by Lena Bourne
“Jana! Oh, dear! Jana, I’m here,” a woman shouts from down the hall, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor. She looks like a copy of Mrs. Kolar, right down to the long blonde hair and matching light-colored skirt and blazer—off-white in her case.
Jana turns to the voice and takes a few steps towards the rapidly approaching woman who is almost upon us. As soon as they reach each other, the woman wraps Jana in a bear hug.
“Everything will be alright now, I’m here,” she says.
“Are you her aunt?” I ask.
“I am. And who are you?” she asks. “What happened to my sister?”
I briefly explain who we are and let Brina tell her what had happened.
“Did your sister have any enemies?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Ivan was the target, I’m sure of it. He worked with some low-lifes. One of them must’ve…”
Her voice cracks and fades away and I decide to leave the rest of this questioning to a time that’s less emotionally difficult. I tell Jana that we’ll be in touch soon before we leave, but I doubt she heard me.
“You do think this is connected to our case, right?” Brina asks me once we exit the ER building, where a particularly strong and cold gust of wind hits me right in the face. It’s followed by a loud roll of thunder right before a sheet of rain comes down.
We run the ten meters or so to the garage entrance, and my coat is almost soaked through in that time, my hair plastered to my head. Brina’s is no better.
“Yes, I think it’s connected,” I tell her. “I think we broke the cage instead of just rattling it.”
“I’m not sure I like it when you speak in metaphors,” she says dryly.
“Sorry, it’s what my mentor always did,” I say.
And whether she likes it or not is irrelevant, because I’m right.
But unfortunately, we’re still very far from knowing who came out of the cage and is doing all these things. I’m afraid it’s the mafia. And I’m afraid we’ll never get any closer than this to catching them.
I know I shouldn’t be making conclusions yet, we have far from enough evidence for that, but I also think that’s just one more piece of proof that I’m probably right.
The rain still hasn’t let up by the time Brina and I reach the country house where the crime occurred. It took us over an hour to get here since the rain and darkness seem to have created monstrous gridlock traffic on every road I tried. It gave me plenty of time to go over everything Eva sent me of Esma’s file, as well as read the write-up of her findings. She’s right. Without Rado to tell us what drove his brother to suicide and Anita to flee the town, we could be groping around, neck-deep in gossip, for a while yet.
Huge puddles have formed in the muddy ground around the brick and mortar house nestled into a hill, overlooking a long deep valley, which I bet looks gorgeous in sunny weather, but is just a black wet ominous looking place now. The cabin is quite secluded, separated from the neighboring ones by thick trees and shrubs.
A white van, a police cruiser, and a dark grey hatchback are parked in front of the house. The forensic team has erected a dark green tarp stretching between the front door of the cabin and their van, but the gusting wind is bringing the rain in from all sides so the ground underneath it is all muddy too. At first glance, it seems like they’ve set up some sort of a system where one forensic tech is standing by the door, ready to bring any evidence they find inside the house to the van.
“Stop,” he says as Brina and I approach.
I introduce us and ask to speak to the detective in charge and Ida. The man nods and yells into the house, asking Ida to come.
She appears almost instantly, wearing her full-body jumpsuit and clutching a camera. The detective—the same one who was at the Leskovar scene is close behind her. Nik Jenko if I remember right.
“You again,” he says as he sees us.
“What happened here? I ask.
Nik opens his mouth to reply, but Ida beats him to it. “It seems that Derganec and Leskovar’s ex-wife were surprised by a shooter sometime last night. Either the shooter was waiting for them here, or arrived afterwards.”
“Are there signs of a break-in?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No signs of forced entry were found on any of the doors or windows, which I find very odd.”
“It suggests they knew whoever it was,” I say.
“Can we take a look?” Brina asks.
“If you take off your muddy shoes,” she says. “And put on shoe covers.”
The tech on the door goes to the van to bring us the latter, and the task of removing my shoes and putting them on without stepping in any of the mud is neither fun, pleasant nor particularly quick.
“So there are some similarities to the Leskovar crime scene?” I ask as I finally step into the house.
The door opens right into the living room, a large room, dominated by a low, flat dark grey sofa. The island kitchen is off to the left of it, and a door leading to two other rooms is to the right. A bloodstain is covering the leftmost backrest cushion and seeping over the rear of the sofa. The edge of a large, dark red bloodstain is visible on the floor between the sofa and windows it faces. The glass in two of those windows is shattered.
“The similar thing is that no forced entry was detected, sure,” the detective says. “But this was no murder/suicide. This was just plain murder.”
“And a botched-up one at that,” Ida says. “Whoever tried to kill them was either a very bad shot or didn’t really want to hurt them.”
“What do you mean?” Brina asks, beating me to it.
“They shot six times at least, only hitting the woman twice and the man once,” she says. “The rest were missed shots.”
