Turned to Stone (30 page)

“Can’t you imagine the Medusa riding up in this thing?” Jaime said in excitement.

Roberto wasn’t so optimistic. “What about riding down? Can’t you picture it leaving this place forever? The bust and the magical blood are probably in the hands of a collector already. That, or they were never here.”

“Batman sure is a downer,” Paloma observed.

“At least he’s more realistic than Perseus,” Roberto said.

Jaime ignored the exchange. A shiver ran down his spine as he walked into the service elevator. A second shiver followed when he saw his own face in a mirrored elevator wall. Though he’d dressed up and shaved, his reflection showed the strain and exhaustion of the last few days. He felt sore and depleted, but at the same time was as excited as a teenager on his first date. The Medusa was close. He could feel it.

There were three buttons on the panel. When Roberto pressed the middle one, Paloma shuddered. Jaime took her by the hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Stay so calm. I’ve watched you get chased, beaten, and shot at, Jaime. And instead of running home you go back for more.”

“Seriously? I was under the impression that you thought I lived in a fantasy world.”

“Well, maybe I was wrong about that.”

“That’s a relief.” Jaime gave her a little half smile. “Anyway, you’re hardly the queen of the chickens. You had the chance to call it a day, and here you are.”

“Yeah, but I’m peeing my pants.”

“You think I’m not?”

Paloma turned to Roberto. “What about you?”

“Me? Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve done this sort of thing. In situations like this, the important thing is to focus on stealth and caution.”

“And what if they discover us anyway?” Paloma asked as the freight elevator stopped with a shudder.

“Then fuck stealth and caution, and run like hell,” Roberto said.

43

The elevator doors opened onto a gloomy hallway. Across from them, a pair of abstract paintings by an unknown artist hung over a wooden credenza. Roberto shined his flashlight on the paintings and screwed up his face.

“So, art historians, what do you think?”

“They’re not exactly straight out of MoMA,” Jaime said. “They look like they were painted by someone’s nephew. Hey, Dark Knight, have you got a spare flashlight? I can’t see a thing.”

“I bought this one for myself while you were wasting time looking at clothes. But you can borrow my lighter.” Roberto pulled a plastic cigarette lighter from his pocket and passed it to Jaime. “It’s no Zippo, but you might be able to get it to work.”

“What a cheapskate.”

On the floor, resting against the wall, were two suitcases with combination locks.

“It looks like your girlfriend’s ready for a trip,” said Roberto.

Beyond the entrance hall was a spacious living room without a single decorative element, just a bare table and some chairs. One side of the room opened up into an unfurnished kitchen. It was clear nobody lived there.

With Roberto in the lead, shining his flashlight, they crept down a long hallway with doors on either side. The first door led into a small study containing a walnut desk with several thick folders piled on top. Jaime picked one up and asked Roberto for some light. There was nothing inside but invoices and documents related to the gallery and bar. Also on top of the desk was a framed photograph of a luxurious yacht, the name
Phoenix
painted in black letters on its side.

Jaime was about to try his luck with the next door when Paloma called to them from the other side of the hallway. “Look at this!”

Jaime walked into the room and froze when he found himself facing the almond-shaped eyes of Rosa Mazi. Once he’d recovered from his fright, he stepped closer to the bedside table to study the photograph more closely. The young woman in the picture must have been about seventeen years old, and she’d struck a smiling pose beside a racehorse. Though it was clearly the same person, this woman had little in common with the one now entertaining her guests below them or the one who’d tried to turn Jaime into a human Popsicle in El Burgo de Osma.

“Your girlfriend’s a looker, but she’s a bit weird.” Roberto studied the shelves along one wall of the room. “What kind of woman would put the complete works of Nora Roberts next to
The Aeneid
?”

“The same kind of woman who’s capable of holding a gun to a guy’s head after seducing him: a real romantic.” Jaime took in the room with a quick glance, saw that there were no sheets on the bed, and concluded that no one had slept there for some time.

