Lost and Found in Prague (22 page)

Yes! Dana thought—a young man who had inherited his father’s voice. It was Václav, not Pavel, who’d come to the church and taken the statue.

“I think maybe it was Václav,” Dana said slowly, “who took the Infant.”

“You think Václav,” Caroline asked, words slow and measured, “was
casing
the joint, as they say? Well, I’m sure that isn’t true. The tears were sincere. I have no doubt of that. Yet sometimes I think I imagined this whole scene, that it was a dream. I was alone in the church. No one else saw him.”

“Have you ever seen him, Václav, playing with a group of musicians on the bridge?”

“My life is fairly confined to the Malá Strana,” Caroline replied. Then her eyes widened. “You will find the Infant and return him?” she asked hopefully.

“We’re working on it,” Dana reassured her. “Did Lenka eventually marry?” she asked. “The father of her daughter?”

“She—no, I’m sure she didn’t. Why? Why would someone take the Infant?”

“Father Borelli believes it might have been offered on the black market, or stolen to order. There’s been no demand for ransom, so that’s not a likely motive.”

“It’s very old. The exact origin is unknown, though it was given to the Carmelites here in Prague by the Princess Polyxena. There are many miraculous stories surrounding the Holy Infant. I imagine it is very valuable.”

Dana had a thought, a thought that now seemed so obvious, though she was not yet ready to share this with Caroline. “We’ll get it back,” she assured her cousin.

Both women glanced again at the prioress, who sat quietly. She’d finished her berries and folded her napkin neatly on the table. Dana wondered if Caroline would share everything with her superior after Dana left the convent. She was sure now the woman did not speak or understand English.

Dana rummaged through her handbag, pulled out the photo from the Internet, and placed it on the table. She wanted to confirm that Václav looked like this long-ago photo of his father.

Caroline’s face turned as white as her wimple as she stared down at the images of these four young Czech men. For a long moment she said nothing. Dana wondered if she’d reopened a wound, showing her this photo of a man she’d once loved.

“Pavel.” She pointed, then paused, her eyes darting from one figure to the next in the photo. “And Marek Cermak. He was the only one in the group who really made it with his music, though he’s dead now. Drug overdose.” Her eyes flickered up, then dropped, again. “Branko Banik,” she said, a whisper. There was something in her voice now that Dana could only describe as fear. “He was in Pavel’s band, early on. He went on to become a successful music producer.” Caroline paused, took in a deep breath. “And this man, Jirí Jankovic,” Caroline said. “Branko’s goon.” Her eyes blinked several times.

Dana waited, wishing Caroline would go on, sensing she had more to share. Again she glanced over at the prioress.

“You know how the economy took off for some,” Caroline continued, “those willing to take chances, after the revolution, free enterprise and all. Branko got into all kinds of things. I’m not sure he was completely honest and upright in his dealings, but you know a lot of that went on. Perhaps still does. Money to be made without the oversight and restrictions of the Communist regime. Capitalism gone wild,” she added with a wan smile. “He married into money. His father-in-law, some official in the newly formed government.”

“So he’s still around?” Of course, Dana knew this, too.

“Yes.” Again her slow smile took on a hint of irony. “We’re not completely isolated here. We do read and keep up on current events. It gives us some insight into where our prayers are most needed. I know he’s had some political involvement, not necessarily directly, but where there’s money, opportunity . . .” Her voice faded.

“Convicted of any crimes?”

“Oh, Branko is too shrewd for that.”

Dana wondered if Caroline knew the man better than she was letting on.

“I imagine,” Caroline offered slowly, cautiously, “he’s done worse things. . . .”

“Worse? What do you mean?”

“After the revolution, drugs, prostitution, black market arms trading, all kinds of things that were controlled during the Communists, well . . . I’m quite sure Branko was making a quick buck. Pavel confronted him . . . and . . .”

“What?”

Caroline hesitated. “That’s when he disappeared. Vanished. One day. Poof, he was gone.”

“Pavel?”

She nodded.

“Murdered?”

“As far as I know an investigation never took place. No body found floating in the Vltava.”

“Didn’t you go to the police?”

“If there was corruption in the prerevolution police . . . well, once the new government took over . . . Post-Communist Prague police.” She seemed to wave it off. “Things don’t happen overnight, and there are always those ready to take advantage. President Václav Havel’s general amnesty, some say it put the scum of the earth back on the streets.”

“So nothing ever happened, I mean with Branko?”

“I never had any evidence. Nothing but instinct, or maybe intuition. Just a feeling.” She paused and took a deep gulp. “Branko Banik was . . . well, what you’d call an opportunist. Even back then, playing both sides.”

