{"product_id":"requiem-for-a-gypsy-isbn-9781616951603","title":"Requiem for a Gypsy","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe fourth Jana Matinova Investigation\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the wife of one of Slovakia’s most prominent businessmen is killed in a very public assassination, it looks like the bullets were meant for her husband. But could she have been the primary target? Commander Jana Matinova must push through her own government’s secretiveness and intransigence to discover what connects the murder of Klara Boganova to an anonymous man run down in Paris, a dead Turk with an ice pick in his eye, and an international network of bank accounts linking back to the Second World War.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eRequiem from a Gypsy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rich in compelling plot twists and sobering history lessons. It also showcases Genelin’s skills as a writer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Genelin] depicts vividly the effects of old-style corruption on the burgeoning democratic society in present-day Slovakia, and can weave together a fast-moving whodunit populated with flamboyant characters who flit through the European capitals . . . Every character, major or minor in the plot, just about jumps off the page. Mr. Genelin seems incapable of writing a dull page.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePittsburgh Post-Gazette\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Genelin once again makes present-day Slovakia a compelling backdrop for murder in his superb fourth novel featuring Police Commander Jana Matinova (after 2010's \u003ci\u003eThe Magician's Accomplice\u003c\/i\u003e) . . . Genelin's no-nonsense lead will appeal to fans of strong female detectives such as Kinsey Millhone, V.I. Warshawski, and Jane Tennison.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Genelin's writing flows effortlessly as he propels Matinova from one crisis to the next.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePost and Courier\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jana, one of the more intriguing characters in fictional thrillerdom, makes fallibility seem like a virtue.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is one of the better international mystery series currently available. Make sure to suggest it to readers who also enjoy the European police novels of Helene Tursten and Donna Leon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An engaging read, full of deftly drawn characters who must somehow see through a mazy reality that conceals the contrast of light and dark in shadows, behind screens, and in the rooted passions of the human heart.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eForeWord Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eMichael Genelin is a graduate of UCLA and UCLA Law School. He has served as a consultant for the US State Department and USAID in Central Europe, Africa, Asia, and Haiti, and he is the author of the Jana Matinova series.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe old man in the Dodgers cap walked down one\u003cbr\u003eof the center aisles of the Saturday outdoor market\u003cbr\u003eon Boulevard Richard Lenoir. It was early enough in the\u003cbr\u003emorning to avoid the crowd that would be there in the next\u003cbr\u003ehour. As always when in Paris, he visited the huge market\u003cbr\u003eto reexperience the sights, sounds, and smells of the city\u003cbr\u003ehe’d first enjoyed so many years ago. It took him, for the\u003cbr\u003emoments he was there, out of the modern Paris that was\u003cbr\u003elosing so much of its character. Too much clogging motor\u003cbr\u003etraffic, too many fast-food chains, supermarkets, and girls\u003cbr\u003ein gym shoes and baggy, stained khakis—and, of course,\u003cbr\u003ethere was the array of beggars. Outside the market, he saw\u003cbr\u003ethe very essence of what he thought of as French coming\u003cbr\u003eunder attack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, the old Paris was still present: the merchants in\u003cbr\u003etheir separate stalls under the canvas, the vegetable-stand\u003cbr\u003estaffers shouting their specials, the fishmongers extolling\u003cbr\u003efresh cod and bream, the pastry and bread stands wafting\u003cbr\u003etheir scent over the neighboring rows, competing with\u003cbr\u003ethe bouquets of the olive stands, which boasted dozens of\u003cbr\u003edifferently colored, sized, and seasoned olives. These, in\u003cbr\u003eturn, complemented and contrasted with the smell of the\u003cbr\u003echickens turning on spits and sausages being stewed, fried,\u003cbr\u003eor roasted in the stands farther down the aisle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe booths went on for blocks, and Pascal, as he was\u003cbr\u003eknown in Paris, made sure to traverse the whole market,\u003cbr\u003epicking up tidbits from here and there to keep him in\u003cbr\u003eedibles for the