Michael nodded. “It was at the time the old king was murdered and I took over the leadership of my tribe. How could I forget? I’ve wondered sometimes whatever happened to that girl. I hope she returned to her country.”
“Unfortunately, no,” Segar told him, looking off into the distance where the two mares were romping. “She’s in Bucharest, and she seems to be involved in a killing. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Is she accused of it?”
“Not yet. She’d been snorting heroin with some other young people, and she was a bit high at the time.”
“Snorting heroin?”
“Drug addicts think it’s safer than using contaminated needles.”
Michael knew there was some reason for Segar’s visit. “What do you want from me?”
“You were her friend for that brief period.”
“More than three years ago.”
“True, but she asked for you while being questioned. She won’t talk to anyone else.”
“You want me to return to Bucharest with you?”
“Yes, if you could follow me down in your car.”
“I hate that city, even more so now for what they’ve done to my people.”
“I think the worst of the oppression is over.”
Michael shook his head. “Last week a small group of Gypsies passed through here from Poland, heading south. They told of gangs of young people wrecking the homes of wealthy Gypsies, trying to drive them from the country.”
“I think the worst is over,” Captain Segar repeated. “Return with me to Bucharest. You can help the girl and you can help me.”
“Who was murdered?” Michael asked.
“A Gypsy.”
The capital city had changed little since Michael’s last visit. A few statues had been removed and the name of the late president, Ceausescu, was nowhere to be seen. Otherwise, the buildings were as Michael remembered them. He recognized the old militia headquarters at once as Segar turned into the parking garage connected to it. “This is our police headquarters now,” his friend explained.
“Then you are back in police work?”
Segar shrugged. “It is the only work I know.”
He led the way up to his second-floor office, then picked up the telephone and issued a curt order for Jennifer Beatty to be brought in. He explained that she was being kept in a holding cell while they decided what to do with her. “The murdered man was a Gypsy named Jaroslaw Miawa. He was found stabbed to death in a cellar where Jennifer and some others were snorting heroin. She insists no one touched him, that he was wounded before coming there.”
“Would that have been possible? What does your autopsy show?” Before Segar could respond, the door opened and Jennifer Beatty was brought in. Michael remembered her as a young woman of twenty-two who’d stolen a motorcycle from her boyfriend and driven it into the foothills to hide from him. Now she was in her mid-twenties, though somehow she looked older. Her blonde hair was streaked with some sort of coloring and the healthy outdoors look he remembered was tarnished. Her eyes were tired and the lids sagged, though that might have been from a night without sleep. “Hello, Jennifer,” he said, getting to his feet.
“You came! Thank God you came! Tell these people to release me.” Her face seemed to come alive at the sight of him.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“You’re the Gypsy king, aren’t you?”
“These days in Romania that means even less than it did three years ago.”
“I brought Michael Vlado as you requested,” Segar told her. “Now you must give us a statement as you promised.”
“I don’t know. It’s so confusing—”
“Could I speak with her alone?” Michael asked.
“All right,” Segar agreed.
She reached out to touch his arm. “Wait. Do you have a cigarette?”
Segar took a pack from his pocket and gave them to her. “They’re not American,” he said apologetically.
“I’ll smoke anything.” She lit one and tried to relax as Segar left them alone in the little office.
“I was hoping you’d be back in America by now,” Michael told her.
“I started back. I got sidetracked.”
“How was that?”
She shrugged. “I decided to stop off at Switzerland for a few days. They had this park in Zurich where you could buy drugs legally and take them quite openly. The city government even supplied clean needles. I think they’ve stopped it now. The idea was to keep addicts in just one area of the city, but it didn’t work too well.”
“So you were back on drugs.”
She nodded, drawing on the cigarette. “And before I knew it I was back here. I hooked up with a guy, and when I told him about Romania he wanted to see it. Travel is easier now, and there was no problem driving here from Zurich. We both had American passports.”
“What happened to him?”
“He wanted drugs and he got arrested the first week we were here. I haven’t seen him since. After that I fell in with a German named Conrad Rynox. I like him a lot. His crowd is into snorting heroin, which I’d never done before.”
“Did you know the man who was killed?”
“Jarie. Jaroslaw Miawa. He hung around, liked to gamble. That’s how he got money for the heroin.”
Michael jotted down the name, asking her to spell it. Then, “Tell me what happened last night.”
“We were in this cellar on Furtuna Street. When Jarie came in I could see he was hurt badly. Then we saw the blood. He’d been stabbed, more than once. He said a few words and then he just died there, on the cellar floor.” Segar slipped back in while she talked.
“What did he say?”
“Something about an iron angel. The three eyes on the iron angel.”
Michael glanced at Captain Segar. “Mean anything to you?”
Segar shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Is there someplace in the city that has an iron angel — a park or a church, perhaps?”
“I don’t know of any.”
“You might try contacting the churches. There aren’t that many of them anymore.”
Segar nodded and made a note.
“What does the autopsy say about the dead man’s wounds? How far could he have walked before collapsing?”
“We found no blood on the pavement outside, which is why we’re questioning her further. He couldn’t have gone too far after he was stabbed.”
Michael Vlado nodded. “And you say he was a Gypsy? Did he have a family?”
“A brother here in the city. The rest of the family moved west years ago.”
“Do you really think Jennifer is involved?”
“We found her with the body.”
“The others all ran away,” she explained. “I stayed. He was my friend and I was hoping he was still alive.”
“Will you release her?” Michael asked.
“Not now. Perhaps tomorrow, after the court hearing.”
“She stayed with him, for God’s sake! Would his killer have done that?”
“That argument will weigh in her favor,” Segar conceded, “but the laws and the courts are different now. We must follow regulations to the letter. Here is the name and address of the victim’s brother. If you can learn anything from the Gypsies, it could help her.”
Michael had the unpleasant feeling that Segar had somehow recruited him to act as a detective. Either he was setting up Michael for some sort of trouble, or there was something about the case that Segar couldn’t trust to his own assistants. Michael didn’t like it, but maybe Jennifer Beatty deserved another chance.
The brother’s name was Sigmund Miawa, and Michael found him in the morning at a Gypsy enclave by the edge of the city. He was tall for a Rom, with a fairness of skin that suggested mixed blood and intermarriage. He was a watchmaker, with a caravan that housed his wife Zorica and their child. It was a wonder that he continued to live as a Gypsy.