Turned to Stone Read online

  “And Penélope’s from right here in Spain. Didn’t he tell you anything else?”

  “What else should he have told me?”

  “One of the pirates, the leader, mentioned two important things. First, that he was going to finish the job his sister left unfinished.”

  “His sister?”

  “It seems obvious to me: he was referring to the knockout brunette who tried to turn me into a journalist Popsicle in El Burgo de Osma.”

  “ ‘Journalist’? I don’t know if I’d go that far. Maybe an ‘art historian Popsicle.’ A knockout, huh?”

  “Forget it.” Jaime refused to take the bait. “I can’t think of any other woman who would want to kill both Amatriaín and me. I’m sure the guy was her brother. The weird thing is, he seemed surprised to see us. That makes me think he didn’t know we’d be there, or maybe we weren’t his main target. He probably meant for us to die in the explosion with the others, but when he saw us on deck he decided to kill us personally. Fortunately, Amatriaín was one step ahead of him and cut his throat.”

  “That’s horrific. I guess you don’t dislike Amatriaín quite so much now.”

  “You guess wrong. There’s something crooked about him, but I’m not sure yet what it is. I imagine the accident left a mark on him.”

  “What accident?”

  “Something involving acid, on one of his missions. Not the kind that gets you high, the type that burns your skin.”

  “That explains the gloves and the scars. I’ve been wondering about that.”

  “Why? You like him?”

  “They do give him a manly look.”

  “You are a strange one, Presidenta.” Jaime said. “And now for the second important thing. I’ve been chewing it over in my mind ever since the guy said it. Just before the pirate leader died, he said something like ‘porco albino.’ ”

  “Filthy albino . . . Who was he referring to?”

  “No idea. There weren’t any albinos on the ship that I know of.”

  “Could he have been talking about Amatriaín?”

  “Amatriaín is a lot of things, but albino isn’t one of them. His teeth might be fake, but that tan’s natural. Anyway, whoever this albino is, the guy didn’t think very highly of him.” Jaime stood. “Still, you’re right. That’s not much more to go on.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “So we should leave the matter of the Artemis in the hands of the authorities and focus on the Medusa. That’s the key to this whole thing, and it’s what falls in our territory as art historians.”

  “So you’re not calling yourself a journalist anymore?” Laura said.

  “You worry too much about titles. Anyway, I’ve delegated a task to a certain crazy, fat geek we both know.”

  “Yeah. I think Roberto has something for you.”

  Jaime glared at her. “You know something I don’t?”

  “Could be, but I’m heading into an important meeting. Talk to fatso and keep me posted. And don’t forget the report.”

  “I won’t,” Jaime promised.

  Jaime’s cockiness vanished as soon as he walked out of the building and climbed into the taxi Laura had called for him after all. He felt dreadful, as if a part of him had died along with his innocent companions. Common sense told him he should go home, take a few days off, and put this business behind him before resuming his routine of writing about exhibitions, old statues, crumbling ruins, and ancient myths.

  Common sense also tried to convince him that this whole thing was above his pay grade. That playing at being a swashbuckling journalist was one thing, but going up against someone capable of cold-blooded murder quite another.

  Common sense kept up its efforts for a while, and then, fed up with being ignored, finally turned away and left.

  Jaime Azcárate’s drowsy mind had room only for Sonia Durán, Professor San Román, Lucas Andrade, Inspector Kraniotis, and the three Greek historians whose names he’d never been able to remember. As a journalist, it was his job to tell the story of what had happened. He was somehow ashamed he had survived, and he felt a responsibility to discover what had cost so many lives. He believed he owed it to the victims to uncover the truth, and he planned to do so with a fire in his belly.

  First he left a message for Roberto. Then he skimmed the daily news, which barely mentioned the incident in Piraeus. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at the little desk in his attic apartment, listening to music while roughing out his report. He recounted everything, from the team’s arrival in Athens to his and Amatriaín’s treatment at the hospital. Once he’d finished, he printed it and left the copy on his printer. He had no desire to reread it. He sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He could see it was time for a deep clean. He noticed the mass of papers overflowing from his desk drawer. How long had it been since he’d tidied up, anyway? He clicked the mouse cursor on the CD icon and a jazz band began to play Chet Baker’s “You Go to My Head.”

  Still exhausted after his ordeal, Jaime very nearly fell asleep at his keyboard. But the series of events that had been tormenting his subconscious for days forced its way into the foreground of his rational thoughts: the man with the red handkerchief shooting at him, then blowing off Amatriaín’s shoulder, and finally joining the list of casualties himself. And those mysterious words: porco albino.

  He did an online search for the phrase and the results surprised him: pictures and videos of white pigs, a superhero fan’s blog, and several inconsequential sites, almost all of them in Portuguese.

  Albino. White skinned.

  Like the Medusa.

  Then he thought of Paloma.

  Though the memory had been parked at the back of his mind, Jaime hadn’t forgotten the strange way she’d behaved when he mentioned their university piece. She had looked like a seer on the verge of making contact with Lucifer himself.