next several days. The scene was like an old\u003cbr\u003emovie that had been colorized, so vividly chromatic that\u003cbr\u003eit made him feel as if he were inhabiting a rainbow dream\u003cbr\u003emade of food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the main body of the Saturday shoppers arrived\u003cbr\u003eto crowd the aisles, Pascal sighed, disappointed that his\u003cbr\u003ecomfort time was over but ready to leave, his purchases\u003cbr\u003estored in the two-wheeled shopping cart he’d bought a\u003cbr\u003efew days earlier. Once you get on in years, the prospect of\u003cbr\u003ecarrying bundles in your arms, even just for the few blocks\u003cbr\u003ehe had to walk to his apartment, becomes onerous; so he’d\u003cbr\u003ebrought the cart, even though it was not regarded as the\u003cbr\u003emasculine thing to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePascal crossed over to the other side of the boulevard,\u003cbr\u003eglancing up at the golden winged figure at the top of\u003cbr\u003ethe monument on the former site of the Bastille, then\u003cbr\u003ewalked the short distance around the traffic circle to\u003cbr\u003eSaint-Antoine, making his way from the monument\u003cbr\u003etoward the tourist-friendly Saint-Paul area where he had\u003cbr\u003ehis apartment. He walked a few blocks, and then, like so\u003cbr\u003emany Parisians do, perceiving that it was safe to ignore\u003cbr\u003ethe traffic light, he cut across Saint-Antoine. The old man\u003cbr\u003enever saw the truck that hit him. Almost the exact center\u003cbr\u003eof the front bumper struck Pascal, the blow scattering\u003cbr\u003ehis cart and groceries and sending Pascal himself flying\u003cbr\u003ethrough the air, slamming through the plate glass of a bus\u003cbr\u003estop, its shards raining all over the street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePascal was killed on impact, so many of his bones\u003cbr\u003ebroken that he looked like a jelly-filled scarecrow when\u003cbr\u003ehe was put into a body bag and lifted onto the coroner’s\u003cbr\u003egurney. The truck driver had driven on as if he hadn’t\u003cbr\u003ejust killed a pedestrian, abandoning the truck several\u003cbr\u003eblocks from the collision. The truck proved to be stolen,\u003cbr\u003eso the police could not find anyone to hold responsible,\u003cbr\u003ewhich always angers police officers. And Pascal had three\u003cbr\u003eseparate sets of ID on his person, which made things even\u003cbr\u003emore troubling for them. After all, how can you notify the\u003cbr\u003edecedent’s next of kin, or even inform his landlord, if you\u003cbr\u003edon’t know who he was or where he lived? The problem\u003cbr\u003ewas passed on to the detective bureau.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe detective assigned to the case sent queries out to\u003cbr\u003eboth Europol and Interpol, transmitting photographs of\u003cbr\u003ethe dead man, shots of several tattoos found on his body,\u003cbr\u003eprints taken from him in the morgue, and all the names\u003cbr\u003eon his IDs. Let them do their job for a change, the detective\u003cbr\u003ereasoned. While he waited for identification on the\u003cbr\u003evictim, he moved forward to his next pending case. They\u003cbr\u003ewere all piling up, and he only had so much time to spare\u003cbr\u003eon any one of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePascal, or what was left of him in writing, stayed on\u003cbr\u003ethe detective’s caseload for the next six months without\u003cbr\u003eanything being done about him. If he had still been alive,\u003cbr\u003ehe would have approved and encouraged the lack of\u003cbr\u003eaction. Pascal had been a man who prized anonymity; and\u003cbr\u003ebesides, as he’d always reasoned, being dead was a plus.\u003cbr\u003eNobody ever bothered you when you were gone. “Gone”\u003cbr\u003ewas a wonderful euphemism. You were just somewhere\u003cbr\u003eelse. So, he was not there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChapter 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe discussion, if that was the word for it, had now\u003cbr\u003elasted for close to two hours. The relatives of the\u003cbr\u003edecedent—his mother and father, an aunt, a grandmother,\u003cbr\u003eand two sisters, all of them gypsies—were demanding\u003cbr\u003eaction against the killers and were not listening to\u003cbr\u003eCommander Jana Matinova. Their dusky skin, dark hair,\u003cbr\u003edeep-set eyes, and volatile hand gestures were a whirl of\u003cbr\u003efrustration. They had come to criticize the police for their\u003cbr\u003elack of action in the teenager’s death, and they were pouring\u003cbr\u003eout a continuous flow of angry despair. The boy had\u003cbr\u003ebeen hunting and had stumbled when climbing through\u003cbr\u003ea fence, shooting himself in the neck, which had abruptly\u003cbr\u003eended his hunting and his life. The family members had\u003cbr\u003econvinced themselves that the teenager had not shot\u003cbr\u003ehimself, but that his two companions had engaged in a\u003cbr\u003econspiracy to kill him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana had gone over the facts very carefully, had read\u003cbr\u003ethe statements, the coroner’s reports, and the investigator’s\u003cbr\u003efindings. Everyone who had touched the investigation\u003cbr\u003ehad come to the same conclusion: accidental death.