Rogue Angel 53: Bathed in Blood

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Rogue Angel 53: Bathed in Blood Page 10

by Alex Archer


  Annja shifted to her right a few feet, and when the door opened she was able to get a quick glance of a white-smocked attendant drawing blood from a young woman sitting in a plastic chair, a cup of what looked like orange juice in her other hand. On the pocket of the attendant’s lab coat was a stylized logo containing the letters TGI.

  Then the door closed, cutting off her view. Perhaps if she...

  “Can I help you?”

  Annja jumped; she hadn’t heard the woman come up behind her.

  She turned, an excuse already on her lips, only to find herself struck momentarily dumb.

  Standing before her was one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. Piercing eyes of crystal blue framed by long brown hair, red lips and skin so smooth it practically begged to be touched. She was taller than Annja by a good two inches even without her heels, and her custom-tailored suit showed off her athletic frame almost to perfection. And if her physical good looks weren’t enough, the newcomer practically oozed confidence, as if she should be chairing the board of a multibillion-dollar corporation instead of handling, well, whatever this was.

  Annja disliked her immediately.

  It wasn’t the annoyance she felt at being startled; Annja brushed that off with barely a thought. This was something at the gut level, some buried instinct that was telling her to step carefully around this woman, the way you might move cautiously but expeditiously when the big dog next to you starts growling and foaming at the mouth.

  Something must have shown on Annja’s face, for the woman smiled suddenly, breaking the tension and banishing the strange vibe she’d been giving off. When Annja smiled back, she found herself wondering how she could have ever felt suspicious about this woman.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” the woman said, extending her hand. “Diane Stone.”

  She and Annja shook hands. “Annja Creed.”

  “You seem rather interested in our operation. Is there anything I can answer for you?” Stone asked.

  Annja glanced over at the mobile lab. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just down the street, saw the crowd and wondered what was going on.”

  Stone smiled again. “It’s nothing all that exciting actually. We’re here with the University of Budapest, doing a genealogical study on several ancient Hungarian bloodlines. The women are providing a blood sample. We’ll extract the DNA and use that for sequencing the various genomes to try to trace those bloodlines back through the centuries.”

  Annja digested that for a moment, trying to match the cut of Stone’s suit with the salary a university professor typically made. The two didn’t quite gel. Not by a long shot.

  Not wanting to be rude, but still curious, Annja said, “You work for the university, then?”

  The other woman laughed. “God, no. I work for the firm that was hired to handle the sample collection. I’m a glorified technician, nothing more.”

  Right. And I’m the Queen of England, Annja thought. But why lie about it?

  That initial feeling of unease returned, and Stone seemed to be watching Annja’s reactions a bit too closely. Annja didn’t know what she was looking for, but the glint of calculation in the other woman’s eyes was enough to put her guard up. Perhaps it was time to be on her way.

  Annja glanced at her watch and feigned surprise. “Oh, my gosh! I didn’t realize it was so late,” she exclaimed. “Thanks for your time and good luck on your project!”

  She shook Stone’s hand, said goodbye and headed quickly across the park in the direction from which she’d come. When she glanced back a few moments later, Stone was still standing in the same spot. Annja couldn’t say for certain, but it felt as if the woman was watching her.

  It was odd enough to send a chill racing up Annja’s back.

  When she got a few blocks away, Annja stopped in the shade of a large oak and pulled out her cell phone. She dug around in her contacts until she located the number she wanted and then dialed. The phone rang twice before a male voice answered.

  “Ahoj?”

  “Hi, Henry, it’s Annja.”

  Annja’s first love was archaeology and she’d spent a good deal of time over the past several years elbow-deep in dirt at one dig site or another. As a result, she had contacts all over the world, and Henry Vlahović was one of them. A professor of medieval history at the University of Budapest, he and Annja had met at a conference a few years ago. They’d struck up a friendship based on a mutual love of history and their fascination with medieval culture.

  Vlahović switched from his native language, Czech, to English. “Annja! So good to hear from you. Where in the world is the ravishing Ms. Creed right now, may I ask?”

  Henry was twice her age but always flirted shamelessly, which Annja found endearing. When they’d first met he was fascinated with all of her exploits, particularly with her travel for her work on Chasing History’s Monsters and the digs she assisted on. As a practical joke he’d once sent her a Where’s Waldo? calendar with all the images of Waldo replaced with tiny pictures of Annja. It was corny as heck but had made her laugh, and as a result he’d gotten into the habit of asking where she was whenever they had a chance to reconnect.

  “Funny you should ask,” she said with a smile. “I’m right around the corner from you in Čachtice, Slovakia.”

  “Čachtice? What on earth are you doing... Oh. Báthory’s castle. I should have guessed.”

  “Got it in one, Henry,” Annja said. “Listen, sorry to call you out of the blue like this...”

  “You’re welcome to call anytime, you know that.”

