Lost and Found in Prague (9 page)

Finally one appeared down the street and she stepped out and waved. Slipping into the backseat, she gave the driver the address of the hotel. Tired and drained, Dana knew she’d accomplished very little over a very long day. The thought was accompanied by a quick moment of panic, which she attempted to suppress with some line of logic. A plan, she needed a plan, and she had to talk to Caroline again, or someone who had more information, anything to make sense of Caroline’s note, the photos from the police file.

She gazed out the cab window. It was raining like crazy now, pelting the windshield and roof. The cab came to a halt. The construction on the street in front of her hotel had made little headway over the two and a half days she’d been in the city. “Damn,” she said under her breath. She knew the driver could go no farther, and her hotel was still over a block away.

“I am sorry,” he apologized, “I can no go to hotel.”

She paid him and got out, pulling the hood of her raincoat up over her head. The rain poured down in an ever-increasing abundance. A half block from her hotel, big globs seemed to be bouncing off the street like water balloons bursting as they smacked the cobblestones. Water ran in torrents; cascading waterfalls flowed into the ditch the length of Nerudova Street. She walked quickly, staying on the boards that had been placed around the ditch, crisscrossing in strategic places to allow her to keep out of the mud where the stones, stacked in piles, had been pulled up to make way for the ditch. Uneven boards knocked one on another as she stepped. Plastic sheets draped along the side of a building flapped in the wind.

She saw no one else on the street. Then she heard the slosh and splash of footsteps behind her. She turned, pulling her hood back from her face to get a better view. A figure ducked into the recessed entrance of a building. Probably just trying to get out of the rain.

Her soles were now covered with mud and the boards felt as slick as slabs of ice. Again she heard something, someone following her. Yanking off her hood, she glanced back. Rain-soaked light from buildings and distant streetlamps provided little help, but she could make out a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a dark jacket.

She sensed the man behind her getting closer. The beat of her heart increased with the rhythm of her steps. She felt the squish of moisture seeping into her shoes. Her hair was drenched. Again she glanced back and saw the figure move into the shadows. Suddenly, her feet slid from under her, her body twisting, glasses flying as she hit her head on something hard. She was on the ground, her hand slipping on mud. Stunned, she attempted to push herself up, reaching, searching for her glasses, aware now that she’d hit her head on a pile of stones.

Someone stood over her, and then he bent down to within a foot of her face. Without her glasses, the rain still falling, everything was blurred. He handed her the glasses. She attempted to put them on, with difficulty as the side stem was bent out of shape. The left lens was streaked with mud. She rubbed it on the sleeve of her coat. “God damn it,” she said fiercely, finally propping herself up in a sitting position.

“Not a good end to the evening,” the man said, the words slow and precise, as he reached down to help her up. Then, in his smug big-brother voice, which carried a familiar Czech accent, he added, “You enjoyed the performance tonight?”

Dana sat shivering in the hotel bar, staring across the table at a blurry Investigator Damek. He’d insisted on walking her to the hotel and she hadn’t protested. Once inside he’d flashed his badge at the desk clerk, instructed him to bring two coffees, and motioned Dana to a small table in the bar tucked away behind the stairwell. Still stunned from her fall, she complied.

He asked for her glasses. She took them out of her coat pocket as he pulled something out of his jacket, opened it up like a pocket knife, flipped out a mini screwdriver. He tightened a loose screw on the glasses and then attempted to straighten the bent stem. With a perfectly pressed white cloth handkerchief, unfolded from another pocket, he cleaned off the muddy lenses. Without a word, he handed them back to her.

She slipped on the glasses and fixed her eyes on him to test them out. His hair, like hers, was damp and the moisture had created a mass of curls softening his squarish features. He returned her stare as if waiting for her to say thank you.

She said nothing. If he hadn’t been chasing her down the street, she wouldn’t have fallen and broken her glasses. She’d offer no gratitude.

The bar area consisted of little more than just that—a small bar and two tiny tables. Dana and Damek were the only patrons. Their coffee arrived. Dana cradled it in her hands, attempting to draw some warmth. Her head throbbed. She reached up and pushed a wet strand of hair behind her ear.

“Why were you following me?” she asked. “Ducking into recesses and doorways like some crime novel detective.”

“I am a detective,” he said dryly. He took a drink of coffee, looking directly at her from above the rim of his cup as if she might up and leave if he took his eyes off her. “But that was not the reason I was ducking, as you say, into doorways. It is raining.”

“Yes, that’s why I brought my raincoat.”

He smiled, an almost human smile. “Better prepared than I.”

Yet here she was—wet hair, filthy coat, broken glasses. Glasses purchased just a week before she’d left home. Practically new, now ruined. “You want to talk about Sister Claire’s murder?” she asked, wondering instantly if this was wise, if she ought to just continue with her original ploy. Yet she was sure he knew she’d looked at the file.

His face registered no surprise. “Sister Claire died of natural causes,” he said.

They sat for several long moments without words.

“I saw the photos,” she admitted.

