Turned to Stone Page 18

  Isabel’s eyes briefly widened as much as her heavy eyelids would allow. “Is this a joke?”

  “I’m sorry if it sounds that way. Don’t worry, I’m an art historian, and I don’t believe in old wives’ tales or curses. But the fact is, two people besides your husband died not long after the statue arrived at the gallery where he worked. Had you not heard about this?”

  “I knew about one other death. Poor Mr. Laszlo had been having trouble with his heart for a long time. Who was the other person?”

  “His name was Angelo Carrera.”

  For a couple of seconds, Isabel’s expression was impassive. Jaime suspected she’d taken some unknown substance to help relax her, but he noticed her eyes opened a fraction wider at this news.

  “Angelo Carrera,” she said. “It’s been years since I heard that name.”

  “You know him?”

  “How could I not? He’s the bastard who abandoned my husband!”

  Jaime was shocked by the intensity of her answer, but tried not to react. “Isabel, I hope I’m not making you feel uncomfortable with this conversation. I just—”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I haven’t thought about this business for a long time. You’ve caught me a bit off guard.”

  “Angelo Carrera was a regular visitor to the center where Alvino worked. Years later he bought the sculpture, and, soon afterward, he disappeared in an accident at sea.”

  “Alvino mentioned Carrera to me only once, not long after we left Rome and relocated to Spain.”

  “You’re Spanish, right?”

  “I am. Alvino was Italian.” Isabel sighed. “Alvino’s life was like a horror story.”

  “How come?”

  “Because it ended as unfortunately as it began. You’re a writer; you should write his life story.”

  “You’ll need to tell me it first.”

  “Tragic,” Isabel said. “Miserably tragic. How else is there to describe someone who came into this world because an American soldier raped a Sicilian woman?”

  Jaime could see Isabel registering the shock on his face.

  “It happened in 1943, when the US Army landed on the south coast of Sicily. Near Barcellona Pozzo di Gotto, one of the soldiers murdered a fisherman and raped the fisherman’s wife. The soldier was drunk and almost beat her to death. He might have, if a young Sicilian hadn’t appeared and put two bullets in him. The Sicilian carried the woman back to his home, where he cared for her until she recovered. The woman stayed with the young man who’d saved her, and they fell in love. They married in Palermo. The woman was named Giulia Nicosia, and the man was Angelo Carrera.”

  Jaime listened to the story without blinking. He worried that they’d lose their Internet connection just as things were starting to get interesting. Isabel told him that in May 1944, the son who’d been conceived during that rape was born. Both Giulia and her husband accepted the child as their own.

  “They called him Alvino, in honor of Giulia’s murdered husband, and for a year he brought joy to their home. Then one day, without warning, Angelo abandoned his wife and child.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “No one ever knew. The war was over; maybe he decided he wanted to do other things in some other part of the world. After he left, Giulia fell into a deep depression and suffered from panic attacks that made little Alvino’s life a nightmare.”

  “In what way?” Jaime asked.

  “She started to mistreat him. Her rage over the boy’s father, the man who’d killed her husband and raped her in front of her neighbors, was mixed with her resentment toward the man who first saved her life and then left her. Alvino told me that his childhood was horrific. Some nights his mother would come into his room and beat him because he reminded her of the bastard who’d ruined her life. One night she hit him on the head with a ladle again and again, nearly killing him.”

  The breakfast he’d eaten earlier was churning in Jaime’s stomach, and he changed positions in an attempt to hide his discomfort. “No one noticed what was happening?” he asked.

  “They did. The neighbors called the police. They arrested Giulia, and Alvino was removed from her custody and later adopted by a young couple who’d been unable to have children: Giuseppe and Mercedes.”

  “So there was a happy ending after all that tragedy,” Jaime said.

  “Well, more or less. With his new parents, Alvino lived a peaceful life again. He knew at least that he wouldn’t wake up to a hysterical woman screaming at him and beating him. But those terrible years still took a toll.”

