The Matador's Crown (20 page)

22

Back at the hostel she’d originally been staying at, Annja was pleased to find it had cleared out, except for an elderly British couple who, after they’d introduced themselves, offered to share their tea. She politely refused, claiming exhaustion from touring the city.

Yesterday had been a long day. Being almost run down in the morning, then the fire at the warehouse, followed by a swim in the ocean. Manuel Bravo had tried to kill her, and then Ava Vital.

“That woman is a tough one to figure.”

Opening her laptop, Annja ran a search for Ava Vital. The first time she’d found her she had only been snooping about the Gato Negra.

On a hunch, she typed in César Soto’s name, and the search line that featured thumbnails of larger photos flashed a familiar face. It was a professional portrait of Soto showing him in full police gear and a bio listing his eight years of service. No mention of his failed shot at the corrida circuit. Nor were there any links associating him with Ava Vital.

Ava had alluded the two of them were close enough for her to learn information Annja suspected only officers on the force should have.

She typed in Manuel Bravo’s name and kept Ava’s name in the search. Bravo’s darkly handsome face appeared in a row of thumbnails. She scanned the pictures. Most featured him in the corrida in a classic bullfighter’s pose or caping the bull in a flurry of magenta and yellow. Only a few were of him in casual wear, signing autographs, and one looked like a snapshot taken in his villa, probably for a lifestyle magazine, as he posed out on the patio under the paper lanterns with a cigar and Scotch.

Annja paused on one that didn’t fit with the rest. Manuel looked at the cameraman as if he were surprised to have his picture taken. And a hand was in the fore of the thumbnail.

She clicked the thumbnail and sat back when the whole photo came up. Manuel had his arm around a woman’s hips as he led her toward a local restaurant. And hers was the hand up to block the photographer from getting a good shot. Her hand successfully blocked her face, but Annja didn’t need to see the face. The tattoo revealed on the woman’s wrist—a single wing—told her all she needed to know.

“The matador’s nemesis,” she murmured. “But apparently, not always.”

A click on the image took her to the original site. The gossip section of the local paper,
Diario de Cádiz.
The caption declared El Bravo’s fiery love affair with a local dancer was fraught with fighting and public screaming matches.

Annja sat back against the pillow on the narrow bed. Ava seemed to want the guy dead. And if the caption was true, perhaps she perceived a good reason if they had been at each other’s throats during their relationship.

“Which was when?” She clicked through the article to find the byline was dated six months earlier.

If the matador had confided his extreme obsession over people touching his artifacts and his methods for exacting revenge, he may have confessed murder to Ava. And now the dancer felt he must pay for those crimes after Diego Montera’s death.

Made sense. The dancer wasn’t at all concerned with the stolen artifacts linked to the case, which also made sense if she were merely seeking vengeance.

But if Manuel was receiving stolen goods, Annja needed to get to the core of the operation before some crazed ex-lover took him out.

Her cell phone buzzed and James Harlow’s name appeared. Tilting a look at the buzzing phone, Annja wondered how the professor was involved. Ava had said a female was working with someone at the museum.

The morning she’d found Montera in his room, she’d later run into Harlow in the plaza before the museum and they had stopped into the tapas bar to eat. He’d seemed calm and not like a man who had just committed murder.

“Hello?” she said, answering.

“Still in town?”

Why was he so eager to see her leave town? He and César Soto should get together.

Were they together? Harlow had made it clear he felt the Cádiz police were helpful and couldn’t possibly be dirty. So if someone from the police department really had been out to Crockett’s site, either Harlow was way off the mark or he was protecting someone.

A female on the force?

“There’s a fight this evening,” she answered. “El Bravo’s one-hundredth corrida. I had hoped to catch it.”

“I see. No luck with the problem?”

“Actually, I did find a warehouse by the shore that I suspect was trafficking in stolen goods.”

Harlow cleared his throat. “You don’t say?”

“It was blazing by the time I left.”

“On fire? How?”

“Don’t know. I think someone followed us there and decided to destroy the evidence. You ever visit those kinds of warehouses, James?”

“Why would I? What they represent is reprehensible.”

“You can find a lot of quality items in them.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Annja?”

“No.” Not yet. “Did you contact the police department about getting the Baal statue returned when it’s let out of evidence?”

“I will. I marvel over your concern for such a small problem, Annja. Haven’t you big adventures to pursue? The bull statue hardly seems worth your effort.”

Had she mentioned her phone call to LePlante to him? Yes, but she hadn’t mentioned the possibility there could be a ruby in the belly of the bull. Could Harlow know about that?

“I don’t know where you get all your energy. You know…” She heard the distinctive tap of a fingernail against a crystal watch face.