  “Thanks. I was hoping you could check into something for me.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I ran into a group in Čachtice this morning who said they were doing some work on behalf of the university. Something to do with tracing Hungarian bloodlines. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Not a thing,” he replied. “You’re sure it’s through us?”

  “Absolutely. The contact on-site, a Diane Stone, confirmed it.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about it. And I would, too—a project like that would have to be approved by my office. What was the name again?”

  “Stone. Diane Stone.” Annja could hear Henry rustling through the papers on his desk. She’d been in his office once and remembered a massive steel affair almost completely covered with piles of loose papers and file folders. How he found anything was beyond her.

  “I’m looking at the list of projects we have under way right now and I don’t see anything about Hungarian genealogy. Are you sure she said the U of B?”

  “I thought so...”

  “I’d check with Weigel at the University of Bonn. I seem to remember him mentioning something about bloodlines at the conference last month. Maybe you simply misheard her.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Henry. Thanks for the help.”

  “You’re very welcome, Annja. When you’re done you should swing on over if you have some free time. Do this old man good to take a young lass like you out for dinner. I know a great restaurant right on the Danube that you’ll love.”

  Annja laughed. Henry loved good food almost as much as he loved history, which was another thing they had in common, and she had no doubt the restaurant he had in mind would be superb. “I’m due back in New York in a few days to edit our latest shoot, but if we finish early I’ll give you a call.”

  “Sounds like a plan, my dear. Take care!”

  Annja said goodbye and hung up the phone.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  14

  After her conversation with Tamás earlier that morning and her complete lack of progress in finding anyone who would talk to her that afternoon, Annja knew she had no choice but to make the rendezvous with Novack. The photograph he’d given her hinted at the possibility that Vass’s death wasn’t an isolated killing. If that was true, as horrible as that reality might be, it was potentially good news for Csilla. If Annja could establish a link be
tween the killings and show that Csilla was back in her native Hungary at the time of at least one, if not more, of the other murders, then Tamás would have no choice but to let her go.

  Unless he claimed she had accomplices.

  Annja shook off the thought.

  Even he wouldn’t be that ridiculous, would he?

  At the moment it didn’t matter. First, she needed to determine if there had been any other killings. She’d worry about linking them together, as well as proving Csilla’s innocence, after that.

  She grabbed some dinner in a restaurant catering to tourists who’d come to see the castle and asked again about Vass and Polgár. While the staff spoke excellent English and were happy enough to chat with her, the answer was still the same. Not only had no one seen them together, but they hadn’t seen either woman at any time. It was as if the two women had never reached Čachtice at all.

  Annja paid the bill, including a decent tip, and lingered over coffee, her thoughts churning.

  After a moment she borrowed a pen from a passing waiter and drew a rough sketch of the company logo she’d seen on the technician’s lab coat earlier that afternoon. When she was satisfied, she took out her phone, snapped a photo and emailed it to Doug in New York.

  Once she confirmed that the file had been sent properly, she dialed his number. It was 6:00 p.m. in Čachtice, which made it around noon in New York City, but she got his voice mail anyway.

  She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Just sent you an image, Doug. I need you to put the research staff to work. Ask them to figure out which company it belongs to and send me everything they can find on the company itself. I think that company is connected to what’s going on over here. Call me when you have something.”

  The “research staff” was nothing more than a pair of interns, but they were eager to please and would hunt down that logo faster than she could. She’d been stretching the truth when she’d told Doug the company was connected to her investigation into Vass’s death. Right now it was nothing more than an anomaly—if she could even call it that—but her instincts were telling her something fishy was going on with that so-called study. Henry had confirmed that the university wasn’t involved, which meant Stone, if that was even her name, had been lying.

  It wasn’t a crime to stretch the truth, Annja thought with a wry smile. She’d just done the very same thing, but taking blood samples under false pretenses was another matter entirely. And Annja had lied to Doug for a good reason; he wouldn’t have asked the interns to dig up the information if Annja had simply said she was curious. But Stone had no valid reason—at least none that Annja could think of—to lie about what the medical team was doing.

  Annja didn’t like being lied to. It made her sink her teeth in like a bulldog and she wouldn’t let go until she had the answers she was looking for. Stone’s operation might not have anything to do with the weirdness surrounding the investigation into Vass’s death, but given her limited number of leads, anything unusual was fair game at the moment.

  A glance at her watch told her it was time to head to her rendezvous with Novack. She’d passed the church where they planned to meet during her canvassing that afternoon, so it was a simple matter to drive over and park around the corner. She sat in the car watching the road behind her for a few moments to be certain she wasn’t being followed. Then she got out, locked the vehicle and walked down the street at a leisurely pace.

  The church was an old stone affair half-covered in creeping ivy. A small rectory stood at the back of the property, just visible from the street. A dim light burned over the front door, as if welcoming her with reluctance.

  Annja strode up the walk, pushed open the heavy wooden door and slipped inside.

  Candles burned at strategic locations throughout the interior, casting a soft light over the simple wooden pews and stone altar. She looked around but didn’t see anyone.