I walk around the sofa, careful not to step in the huge blood pool there. A lot of it has been soaked up by a fluffy white wool carpet identical to the one at my cottage. I hope I won’t end up seeing blood on it whenever I step on it, but I very well might. On the sofa, an outline of the person who bled heavily there is also clearly drawn in their blood.
The coffee table is overturned and a lamp is smashed on the floor. Two cups, one of them missing a handle are in the blood pool too and whatever was in them has been absorbed by the blood.
“It looks like there was a struggle,” I say. “Maybe for the gun.”
Ida nods. “That might explain it. So, the woman was found on the sofa and the man on the floor. Both were unconscious, but still alive.”
“We know, we were at the hospital,” I say. “Leskovar’s ex-wife will probably make it, but Ivan is in critical condition.”
I turn to the detective. “Do you have anyone looking for Ivan’s brother, Vasko? He could be next. Or he could’ve already been shot and is lying dead somewhere.”
“He lives in Ljubljana,” the detective says. “Not my jurisdiction.”
“I already let my boss at the National Police Bureau know,” Brina says to me. “And we should go to his house.”
I nod, then turn to the detective. “What were these two doing up here in the middle of the week? Is that something they often did?”
“Not according to the neighbor, the one that spotted the broken window, came to look and found them,” the detective says. “This house was usually empty.”
“And who did it belong to?” I ask.
“The Kolar family,” he says. “So, to Leskovar’s ex-wife.”
“We found their suitcases in the bedroom,” Ida says. “Big ones, messily and hastily packed by the looks of things. As though they were running away.”
I walk there to see it for myself, more to put everything she’s telling me straight in my head than anything else.
The large double bed in the bedroom is still made and one of the suitcases is open atop it, full of colorful women’s clothing that seems to have been just stuffed in there. The other suitcase, this one dark grey and filled with men’s clothes, equally messily packed, is open on the floor by the bed.
She comes over to stand by my shoulder. “Possibly, but I doubt it. The suitcases are exactly as we found them. I’d expect the clothes to be all over the room if someone was looking for something in there.”
I’d expect that too.
“We did finally get the ballistics report on the bullet that killed Leskovar and his wife,” she says. “It came from that antique gun found at the scene.”
“So whoever shot them knew it was there,” I say.
“Or it was a murder/suicide,” she says softly.
Or that. But somehow I very much doubt it. I just don’t have a shred of anything tangible to base that suspicion on.
“Have you had the chance to run the DNA found in Anita’s case yet?” I ask and she shakes her head, her bodysuit rustling as she does.
“We found it, and it’s still viable, but it’ll take a couple more days,” she says.
Brina and the detective are still by the sofa and I wave to Brina to follow me outside after asking Ida to call me if she finds out anything more.
The rain has finally stopped and everything is shimmering as we walk to the car. But the ominous feeling of foreboding remains in my chest. No idea why. Maybe because this case just keeps getting more convoluted instead of less.
Vasko’s hilltop house is brightly lit up and visible from a few kilometers away. The gravel road leading up to it is surprisingly free of potholes and the area in front of the house is almost dry, with no puddles anywhere. Maybe this area escaped the deluge, or maybe the ground is just that dry.
The front door of the house flies open before we even reach it, and Vasko’s wife, Lola rushes out.
“Where is my husband? Have you found him?” she sounds frantic. Her long dark hair is loose and frizzy and she’s wearing no makeup. She looks a lot younger because of it. And prettier. And…
“We are looking for him,” Brina says. “When was the last time you saw him?”
She shakes her head, wringing her hands. “Yesterday morning. He left after breakfast, said he had a lot of meetings, but he always calls if he’s not coming home. Always.”
“Let’s talk in the house,” I say and she nods and rushes back inside.
I grab Brina’s arm as she tries to follow, earning a sharp, questioning look. I don’t say anything, just take my phone from my pocket and scroll through the pictures. It’s one of the last ones Eva sent.
I show it to Brina. “This is Esma, right before she disappeared. She must’ve been around twenty years old here. Do you see it?”
She takes the phone from my hand and looks closer. At first, no recognition alights on her face. And then it does.
“You think it’s her?” she asks, pointing at the wide-open door Lola disappeared through.
I nod. “I think it very well could be. The same dark eyes and long nose, and Esma would be about Lola’s age now.”
“Well, if it’s not her, she does look a lot like her,” Brina says.
Lola appears at the door again. “Are you coming?”
I nod and start walking, telling Brina I’ll be taking the lead once we get inside.
Lola is waiting for us in the living room, standing beside the sofa with her arms crossed over her chest. I was wrong before. She is wearing some makeup—a large amount of concealer which is not enough to cover her black eye.
“Tell me, how long have you and Vasko been together?” I ask as I reach her.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she snaps. “My husband is in danger. He could be dead. His brother was shot. It was on the news.”
She gestures at the TV which is on, but mute. A soap opera of some sort is playing on it.
“We’re already actively looking for your husband,” I say. “That’s why we’re here.”
“I already told everything to the other detectives that came,” she says. “I haven’t seen Vasko since yesterday morning. I tried calling him, but he hasn’t answered or called back.”