\u003cbr\u003eThe youths had had one shotgun between them, using\u003cbr\u003eit for alternate shots at rabbits, squirrels, and any other\u003cbr\u003erodent, bird, or large insect that came their way. They\u003cbr\u003ehad been larking around and become careless, which is\u003cbr\u003ealways a mistake when dealing with firearms. It was not\u003cbr\u003ea conspiracy but certainly a tragedy, which was why Jana\u003cbr\u003econtinued to listen attentively to everything the family\u003cbr\u003esaid. She interrupted only to correct misstatements of fact\u003cbr\u003eor gross exaggerations, hoping that the family would slow\u003cbr\u003etheir anguished outbursts to the point where they would\u003cbr\u003elisten to her, even for a few seconds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana eventually sensed them winding down, their sighs\u003cbr\u003ecoming less frequently, their voices becoming lackluster\u003cbr\u003eand falling into a lower register, their eyes growing duller.\u003cbr\u003eShe took advantage of the moment, conveying to the\u003cbr\u003efamily that she would consider everything they had told\u003cbr\u003eher, reexamine all the facts objectively, and make a judgment.\u003cbr\u003eShe singled out the father, the head of the clan, and\u003cbr\u003etold him that she would call within the next few days to\u003cbr\u003elet him know her conclusion. The family thanked her for\u003cbr\u003elistening, and Jana gave the mother, the grandmother, the\u003cbr\u003eaunt, and the two girls individual hugs. The father vigorously\u003cbr\u003eshook Jana’s hand, tarrying for a moment to whisper\u003cbr\u003eto “Madam Commander” that his son had been a good\u003cbr\u003eboy. Then they all filed out, trailing a small wake of tears\u003cbr\u003ebehind them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana sighed as she closed the door. It was always like that\u003cbr\u003ewhen people abruptly lost a loved one, particularly when\u003cbr\u003eit involved a violent ending. There was never enough\u003cbr\u003esatisfaction for victims in any investigation or prosecution.\u003cbr\u003eThere was no way that any police officer could bring\u003cbr\u003ethe dead back to life or give the relatives of the deceased\u003cbr\u003eanything approaching what they really wanted: to see, to\u003cbr\u003ehold, to kiss their loved one one more time. In that way,\u003cbr\u003eevery case was unwinnable; the relatives always continued\u003cbr\u003eto mourn, and too many police officers became depressed\u003cbr\u003eat what they perceived as their ultimate failure: that they\u003cbr\u003ecould not make anyone whole again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana did what every cop tried to do for themselves in\u003cbr\u003ethese situations: put the family, and the emotions that they\u003cbr\u003ehad generated, behind her. She had just sat down at her\u003cbr\u003edesk, ready to leaf through the reports one last time, when\u003cbr\u003eSeges, her warrant officer, knocked at the door and came\u003cbr\u003einside. He was carrying a small parcel in his hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“For you, Commander.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana took the parcel, noting that it had been opened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Did you enjoy reading the material, Seges?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’ve been told to always check for bombs in parcels,\u003cbr\u003eCommander Matinova.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You thought this might be a bomb?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just doing my duty, Commander.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Was it interesting, Seges? Anything salacious inside?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A request from another agency, Commander. More\u003cbr\u003ework.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana slipped the materials out of the mailer box. “More\u003cbr\u003ework? My goodness, we may have to earn our pay.” Seges\u003cbr\u003ewas notorious for trying to avoid anything that suggested\u003cbr\u003elabor. “It’s required on occasion, even for warrant officers,\u003cbr\u003eSeges.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a series of reports inside the package, all\u003cbr\u003ewritten in French, a number of photographs, and a cover\u003cbr\u003eletter in Slovak. Jana read the letter, a query from their\u003cbr\u003eliaison in Europol trying to determine whether a man\u003cbr\u003ewho was the subject of a French police investigation as a\u003cbr\u003evictim in a crime might be identified by the Slovak police.