“Both sides? What do you mean?”

“Any situation he found himself in . . . it was always,
what’s in it for me. . . .
A man without loyalties.” Caroline paused, took a breath. She exhaled, and Dana had no doubt that it was fear she now saw in her cousin’s eyes.

Years ago he’d assaulted Dana.

Caroline blinked nervously, then bit her lip as if regretting what she’d shared. She glanced at the prioress, who said something quietly to the younger nun, who nodded. Silently the women finished their meal.

As Sister Ludmila cleared the dishes, Dana said, “I’m scheduled to go home tomorrow.”

“I know,” Caroline said. “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time. Early?”

“About noon, but I suppose I’ll need to get to the airport by ten at the latest.” Dana wondered if she could really leave with all this unresolved. Yet it appeared Father Ruffino was now willing to go to the police. Shouldn’t she just let them handle it? Damek had assured her the nuns were safe.

“We’re up at five, chapel at five thirty, breakfast at six, Mass at eight. Generally it’s part of our great silence, but”—Caroline turned and smiled at the prioress—“I’m sure, since I’ve had so little time with you, Sister Thereza would allow another visit. Could you come by before you leave for the airport? Is six o’clock too early?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Perfect,” Caroline replied cheerfully as if ready to dismiss the strange conversation the two women had just had. “We could have breakfast.”

Dana left the convent and started back to the hotel, replaying in her head all Caroline had told her. About seeing a young man she thought was Václav in the church a year before, a man praying for his ill sister. She thought of the grandfather’s claim he’d seen a man who looked exactly like a young Pavel performing on Karluv most, and the children’s description of another, much older man who’d come to the neighborhood to sharpen knives and scissors. Jan said this was the same man he’d seen at the marionette shop near the Staromestské námesti. Neither Maria nor Jan had described the man as being bald, but hadn’t Jan said he wore a hat? It could be the same man Sister Ludmila had described.

Even as these thoughts turned in Dana’s mind they were interrupted by Caroline’s revelations about Branko Banik. Dana knew firsthand that Branko was a man set on having his way, controlling every situation. He was an opportunist, according to Caroline. But was he also a murderer?

“I’d like to do that,” Petr told his dad.

“I know,” his father replied.

They’d had lunch and stood now before the remains of the Stalin monument, an unofficial skateboard park. Dozens of sneakers, tied in pairs, swung overhead from a power line. Watching the scruffy-looking bunch with baggy pants, kerchiefs tied around their heads, some with backward caps, all with attitude, Dal would have to admit it looked like they were having fun. It even sounded fun—the hard grate of wheels against stone, the shouts and whoops of boys letting loose, kids without a worry or concern.

“You’d have to wear a helmet and pads. You’d have to have your mother’s permission.”

“She treats me like a baby.”

Dal gave his son’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, but said nothing as they stood together, watching. The Letná Park, set high above the city and the meandering Vltava River, had always been a popular place, particularly on days like this—a lovely Sunday afternoon. Families strolled along the many tree-lined paths. Mothers pushed babies in strollers, toddlers grasped their fathers’ hands, dogs tugged at leashes, eager to run. Others whizzed by on in-line skates, and some, like Dal and Petr, stopped to watch the kids on skateboards. The figure of Stalin, followed by familiar socialist symbols—a laborer, a farmer, a soldier—that had once stood on this base had been removed years ago, and the pedestal was now covered with graffiti. A bright red metronome, seventy-five feet high, had replaced the statue. The rhythmic beat clicked in tandem with wheels on stone.

“Investigator Damek,” Dal heard a familiar voice call out. He turned, not particularly surprised to see Dana Pierson sprinting toward them, wearing that silly black sweatshirt that made her look more like a boy than a grown woman. She might have fit right in with these teenage skateboarders. And yet, as she approached he could smell her, that lovely womanly scent.

She stopped abruptly, glancing from father to son, as if she were surprised to see them, though Dal knew this was no chance meeting. Her eyes flashed.

“This is my son, Petr,” he said, introducing the boy. “Dana Pierson.”

She smiled, taking in a deep swallow of air as if attempting to regain her breath. She brushed her hair off her forehead, revealing a fading bruise, a trickle of sweat, and then ran her hand over the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Hi, Petr,” she said, reaching for the child’s hand, holding it for a long moment. Her hard edge softened before Dal’s eyes. Not melted, or imploded like it had early that morning, but softened in a feminine, motherly way.
What is it about this woman?

“Teší me,”
she said in awkwardly accented Czech.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Petr replied in English.

