Turned to Stone (6 page)

6

They sped past the cathedral and crossed the River Ucero, leaving behind the town and its sleeping inhabitants. Jaime eased his foot off the gas only when he saw the lights of two vehicles approaching from the opposite direction. As the cars passed, he saw they were filled with young people returning from a night out, and they saluted him with a honk of the horn. He returned the gesture, adrenaline flowing through his veins and warming his body, a feeling more welcome to him than anything else in the world.

“How did you do it?” Sandra asked.

Jaime kept his eyes on the road, which was still illuminated by streetlights. Ahead, the castle ruins were silhouetted against the dark sky. “It’s a trick of the human body: if you exercise, you keep warm.”

“What did you do?” Her tone was mocking. “Sit-ups?”

“Oh, much better than that: I built my own weightlifting bench and used boxes as weights.”

Jaime stopped along the riverbank and then, still clutching the pistol, he hauled Sandra out of the van. He gestured to her to start walking in front of him. It didn’t seem like a good idea to have the discussion inside the vehicle, in case a passing driver glanced inside and noticed a haggard-looking man pointing a weapon at a woman. The hilltop, however, was the perfect spot for what he had in mind.

They began to climb the promontory upon which the eighth-century castle had been built. Floodlights illuminated the crumbling remains of the structure that had played a crucial role in a battle between Christians and Moors waged eleven centuries earlier. Jaime thought about all the people who had fought and died in that place, and it amused him to think that more than a thousand years later he’d narrowly escaped joining them. But why? It looked like he was about to find out.

He and Sandra entered through a great collapsed stone archway and into the small open space that formed the main body of the castle’s structure. The smell of urine on the ground made the site an unpleasant place to linger, but Jaime already knew this would be no friendly chat. “Okay,” he said to Sandra. “So what are you going to tell me about this Medusa?”

“I don’t know anything. My job was to find out what you knew. Now I see we were mistaken about you.”

“You don’t say. But
who
was mistaken?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret investigation into art thefts. We saw you speaking to Vicente Amatriaín and—”

“Who is Vicente Amatriaín?”

A shadow of disbelief fell over Sandra’s eyes.

“You don’t know?”

“I know who he told me he was. Now I want you to tell me.”

Sandra swallowed. Her features softened a little and Jaime detected a hint of relief in her expression. “He’s a thief. An art trafficker who’s stolen much of my family’s property. When we saw you together, we figured you were mixed up with him.”

“And where does the Medusa come into it?”

“The Medusa’s ours. He stole it.”

“Right. So if he stole the Medusa, why did he ask me to help him find it? Is he so stupid that he lost it?”

“He didn’t want you to find it, idiot! He wanted to know what
you
knew about it, in case you were a threat to his plans.”

Jaime thought for a moment. It was true that Amatriaín had shown more interest in the university study than he had in recruiting Jaime to search for the piece itself. But what about the statue would make a thief compromise himself? Sandra might be right about Amatriaín, but something still did not add up.

“Let’s assume you’re telling the truth,” he said, “and you belong to a family organization searching for missing works of art. Then why kill me? How would that have made the sculpture reappear? Please, Sandra—or whatever your name is—tell me something I can actually believe, or the finger on my right hand is going to start to shake.”

The woman’s black eyes flashed in the first rays of sunlight that crept over the horizon. “We didn’t want to kill you. We wanted to catch Amatriaín. It was a mistake, okay? We got it wrong.”

“No shit. And now you apologize, and we shake hands and act like nothing’s happened?”

“Please. I just follow orders. Don’t . . .”

Sandra fell to her knees and held her face in her hands. Jaime thought she looked like she might throw up at any moment. She appeared genuinely distressed by her circumstances, but he already knew her to be a convincing actor.

Suddenly, she looked up and threw a stone that she’d picked up from the ground. Jaime dodged it, but by the time he’d turned back toward her, Sandra was already sprinting out of the ruins and back downhill. Jaime followed, hot on her heels.

Her luck ran out when her foot found a hole, and she lost her balance, her flawless body getting bruised, cut, and scraped as she rolled down the hillside. From his vantage point above her on the hill, Jaime didn’t think she would get up, but Sandra quickly leapt to her feet and continued to run toward the van. Jaime felt in his pocket for the keys and then slowed his pace, reassured that she couldn’t go far.

Unfortunately, he stepped in the same hole and also fell to the ground. He was unhurt, but by the time he got to his feet Sandra was in the middle of the road, flagging down an approaching motorcyclist.

