Chapter 3 #2
“Let’s get tea.” Dávid takes my hastily packed bag in his hand.
We cross the chain bridge and this time I look around more.
Fashions are not so different in Budapest than they are in Amsterdam.
The women have long skirts and large upper sleeves that taper tightly around their forearms and wrists, but there are surprising pops of color, and hats are more elaborate on both men and women.
One woman walks by in a skirt and top done in the most delightful stripes of teal and burgundy.
I vow to introduce more variety into my wardrobe.
Then again, I already struggle to be taken seriously by the detectives I work with. Perhaps I should stick with black.
“We don’t know what he did with his family’s brain matter,” Dávid says as we navigate the pedestrian traffic and avoid horses and carts.
“We couldn’t find it anywhere. There were some fears that he ate it, but his stomach was empty.
As for his death, he managed to scramble much of his own brain before he was too incapacitated and died.
As to how he drugged them, I’ve written our friend Mister Van Engelenhoven.
I could find neither needle marks nor evidence of anything ingested. ”
“Did you use the—”
“Yes, I used the Reinsch test for arsenic. You’d have been proud of how careful my methodology was.
But there wasn’t a trace of it. No chemists in the area sold the father anything, either.
If he used ether or knockout drops, he got them somewhere outside the city and then disposed of the evidence entirely before going to work on himself, which doesn’t fit the timeline. ”
“And the lamps?”
“What lamps?”
“The lamps arranged on the floor to provide lighting.”
Dávid pauses, then jogs to catch back up. “That is odd, isn’t it? I was too fixated on the Egyptian drama to consider it. He killed them during the day. Surely he could see their nostrils just fine.”
“I had something similar just yesterday.”
“You had a man murder his entire family by Egyptian brain hook?” This time Dávid stops fully. The sea of men and women flow around him like he’s a rock in the current, shooting curious or annoyed looks at him.
I can’t help but laugh at the incredulity on his face. “No. Though perhaps almost as strange.” We resume walking as I give him the details of my most recent dead body.
When I finish, he looks more confused, not less. “How is that similar?”
“Let’s get our tea first.”
He sits us at a table outside a small café near something called the Halászbástya, which I think translates roughly to the Fisherman’s Fortress.
Why a fisherman would need such a lovely fortress, I can’t understand.
Everything, including the sharp conical roofs, is made of pale stone.
It looks like it was sculpted out of white sand.
It’s somehow practical and whimsical at the same time, and I’m very charmed.
Dávid makes more sense even having seen this little of Budapest. Much like him, his city is gritty and capable but with moments of breathtaking beauty and whimsy in the most unlikely places.
A lovely young man in a white apron arrives to take our order. Dávid gives it without consulting me—though he’s correct, I always love coffee and any pastry available—and then gestures impatiently for me to answer his question about how the two cases are similar.
“Because,” I say, “in both rooms the lamps were moved to provide the best lighting. Not in order to see what was being done, but to photograph it. Meaning someone else was there, recording it.”
Dávid shakes his head. “It’s not enough of a connection. One must know how to doubt.”
I lean back in a huff. “Don’t quote Lacassagne at me—I’m the one who introduced you to him. I know it seems like a stretch, but what are the odds that two such bizarrely macabre scenes have the same strange detail?”
“We can’t be sure the room here was staged before the deaths,” Dávid says.
“We always bring in a photographer as soon as possible.” There’s a note of both pride and challenge in his voice, as though he expects me to question the quality of detective work in his city.
I don’t. Not with Dávid here. For all his personal mess, no one is more meticulous when it comes to investigating crime scenes.
“I assumed you would. Which is why I came immediately rather than simply writing. I need to speak to the photographer and make sure he isn’t the one who moved the lamps.” I pull out the stack of photos and resist the urge to hold my breath. I flip through until I land on the crowd shot.
She’s still there. I’m not going mad. The relief is so palpable I’m almost embarrassed.
But I’ve spent five years trying to prove to the detectives in Amsterdam that I’m not hysterical after raving about a woman no one else had seen, who couldn’t possibly have murdered my father because he did it to himself.
I told Dávid I know how to doubt, because I’ve even begun to doubt myself.
Which is why I don’t tell Dávid she’s the real reason I’m here.
“Uhm,” Dávid says. “Speaking to the photographer might be challenging.”
“You don’t know who he is?” I ask.
Dávid shrugs, moving deeper into his jacket like some sea creature retreating after being exposed to the air. “We know each other very well. Or at least we did, for a while.”
“Ah.” I lean back, folding my arms.
He can see the poorly withheld glee on my face and scowls. “It wasn’t my fault we were unclear about whether or not our beds were to be shared with anyone else.”
“You broke his heart!”
“I did not. Well, maybe I did. A little. But I learned from the best.”
My smile freezes. “When we knew each other very well, I was never with anyone else.”
“In here, though,” he says, tapping his forehead, “you were never with me at all.”
Before I can tell him I’m not interested in reliving the past, he grins rakishly and holds out his hands in an expansive gesture. “Fortunately, I’m nothing if not easy to forgive. But first, we’re going to enjoy our drinks and food.”
Despite my impatience, Dávid can’t be rushed.
It was one of the things I liked most about him during our time together.
He was as meticulous in taking pleasure from small things as he was in crime scene examination, which made him an excellent lover.
We crossed paths at a club on the edge of Amsterdam catering to those whose tastes fall outside the acceptable bounds of society.
Like me, Dávid is attracted to both men and women.
Unlike me, he falls hard and fast. What happened to him that he would become so flighty and uncommitted?
He glances at me over his teacup and I have my answer. I really did break his heart, and he’s been more reserved about giving it away fully since.
I’m sorry for it, but I could never have settled down with Dávid.
