d met last night. In fact, if Tamás was to be believed, Novack had not only left out that little detail but had actively lied about the reason he’d been drummed off the force. Given all the documentation Tamás had provided on the man’s mental state, it was getting harder to believe that Novack’s entire narrative wasn’t just some fantastical story. After all, what real proof did he have?

That wasn’t fair, she said to herself. What proof did she have that her sword could appear and disappear at will?

She almost brushed off the question as ridiculous—her subconscious could be a real pain at times—but then she realized it wasn’t so ridiculous after all.

Annja was going to have to make a choice.

18

Annja needed time to relax and get her thoughts in order, so she had a leisurely dinner in a nice little Italian place a few blocks from her hotel. She even had a piece of tiramisu and a cup of hot chocolate for dessert.

In the end, she decided to give Novack a chance to explain himself. She owed him that much. If he’d had a drinking problem but was clean now—which he’d appeared to be when she’d seen him the past two times—then perhaps he was simply too embarrassed to bring it up. He’d readily admitted that he’d been all but drummed off the force, so she couldn’t fault him too badly for not wanting to talk about the details. Especially if he’d been hoping to convince her of a rather outlandish story to begin with.

If he came clean and admitted the lie, she’d continue working with him on the investigation. Her gut was still telling her something was wrong here.

If she walked away and it turned out he was correct, she’d have condemned Csilla to imprisonment for a crime she didn’t commit, and the killer might go on to destroy the lives of others.

That was something for which she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself.

But she needed to know she could trust him to uphold his end of the partnership and that he wouldn’t crack under pressure.

Pleased that she’d made a decision, Annja finished off her hot chocolate with one last gulp, paid the check and headed back to her hotel. She said hello to the doorman as she passed inside. After waiting for the elevator with a pair of elderly men who smelled of cigarettes and mouthwash, she rode up with them in silence. They got off on the floor below hers.

As Annja came down the hall toward her room, she noticed that her door was slightly ajar. No more than an inch, but even an inch was problematic, because she was certain that she’d not only pulled it firmly shut but locked it behind her when she’d left.

She stopped a few feet away from the door and listened.

She didn’t hear anything.

Annja glanced up and down the hall, checking to be sure that it was empty. Confident that she wouldn’t be observed, she reached into the otherwhere for her sword.

Feeling more confident now that she had a weapon in hand, Annja stepped to the side of the hallway and slowly advanced until she stood just outside her room with her back to the wall.

She listened again, but aside from the drone of a voice somewhere on the floor above, she didn’t hear anyone moving about inside her room.

Still, it paid to be careful.

She reached out with the tip of her sword and nudged the door open the rest of the way.

Armed assailants didn’t come charging out of the room, nor did a hail of withering gunfire chew the door into smithereens.

You’ve been watching too many movies, Creed.

Annja gave it a moment, and then peeked around the corner quickly before pulling her head back.

Her room was in shambles. Drawers were hanging out of the dresser, clothes were everywhere and it looked like someone had torn apart the mattress.

The files.

She wanted to rush in, to see if they were still there, but prudence reared its head and she took her time, slowly moving around the doorway and into the room just in case someone was still inside. She found the bedroom and the bath empty. A quick check of the closest confirmed no one was hiding in there, either.

Satisfied that she was alone, Annja released the sword back into the otherwhere and stared at the destruction around her.

They’d been thorough, whoever they were. Every drawer had been pulled out, their contents dumped on the floor. The television had been smashed open, the interior no doubt searched for heaven knows what. The mattress and box spring had been pulled off the frame, but not before the sheets had been stripped off and the interior torn open with a knife. Clumps of mattress stuffing were everywhere.

Of course her backpack, her laptop and the thick stack of files Novack had given her the night before were nowhere in sight.

The first two items she understood, but the files? They weren’t worth anything on the street. Who would want those?

She turned and examined the door, noting splinters in the wood of the jamb right next to the lock. It looked like someone had jammed a screwdriver or crowbar into the space and leveraged the door open. It wouldn’t have been quiet, but it would have been fast, and if they’d closed the door behind them no one would have realized what they were doing. If there had been someone watching her at the restaurant, they could have searched the place pretty thoroughly without fear that she’d walk in on them.

All her doubts about the validity of Novack’s theory were now gone. The destruction of the room and the theft of her backpack and laptop were just a cover for what the thieves had really been after.

The files themselves.

And the only reason someone would want those was if they contained damaging information...something that might point to those responsible for all the deaths.

Someone wanted to interrupt, possibly even stop, the investigation.

Annja had no intention of letting that happen.

Novack was on to something. He had to be. If he wasn’t, they never would have come for the files.

She was about to summon the manager and have him file a police report when her phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket...only to find it wasn’t her cell phone ringing after all.

Hotel phone.

Annja glanced at the desk where the phone had been; it was little more than a splintered ruin.

But the phone cord was still plugged into the wall.

Annja picked it up and began following it, hunting for the phone.

The ringing went on, and something in the sound spoke of a deep urgency. Whoever was on the other end was in trouble. Annja began digging through the detritus, following the cord.

“Keep ringing, keep ringing,” she ordered it as she threw clothing and clumps of mattress stuffing and bits and pieces of the television out of the way in her frantic search until at last she found what she was looking for.

Annja snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

For a moment she thought it was a dead line, that she’d been too late, but then a man’s voice whispered in her ear.

“Annja?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“They’re here, Annja. At least one, maybe more. I don’t think I can get out.”

“Who’s there? Where are you?”

The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on who it was.

“Keep the files safe. They’re all we have.”

Novack.

Annja glanced at the wreckage of her hotel room and suddenly understood where her intruders had gone.

“Where are you?”

“My home.” He rattled off an address on the northeast side of the city. “I don’t think you’re going to make it in time. Take the files to Radecki. He’ll know what to do.”

“Novack, wait! I...”

She heard a crash over the line, followed by several shouts, and then the dial tone began pulsing in her ear.

Novack had hung up.

Or someone had hung up for him.

Annja turned and sprinted down the hall, headed for the stairs at the far end. She didn’t have time to wait for the elevator.

She raced down three flights of stairs, threw open the door at the bottom—almost colliding with a room service waiter—and dashed across the lobby followed by the staffer’s shouts. Annja didn’t care. She only had one thought, and that was to get to Novack as quickly as she could.

She unlocked the car door, flung herself behind the wheel and raced out of the parking lot, headed north. At the first traffic light she took a moment to punch the address Novack had given her into her cell phone and waited for the maps function to tell her where to go.

With a route in hand, Annja rushed through the city, cutting corners and racing through lights whenever the opportunity presented itself, and she still felt as if she was moving too slowly. She barely knew Novack—had only met with him twice—but she had seen in him a kindred spirit, someone else who wanted to see justice triumph. Allies like Novack were few and far between, and there was no way she’d allow him to face whoever was behind all this on his own.

She had to get there in time!

The GPS told her to turn right and so Annja did, bouncing over the curb and nearly taking out a row of newspaper kiosks in the process before accelerating back into traffic. She weaved in and out around the slower-moving cars and leaned on her horn when they weren’t fast enough to get out of her way.

After what felt like hours, she left the busier part of the city behind and entered a residential area. The GPS took her through a series of turns down some side streets, and she could see from the map on the screen that she was getting close.

Hang on, Havel, almost there.

She came to a stop sign and was about to roll through it when a fire truck came roaring up behind her, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Annja caught the faint smell of smoke. The smell grew considerably stronger when she lowered the car window.

As she watched the fire truck drive on, she realized it was headed in same direction as she was.

Oh, no.