by Alex Archer
“I’ve had the interns slaving away all day on that task you gave them.”
“Any luck?”
“Yes, though I don’t understand how it plays into your story about the crazy woman who bathed in the blood of virgins. I think...”
“Let me do the thinking, Doug,” Annja said. “Just tell me what you found out.”
He huffed but did as she asked. “The logo is for a company known as Transgenome Industries.”
Annja dragged her laptop over to her and typed in the name. “What do they do?”
“Damned if I know. Way too much science for me to make sense of. Something about DNA sequencing and replication, whatever the heck that is.”
Doug’s forte was marketing, especially to the millennial audience. Anything beyond that was definitely hit or miss. But he’d gotten her what she needed, and she began scanning the news articles that mentioned Transgenome Industries.
“It’s all kinda weird, if you ask me.”
She hadn’t, but she asked anyway, just to keep him happy. “What’s that?”
“TGI’s parent company is Giovanni Industries.”
That made Annja sit up and pay attention. “The cosmetics giant? That Giovanni Industries?”
“The very same. They’re hidden behind a couple dozen shell companies but one of the interns—Denise? Donna? I forget—used to be a finance major and she tore through them like a bull in a china shop. She assures me that at the end of the road is Giovanni Industries.”
Interesting. What the heck did a cosmetics company want with DNA samples from random Slovakian women?
Annja had no idea.
“Anything on Stone?” Annja asked.
“Nada. Nothing. Zilch.”
Annja knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Some people were pretty protective of their privacy, and Stone might be one of those types. She could have taken care to keep most information about her off the internet.
If Stone were a US citizen, Annja could check a variety of public records databases for information about her, from the Social Security Administration to the Department of Motor Vehicles. She could call her friend Bart in the Brooklyn Police Department and ask him to find out whether she had a criminal record. Bart could even use his contacts with the IRS to determine whether she was filing federal taxes and from where she was doing so. There was no way a US citizen could avoid that kind of scrutiny.
On the other hand, if the woman had lied about her identity, Annja could search the web for days on end without finding anything useful.
Given that the rest of the information Stone provided proved suspect, to say the least, Annja expected she’d lied about her identity, too, and Doug’s inability to find anything appeared to bear that out.
“All right. Thanks, Doug. I’ll take it from here.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Annja’s brow furrowed. “Kidding about what?”
“You’re supposed to be working on a story about the vampire chick who bathes with virgins!” Doug said, exasperated. “What’s all this stuff about a cosmetics company?”
Annja sighed. She should have seen this one coming.
“Báthory wasn’t a vampire, nor did she bathe with virgins.”
“But you said...”
“I said she bathed in the blood of virgins,” Annja told him firmly, trying to cut him off before he got too far down that road. “And I don’t know what the genetics firm—note I said ‘the genetics firm,’ not ‘the cosmetics company’—has to do with the killings. I’m working on that.”
Doug was silent a moment.
“The killings?” he asked finally, tentatively.
“Yes, the killings. Why do you think...?”
“Wait. What killings?”
As Doug’s question rang in her ears, Annja realized she’d been so caught up in the events surrounding Csilla’s arrest and the information Novack had given her that she’d forgotten to fill Doug in on everything that had happened.
She did so as quickly and as succinctly as possible.
“So let me get this straight,” Doug said when she was finished. “Someone’s snatching women off the street, killing them and then draining their blood in the very place where the crazy vampire chick did the same thing five hundred years ago and you didn’t tell me about it!”
Annja pulled the phone away from her ear as Doug continued to rant and shout. She waited until he paused to take a breath and then cut in.
“Look, I’m still putting all this together, Doug. I don’t know if there really is a killer out there or if this cop has simply lost his marbles. I just don’t know.”
“Well, figure it out, then! This could be the episode of the year. Think of the headlines. Chasing History’s Monsters Producer and Host Uncover Real Modern-Day Monster and Bring It to Justice.”
Annja knew there was no way in creation any news editor—in print, video or online—would use such a long and clunky header, but arguing about it with Doug was a lost cause.
“Trust me, Doug, as soon as I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I’m serious, Annja! We could really push the envelope on this one. Do a reenactment of the whole bath scene with virgins lying about right before the vampire chick kills them...”
“Doug?”
“Casting could come up with some innocent-looking models, I’m sure, and...”
“Doug?”
“Hmm, maybe not. Okay, I’ll settle for seductive looking—I’m sure they can manage that, at least—and then we’ll have you rise up out of the bath covered with blood and looking right into the camera as you tell the story...”
“Doug!”
Her shout finally shut down his long rambling discourse. “Jeez, you don’t have to yell. What’s the problem?”
“I’m not coming out of a bath.”
He jumped in again. “You don’t have to be naked, but how about a bikini? You know, a small one? We could just...”
Annja closed her eyes and counted to ten.
Doug must have sensed something was amiss, for his talking trailed off after a minute or two.
“Annja? Are you still there?”
Through clenched teeth, Annja said, “Let’s get something straight, Doug. I’m not wearing a bikini on television. I most definitely am not climbing out of a bathtub with blood on me, fake or otherwise. And if you think I’m going to let an important historical subject like Countess Elizabeth Báthory be portrayed as a blood-sucking vampire chick, then you’ve got another think coming!”
Her producer was silent for a moment, and then he asked, tentatively, “Báthory? She’s the vampire chick, right?”
“Argh!” Annja cried, and stabbed the end call button on her phone.
Then, just to be safe, she pulled the battery out.
She settled onto the bed and tried to get back into studying the files, but her concentration had been broken and the hectic day had finally caught up with her.
She packed up the files and took a quick shower. Tomorrow she’d finish her research, and hopefully that would help her form a plan of action.
In the meantime, though, sleep was calling.
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 fo
r?”
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, unti
l 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.