Jaime cursed and broke into a run. Was this yet another accomplice of hers? He couldn’t let her get away, or he’d never know what this whole thing was about. By the time he’d reached the bottom of the hill, the motorcyclist had stopped and Sandra was screaming. “Please, help me! This man kidnapped me!”

The motorcyclist pulled off his helmet, revealing a large, melon-shaped head and bulging eyes. He was tall and broad shouldered; his gloved hands looked powerful enough to crush walnuts.

Jaime swallowed hard. This was no associate of Sandra’s, but that didn’t make him feel any better. “Don’t listen to her,” he said. “She’s the one who attacked me!”

“He has a gun!” Sandra cried.

“The gun was hers!”

“Shut up!” bellowed the motorcyclist with some difficulty. It was clear he’d been drinking, and not mineral water. “Get away from her right now.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before Jaime could finish, the motorcyclist leapt on him with fists flying, and the pistol flew from his hands. The biker smelled of sweat and alcohol and clearly wasn’t someone who could be reasoned with.

“Stop! Ow!” Jaime curled up in a ball and tried to make himself heard between blows. “She’s lying! Will you listen to me, you idiot? Ow!”

“I can’t stand jerks who take advantage of women!” The man alternated words and punches. One blow hit Jaime on the shoulder, causing him to wince in pain; another to his cheek almost knocked him senseless.

“You damn fool! Don’t you see she’s . . .” Jaime paused as something caught his eye. “She’s stealing your bike!”

The big man kept throwing punches until a familiar roar made him stop. Turning toward the road he saw the woman he was trying to protect speeding away on his motorcycle. “Hey!” he cried. “That’s my bike!”

Sandra’s only response was to wave as her silhouette, backlit by the rising sun, disappeared over a bump in the road. The biker turned back around with his mouth open, trying to find answers in Jaime’s bruised face.

Jaime smiled through split lips dripping with strings of blood. “You just can’t trust some people.”

7

The café at Hotel Virrey Palafox bore no resemblance to Casa Genaro’s rustic dining room.

A polished wooden bar, paneled ceiling, and chairs that had been expertly carved to fit the human backside gave it a sophisticated, stately appearance. At least, that was how it seemed to Roberto Barrero as he sat his large body at a low table in the back. As he tried for what felt like the millionth time to reach Jaime by cell phone, Roberto dipped a bit of croissant in his
café con leche
and stared without interest at the muted television mounted above the café’s entrance.

He yawned. He’d left Madrid at six that morning, after he’d finished his shift at the CHR. The receptionist at the Hotel Virrey Palafox told him there was no Jaime Azcárate staying there, so he’d made the rounds at the nearby hotels and guesthouses. At one, the desk clerk remembered a rangy-looking journalist who’d tried to rent a room and said she’d recommended he try Casa Genaro.

There, he learned that a Jaime Azcárate had indeed checked in, but no one had seen him since the previous evening, and nobody answered when Roberto called Jaime’s room. Finally he’d decided to return to the Virrey Palafox and get a decent breakfast after his night shift and long drive in the van.

What’re you doing here, fatso? You should be at home sleeping,
he thought in a bad temper.
Or playing Lego Batman.

Laura’s call had unsettled him. He knew she was prone to exaggeration and worried too much about Jaime, but Roberto had been more than willing to do as she asked. He’d been a security guard for too long—first at a jewelry store in a shopping mall, and now at the Center for Historical Research—and despite the considerable size of his backside, he remained as restless as he’d been during his years as a photojournalist or when he stole relics to make ends meet.

It was during the last of his clandestine missions that he’d met his crazy friend Jaime Azcárate. Roberto’s first impression of Jaime was that he’d been born without a common sense gene. Although the art historian–cum-journalist could be easygoing and reasonable, he didn’t seem to consider the consequences of his often reckless actions. After Roberto had lost his job at the shopping mall, Jaime had persuaded Laura Rodríguez to give him a job as a photographer for the magazine. The job hadn’t lasted long, but he still felt indebted to Jaime, and at least he’d managed to find work as a security guard at the CHR. And Laura, from time to time, still managed to sneak one of Roberto’s photos into the publication.

He looked at his watch. For ten full minutes he’d been dipping his croissant in his coffee, which was now no warmer than the River Ucero. He gulped down what was left and, wiping his goatee with the back of his hand, pulled out his wallet to pay. He had a five-euro note halfway out when someone walked into the café.

Were it not for the bags under the man’s irritated eyes, the red nose, and the slight limp, Roberto would have sworn he was looking at the highly regarded coordinator of
Arcadia
’s Mysteries of Art section.

“You’ve proven it again: you’re actually crazier than I am,” said the new arrival. The words sounded strange through his swollen lips.