Or anyone, for that matter. I don’t think I’ll be able to truly commit myself to another until my father’s murderer is in my past, once and for all.
How can I sleep well in another’s arms, knowing every night I’ll be with her in my dreams?
I try to keep my eyes off the photo, but seeing her captured there makes me feel like I’m losing my sanity rather than close to at last finding it again.
If something as mundane as a camera can capture her, surely all my memories and feelings from that night are warped through the lens of grief and shock.
She’s just a person. Not a demon. Not a ghost. Not something that crawled from the pages of my father’s fevered ramblings.
“Anneke?”
I startle to attention.
Dávid’s eyes narrow in concern. “Are you well?” He always notices too much. That’s the other reason I had to end things between us. “I have an apartment close by. Perhaps you need to rest.”
“I need to speak with the photographer as soon as possible.” I put the photos back into my pocket, then pull out my coin purse only to realize I haven’t yet stopped at a bank to change money. Dávid shakes his head and pays for both our drinks. His is drained, mine nearly untouched.
“After, then. I’m assuming you didn’t book accommodations in your rush to get here. I insist you stay with me.”
“The fact that you said that with no flirtation makes me worry I look much worse than I thought,” I say, trying to tease.
“You always look lovely.” He hands me a kolache and I dutifully eat it as he counts out coins to pay. The slight tang of the sour cream balances nicely with the grainy, rich nut spread. I hadn’t noticed how hungry I was until the rolled pastry hit my mouth.
“Why does this one matter so much to you?” Dávid asks, and I hear the question under the question. He’s sent me several puzzles, and I’ve only ever responded in writing. What he’s really asking is What aren’t you telling me?
“It’s just curiosity,” I say brightly.
His face snaps shut. The wary sea creature retreating into its shell for protection. I try not to hurt, seeing how I’ve trained him to expect nothing from me.
“Very well, my lady of the mysteries,” he says, standing with a bow. “Though you owe me. I had intended to live my life in such a way that I never had to see Maher Idrissi again.”
We walk from the center of Budapest. Dávid probably took me to that particular café to impress me with his city.
It worked, but I don’t mind seeing the less impressive parts.
The buildings here have less grandeur, but even more are being built, evidence of Budapest’s growing power as one of the centers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
The sounds of workers punctuate our steps down several streets lined with apartments.
At last, we turn in to an alley. The street is swept clean, the facades of the buildings well-maintained.
It’s not an affluent neighborhood, but it’s not impoverished, either.
Dávid stops on a doorstep, fixes his expression the way one might straighten a tie, and knocks.
And then knocks again, and then again after several more minutes.
At last the door opens. We’re met by a man with brown skin, dark brown eyes, and black hair. If anything, he’s even handsomer than Dávid, which is something I rarely see. His beautiful eyes are glaring murderously.
Dávid holds up his hands and says something in rapid Arabic, a language I have yet to master. Dávid knows this; he doesn’t want me to be able to understand what they’re saying.
Maher answers, his voice cool and clipped. After several back-and-forths, with Dávid talking in circles and Maher barely replying, Maher looks at me.
“Well?” he says in Dutch. “You want to talk to me about some photos.” He holds out his hand impatiently.
I don’t want to relinquish them, but I pull the images out of my pocket and hand them over. He glances down and something softens a little in his expression.
“Yes, I remember them. What is your question?”
“Did you move the lamps?”
He frowns. “I never touch anything. I understand my job. Better than some of the detectives.” He doesn’t glance at Dávid when he says this, which I appreciate.
He’s not criticizing my friend, just the people my friend works with.
Which I assume is fair, based on the general quality of investigations I see in Amsterdam.
So many detectives and officers get set in their ways, or want easy answers.
There’s tremendous resistance to change.
Especially when it comes with new ideas or technology.
“So, the lamps were already arranged around the bodies?”
“Yes. Anything else?”
“Did you smell flash chemicals? Like someone had taken photographs before you arrived?”
Maher looks intrigued for the first time. His eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes, shift as though he’s searching his memories. “No. But two windows were open, and I was there nearly a full day after the presumed time of death. Do you think someone else took photographs?”
I’m tempted to couch my answer in uncertain terms, but something about Maher makes me want to be truthful.
Perhaps it’s the way he’s addressing me directly, instead of talking to me through Dávid like so many other men would.
This is a man who views women as people.
It’s a rare quality, particularly in my line of work.
“Yes. I found evidence of the same at a recent crime scene in Amsterdam, and I suspect the images were taken during, not after. And there’s another connection.
” To myself, I think, but I don’t say that part, implying instead that it’s a direct connection to the other death.
I gesture for the photos and gently flip to the one I need.
“This woman.” I point to her in the crowd shot, even though it feels so obvious who I’m talking about.
As if any other woman in that photograph could be so compelling.
As if any other woman in existence could be so compelling. “Do you remember her?”
He frowns, and I can’t tell if it’s surprise or doubt or confusion. “Why?”
This is my chance to lie. To spin a narrative designed to make these two men believe it’s their idea to help me, that every part of this investigation is reasonable and official. To make myself seem cold and rational.
I don’t want to. It hasn’t worked before now, and I see no reason to continue trying the same thing and hoping for different results. “Because,” I say, too aware of Dávid listening intently beside me, “she murdered my father five years ago and I’ve been looking for her ever since.”
Dávid lets out a surprised hiss.
Maher’s eyebrows raise. He stares me down for a moment before coming to a decision. “Then you should come in,” he says, stepping aside. “There’s something you’ll want to see.”
I follow through a narrow entry and up a set of stairs. As soon as Maher opens the door to his rooms, I’m face-to-face with my demon. Five years of looking, five years of doubting my own sanity, and here she is.