Dark Dreams

by Michael Genelin

  “We know them all.”

  “I’ll go anywhere you wish. Do anything you wish.” He took another swig out of the bottle. “What more can a man offer?”

  “If I can’t think of anything and you can’t think of anything, then there’s nothing.”

  The man who had called himself Mehta and who now called himself Soros came back into the room. Staring down at Vlad, he talked to his partner. “Not here. It could be under the house, or buried next to a tree in the back, or at the bottom of some pond in a godforsaken part of Budapest, but it’s not here.”

  “He doesn’t have it; he doesn’t know where it is.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “He’s the type who would have given it to me under the circumstances. He’s not sure who has it.” She talked directly to the man on the floor. “Do you have the vaguest idea who has it, Vlad?”

  “I could guess.” He took another swig, almost finishing the wine.

  “Save a little of the wine, Vlad.”

  Vlad brought the bottle down between his legs.

  “Do you have any reason to suspect any one of them over the others?”

  Vlad thought about it. Finally he said, “No.”

  “I think it’s time to finish this.” She looked over to Soros. “You agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She took a small cameo-topped pillbox out of her pocket. “I bought this box in a little shop in Budapest before I got here. He said it was early nineteenth century, but I think he lied. All those small shopkeepers lie.” She tossed the pillbox to Vlad. “Take the pills inside. The wine will help.”

  He examined the box, then opened it, staring at the pills inside.

  “They will kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I would rather be shot.”

  “If you wish. But you should know that we’re going to cut you up after you die.”

  “Cut me up?” His face twisted in fright. “Why do you need to do this to me?”

  “As an example. We have to set an example.”

  “I don’t want you to cut me up.”

  “Then take the pills.”

  He thought about it. “Will you leave my face untouched if I take the pills?”

  She and Soros exchanged looks. “Okay. We’ll leave your face alone.”

  “And my balls.”

  “And your balls also,” Soros agreed.

  Vlad poured the pills into his hand, hesitated, and then popped them all into his mouth, slugging them down with the wine.

  “You’re a brave man, Vlad,” Eva said. “I’ll tell people that.”

  “No, you won’t.” Vlad’s eyes looked sad. “I know your kind.”

  “Yes, you know my kind.”

  They watched silently for the next five minutes while Vlad drifted away. He made a last effort to lift his head.

  “Don’t forget what you promised.”

  “I won’t.”

  He seemed to hear her, then his head slumped. His breathing stopped.

  The two watched the body for a moment. Soros prodded the body with the toe of his shoe; the corpse toppled over.

  “Surprised he took the poison.”

  “You shouldn’t have been. Being shot, taking the poison, no matter. He knew he was going to die.” She put her gun away. “Look at it this way: he saved his testicles from being cut off. Very important to a man.”

  “He wasn’t going to be able to use them again.”

  “True.”

  “And his face?”

  “The first thing you look at in the mirror every morning. It says you’re who you think you are. Maybe he wanted to make sure they knew who he was when they found him?”

  “Maybe.” He turned the running water off. “Let’s save some for cleaning up later.” Soros started rummaging through the kitchen drawers.

  “I hope he has some sharp knives in here.”

  Chapter 18

  Jana entered her office and, as she had requested, found the Guzak woman’s pocketbook on her desk, along with its contents and an inventory of the contents in a plastic envelope. The son’s wallet was also there in another envelope, along with a few papers, a pen, some bills, and a dirty handkerchief that had drops of blood on it. Jana took out the son’s wallet first.

  There was not much to examine: a Ukrainian driver’s license with the dead man’s photograph but a different name on it, a membership card for a strip club in Bratislava that advertised “totally nude” artistic dancing, and one crumpled piece of paper with an address in Kremenchuk and a telephone number scribbled on it. Kremenchuk was a city in Ukraine. In the billfold section of the wallet Jana found a folded, well-fingered piece of paper. Another telephone number was scribbled on this piece of paper with the word “Vienna” under it, to her mild surprise. Why would a man like the younger Guzak have a Vienna number? It was not a place that anyone like Guzak would think of visiting to have a good time.

  Jana turned the paper over, looking for further notes. There were none. She then looked collectively at the group of objects taken from Guzak, feeling that there was something missing. After a few seconds, it came to her: there were no keys. Virtually everyone carried keys. She put the items back into their plastic bag.

  Jana poured the contents of the mother’s evidence envelope onto the desk: coins, a small purse with a few bills, an identity card in a plastic folder, and keys, which she assumed were for her house or apartment. Jana pocketed the keys, along with the woman’s identity card for its photo in case she had occasion to show it to anyone, as well as a small vial of perfume, which Jana sniffed, making a face over the sweetness of the scent.

  Jana picked up the large handbag, opened it, and looked inside. It was empty. She then turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing came out. Jana carefully felt around the inside lining of the purse. Nothing. She weighed the pocketbook in her hand. It was heavy leather and, judging by the maker’s label, an expensive item.