“Holy shit, man! What the hell happened to you?” asked Roberto.

“Nothing good.”

“I can see that. Come sit down. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Barrero ordered two coffees from the waiter.

“How did you find me?” Jaime asked. “They said at the guesthouse that some foulmouthed fat guy was looking everywhere for me.”

“Foulmouthed, my ass. I’ve been all over this fucking town after staying up all night. But before you tell me anything else, you should know that Laura’s about to call the police.”

“Well, she could have left a message for me. I’ve just come from the station.”

“Here we go. What’ve you done now?”

“Nothing. I went to report a stolen motorbike.”

Roberto knew Jaime would happily provide a long, embellished version of his adventures, so he decided to introduce a shortcut. “All right. I heard you didn’t spend the night at the guesthouse. Where did you sleep?”

“Sleep? What makes you think you’re the only one who was up all night?”

The waiter left the two coffees on the table.

“Let me guess,” Roberto asked. “Were you alone?”

“Nope.”

“With a girl?”

“Not in the way you think. But, yeah.”

“I knew it! I suppose she looked like Monica Bellucci and you spent the entire night discussing epistemology? I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Jaime pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. “Not a bad guess. She was a stunner, all right: dark eyes, tight black dress. And yes, in fact: Italian, like Bellucci. As it happens, we did spend the whole night talking, though not exactly about epistemology.”

Roberto leaned in impatiently, ready to press his friend for details. Jaime raised one hand as if to stop him.

“Before your imagination runs away with you, let me explain what really happened.”

Jaime diligently recounted his strange night. When he had finished, Roberto’s face was contorted with astonishment, like a Balinese mask.

“All that really happened? Are you sure you didn’t fall asleep with the TV on?”

“Do you think I’d look like this if I’d been in bed all night?”

“I don’t know.” Roberto stroked his goatee. “It depends on what you did in it.”

“There was nothing like that. The woman asked a bunch of questions, though I still don’t know what she wanted. The key to all of this is Vicente Amatriaín. It seems they were after him, but he got away and they figured I’d do.”

“You’d do? Do for what? You don’t look good for shit right now.”

“I’d ‘do’ to be murdered in cold blood. Quite literally, in fact.” Jaime laughed at his own unintentional wordplay. “They thought Amatriaín and I were accomplices or something.”

As he turned and sneezed, Roberto tried to absorb everything Jaime had told him. “And her partner? The thug with the mustache who you locked in the freezer? If you want, I could go defrost him with my fists.”

“Too late. I’ve just been at the guesthouse. The owner told me that when her husband opened the freezer this morning, someone ran out. That guy’s staying power is impressive, though of course the freezer wasn’t the same after I wrecked the fans. Poor Señor Genaro still hasn’t recovered from the shock. I pretended not to know anything, and they called the police. After a while they told me you’d been there looking for me and said you’d be waiting here.”

“At least the bastard got what he deserved. Poor Señor Genaro—all that food gone to waste. What did the police have to say?”

“Not much,” said Jaime. “The van’s stolen, the license plate’s phony. Luckily they left my cell phone in the glove box so I won’t have to buy another; I’ve already lost three this year.”

“Did they say anything about that Sandra woman?”

“They said they’ll look for her. But she could be in Guadalajara by now.”

“Wait till Laura hears about this. I bet anything you just took your last vacation.”

“I accept your bet. Actually, I’m hoping Laura can shed some light on all of this for me, at least about Amatriaín. She’s the one who told him I was here and that I’d written an essay on the Medusa.”

Roberto looked away.

“You know something,” said Jaime.

“Me? Don’t be silly.”

“Really?”

“Well, security guards do hear things . . .”

“And what did you hear?”

“Fuck me, what is this? Some kind of interrogation? It’s just that Laura and Amatriaín had a meeting a few days ago. It looks like they’re up to something, and the CHR and the journal are involved.”

“Up to something?”

“That’s all I know, I swear on my grandmother’s life. Last night Laura called during my shift. I thought she was unreasonably worried about you.”

“Sure. That’s why you jumped in the van and drove straight here?”

Roberto took a sip of coffee. “I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, I thought you’d need some help with all the booze and women.”

“Well, you weren’t wrong about that.”

Roberto glanced at his watch. “We should go. Laura wants to see your face as soon as possible. Though the way you look, she might regret it.”

“It’s not even ten o’clock yet. Laura can wait a little longer. I have to do something first.” Jaime stood.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re off. You’re going home to sleep, and I’m going to the Prado Museum.”

Roberto frowned. “What a hipster. You’re going to see paintings
now
?”

“No. Not paintings, exactly.”