There was just one door they hadn’t yet tried. Before opening it, the three of them looked at each other anxiously. What if they were wrong? What if what they’d thought they would find wasn’t there?

Their fears proved true when they found themselves in a completely empty room: no furniture, no wallpaper, not even a light bulb.

“I don’t know how I could’ve gone along with such an idiotic plan,” Paloma said, disheartened. “Jaime and his fantasies.”

“You said you were wrong about them.”

“I’ve changed my mind. There’s nothing in this apartment.”

Certain what they sought was not there, they retraced their steps back to the elevator, got in, and pressed the top button. There was still one more floor to search, a chance that Jaime’s hunch had been right. When the doors opened after a few seconds, they were faced with what looked like a wooden board blocking the exit. Jaime knocked lightly with his knuckles, and a hollow sound echoed back.

“Is the whole floor walled off?” Paloma asked.

“I don’t think so.”

Jaime took a deep breath, put a hand on the board, and slowly pushed until there was a crack big enough to look through.

With the help of Roberto’s flashlight, they determined that the room was small and, like the apartment below, had been abandoned long ago. It smelled damp, there were large water stains on the gray walls, and water dripped from the ceiling. They pressed their ears against the wooden panel and, hearing nothing, pushed it aside and stepped out of the elevator. The panel turned out to be a false door that, from the other side, disguised the elevator as a closet. They found themselves in a hallway identical to the one in the apartment below, but with one subtle difference: all the doors in this hallway were locked.

Paloma looked at Jaime. “Now what?”

“A locked door’s always a good sign. Roberto, do you have your Swiss Army knife?”

“Right here. But why do you need it?”

Before Jaime could stop him, Roberto kicked the doorknob, breaking the lock, and the door swung open. “Good work,” Jaime grumbled. “Nice and quiet.”

“I don’t mess around.”

Upon entering, they found countless packages sealed in bubble wrap piled up against one wall. Carefully Jaime tore the wrapping off of one. It appeared that his suspicions had been right. Paloma copied his actions and was stunned to find a Van Gogh painting identical to one stolen in Amsterdam and subsequently destroyed by the thief. “Is it a copy?” she asked.

“Either that, or the one that got destroyed was the copy.” Jaime shook his head. “These people are ingenious.”

Roberto didn’t seem as impressed as they were. “Well, that’s all fine and good. But where’s the Medusa?”

“This must be the picture gallery,” Jaime said. “I bet you anything the sculpture room’s not far away.”

“I’ll take that bet. Show us the way. I’ll get my door-smashing boot ready.”

Back out in the hallway, Roberto noticed that one of the doorknobs had no lock. Without a word he approached and opened it. It was a bathroom. “Excellent. I need to take a piss.”

“Now?” Paloma sounded shocked.

“A joke. But . . .”

“What is it?”

Roberto shined his flashlight on the washbasin’s countertop, upon which lay a number of items: toothbrush, soap, razor, a can of deodorant. There was a smell of pine in the air and they could hear water running in the toilet tank, as if someone had recently used it. And everything was clean. Too clean for an apartment used only for storage.

The hairs on the back of Jaime’s neck stood up.

“I think someone lives here,” whispered Paloma. The knot forming in the pit of her stomach tightened when she heard the sound of a door opening at the end of the hallway.

Jaime gestured for his friends to retreat silently to the room where the paintings were stored, but before he could catch up, he heard a gravelly voice from somewhere behind him.

“Rosa? Rosa, is that you?” The words were spoken in Italian.

He had heard no footsteps, but Jaime knew someone was in the hallway, right behind him. Somebody switched on a light. Slowly, Jaime turned around. What he saw seemed like something out of a pulp fiction novel.

In the middle of the hallway stood an elderly woman with dark, wrinkled skin, dressed in a maid’s uniform. Her hands rested on an electric wheelchair that held the shell of what must have once been a complete man.

He was at least eighty, with a long face, prominent chin, and large ears that supported the arms of the tinted glasses he wore. These were the only parts of his anatomy that Jaime recognized as being human. The rest looked more like the body of a grub. The burgundy pajamas the man wore did not hide the absence of both legs or the grotesque curve of his right arm, which had been amputated below the elbow.