  He suppressed an urge to call her. It seemed ridiculous in light of all the dangers he’d confronted in the last few days, but the one thing he could not face up to was the hurt he’d caused Paloma. He would take her help only as a last resort—assuming she even was willing to give it, which was by no means certain. He hoped that whatever information Roberto had dug up, it would provide some new pieces for the puzzle. Jaime headed for the bathtub, praying that the water would come out hot, even if it was only for a few minutes.

  Roberto Barrero finished shaving his head with his electric razor just as the intercom buzzed to indicate he had a visitor. It was his habit to remove the little hair he had left whenever he felt the need for a clearer head, as if the strands somehow interfered with his brain activity, and he’d never needed clarity more than he did now.

  When he went down to the building’s entrance, he saw someone who looked a lot like Jaime Azcárate, if a bit more singed and haggard than Jaime usually appeared. “You look like shit,” Roberto said.

  “You always say the nicest things to me.”

  “Sorry, but it’s true. What did I tell you? You’re not cut out for this. You’re a hack, a pen-pushing shithead, not a trained investigator. Tell me at least that you didn’t have to shoot.”

  “I fired a couple of shots at a lock.”

  “Moving?”

  “No, stationary.”

  “Good.”

  They set off for a modest cervecería on Calle Hilarión Eslava, near the Moncloa bus interchange. The table they chose was near the back, by a long mirror that mercilessly reflected back to Jaime the sorry state he was in. His eyes were swollen and part of his hair had been burned away by the fire. If he wanted to listen to his mother and find a girlfriend, he’d have a hard time doing it looking like this.

  After the waiter had brought their food and beer, Jaime stretched his feet under the table and looked at Roberto. “Come on. I’ve waited long enough. What did you found out?”

  Rober
to stroked his goatee dramatically. “So the detective wants information. Well, it’s going to cost you.”

  “It’s already costing me. I’m buying you dinner!”

  “You call this dinner? Where are the oysters? Look at this: a plate of sausages, an egg, a few fries, three lettuce leaves, and a slice of salchichón . . . the information I’ve got is worth a lot more than this.”

  “Fine. I’ll pay for dinner and drinks once you’ve told me what you know.”

  “That’s more like it.” Roberto pulled a small tablet from his jacket pocket.

  “Did you check out the gallery?”

  “Yeah, and it wasn’t easy. I called and wrote about twenty times. It turns out that they were closed for remodeling. I talked to them last night.”

  “Wow, your Italian must’ve improved a lot since that time at the restaurant when you couldn’t even pronounce gnocchi.”

  “Very funny, you bastard. This time I had help.”

  Jaime thought back to his conversation that morning at Arcadia. “Laura.”

  “She’s stiffer than salt cod, but she can be pretty cool when she wants to be. One of these days you’ll have to tell me what it was that happened between you two.”

  “There was never an ‘us two.’ Laura, huh? I wondered how you’d do at something that doesn’t involve shooting. What did you find out?”

  “The director of the gallery is named Maria Santucci, and, lucky for you, she’s a talker. She said they purchased the sculpture from the owners of the Leoni Antique Center after it burned down. Remember you told me that after it arrived at the gallery, three people died?”

  “Yeah. Can’t you tell me something I don’t already know?”

  “Not just ‘something’; I have all the details. One of the stiffs-to-be was a janitor who’d been about to retire and had a heart attack while watching a soccer match.” Roberto looked up from his notes. “Nothing strange about that. Most people can live with getting their pay cut, losing their job, or paying a fee every time they use their credit card, but if Sergio Ramos misses a penalty, it’s all over. The man’s name was Martino Laszlo. He was a Hungarian widower, and he lived in an apartment near the Petrarca Gallery.”

  “Did they find out anything strange?”

  “The old guy had suffered four heart attacks and been hospitalized three times. He had a weak heart and apparently had never really listened to his doctors.”

  “I think we can rule him out as a victim of the curse. Tell me about the second person who died.”

  “Angelo Carrera. A businessman from Sicily who began to study the Medusa when it was still at the Leoni Center. After the fire, he continued to go see it at the Petrarca Gallery. He took lots of photos and spent evenings in the library and archives, going over old documents. One day he told the director he wanted to buy it. Another person was also interested, but Carrera’s offer was so generous the gallery couldn’t refuse it.”

  “How much did he offer?”

  Roberto named a six-digit euro price.

  Jaime whistled.

  “Carrera had a small family fortune, and he dabbled in history and antiques,” Roberto continued. “One or two of his articles were even published in magazines. The gallery was having money troubles, and they didn’t think twice about selling the statue to him.” He dipped a large piece of bread in his egg yolk. “It was Carrera who sent it to the Pontecorvo House Museum in Verona.”

  “Why?”

  “His daughter was the director there at the time. Apparently it was a birthday present.”

  “Then what?”

  “He was so happy about the deal, Carrera decided to celebrate with a cruise around the Mediterranean.”

  “What a guy. He pays a fortune for a lump of marble and then goes for a cruise. When I grow up I want to be just like him.”