“Is there anything you might share with me?” His voice remained calm, not accusatory.

“Not a particularly natural-looking death.” She continued to glare at him, wondering if she should just shut up, yet knowing she’d already said too much. Was she being a fool? Could he arrest her for interfering in an investigation? She felt another shiver come over her, little bumps rising along her arms. She took a slow sip of coffee, the warm liquid sliding down her throat, doing little to warm the rest of her body. “The case is closed, right?”

He nodded.

“Natural death?” she asked, then added, “With all that blood?”

“You are aware the Carmelite nuns tend the altars at the Church of Our Lady Victorious.”

“This explains the blood?”

He remained silent, and she guessed he was the type who weighed everything before he spoke. She liked that about him.

“She cared for the altar flowers,” he finally said, “unfortunately with recently sharpened shears. She suffered a heart attack—the woman was over ninety—she fell.”

“On the shears?”

Again, he nodded.

“That’s the official report?”

“At the moment.”

“But you’re having doubts?”

“When two people come to my office within an hour of one another, both with interest in the same case—”

“Two?” she asked. “Borelli?”

“You know this man?”

“Not well.”

“But you know him,” he came back.

“Laterna Magika?” she replied. “This has something to do with your case?”

He smiled, part smirk, part admiration, she thought, for her nerve in having examined his file. “This is why you attend tonight?”

“A popular place for tourists,” she said, “which both Borelli and I just happen to be.” Her head throbbed. She reached up and touched the tender spot where she’d hit it. “You do know he was there tonight?”

The investigator didn’t answer. Of course he knew. Obviously Damek had seen the priest. They each took another long, slow sip of coffee.

“It was Borelli,” she said, “who mentioned the Laterna Magika as having some relevance?” She knew it wasn’t part of the original report. Hand-printed, it had been added later.

“We had a rather odd conversation. He was, perhaps, attempting to tell me something. Or testing to see how much I knew.”

“What did Borelli tell you?”

“
Father
Borelli,” he corrected her, as if to say the priest deserved some respect.

At the desk, out in the hallway, someone was chatting with the clerk, papers rustling, and then they were climbing the stairs, footsteps thumping overhead.

“If you know anything that might have relevance,” Damek said as the muffled noise subsided, “if you believe there is more to . . .” He didn’t finish his statement, but paused again as if searching for a word.

Dana wondered if this was just a method he used to encourage someone else to do the talking, if he’d be doing the very same thing if they were conversing in Czech. She also wondered if he’d interviewed any of the nuns, if he’d spoken with Sister Agnes. Protective of Caroline, as well as afraid for her, Dana didn’t want to tell the investigator about the note, the accusation that he wasn’t doing a proper job. Until she had a better feel for just what Damek was up to, she wouldn’t bring her cousin into this conversation. Her glasses were slipping, and she could imagine how lopsided they must look. How lopsided
she
must look. Her head throbbed. She guessed a knot was swelling up before Damek’s eyes. Removing her glasses, she gave the bent stem a little twist.

He held out his hand as if to have another go at the glasses. She handed them to him.

Again she reached up to rub her head.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asked. He studied the glasses as if they were an intricate mechanical device.

“I’m fine,” she said. She was sure he, as well as Borelli, knew something she didn’t. She sensed the investigator was attempting to gauge how much he could trust her, determine if she held information that he did not. As far as she knew, there had been no mention of any of this in the press. In the States, reporters would have been all over it—
old nun discovered in pool of blood at altar of ancient icon
.

Dana realized that neither priest nor detective had made even a casual reference to the Holy Infant of Prague.

“You can trust me,” he said. His voice sounded so sincere she was tempted. He didn’t look up from his work at hand—fixing the glasses. She would prefer he look her in the eyes while declaring his trustworthiness.

“How did you get a ticket?” she asked. “The woman at the box office said the performance was sold out.” She hadn’t seen him and guessed maybe he hadn’t sat in the theater in a regular seat, having gained entry by flashing an official police ID.

“Single tickets . . .” he said, his voice even, almost uninterested now, as if this conversation were beginning to bore him. “Not difficult.”

“No date?” she asked, fully aware of her rudeness, but feeling too tired and beat up to care.

“I’m married—”

“You don’t take your wife on dates?”
Stop,
she told herself, knowing she’d already gone too far. She could hear something in her voice she didn’t like at all—defiance mixed with a casual flirtiness.

“You travel alone?” He looked up at her now. “No husband?” He gave the stem another twist and handed her glasses across the table.

She’d hit him in a tender spot and he’d sent it right back at her. Bad marriage, she thought. She adjusted the glasses on her nose. They were still off, the lenses not lined up just right.

“I apologize,” he said sincerely with a hint of exhaustion. He folded his arms on the table. “Why did you come to my office?”

She was still weighing this out, trying to determine if she could trust him.

“Why did you come to my office?” he asked again.

She drained her cup and pushed away from the table. “Are you arresting me?” she asked. “Or am I free to go?”