\u003cbr\u003eEuropol had concluded that he was a Slovak on the basis\u003cbr\u003eof one of the tattoos on his body. Jana examined the photographs\u003cbr\u003eas she talked to Seges.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You checked the materials. Is he a Slovak?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The tattoo is in Slovak.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not the thing he would do if he were not a Slovak,”\u003cbr\u003eJana agreed. She looked closely at the photographs of the\u003cbr\u003etattoo. It was an image with two lines of text. The inked\u003cbr\u003edrawing was a black ensign with a large white circle in\u003cbr\u003ethe middle, the circle containing a single vertical stripe\u003cbr\u003ecrossed by two parallel stripes. The stripes were vaguely\u003cbr\u003esimilar to the double cross on the Slovak flag. The two\u003cbr\u003elines of text, one above and one below the ensign, read\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNas Boj\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eNa Straz\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese mottos, “Our Struggle” and “On Guard,” had\u003cbr\u003eno resonance for Jana. The tattoo was different from the\u003cbr\u003etattoos on the other parts of the man’s body: it was quite\u003cbr\u003efaded and stretched out of shape. An older tattoo, Jana\u003cbr\u003ethought, one that had been put on his left bicep when he\u003cbr\u003ewas very young, perhaps even when he was a small child.\u003cbr\u003eShe rotated the photo of the tattoo on the desk so that\u003cbr\u003eit faced Seges. “Recognize the symbol?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve never seen it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe rotated the photo back. Something tugged at the\u003cbr\u003eback of her mind as she studied it. “‘On Guard.’ I’ve heard\u003cbr\u003ethat before.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fencing match?” Seges sniggered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana looked up at him, sighing internally. The man would\u003cbr\u003enever change. “Thank you for delivering the package. I’ll\u003cbr\u003etake care of it now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeges stayed where he was, his face expectant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes?” Jana began putting the papers back in their box.\u003cbr\u003e“You want more?” She paused, remembering what he was\u003cbr\u003eanticipating. “Ah, yes. Did I ask Colonel Trokan if he had\u003cbr\u003eapproved your request for a transfer? I not only asked him,\u003cbr\u003eI practically begged him to approve it. He sneered at me,\u003cbr\u003eand then berated me for my cover letter suggesting that\u003cbr\u003ethe request be granted. The colonel seemed to feel that\u003cbr\u003eI was trying to slough you off onto another supervisor. I\u003cbr\u003eassured him that I was.” She shrugged. “I had to tell the\u003cbr\u003etruth. A commander does not lie to a colonel. Colonel\u003cbr\u003eTrokan laughed and laughed and laughed, then told me\u003cbr\u003eno. ‘No!’ with an exclamation point. He said maybe at the\u003cbr\u003eend of the year. Then he laughed again. The colonel is a\u003cbr\u003every cruel man.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana favored Seges with a dour look. “Are you taking\u003cbr\u003eit upon yourself to claim that the colonel is a very cruel\u003cbr\u003eman? I’m entitled to say that, because I’ve known him so\u003cbr\u003elong. You, however, are not.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeges looked like a rat caught in a trap of its own\u003cbr\u003emaking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I . . . agree, Commander.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good.” She put the package from Europol on top of\u003cbr\u003ethe reports about the dead boy. “Have a good day, Seges.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you, Commander.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe did an about-face and left the room, leaving the\u003cbr\u003edoor open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re supposed to close the door behind you, Seges,”\u003cbr\u003eJana muttered to herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe checked her watch. She had to go home, freshen\u003cbr\u003eup, and get dressed to go to a party being given by one of\u003cbr\u003ethe new breed of businessmen that the country was hellbent\u003cbr\u003eon developing: high-profile figures who wanted to be\u003cbr\u003einternational players and were determined that everybody\u003cbr\u003eshould love and admire them for their ruthless corporate\u003cbr\u003eplundering. So far, at least, tonight’s businessman, the\u003cbr\u003elarger-than-life Oto Bogan, had miraculously avoided\u003cbr\u003ecriminal prosecution and so was still on the “we can associate\u003cbr\u003ewith him” list for police officers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColonel Trokan had been pressed into going to the\u003cbr\u003eparty by the president of police. Bogan had been a generous\u003cbr\u003esupporter of the minister of the interior since the\u003cbr\u003etime when the minister had first become a member of\u003cbr\u003eparliament; and because the minister was currently out of\u003cbr\u003ethe country, the president of police had pushed Trokan to\u003cbr\u003ego to Bogan’s party as the minister’s representative.