Jaime felt a combination of caution, apprehension, and pity. It did not escape his notice that, in addition to being paralyzed and mutilated, the man was virtually blind. Behind him, through an open doorway, Jaime could see a small television monitor and microphone set.

“Rosa, is that you?” repeated the old man with growing unease. “Signora Rizzo, what’s happening?”

The maid looked at Jaime, wide-eyed. “There’s a young man in the hallway, Signor Carrera.”

“A young man? Do you recognize him?”

“No. I don’t think so. Signor Carrera, it’s time for your juice.”

“Forget the juice for now. I have to take care of this.”

“But your vitamins—”

“The vitamins can wait. Who’s there? Answer me!”

Jaime thought it would be absurd not to say anything now when he had come so far. He mustered his courage and took a step forward. “I’m a friend of Rosa’s,” he said in Italian.

The elderly man’s eyebrows rose behind his dark glasses, perhaps the most expressive gesture he was able to perform. “A friend? Rosa never brings friends here. No one comes up to this floor. What do you want?”

Figuring he had nothing to lose in this situation and much to gain, Jaime decided against trying to hide his identity. Switching to Spanish, he said, “My name’s Jaime Azcárate. I’m working on a story for
Arcadia
magazine.”

The man’s eyebrows rose again, and stopped there, his surprise and alarm clear. “Signora Rizzo,” he said, “go in the other room and wait for my instructions.”

The aide frowned, her eyes fixed on Jaime. “Don’t keep him. It’s time for his juice and medication.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jaime. “We won’t be long.”

Once the maid had disappeared through the door at the end of the hallway, Carrera approached in his wheelchair, which he controlled with his right arm. He stopped in front of Jaime. “Azcárate? How did you get here?”

“I see you speak excellent Spanish. I’ve come to photograph the Medusa.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.” Suddenly there was a clicking sound. Jaime turned and saw that Roberto had just snapped a photo from the doorway.

Sorry,
he mouthed silently.

“This is private property,” the elderly man said. “Get out right now or I’ll call the police.”

“Call them,” Jaime said. “They’ll be thrilled to know that the Van Gogh from Amsterdam’s still intact. Along with all the other pieces you have stashed here.”

As Jaime continued to speak, Roberto and Paloma retreated stealthily to the room through which they’d entered the apartment. Roberto carefully closed the door behind them and took out his cell phone.

“What are we doing in here?” asked Paloma.

“Let Jaime do the talking, he’s got a knack for it. Meanwhile, an apartment with a hidden elevator, a collection of stolen paintings, and an old wreck in a wheelchair means it’s time for us to call in the cavalry.”

“But, the Medusa—”

“If it’s here, we’ll find it before the police arrive. But we should cover our asses; we don’t need a repeat of Verona.”

Roberto had just started to unlock his phone when suddenly he froze. The elevator behind him had begun to whirr. “What the fuck?”

“Someone’s coming up!” Paloma said. “We have to hide.”

But before they could return to the hallway, the freight elevator stopped at their level and the false closet door opened. A man in a suit with blue eyes and a scar-covered face walked through and regarded Roberto and Paloma with a look of disbelief.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Roberto positioned his large frame between Paloma and the stranger. “Who are
you
?”

“I’m Vicente Amatriaín. I work for the EHU.”

Roberto relaxed. “I was about to call you.” He showed Amatriaín the hand that still held his cell phone. “I’m Roberto Barrero and this is Paloma Blasco.”

“What’s going on? Is Jaime Azcárate with you?”

Roberto threw Paloma a look of annoyance. “Why does your boyfriend always take all the credit?”

Amatriaín grew impatient. “Where is he?”

Roberto pointed at the door.

“Stay here,” the policeman ordered. “And don’t do anything stupid. I’ll speak to you later.”

“Don’t worry,” Roberto called after Amatriaín as he set off down the corridor. “At this point, we’re almost completely out of stupid things to do.”