“This is not good, either.”
“All right, why don’t you pick a day?”
“How long do you plan to remain in Czech Republic?”
“Four days.”
“Four days... I don’t know if it will be possible to meet.”
“Are you kidding me? I flew here to talk to you.”
“This decision was yours, not mine.”
“You said — look, man, please, come on. I know a cop’s schedule. Nothing’s in stone.”
“Perhaps for you this is true.”
“I brought the photos,” Jacob said.
“I don’t know any photos.”
“Yes, you do, I told you. Give me your office address. I’ll drop them off. You can look and then decide.”
“I apologize,” Jan said, sounding genuinely rueful. “This case is private, there is nothing to discuss.”
Jacob said, “Did someone tell you not to speak to me?”
The phone clattered down, and Jan could be heard yelling at the kids. When he returned he was coughing mightily. “I apologize for your inconvenience,” he said. “There are many things to do in Prague. You will enjoy yourself.”
“Hang on—”
The line went dead.
Jacob stared at the phone in astonishment.
He called back. Ring ring ring ring ring. “Pick up, asshole.”
Hanging up, he gazed out the window, blotting his chest with a handful of rough muslin sheet. It was six p.m. and he was alone in a strange city.
What now?
He hadn’t yet made up his mind when the phone shook with a text from an unfamiliar number.
pivnice u rudolfina
křižovnická 10
30 min
Chapter thirty-one
The Czechs knew their beer. The pub met and exceeded Jacob’s standards: a cavernous, low-ceilinged, centuries-old room with mahogany accents and stone walls. Fried meat and quality pilsner were brought by a poker-faced waiter who materialized with a fresh glass whenever the one on the table dipped below fifteen percent. While it was still too early for serious partiers, a raucous atmosphere prevailed.
The only thing missing was Jan.
The hacking cough and the feral brood had led Jacob to picture a man in his late forties. Loose jowls, yellow teeth, bad skin. Nobody fit that description, so he began making eye contact with every male who walked in, receiving in return a series of irritated not gay stares.
He drummed his fingers on the manila envelope containing the crime scene photos from Castle Court. He called Jan’s number, then the second number. He sent texts to both. He checked with the waiter that there wasn’t another establishment that went by the same name.
“Hello!”
The girl didn’t wait for an invitation, sliding in next to him. “British? American?”
“American,” he said. “I’m waiting for a friend.”
She laughed. “Yes, me too! You are my friend. My name is Tatjana.”
He stifled a smile. “Jacob.”
“Nice to meet you, friend Jacob.” Sweet and blond and plump, she put out a dimpled hand. “How is your beer?”
“Killer,” he said.
“Hah?”
“It’s very good.”
“One for me?”
“You don’t look old enough to drink.”
Tatjana socked him in the shoulder. “I am nineteen.”
“In America it’s twenty-one.”
“Then I will stay here.” She raised her thumb to a passing waiter. “Jacob America, where do you come from?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Hollywood? Movie stars?”
“Drug dealers. Prostitutes.”
No reaction; he decided she probably wasn’t a hooker.
“We have these, too,” she said.
“So I hear.” He consulted his phone. Nothing from Jan, now a full forty minutes late.
“You have been before in Prague?”
“First time.”
“Yes? And how do you like?”
“I haven’t seen much yet. But so far it seems very pretty.”
Tatjana grinned broadly.
Whoops.
“The architecture is amazing,” he added.
“Hah?”
“The buildings.”
“I think you must go to see the castle. This is the most beautiful place in Prague.”
He checked his phone. Sent another text. “I’m on a tight schedule.”
“You are a businessman?”
“Of a sort.”
The waiter brought her beer.
She raised her glass. “Na zdraví.”
“Back atcha.” They clinked and drank.
“What business?”
Jacob wiped foam from his upper lip. “I’m a cop.”
“Hah?”
“A policeman.”
Tatjana blinked. “Ah, yes?”
Maybe a hooker, after all.
Still, she didn’t leave, yammering in his ear as he sent text after text. Neighboring tables emptied and were wiped down and filled up again. At one point she broke off her monologue, and Jacob followed her stare to a group of simian toughs sporting chunky gold chains.
“Friends of yours?” he asked.
She snorted. “Russians.”
“How can you tell?”
“These ugly necklaces.”
One of the men smiled sourly and raised his glass at Jacob.
“This makes me angry,” Tatjana said. “We get rid of them, they come back, they are shit on everything.”
“You can’t possibly remember those days,” he said.
“No. I was not born. But my father was dissident.” Then, sensing that she had steered the mood awry, she smiled. “Everyone was dissident.”
“I’m Jewish,” he said. “Far be it from me to tell you not to hold a grudge.”
“Ah, I understand. This is why you come to Prague.”
“How’s that?”
“There are many Jewish tourists. They come to see the synagogue. You will go?”
“It’s a big business,” he said. “Jewish tourism.”
“Yes,” Tatjana said. “This and Kafka.”
“And what do you make of it?”
“Tourism? I think is very nice. Czechs are friendly people.”
“Just not to Russians.”
She laughed. “No.”
“You like Kafka?”
“I have not read.”
“Come on.”
She shook her head. “Under Communism this was not allowed. Kafka wrote in German, so there is Czech translation only one year ago, two. I will read it soon, I think.”
“You should read ‘A Hunger Artist.’”
“Yes?”
“It’s one of my favorite stories. That and ‘The Village Schoolmaster.’”
“Please,” she said, handing him her phone so he could type in the titles. “Your friend, I don’t think he is coming.”
“Yeah, me neither.” He typed, returned the phone to her, threw back the rest of his beer, put down enough money to cover them both. “Nice talking to you, Tatjana. Have a good night.”
She didn’t get up to follow him.
Not a hooker.
Old Town was in full riot. Buzzed, Jacob threaded along, catching snatches of expat English, Spanish, French. Chesty bass drum, rubbery guitar, off-key vocals. Squeals of delight presaged tomorrow’s regret. Pizza parlors and Internet cafés abounded, the ubiquitous Pilsner Urquell shield swinging in the sweet, foul breeze. Urine. Marijuana. Grilled onions dripping with sausage fat.
His umpteenth call to Jan went unanswered. Eurotrash. Chinese version of Eurotrash. A woman in a fraying corset attempted to entice him into a strip club. A woman in an evening gown attempted to entice him into a casino.
Back in his room, he opened up his bag and fished out the Dani Forrester file. He’d read most of it on the plane, and so far it consisted of stuff Flores had told him over the phone. A casino hostess dealt with a range of unsavory types. They’d gone through her BlackBerry, running down everyone she’d met with in the weeks leading up to the murder: bachelor party organizers, low-rent gamblers, hard-luck cases hondling for cheap rooms, conventioneers.