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrokan, having long experienced men like Bogan,\u003cbr\u003ewanted someone to go with him so there would be a witness\u003cbr\u003eto everything Bogan said or did in his interactions\u003cbr\u003ewith the colonel. It was not beyond a man like Bogan\u003cbr\u003eto later make ridiculous claims about having been given\u003cbr\u003epolice promises by Trokan at the party. It would be Jana’s\u003cbr\u003ejob to refute any and all claims of special favors, or whatever\u003cbr\u003eproblematic inventions the serpentine mind of a\u003cbr\u003eBogan could come up with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the positive side, Colonel Trokan might be able to\u003cbr\u003eget in a few words with the financier about the need for\u003cbr\u003epolice budget increments for the new community policing\u003cbr\u003eprogram, and it was possible that he could get Bogan to\u003cbr\u003eput in a good word with the minister about it. The man\u003cbr\u003emight even be persuaded, as unlikely as it seemed, to\u003cbr\u003esponsor a part of the program himself. After all, he was a\u003cbr\u003ebudding politician, and wouldn’t it look good to the electorate\u003cbr\u003eif he contributed to a law-enforcement program?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana got up and stepped to the coatrack, putting on her\u003cbr\u003ewinter jacket, and then stopped herself. She went back to\u003cbr\u003eher desk and pulled the photographs sent by Europol out of\u003cbr\u003etheir box, looked at one of the multiple-angle photographs\u003cbr\u003eof the tattoo with the Slovak writing, then tucked the photo\u003cbr\u003einto a pocket. Jana thought she knew where she could get\u003cbr\u003ean answer to the meaning of the tattoo. While she was at it,\u003cbr\u003eshe also decided to take the file on the youth who had shot\u003cbr\u003ehimself. She’d promised the family to assess it. Maybe she\u003cbr\u003ecould get out of the party early, go back home, and finish\u003cbr\u003eher reappraisal. The family needed closure, and it would be\u003cbr\u003etorture for them if she delayed her conclusions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst, she went down to the holding cell area to look for\u003cbr\u003eSmid. Smid was a retired police officer who was allowed\u003cbr\u003eto work for part-time wages as a cellblock guard. The\u003cbr\u003eman’s pension was miserable, so he was glad to have the\u003cbr\u003ejob. He was old, perhaps too old for this kind of work,\u003cbr\u003ebut even the prisoners liked him. The man was thickset\u003cbr\u003eand given to rolling his eyes whenever he ran into a\u003cbr\u003eproblem, but he was also easygoing and—surprisingly for\u003cbr\u003ea jailer—cheerful and polite to the inmates. He was also\u003cbr\u003ethe unofficial institutional historian for the police department.\u003cbr\u003eHe remembered, in minute detail, everything that\u003cbr\u003ehad happened—good, bad, and indifferent—within and to\u003cbr\u003ethe agency over the last fifty years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana found Smid in the anteroom to the cells, where\u003cbr\u003ehe’d just sat down to eat a late meal with a prisoner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe two men looked up, and Smid stood as Jana came\u003cbr\u003ein. He nudged the prisoner. “Get up. Show respect to a\u003cbr\u003esenior officer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe prisoner jumped to his feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sit, both of you.” Jana pushed down slightly on Smid’s\u003cbr\u003eshoulder as both a gesture of affection and an added\u003cbr\u003eimpetus for the man to sit. Both men sat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is Yuri, Commander. He’s one of the prisoners.”\u003cbr\u003eSmid gestured at the man. “Very good with a mop. So I\u003cbr\u003egot him an extra meal today,” he said, by way of explanation\u003cbr\u003efor his eating with the prisoner. “Besides, we’ve\u003cbr\u003eknown each other for years.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana eyed the prisoner. “Too much to drink too often?”