“What?”

“I do know a name that may be connected to the stolen artifacts. Hell, he could be in collusion with Jonathan Crockett. The man likes to lie low, but I’m aware he receives stolen goods and resells it to elite clients from a fancy office by the shore.”

“Who is that?”

“His name is Hannibal Drake. I believe his office is off Campo del Sur.”

“That could be the area next to the warehouse that burned last night. How come you never mentioned Hannibal Drake before?”

“It only now occurred to me. Yes, I think you should investigate that man. Though, really, Annja, this is a police matter.”

As he’d reminded her many times over. Sounded like a man who wanted her out of town, along with the Cádiz police. And to keep foisting the blame on others?

“Thanks, James. I’m going to rest before the fights. I’ll leave town first thing. I appreciate the invitation to inspect the Hercules coins. The hands-on time I got with them will really be valuable for my article.”

“No problem. Have a good flight.”

She hung up and dug in her backpack for her camera. It wasn’t there.

She tracked through her whereabouts over the past few days and remembered she’d last used it at the museum.

That gave her an excuse to stop by again, and for reasons she couldn’t quite finger, she wanted to look into James Harlow’s eyes and measure his sincerity face-to-face.

* * *

G
ARIN
PULLED
THE
J
EEP
to the curb a block from the police station. The second Jeep he’d rented since the first one was in the drink. Hannibal Drake slid onto the passenger seat and nodded his thanks. Garin drove toward the bridge connecting Cádiz to the mainland and headed for the Jerez de la Frontera airport.

Drake knew when to stick around and when to count his losses. He owned offices across the world. If the heat became unbearable, he could move at the snap of his fingers.

“Any idea why they tagged you?”

Hannibal tugged a pack of cigarettes from his pocket but didn’t open the pack. Instead, he compressed the cellophane, crinkling it repeatedly. “James Harlow is my suspicion. That bastard has been my nemesis since I moved into town. He’s a professor at the museum. He likes to put on a front that he’s aboveboard and untouchable. Wouldn’t touch a hot bit of pottery if his life depended on it. Damned liar. He’s taken more bits and bobs than I could ever hope to. Bastard.”

“So you’re going to run?” Garin left out the last part of the sentence—
with your tail between your legs.

“You know me.”

“Staying off police radar is paramount. You’re doing a swell job of it, man.”

“Yes, well, I’m sitting beside you right now and not some bruiser in the market for a boyfriend, so I’ll take swell. They asked me about an Annja Creed. Do you know that name? Some actress?”

“A television host. I know her.”

“I don’t think I like her, either.”

The woman had stuck her nose in too deep. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You know her that well, eh? You’re getting too close to things that might burn you, my friend.”

Garin frowned. That had been a definite threat. But well deserved, if indeed Annja’s fumbling had resulted in one of his friends being picked up by the police.

“My apologies,” he offered, hating that any apology was necessary.

“It’s all right.” Drake looked out the window. The skyline hugged the bridge connecting Cádiz to the mainland. “My therapist tells me karma always bites the right ass.”

* * *

T
HE
MUSEUM
WAS
QUIET
and cool in the early-afternoon hours. Most people were out for siesta, Annja knew, having learned the employees’ schedules during the few days she’d spent looking over the coins. Harlow usually slipped out for a sherry and tapas around this time, so she expected to find the camera and go.

Harlow had a large office in the museum basement, stacked with textbooks and the requisite skulls, damaged artifacts, collections of keys, coins, and bones in various states of decay and damage. Crates containing recent acquisitions sat unopened, awaiting his perusal. Annja would have loved a moment to go through them all, like Christmas in the summertime.

She located the camera and picked it up from the top of a small stack of notebooks, which set them askew across Harlow’s desk. Straightening them, Annja uncovered a small bronze bull beneath a white handkerchief.

“I just can’t seem to be rid of you.”

Bull statue in hand, she turned to face James Harlow.

23

Not at all intimidated by a man wearing a plaid blazer with leather elbows patches, Annja held up the bronze bull. “Tell me how this went from the dirt where I dug it up three days ago, to the hotel room of a dead man, to a police evidence locker, to your desktop?”

“I thought that was your expertise. Figuring things out? Isn’t that what archaeologists do with the evidence presented them?” He clanged his cane against the side of the desk, which made Annja flinch. “You are too nosy for your own good, Creed. Why did you have to persist?”

“You’ve always known the origins of this little piece. How it was designed by Philip III as a wedding gift for Louis XIII and that it possibly hides a treasure inside. The moment I mentioned this statue had been uncovered at the site, you started making plans to obtain it, didn’t you?”

