Chapter Two – The Widow
Morning came gray and bitter, the kind that seeps through your coat no matter how tightly you pull it shut. Prague looked washed out, as if the whole city had been scrubbed down with ash. I walked into the station to find Captain Petr Dvořák already waiting for me, arms folded, jaw tight.
"Novák," he said, like my name was something sour in his mouth. "You and Veselá go talk to the widow. Keep it quick. We don't want this spiraling into another circus."
"Bit late for that," I said, dropping into my chair. "A councilman posed like a saint inside the Astronomical Clock? The circus already pitched its tent."
His eyes hardened, but he didn't rise to the bait. He never did. Dvořák was the kind of man who survived the last twenty years of politics by never saying more than what the room required. He looked at me for a long moment, then leaned in.
"Listen, Marek. This isn't just some drunk knifed in Žižkov. Růžička had friends in places that matter. The mayor wants answers. Not theories, not your usual cynicism — answers. Understand?"
I understood. He wanted it neat. He wanted it fast. And he wanted it buried. The problem was, murder doesn't come gift-wrapped.
"Sure, Captain," I said. "We'll tie a bow on it."
---
Lucie Růžičková lived in a glass-and-steel apartment block overlooking the river, the kind of place that smelled of money and disinfectant. Hana Veselá met me at the lobby, flipping through her notes. She was fresh-eyed despite the lack of sleep. I envied her ability to still believe procedure could solve anything.
"She's waiting upstairs," Hana said. "Looks composed. Too composed, if you ask me."
We rode the elevator in silence. When the doors opened, the widow was already there — framed in the doorway like she'd been practicing her pose. Lucie Růžičková was tall, elegant, not a hair out of place. Her eyes were dry, cool, the kind that weighed you and found you wanting.
"Detective Novák, Inspector Veselá," she said smoothly. "Please, come in."
Her apartment was all white walls and expensive art that probably had names I couldn't pronounce. A view of the Vltava spread beneath the window like a painting. No trace of mourning. No trace of a husband, either.
I sat across from her, notebook unopened. Hana went for polite. I went for blunt.
"Your husband was found dead last night in the Astronomical Clock tower. Do you know why he might have been there?"
A faint smile curved her lips. "Do I look like a woman who knows her husband's whereabouts at all times, Detective?"
"You look like a woman who isn't surprised he's dead," I said.
Hana shot me a warning glance, but Lucie only leaned back, folding her hands.
"Karel was… ambitious. He had friends. Enemies. Deals. I learned not to ask questions."
"Any particular enemies we should know about?" Hana pressed gently.
"All of them," she said. "Politics in this city is a nest of vipers. Perhaps he stepped on the wrong one."
Her voice was calm, detached, almost rehearsed. But when she reached for her cigarette case, her fingers trembled — just enough for me to notice.
I lit it for her, watching the smoke curl upward. "Last night, the gears of the clock stopped. Your husband's body was posed beneath them. Strange, don't you think? Someone wanted to make a point."
Her eyes flickered, just for a moment, at the mention of the clock. Then she smoothed her face back into porcelain.
"I wouldn't know about that," she said. "But if you're asking whether Karel was involved in something… dangerous — yes. Always. He was a man who liked to gamble."
"With cards?"
"With lives."
That hung in the air like smoke too thick to breathe.
When we finally left, Hana scribbled in her notebook furiously, piecing together patterns. I lit a cigarette instead.
"She's hiding something," Hana said.
"They all are," I muttered. "The question is whether it'll kill us to find out what."
We stepped out into the morning. Across the river, the Astronomical Clock was still frozen, tourists clustered like crows at its base. And I couldn't shake the feeling that the city itself had paused, waiting, holding its secrets close until someone pried them out with bloody hands.
I was going to be that someone.
---