  Had she beaten him here?

  Rather than stand around in the entrance and look conspicuous should a priest or parishioner come in after her, Annja strode down the center aisle and took a seat a third of the way toward the front. She had barely settled into place before Novack slipped out of the shadows off to one side of the nave and slid into the pew behind her.

  “Did anyone see you come in?” he asked.

  Annja shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Good.” Novack was silent for a moment and then asked, “What did you think of the photograph?”

  Annja was decidedly curious about where it had come from and why he’d given it to her, but she wasn’t going to admit it. Not yet.

  Instead of answering, she asked a question of her own. “I asked this before and I’ll ask again—who are you? Why are you bringing this information to me?”

  Novack glanced around just as he had in the bar, though who he thought would be spying on them in an empty church Annja didn’t know. Apparently satisfied, he faced her, took a deep breath and said, “My name is Havel Novack and I’m a former senior sergeant in the Criminal Police.”

  That explained how he’d gotten the photograph.

  “Former?”

  His jaw tightened, but his voice was calm and steady as he gestured at his leg and said, “I was asked to retire after my injury.”

  There was some bitterness there, but nothing to cause concern. She could rule out vindictiveness against his former comrades as a reason he might be meeting with her.

  Novack went on, “Before leaving the department I took certain...precautions. Doing so has allowed me to continue my investigation despite the attempts to cut me off.”

  This was starting to sound like one of those bizarre conspiracy theories. With just the hint of a rueful smile cresting her lips, Annja asked, “And what investigation is that?”

  “The systematic deaths of twenty-three young women over the past five years.”

  Annja’s smirk disappeared.

  Twenty-three?

  “Do you see now why I asked you to be careful?” Novack said.

  Annja barely heard the question. She was still trying to get her head around twenty-three murders. In five years? They were talking about a murder every two to three months.

  “So many? Tell me you’re exaggerating.”

  “I assure you I am not. There may even be more.”

  Annja had suspected something was going on, but this was way beyond anything she’d imagined. Twenty-three.

  “Why bring this to me?” she asked. “I’m not a cop or a private investigator.”

  “No, you’re one better. You’re a seeker of the truth. I can see it in you. You won’t rest until the answers are laid out before you.”

  She didn’t know about Novack’s claim that he could “see” her drive to find the truth, but she had to agree with his assessment. Now that she was involved in this whole mess, she would see it through to the end.

  “All right, I’m listening,” she told him.

  “Twenty-three murders. All of them young, good-looking women in their twenties and thirties. In the beginning there were months between them. Sometimes as many as six to eight. Lately, however, they are coming more steadily. The last three have only been a month apart.”

  Annja knew that serial killers often fell victim to their own need, murdering victims more frequently until, in their own haste, they made a mistake and wound up caught by the authorities. Some psychologists theorized that the killers’ own subconscious guilt drove them to such frenzied lengths, but Annja wasn’t convinced. She thought it was a much simpler emotion than guilt—good old-fashioned greed.

  One could argue that Báthory had brought about her own downfall by taking one too many victims. It made sense that a killer using Báthory’s legend as a basis for his—or her—crimes would do the same.

  And yet...something wasn’t right. Twenty-three murders in the same area should have raised a huge outcry. The police should have been all over this, with a multidisciplinary task force assigned to handle the investigati
on. When Annja had brought the latest victim into the hospital, they should have immediately put two and two together. They hadn’t. Just the opposite, in fact.

  “If there have been twenty-three murders in the past five years, why are the police acting as if this latest one is an isolated incident?” she asked.

  “Because this is the first time the victim was someone who actually mattered. At least to the authorities.”

  Annja stared at him, not understanding. “Come again?”

  Novack handed Annja a file filled with case summaries for each of the twenty-three alleged victims, including color photographs. She began leafing through the documents, and it didn’t take long for her to understand what her companion was talking about.

  The “murders” were actually a collection of suicides, accidental deaths and missing persons. Many of the women were noted as being on the fringes of society—prostitutes, known drug users, runaways and the like—and their absence had either been reluctantly reported to the police weeks after they’d dropped out of sight or hadn’t been officially reported at all. Many of the disappearances had been uncovered by Novack while talking to others on the street. The handful that weren’t from the fringes were loners by nature and could just as easily have packed up and moved on without telling anyone where they were going.

  She looked up, confused. “These aren’t murders. Why are you wasting my time with this?” she asked.

  Novack didn’t bat an eye. “Ignore the reports. They’re worthless. Look at the photographs instead.”

  Annja pulled several of them out of the file. “What do you expect me to...?”

  The file contained two sets of images. The first were crime scene photos, like the one Novack had given her the night before. The second set was a haphazard collection of images—most likely cobbled together by Novack himself from arrest records, CCTV cameras and photos supplied by relatives—that showed the victims as they’d been before they’d died. It was these images that caused Annja’s comment to die in her throat. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention.

 

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