“Do I have reason to arrest you?” He reached out and touched her hand as if to prevent her from leaving. His touch was light, nothing threatening about it, yet suddenly Dana felt very warm, her chills turning within an instant to an intense heat. When he asked, “Do you know Pavel Novák?” the heat burned hotter, shooting up along her arm, her neck, moving about her face, on to her ears.

He released her hand.

She wondered if Damek could sense her discomfort, if her face was turning red. How could she be shivering one moment, burning up the next?

“Novák? Pavel?” She tried to steady her voice. “Aren’t those both fairly common Czech names?”

“Yes, common,” he said. “Exactly what I told Father Borelli this afternoon.”

•   •   •

Dana sat in a warm tub. The heat invading her body had left the minute she’d started up the stairs, and she was shivering again as she entered her room.

She reached up and felt the bump swelling on her forehead. She needed to get her glasses fixed. When attempting to bend the stem back into shape after she got to the room, she’d broken it completely. She needed to find an optometrist’s shop first thing in the morning.

Here she was—injured, eyesight impaired, barely able to speak the local language. At least she wasn’t sitting in jail. If she was going to find out what had happened at Our Lady Victorious, she’d need some help. If she could just get into the convent to see Caroline. Yet she knew she needed someone outside. She understood this was precisely why Caroline had asked for her help—she couldn’t gather the information she needed confined within the convent walls.

Borelli or Damek? She didn’t know quite what to make of either of them. Borelli was a priest, but Dana knew that in itself did not guarantee a man’s honesty or integrity. What about the police investigator? Did Caroline believe he was corrupt or just incompetent?

She got out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and searched for a phone book, finding nothing, not even stationery or postcards. She needed to know if Caroline’s Pavel Novák was involved in this in any way. The name, she was sure, had come from Borelli—had he offered this to Investigator Damek as some kind of . . . what? And the significance of the words
Laterna Magika
in the file? Obviously both the priest and the Czech investigator felt they had some meaning. She wished now that she’d brought along her laptop. She wanted to do some research. She grabbed her handbag and pulled out the rumpled program from the performance, but, even squinting, then holding it at arm’s length, she couldn’t read the small print. Holding the broken glasses up to her eyes, she scanned the list of performers, attempting to find a connection, a name relating to Novák, but discovered nothing.

She knew she needed help. Borelli or Damek?

Should she trust a pompous priest or a smug police investigator?

She slipped under the covers. Closing her eyes, she attempted to relax, to put together the bits of information she’d gathered from her conversations with both Borelli and Damek. The bloody photo of Sister Claire. The Laterna Magika. The name Pavel Novák. Damek insisting the case was closed while clearly still pursuing it.

Borelli’s presence in the Church of Our Lady Victorious. His childhood friend Father Giuseppe Ruffino. This was especially puzzling. She remembered the priest’s kind words, then Caroline’s guarded glances toward the altar. If Father Ruffino was involved, why would he have contacted his friend for help? No one had mentioned the Holy Infant of Prague; no one had alluded to the fact that the little statue was stolen or missing. Other than Caroline.

Was the statue Dana had seen on the altar a fake?

She couldn’t sleep. She rolled over, glanced at the digital clock. The numbers flipped over to a row of ones—1:11. Her head throbbed. She got up and went to the bathroom to get an ibuprofen. Finding the white plastic bottle in her small bag, she squinted in an attempt to line up the arrows to remove the childproof cap, finally resorting to searching with her fingers. When she thought she had it right, she popped the cap, sending tiny red pills all over the floor, still damp from her bath. As she stooped to pick them up, streaks of red smeared across the white tiles.

Sister Claire—the image came to her again. Blood on the floor around the nun’s head. She grabbed two pills and swallowed them down with water and placed the others on a tissue set on the vanity to dry. She returned to bed.

“You should be here with us, with family.” Ben’s voice. Her brother. A familiar protest to her annual Easter trip. “Why do you think you can go away each year and block it all out? Don’t you understand we’re here for you?”

Ben’s voice. But it was also her father’s.
Dad’s gone.
Her brother—in her father’s voice—telling her that her father had died.

Suddenly Dana’s mother appeared, standing over her daughter. Dana held a baby.

“Lovely,” her mother said. “You were meant to be a mother.”

Dana looked up and smiled at her mother. She knew this, too, the moment her son was placed in her arms. This had surprised her. She’d never thought of herself as maternal. When she gazed down, the baby was gone.

She felt wet, hot tears, the damp pillow. She sat up, rose shakily to her feet, crossed the room to the window, and stared down at the street. For a moment she thought about dressing and going out. The room felt terribly stuffy. She found the thermostat, but couldn’t read the small numbers, so she just gave it a slight twist and returned to bed.

Sister Claire, the blood streaking about her. Then Father Borelli stood above her, Father Ruffino by his side, in the Church of Our Lady Victorious. Investigator Damek had joined them. Then a line of nuns stood in a row. Looking all the same. Dana couldn’t make out the faces, couldn’t tell which one was Caroline.