“You speak English.” Her smile expanded with warmth.

“I study in school.”

“Very good,” she commended, and she turned to Dal with approval. “He looks like you, miniature version.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, not completely surprising himself with the lack of harshness and exasperation in his own voice, realizing he was glad to see her. “How did you—”

“You were having two conversations when we spoke on the phone. . . . I apologize for intruding on this time with your son, but I—” She stopped, took in another breath. He knew she had no idea that this time was a precious allotment, that he was no longer living with his family, could no longer go home from work, sit down at the dinner table, and ask about their day.

“You were . . .” she said, “well, I overheard . . .”

“Yes,” he said, remembering the conversation he was having with Petr as he spoke to her on the phone—more motions than words—and they’d been speaking Czech, but she must have heard Dal tell his son they’d come here to the park. Maybe he wasn’t giving her due credit for her investigative skills, her abilities of deduction. She’d obviously found them.

“I discovered something important. It’s Václav Horácek. He looks exactly like his father, Pavel Novák, and I’m guessing he inherited the vocal gene, too.”

“And Sister Claire heard this familiar voice . . . from the recording . . .” Dal coughed and rubbed his nose.
Damn allergies.
Something in the park was irritating his sinuses, maybe all that skateboard dirt and dust.

“Yes, she heard him speaking,” Dana said. “She was familiar with his father’s music, particularly ‘Laterna Magika,’ but . . . I don’t believe there’s anything in the song itself. Sister Claire simply recognized the voice. I have another theory about the theft of the Infant. Václav has a younger sister with serious health problems. It’s possible he took the Infant for its miraculous healing powers.”

“A viable theory, perhaps.” He nodded, but neither said anything for many moments, both thinking this through, watching the boys, one flying so gracefully he appeared to float on air. Dal remembered his own son lying in the hospital bed, near death, Karla’s wish to take him to the church, as if proximity to the little Infant could in itself bring about a healing.

“Sister Agnes also told me she once saw Václav at the church.”

Dal turned, his eyes meeting Dana’s. “When?”

“About a year ago.”

“Planning even then to take the Infant?”

“Caroline seemed to think he was sincere. He was there to pray.”

Dal didn’t know quite what to think of this information. He should probably visit the convent and speak to the nuns. No, no—once he met with the priests he would turn this over to the proper department. He would have no authority. And yet, he wondered if he could truly let go.

“You believe a second person was in the church with him?” Dal realized this was what she’d been telling him earlier on the phone. What had she said—a man from a marionette shop?

She explained about the man who’d come to the neighborhood sharpening knives and scissors, how the children had seen him and recognized him as the same man at a shop near the Staromestské námesti. Dana glanced protectively down at Petr as she spoke, but Dal guessed he wasn’t that interested in their conversation. The boy’s eyes were fixed on the antics of the kids on the skateboards.

Dal pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket and blew, folded it, stuffed it back in his pocket. “I found an address for Lenka and, according to what I have learned, her son lives at the same residence. I will pass this information to the assigned officer after my meeting with the priests.”

“Damn it,” she said, then glanced again at Dal’s son, who kept inching closer to the boys on skateboards. “Can’t we get something started here, drop by that address?”

“I am with my son this afternoon, then . . .” He didn’t mention that he had a murder case opening wide.

“Doesn’t he have a mother?”

Dal could see, as soon as she’d said this, she regretted it. He could tell by the way her eyes instantly dropped, then rose again toward the boy. One of the kids had stopped to talk to him, and it appeared the bigger kid was offering him a turn on the board. Petr glanced back at his father, eyes wide with excitement.

Dal shook his head.

“Too dangerous?” Dana asked.

“His mother would . . .” He searched for the appropriate English words. “Kill me,” he said, thinking of no others.

“That I can understand,” she said without hesitation. Then she smiled. So did he. “I’m sorry about, well . . .” Her words slowed. “That’s none of my business.”

He knew she was talking about his wife, Karla, his son’s mother. He said nothing. Dana was right—it was none of her business.

As they stood watching the boys, Dal sensed she was thinking of her own son. She’d been a mother, too. And he knew she would have been protective like Karla. Yet she was much more aggressive and adventurous than Karla. He’d never liked that in a woman.

“They look like they are having fun,” Dana finally said.

“Yes.”

The sound of laughing, shouting boys, the grind of metal wheels on concrete filled the air. One of the boys, newly arrived, had brought a CD player, blasting an English-language rap, the rhythm pounding, throbbing.

“Go to any park in the world,” Dana said. With her eyes, a slight tilt of the head, she motioned over to a bench where a lone man sat.