  Jana thought back. The mother had been a small woman, older, and not strong. Why would she have carried such a large and fairly empty purse? Older women don’t like to carry heavy handbags unless it’s really necessary. She pictured the woman’s clothes: clean, but cheap and dowdy. The clothes did not match the bag, nor did the money that it would have cost jibe with the woman’s cheap clothes. Maybe the bag had been a present? Not likely, not from anyone in the circle of friends she would have had. A gift from an admirer? No, the woman was too old. Perhaps one of the sons, a husband, or some other relative. Jana made a mental note to determine, when she checked the woman’s other possessions, if she owned anything else that was expensive or that might have been purchased for her by anyone else.

  Jana put the bag aside and had just put the mother’s things back in their evidence envelope when Seges came in. He was carrying a number of 20-by-30 centimeter glossy photographs.

  “I brought you the blowups of the bodies and the immediate area around the bodies, Commander.” He sounded very pleased with himself. “I knew you would want these.” He laid them in front of her.

  “Trying to make up for searching my desk yesterday, Seges?” Without waiting for an answer, she began going through the photographs, looking closely at them as she spoke. “You figure kissing my fanny a little bit will make it all right? Not so, Seges.”

  He shifted his feet uneasily. “Just doing my job, Commander.”

  “I want to tell you that it will take an awful lot more than kissing my behind to make up for your fingers tripping through my desk, Seges.”

  “It was . . . a mistake, Commander.”

  “It was suicidal, Seges. You have a death wish.”

  “Not so, Commander.”

  She stopped at one of the photographs, looking at it closer, then took a felt-tip pen from a cup of pens on her desk and circled the area she had focused on.

  “Tell me what you see, Seges.”

  She passed the photo over to Seges. He looked carefully at the photo while she finished examini
ng the others.

  “What is interesting in the photograph, Seges?”

  “Aside from the fact that it shows a man who was murdered, Commander?”

  “Aside from that, Seges.”

  She got up from her desk and put on her greatcoat and cap, picking up her purse, slinging it over her shoulder.

  “So, Seges?”

  “I don’t know, Commander.”

  “His pants pocket is torn open. It might have been ripped when he fell, but it’s too large for that kind of tear. There were no objects that could have torn the pocket where he fell. It was deliberately torn open in a hasty search of the body.” Jana gestured at Guzak’s evidence envelope. “His money is there, but someone wanted to find out what that pocket contained. Do you have keys, Seges?”

  “Do you want one of my keys, Commander?”

  She took a deep, irritated breath. “No. I want the dead man’s keys. There were none in his belongings. Why not? I think he had them in that pocket. The person who killed him took them. And that key, or keys, may open up the secret box that contains the reason the decedent was killed.”

  “Wonderful thinking, Commander.”

  “More ass-kissing, Seges?” She went to the door. “Get your coat. We have a long drive to Devín Castle. The dead woman lived just north of there.” She walked out, then leaned back in. “Leave the photo on the desk.”

  She walked out. Seges dropped the photo on the desk and hurried after her.

  It took nearly an hour to reach their destination, a small village outside the immediate area but within sight of the ruined ramparts of the old castle blasted apart by Napoleon. They drove down the village’s main street, which was lined with elderly but fairly well kept houses, in back of which were plots of vegetables and vineyards on the hillside above them. The frame house of Mrs. Guzakova was one of the smallest on the street. It jutted out at a slight angle to the rest of them. It was also more run down. Slovaks are proud of taking care of their aging parents. The dead man, or whoever else was taking care of her and giving her expensive pocketbooks, had not been doing it as well as he should.

  They parked the police car in front of the house. The neighbors immediately came out of their homes and warily stared at them. Their kids went to look in the police car, even as their mothers and fathers hurried to pull them away from it. Typically Slovak: it was still not thought wise to mix with the police.

  Jana and Seges walked up to the front door. Jana took out the keys she had removed from the mother’s evidence envelope, checked the lock, and inserted what she thought was probably the right key.

  “A perfect fit.”

  Jana knocked on the door, waited a half second, and then unlocked it. She slowly eased her way inside, turning on a light.

  The place was a shambles: a jumble of furniture, broken tables, smashed vases, and overturned chairs with their stuffing leaking out. It looked like a huge food blender had been inserted in the house and turned on high. It was not a place anyone would have expected to come home to, and it would have reduced any unsuspecting homeowner to tears.

  “I think we now know why the dead man’s keys were taken from him. The murderer wanted to make sure he could get in to look for what he wanted.”

  They made their way through the carnage to the other rooms. One bedroom was in the same state as the living room, as was the kitchen. Virtually all of its crockery had been smashed on the floor.

  Jana pointed toward the front door and the street outside. “Talk to the neighbors. See if any of them saw or heard anything here last night. They’ll probably all be close-mouthed. See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil. But try anyway, Seges.”

  He left. Jana continued to sift through the debris, going back through the rooms. There was a rear entrance leading to the back yard. Jana stepped into the yard and walked over to a small shed near the side of the house. A clatter came from the shed.