“Does it matter? I have it now. Obviously it was not let out of the evidence room without an official signed release, so I’ve done nothing wrong. That little beauty now belongs to the Cádiz museum.”

“This is evidence from a murder investigation. I can’t believe the police would release it. And I don’t suspect you’ll tell me the truth since you’ve been lying to me all this time.”

Harlow moved quickly with his cane, slapping it on top of her hand painfully. “Hand it over.”

“And then what?”

“You get yourself out of Cádiz.”

“And you are going to what? Break this thing open? Destroy it?” Continue trafficking in the very artifacts he claimed to want to protect? “I don’t think so. This has to be reported to César Soto.”

“Thought you’d say that.” He reached inside the ugly blazer and pulled out a pistol. Annja thought it looked like a four-shot Derringer. Old, but probably well cared for and very usable.

“You’re going to kill me?”

“You’d be surprised the people I know who can take care of cleaning up a crime scene.”

“They didn’t do a very good job out at Crockett’s site.”

“That was unfortunate. But it did net me the bronze bull.”

“In a roundabout way. So the police really did kill Simon Klosky.”

“Just one particular officer.”

“A woman, I’ve been told.”

“There you go, treading on police territory again, Annja. Bad form.”

The bull still in hand, she carefully tilted it, aware the pistol followed her movement. “Is this thing really worth two dead men?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with the delivery boy’s death. Sounds like he was sent on two jobs at one time. Unfortunately for me, he did not make the morning delivery.”

“So when I ran into you outside the museum that morning, you weren’t late because you’d slept in—it was because you’d missed an appointment with Diego Montera?”

“I wasn’t given his name. Just a meeting place. Annja, you know the world isn’t fair, and artifacts are bought and sold every day without care for provenance. I’m trying to keep my head in the game. Show me a museum that doesn’t purchase trafficked goods and I’ll mark that one in the record books.”

“There are plenty of museums that operate on the up-and-up.” Usually underhanded dealings could be traced to a specific employee of questionable ethics. “Your explanation is a poor excuse for what you’ve done. And what is one small statue to the museum’s collection?”

“It once belonged to this very museum. You uncovered that yourself.”

“Right. But stealing it back?” She shook her head ruefully.

“Who said it was for the museum?”

“You did.”

“Yes, well, I fancy bull items. Couldn’t resist this one.”

“Don’t give me that. You want what’s inside.”

“Don’t you want to crack that puppy open like a Christmas cracker? It’s a huge ruby, Annja. It could be worth millions.”

“Millions that belong to the country of France, since this item can be traced to Louis XIII.”

“Posh. Finders keepers, I like to say.”

“You are not the man I thought you to be.”

Harlow set back his shoulders, the gun held more casually now, but Annja would not let down her guard. She could draw up the sword and finish this conversation with one sweep of the blade, but getting a confession was more important right now.

“No one ever is who they claim to be,” he said. “We all wear a mask. Even you, Annja. After finding the dead body, you let Jonathan Crockett leave.”

“Because I had no reason to suspect Crockett. I reported Simon’s death as soon as I returned to Cádiz. The professor isn’t guilty of a crime.” At least not recently, that she could be sure of. “Why do you insist on implicating him? And for that matter, you tossed out Hannibal Drake’s name into the matter.”

“Someone had to go down.” He gestured with the gun toward the bull she held.

“Does that pistol even work?”

“Let’s have a look-see.” He aimed for her head.

At times like this, Annja wished she could keep her mouth closed.

She had time to call the sword to fruition, but before she could the pistol Harlow held flipped out of his grasp and blood sprayed from his damaged fingers.

What the…?
Annja didn’t move a muscle.

Shot by an unseen party out in the hallway, Harlow dropped his cane and gripped his hand, swearing, as he stumbled against a stack of crated acquisitions.

Cautious not to make a wrong move, Annja waited for the shooter to show himself. With her luck, the next shot could be aimed at her.

When she saw the brim of César Soto’s cowboy hat move into view, she fought the urge to go at him sword to pistol. The sight of him didn’t make her feel any safer.

“Fancy meeting you here, Officer Soto,” she tried carefully. “Did you hear our conversation?”

“I did.” Soto held his pistol aimed on Harlow, who dropped to his knees, groaning. “You have a way of putting yourself in the most interesting situations,
Señorita Creed.”

“It’s the curiosity seeker in me.” She held the bronze bull up and made a show of carefully placing it on the desk. “The statue that was once in police evidence. Of course, you are aware it was removed, I’m sure.”