\u003cbr\u003eshe asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYuri nodded, spooning in a mouthful of food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmid smiled at the man’s obvious enjoyment of his\u003cbr\u003emeal. “He doesn’t say much, but he’s a long-time acquaintance,\u003cbr\u003eand I’m so old that I’m running out of them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana gave a slight assenting nod to Smid’s breaking of the\u003cbr\u003erules. “Sorry to interrupt your meal, Smid, but I want you\u003cbr\u003eto look at a photo and then tell me what you can about it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure, Commander.” He wiped his hands on a napkin,\u003cbr\u003epushed his nearly finished meal to one side, and gingerly\u003cbr\u003etook the photograph she handed him by its corners, laying\u003cbr\u003eit in front of himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A tattoo that I think may have started out in Slovakia\u003cbr\u003ebut that wound up on a dead man in France,” Jana\u003cbr\u003eexplained.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of our exports that went bad?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana smiled at the joke. “Possibly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmid studied the photo of the tattoo for a few moments\u003cbr\u003eand then nodded, looking up. “I recognize it.” Smid’s tone\u003cbr\u003ecarried a sense of pride. “I always come through.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Hlinka Guard. Second World War, under Tiso.\u003cbr\u003eTheir salute was the same as the Nazis’, only the Hlinkas\u003cbr\u003esaid \u003ci\u003eNa Straz\u003c\/i\u003e instead of \u003ci\u003eHeil\u003c\/i\u003e. The Nas Boj faction of the\u003cbr\u003eGuard was the worst of the worst. Ugly men. They operated\u003cbr\u003eunder the SS and murdered anyone they could, given\u003cbr\u003ehalf an excuse. The Nas Boj led the roundups of the partisans\u003cbr\u003eand Jews and gypsies, all the while stealing everything\u003cbr\u003ethey could get their hands on for themselves. Criminals;\u003cbr\u003eall of them murderers and thieves. Estates, jewels, money,\u003cbr\u003egold . . . and women.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked more closely at the photograph. “I didn’t know\u003cbr\u003eany were still around. Most of them were killed by the Russians.\u003cbr\u003eSome of them on the Eastern Front. More at the time\u003cbr\u003eof the occupation. Others fled with the Nazis when they\u003cbr\u003eretreated. They didn’t survive either. Well, a couple of them\u003cbr\u003ehere and there.” He looked up at Jana. “He also could have\u003cbr\u003ebeen one of their children. A number of the creatures were\u003cbr\u003eso proud of their nastiness that they had their own babies tattooed.\u003cbr\u003eAs the old saying goes, ‘Like father, like son.’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe handed the photo of the tattoo back to Jana. “Did\u003cbr\u003eyou get this man’s name?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They didn’t know it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When I said they were thieves, I wasn’t joking. The\u003cbr\u003efew that did survive were known to continue practicing\u003cbr\u003etheir criminal professions after the war. I had some of\u003cbr\u003ethem in here. Check the records in the old files. We\u003cbr\u003elogged them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You and your son want to earn a few euros?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmid knew the old records like no one else. He’d even\u003cbr\u003etrained his son, now the proprietor of an old and rare\u003cbr\u003estamp shop. Lawyers, prosecutors, private counsel, or the\u003cbr\u003edepartment itself would occasionally pay the duo to go\u003cbr\u003ethrough the voluminous non-computerized portion of the\u003cbr\u003epolice records to find the odd bit of information that was\u003cbr\u003eneeded in a case.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My son can use it more than I can, but what the hell?\u003cbr\u003eIt’s fun working together with him, so why not?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll approve it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Three days’ work,” Smid suggested.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know the two of you. No extra day; no extra money.\u003cbr\u003eAll you get is one day.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Two days.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A day and a half,” Jana countered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Done.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe dropped the photograph in front of him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you, Smid.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana turned to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If anything’s there, I’ll find it,” he called after her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know you will.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe walked out.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305429324005,"sku":"NP9781616951603","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951603.jpg?v=1767735656","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/requiem-for-a-gypsy-isbn-9781616951603","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}