Dal had noticed him, too. A middle-aged man with a paunch, wearing a ratty tweed sports jacket, a pair of dark glasses, he’d arrived shortly after Dana. The man wore high-topped athletic shoes, visible as he propped one leg over the other. Eyes darting around, he’d settled down on a bench with a newspaper as if he might become invisible. As Dal tended to do when he felt something wasn’t quite right, he’d taken in every detail, even as he’d spoken with Dana and kept a vigilant eye on his son.

Most of the people in the park were families, couples, boys in bunches. But this man appeared to be alone. Perhaps here to observe the boys—these healthy, tempting, young preadolescents and teens. Now and then he’d look up, eyes darting, then suddenly back down, the newspaper a mere prop. One reason Karla might have legitimate concerns for her son hanging out here. That and the possibility of drugs. He’d never let him come without supervision. Again Dal considered what Dana had told him early that morning. She’d fallen apart before she’d finished and he didn’t know . . . he wondered if the boy had been abducted by a . . . For a moment Dal felt like walking over, lifting the man from the bench, smashing his head against one of the concrete slabs. Dal didn’t know what had happened to her son. Such thoughts were so painful, he couldn’t even look her in the eye or comment on such men who hung around parks watching kids.

“I was here once before,” she said, “here at the park for a demonstration during the revolution.”

“Much history here. Kids still call this”—he pointed—“the Stalin, though the statue of Stalin was destroyed in 1962, and these young boys never even saw it. The marble makes a very good . . .” He searched for a word unsuccessfully. “For the skateboard.”

“Might as well get some use out of it.”

“The metronome, added in 1991.” Again, Dal was aware of the rhythmic tempo that had almost faded into the background.

“Were you here?” Dana asked, a question Dal didn’t understand. “In Prague,” she explained. “During the revolution. Did you take part?”

“No,” he answered. “I believed in the cause, but no.”

One of the boys jumped into the air, grabbed the end of his board, and slid with ease along the concrete edge of a bench.

“I was at university that fall,” he said. “My mother called me home. My father was ill. He died in November.”

“The year of the revolution?”

“Yes.” Dal did believe in the cause, but with his father dying, no, he had not participated.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My dad . . .” She didn’t finish.

Neither added more but he could see she was thinking something over, that she wasn’t done with him yet.

“My cousin . . .” She stopped for a moment as if considering whether she should go on. “There’s another reason I felt I had to talk to you this afternoon.” Dana stuffed her hands in the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Another man in the photo of the musicians. His name is Branko Banik.”

That was who it was, Dal realized, the man in the photo who’d looked so familiar. The name was well-known in the entertainment and media business in the Czech Republic. He’d become somewhat of a philanthropist. Dal remembered reading about a big donation he’d made recently to a research hospital in Prague. “You believe he is involved in this theft?”

“No, no. It’s just that she said this Banik—as I understand he is rather high profile in the Czech Republic, perhaps even involved in questionable business practices in the past.”

“Your cousin suspects some corruption?” Dal said. This wasn’t unusual—commercial corruption. The fall of Communism had opened up many opportunities, the lack of supervision and rules in the new republic providing fertile ground for questionable practices. “What does this nun know of Branko Banik?” He wasn’t sure where Dana was going with this.

“My cousin thinks when Pavel Novák disappeared, Branko might have been involved.”

“A murder?”

“Someone disappears? No trace to be found?”

“Yet she did not report this?”

“She had no evidence, and I don’t think she trusted the police, particularly during that transition from—”

“Yes,” he said, cutting her off. “To establish trust, this has been difficult, particularly with some of the older citizens. Your cousin believes Branko Banik had some part in Pavel’s disappearance because he knew of Banik’s illegal activities? A murder?”

“Possibly.” She was quiet for a moment. “Murder. That
is
your department. Right?”

He didn’t respond and she added nothing more. After several moments, he called out to Petr, who looked back at his dad and mouthed,
Just a few more minutes
. Again Dal glanced at Dana. She held his eyes, and he felt a touch of sadness. He knew what they’d shared early that morning had created a strange bond between them.

“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” she said. He could see she was studying him, too. She knew so much about him since his revelation that morning. “Sorry about . . .” Her tone was soft, almost a whisper. “That meltdown.”

“I . . . I . . .” he started, wishing to say something more, knowing he could not.

“He’s beautiful.” She looked out toward Petr, who kept glancing back at his father as if Dal were about to relent and allow him to try out the skateboard.

“He is,” Dal replied. They stood together silently for several moments, then he called to Petr, who started over. Dal motioned for Dana to come along.