  “I doubt that. Right now, he’s pushing up daisies. Or coral. Or whatever the hell a body would push up if it were buried at the bottom of the sea.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “An accident very much like the one your cargo ship had.”

  “That was no accident.”

  “Neither was his.”

  “He was murdered? Why?”

  “Fortunately, Maria Santucci isn’t just a big talker; she’s also more curious than the two of us put together. When she sold the Medusa to Carrera she decided she should look into his background. She was shocked by what she found. Carrera was born in Sicily, and when he died he was the thirty-first-most-powerful man in Italy. The explosion that sank his yacht may have been meant to settle some kind of score. His body was never found, and his children run his business now.”

  A bell went off in Jaime’s head. “His children? How many did he have?”

  “Two. His daughter, the director of the museum in Verona, and a son. The director couldn’t find much on him except that he ran many of his father’s businesses.”

  “What kind of businesses?”

  “A bit of everything: property, stocks, antiques. I bet his kids are set for life.”

  Jaime pictured the man in the red kerchief pointing a gun at him on the deck of the Artemis.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve met them both,” he said, considering his words. “And for some reason, both of them tried to kill me.”

  Roberto stopped his glass of beer halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The curse of Medusa, in all its splendor. What time do you start your shift?”

  “What shift? For your information, I’ve been on vacation for the last twenty-six hours.”

  “Good. How about coming with me to Verona? I have a sudden urge to visit the museum.”

  “If it’s to question Carrera’s daughter, you’re out of luck. She doesn’t work there anymore. The director is now one Mirto Ugolini.”

  “Damn.”

  “Disappointing, to say the least. Wait a minute. Is this the woman from El Burgo de Osma? You said she’s a stunner.”

  “She is. But she’s not someone you’d want to get close to.”

  “Wait, I haven’t told you everything. There’s still the third stiff: Alvino Nascimbene.”

  A shiver ran down Jaime’s spine. He stared at a point somewhere between his fries and his egg. Anyone observing him would’ve thought he wasn’t listening.

  “Jaime? Hello?” Roberto sounded as concerned as a NASA technician calling a shuttle crew with whom he’d lost contact. “You still with me?”

  “Alvino, you say?”

  “Yeah. What? You know him too? May I ask why you’ve asked me to investigate a story you seem to have already written?”

  “Alvino . . . What am I, an idiot?”

  Roberto exhaled. “You don’t really want me to answer that.”

  “Alvino Nascimbene. Alvino, with a v, not a b. It’s a name!”

  “Of course it’s a name. It belongs to a guy who was a security guard at the Leoni Antique Center. When it burned down, he was left without a job. He was seen sniffing around the Petrarca, and he was interested in the Medusa, too. It seems to me she’s more like a siren than a gorgon, what with all the guys who were after her. Not long after the fire, Nascimbene got in an accident while driving on a country road. The car was unrecognizable, and so was his body. His family had been waiting for him at their house in the mountains. They learned about his death from the police. I don’t know about you, but this has all started to sound pretty fucking serious to me.”

  “What family did he leave behind?”

  “His wife and daughter. You want their names?” Roberto scrolled through his notes. “The wife’s named Isabel and the daughter’s Tamara. If you’re thinking you want to interview them, you’re luckier than the devil.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because Alvino Nascimbene died not that far away, on a
country road in Extremadura. The family’s house is in Trujillo: just two hundred and fifty kilometers from here.”

  27

  Isabel Huelves was a sticklike, sickly-looking woman with disheveled hair, and she looked out at Jaime from the computer screen with eyes that appeared as though they’d never closed in sleep. Jaime judged her to be about fifty-five years old, and he was just two shy of the mark. “Isabel?” He spoke in a gentle voice and adjusted his webcam. “Good morning. Can you see me okay?”

  “I can see you very well.” Her voice was raspy. “I didn’t realize when you called that you were so young. And so handsome.”

  Jaime thanked her with a smile.

  “I hope you can’t see the mess,” Isabel said. “I’ve just got up.”

  “Everything’s perfect. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

  “Well, it’s not every day a girl gets asked to do an interview, now is it? I hope you’ll paint me in a good light.”

  The idea of holding a videoconference had been Isabel’s; she’d suggested it the previous day when Jaime called from the restaurant, while he was still at dinner with Roberto. He’d originally been tempted by the idea of a trip to Trujillo, but, in the end, he’d decided the effort was probably unnecessary, and he could learn all he needed via a video chat. “Nice painting,” Jaime said, referencing an abstract watercolor landscape hanging on the wall behind Isabel. “A very original use of color.”

  “Thank you. It’s by . . . Alvino did it.”

  “Your husband was an artist?”

  She made a dismissive sound. “Pfff. Something like that. He liked art, anyway. He always dreamed of being a painter, though he said time and again it’d never make him rich. As you can see, he wasn’t wrong.”

  “Had he been working at the Leoni Antique Center for long?”

  Isabel hesitated. “Sorry, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at. Yesterday you didn’t explain exactly what . . .”

  “Of course. Forgive me. I’m helping with the investigation of a series of freak incidents related to a sculpture of Medusa. I’m afraid your husband’s death is one of those events.”