  Jana eased her gun from the holster, walked to the shed door and, without exposing herself, pulled it open. Then, slowly, she eased around the doorjamb, her gun at the ready.

  There was a sad-looking little mutt inside, shaking with fear, looking up at her with large, sorrowful eyes.

  “It’s all right, little doggie. I promise not to hurt you.” She verified that there was no one inside, holstered her weapon, then picked the mutt up, cradling it in her arms, petting it, as she studied the interior of the shed. Whoever had savaged the inside of the house had done the same to the shed. A small cot had been turned on its end; the linen that had covered the bed had been dumped on the floor. A small lamp had been shattered, a chair broken, and, in the far corner, a suitcase had been torn apart and clothing strewn around it.

  Jana kneeled by the suitcase, holding the dog in one arm while she picked through the clothing. Men’s clothes: a jacket with its lining ripped out, underwear, a shirt, worn socks. Nothing remained in the suitcase except the inner lining, which had been slashed. Whatever the slasher had been looking for then must have been small enough to have been hidden inside the lining.

  A person had been living in the shed, most probably the dead man. So the younger of the Guzak brothers had come to stay with his mother. From the fierce nature of the search, the destruction in the house and the shed, the searchers, whoever they were, had been more than merely thorough in their search: they had been angry. To Jana, that meant that whatever they were looking for had not been found. And, since the two Guzak brothers had been traveling together, the searchers, who were probably the killers of the younger one, would now be hunting for the other Guzak brother.

  Unless Jana found the other brother first, he was going to be very dead, very soon.

  Chapter 19

  Tracking the surviving Guzak brother began with the neighbors. She went into the street, now leading the dog by a piece of twine she had found to use as a leash, and walked over to several of the locals who were standing in a cluster across the street. Seges was two houses down the block, interviewing a homeowner, which Jana thought was all for the best, as she approached the small cluster of women. Several small children clutched at their skirts, staring at Jana in awe and fear.

  Jana introduced herself, only to be met with sullen stares. She said, “I have this little dog I found out in back of Mrs. Guzakova’s house. He’s frightened, and probably has not been fed or had anything to drink since yesterday evening. Do you think one of you could get a small bowl of water for the poor little thing?”

  A mother yelled over to an older girl who was still prowling around Jana’s police vehicle, ordering her to go inside her house to get a bowl of water and some leftovers from the night before. They watched the little mutt lap up the water first, then begin eating the meat. Jana thanked the girl, who sat next on the ground next to the puppy, petting him; then Jana turned back to the mother.

  “I’ll have to find somebody to take the dog. Do you think you might want him?”

  The woman shook her head. “I have three children. They give me enough trouble without worrying about a dog.”

  “Thank you anyway.” Jana looked at the other women. “Any of you?”

  The rest of the women stared back, except for a younger one holding a baby. She stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact.

  Jana was glad to see her. The rule is to always focus on the shy ones. When they finally talk, they usually have a lot to say. Jana put warmth into her voice. “Will you tell me your name?”

  The woman finally looking up. “Lenka Lalikova.”

  “Lenka. A good name. My mother’s name,” Jana lied. Little lies were occasionally needed, and this one did no one any harm. “I loved my mother, even when I was taking care of her in her old age.”

  One of the other women chimed in, “That’s what children are for, to love you as you get older.”

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  “I’m glad you agree. All of you know that Mrs. Guzakova was killed last night?”

  All of them, even the shy one, nodded no
w.

  “And her son also,” she added. “A terrible thing.”

  “Terrible,” they all agreed.

  “I think her son died protecting her,” Jana offered. “Although we’re not altogether sure.”

  “I’m surprised,” the shy one got out.

  “Yes?” Jana probed.

  “He and his brother weren’t around so much.”

  “You mean they were never around!” one of the other women asserted.

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  “And the older one has been a miserable human being from the beginning of his life,” an older one tacked on.

  “The younger one followed the older one’s example. Both awful,” another woman chimed in.

  Jana watched them, convinced that they were now ready to answer her serious questions.

  “Has anyone seen the surviving brother?” They made noises indicating they had not. “Or the father?” There was a general round of shrugs.

  “We never saw a father. She never talked about a husband,” an older woman said.

  “Except once,” Lenka chipped in, to their surprise. “She said he was in Hungary. Then, one day, she told me he had died there.”

  “Thank you, Lenka.” Jana smiled her appreciation. “So the mother used to talk to you, eh?”

  “Only sometimes. I took cookies to her once in a while because she was alone. We would exchange a few words.”

  “Did she ever say what her sons did for a living, or talk about where they were?”

  “She never talked about them,” one of the others responded. “I’m surprised she spoke to Lenka. She never talked to anyone else.”

  “I can keep my mouth shut,” said Lenka proudly. “She knew I would never repeat anything to anyone.”

  “You became her friend,” Jana suggested.

  “Not exactly her friend, but I think she liked me.”

  “She didn’t like anyone,” said the older woman.

  There was another murmur of assent.

  “She even told me once that she had a brother.”

  “Did she tell you his name, or where he lived?” Jana waited expectantly.