Soto’s eyebrows rose. “No, I was not. We have a dirty cop in our department who likes to go shopping in the evidence room. I’ll take that back into Cádiz police custody.” He tapped a button on the radio hooked at his collar and asked for backup to bring in a suspect. “Not you,” he said to Annja after he signed off. “But if you’ll step back for a moment and allow me to do my job, I’d appreciate the cooperation.”

“Drop the damn thing. Crack it open!” Harlow insisted. A gesture of his hand sent blood spattering across Annja’s pant leg. “Annja, this is your one chance to see what’s inside.” The man’s eyelids fluttered; he was obviously getting woozy from blood loss. “Just…do it. I need to know the truth. Please?”

Finding the treasure was always the ultimate goal. Annja vacillated for a moment. “Sorry, James. I’m not keen on destroying evidence or historical artifacts.”

“But it was
meant
to be cracked open. You saw
LePlante’s sketch.”

“If so, the sketch, along with this artifact, will make for a fascinating display in a museum.”

“You’re no archaeologist,” Harlow hissed. “We seek the truth, the answers beneath the outer crust.”

“There are ways to learn the truth without damaging the object,” Annja said. “You know that.”

“So much for adventure,” he muttered.

Officer Soto cuffed Harlow and delivered him to the backup officer who arrived three minutes later. After getting the details from her and taking down a few notes about the layout of Harlow’s office, Soto walked Annja out of the museum, where a crowd had begun to gather because three police cars with flashing lights were parked out front.

“There’s something inside that little bronze bull?” he asked.

“Supposedly a ruby of immense size and value. It was designed as a gift to Louis XIII of France on his wedding day.”

“And you don’t want to crack it open?”

She caught a rare grin on his face and chuckled along with him. “There are X-ray scanning methods that can reveal what’s inside. Won’t have to crack a thing to find out. I’m surprised, Officer Soto. You’d destroy it?”

He shrugged. “No, I would not, but I would be interested in learning if there is actual treasure inside.”

“If you’ll allow it, I’d like to have the bull sent to the Harwell Science and Innovation Campus in Oxfordshire for an X-ray. An ordinary X-ray machine won’t work and it’s the only place that has the equipment to do it right now. Then we can both find out the secrets of what’s in the belly of the bull.”

“I think that can be arranged. Now, I probably can’t ask you to leave town again,” he said, tugging down his cowboy hat against the afternoon sun. “But I sure would appreciate it if you would.”

“You really believe I contributed to hampering your investigation?”

He shrugged minutely. “I won’t say, one way or the other. I like you fine, Señorita Creed. But I’d like you a lot better in another country.”

“Fair enough. I have plans to attend El Bravo’s fight this afternoon, then I promise I’ll get on a plane soon after.”

“Sounds like a deal.” He offered his hand and she shook it. “I guess I owe you my thanks. If Harlow hadn’t explained the details to you in there I might still be searching.”

“You said there was a dirty cop on the force. Would that be a woman?”

“I’m not sure I even want to know how you come by your information, but yes, the officer is female. Maria Alonzo. We arrested her less than an hour ago and she gave us Harlow.”

Annja recalled the officer who’d first taken down her report at the station. “Is she the one who killed Simon Klosky?”

“Yes.”

“And chased me last night out of the burning warehouse?”

Soto winced. He hadn’t known that detail. “Seems we’ve got more chatting to do before you head to the fight.”

“I’m all yours, Officer. You have any idea where Ava Vital is right now?”

“Why? What does a dancer have to do with Harlow’s arrest?”

“Nothing at all. But she’s got a death wish for El Bravo.”

Soto tilted back his head to eye her directly.

“She told me,” Annja added, “and then she tried to kill me.”

The officer shook his head in disbelief and whistled. He chuckled, but didn’t say a word.

“She also alluded the two of you may have a relationship—”

He put up a palm between them. “I can have you escorted out of the city again. No fight, not even a chance to pack your bags.”

“All right. I’ll forget she ever mentioned it. But I think she’s going to go after El Bravo at the fight. Do you trust my suspicion?”

“If I didn’t know either of you better, I’d say no. But I do know you both, so yes. Let’s go for a ride, señorita.”

* * *

M
ANUEL
B
RAVO
CROSSED
himself and kissed his knuckles, then bowed before the altar in his sanctuary. Today was the day. One hundred kills this year. He knew what had to be done. Things had not gone as he wished, but he believed all things happened for a reason.

It was a punishment for his evil ways. Had to be.

He did not regret. He learned. He lived. He experienced. He tried to make his life, and the lives of others, as good as they could be.

He had failed himself.

With a heavy sigh, he stood before the altar and gazed at the gleaming gold crown that had been tainted by her touch.

“I will do what must be done.
A la lucha!
”