“Is your husband a violent man?” I ask and her hand shoots to the side of her face, or, more precisely, to her black eye.
But she shakes her head. “I walked into an open cupboard door.”
Brina and I exchange a glance which seems to anger Lola.
“I’m always doing dumb, clumsy things like that. Especially when I’m nervous,” she snaps. “As in when I don’t know where my husband is and he might be in danger.”
“And his phone is still on?” I ask deciding to change tack before she gets too agitated.
She nods, grabs her phone off the coffee table, and dials. She puts it on speaker and it rings and rings and rings, until the mechanical voice comes on, saying the person is unavailable.
“I would very much like to know how the two of you met,” I say, hoping that letting her have her outburst will make her more willing to answer my question now.
“We met ten years ago in a club I was working in,” she says. “In Vienna.”
“And where are you originally from?” I ask, and her face tightens.
“Why is that important?”
“Please answer the question,” I say.
“I’m from Bosnia,” she says and leaves it at that.
“From Belina?” I ask and I’d like to think the surprised tightness in her face is a reaction to me having gotten it right, but I’m not sure it is. Could just be plain old confusion.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m from Sarajevo.”
I’m just wasting time beating around the bush like this.
“Are you Esma Rajić who went missing from Belina ten years ago?”
This time there is nothing fake or scared about the surprise on her face. Only it’s not really surprise, more like confusion.
“No, I’m Lola Stojić, married Derganec,” she says. “But this Esma…she has the same last name as that murdered woman you were asking about last time?”
I nod. “Esma was the woman’s sister. She has been missing for over ten years.”
“I’m not her,” she says. “But your last visit really upset Vasko. He wouldn’t tell me why, no matter how many questions I asked. I was sure he had something going with that dead woman and I told him so and that enraged him. Was she a stripper too?”
“Did Vasko frequent strip clubs and nightclubs?” I ask.
She looks down and takes a seat at the very edge of one of the armchairs. “He always said he was going to those places to save the girls that were held there illegally. But I always worried. That’s how we met. He was saving me, but that’s not what he was doing with me at first, if you know what I mean. What if there were others?”
If he married her, I doubt it.
“What car was your husband driving when he left?” I ask.
She describes the cream BMW we saw him in after our first visit.
“And did he pack a bag before he left?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, but he has a company apartment in Ljubljana. He keeps some clothes there.”
I ask for the address, she snaps that she already gave it to the other detectives, but then gives it to us too.
I fish one of my calling cards from my pocket and hand it to her. “Please call me if you hear from your husband.”
She takes the card, looking at it as she nods.
“And what should I do now? Should I look for him too?”
Brina gives me a look and then crouches down in front of the woman. “If you have somewhere else to stay, it might be a good idea that you go there.”
“The other police detectives said so too,” she says. “But I’m staying right here, waiting for Vasko.”
I also tell her it might be a good idea to go somewhere else given that Vasko might be in danger, but she refuses more angrily this time, so we leave. She doesn’t walk us to the door.
“Do you believe she’s not Esma?” Brina asks as we get in the car.
“She sound
ed sincere enough. But the best liars often do. And she’s been hiding her identity for a long time if she is,” I say. “Plus, I would’ve expected her to have a bigger reaction to seeing Anita’s picture during our first visit. I think I was just willing a connection to be there.”
Grasping at straws, in other words. Forcing a simple solution in a complicated mess.
“I’ll ask the NPB to put surveillance on this house,” Brina says. “I wonder why they haven’t yet.”
“And I’ll have Rok try and trace Vasko’s phone number,” I say. “If his phone is on, he should be able to do it.”
And after that, I’ll call Eva back. A huge part of my disappointment over Lola not being Esma stems from the fact that now Eva will stay away even longer, while she continues looking for her in that small town. And I’m not sure if that bothers me because I’m worried about her, or I just really want to see her.
Dino calls just as I’m pulling out of the parking lot of the NPB after dropping Brina off. She looked absolutely haggard under the bright white light in the cab as she opened her door to exit the car, cheeks gaunt, black circles around her eyes, hair stuck to her head and the back of her neck. But I probably don’t look much better, so I didn’t even think about mentioning it.
“I found him, Boss,” Dino says as I pick up. “Took all day, but I’m sure he’s the guy we’re looking for. Only problem is, he works at some nightclub on the coast.”
“Where are you? I’ll pick you up,” I say.
He tells me his location, disbelief the predominant tone in his voice, and I say I’ll be right there. The coast. It’d be easier to drive all the way there if everything didn’t shimmer from the car lights reflecting off puddles and drops of water that are still everywhere from the downpour. Another one is coming soon, since the rumble of thunder is getting louder and louder, but I’ll be fine as soon as we’re on the highway.
“It’s actually for the best that we go tonight,” Dino says as he gets in the car ten minutes later. “He’s probably working.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I say. “So what’s his connection to the case? Was he a friend of Anita’s brother?”