  “In what way?”

  “When Alvino was eighteen, his parents explained his origins to him. There was no need to do so, but they did, and this revelation took Alvino back to his traumatic past and brought out a fury that he’d never experienced before. He understood that he could never get revenge on his biological father, so he made it his mission to find the man who’d left him and his mother. After much searching, he finally found Angelo Carrera living in a mansion, surrounded by luxury and servants. This enraged him even more, and their reunion turned into an exchange of insults and threats. Carrera sent some men after Alvino.” Isabel swallowed hard. “They beat him nearly to death. After he got out of the hospital, he returned to his parents’ home, but they decided he wasn’t safe in Sicily. They decided to move to Spain, where Mercedes, his adoptive mother, was from.”

  “And that’s where he met you.”

  “At art school, yes. He was taking a course in art curation. We lived in Spain for a while, but Alvino eventually decided he needed to return to Italy. I went with him, and he found work as head of security at the Leoni Center.”

  “Until it burned down,” Jaime said.

  “After that, we came back to Spain. Alvino started working for a private security agency and things were going well. We had a few happy years. Until . . .” Isabel’s eyes welled up.

  “Did Alvino hear anything more about Angelo Carrera?” Jaime couldn’t help asking.

  “Not after we returned to Spain, no. He was focused on just us. He went to work every day, and that was it. Sometimes they changed his hours, but he never complained. All he wanted was to be able to support our family. Everything was fine between Alvino and me. We had our girl, he had his job. After some years, we were able to plan a vacation, and that was when it happened. I still can’t believe it.”

  “Did you notice anything strange about Alvino before the . . . ?”

  “No. Well, he seemed a bit stressed, but I figured it was just work. He had spent months fighting for permission to go on vacation.”

  Jaime’s eyes fell on a framed photograph in the background, behind Isabel. Though the photo was too far away for him to see it clearly, he could just make out a plumper and healthier-looking version of her standing with a splendid smile on her face and her arm around a tall, good-looking man. Even from a distance, the man’s bright eyes stood out. A little girl hugged his leg and smiled at the camera.

  “How did it happen?”

  “This house belonged to my parents, and we often came here on vacation. Alvino had been offered work as a security instructor in Paris, and he took it without thinking. When his assignment was over, he told us he was coming back and said to wait for him here.”

  “Who was the last person to see him alive?”

  “In Paris? I have no idea. The only person he knew in France was Dr. André Fournier, a frequent visitor to the Leoni Center, but I don’t think they saw each other. Alvino was just a security guard; he didn’t have much contact with patrons. His adoptive mother, Mercedes, told me Alvino had visited her on the day he left for Paris.”

  “Did she say anything about it? Had she noticed anything strange?”

  “No. But one thing she said surprised me.” Isabel closed her eyes partially, as if squinting back at the memory through a mist. “It didn’t seem t
o strike her as odd, but I . . . Well, the day he went to visit, he asked his mother for money. He didn’t say what it was for.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I thought it could have been for his accommodations in Paris, but he told me before he left that the company was covering expenses. The strange thing is, the money was never accounted for.”

  “How much money was it?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. But a lot. Enough that his mother remarked on it.”

  “Could he have owed the money to someone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he was involved in something. I’m sorry to ask, Isabel, but I have to explore this from all angles.”

  “Alvino never did anything illegal. He didn’t have any contacts in the mafia, if that’s what you’re suggesting. He wasn’t exactly passionate about his work, but he took it seriously. He loved us and did everything he could to provide for us. He wouldn’t have done anything risky without talking to us about it.”

  Jaime wasn’t so sure, but decided not to keep pushing. It suddenly struck him that it was because the circumstances of her husband’s death did not add up that Isabel had let herself fall into such decline. He promised himself he would discover the truth. “What’s that?” he asked. “Behind the family photo.”

  Isabel turned around and put her hand on the item that had caught Jaime’s attention. It was a portrait of Isabel, done in charcoal. With just a few strokes the artist had manage to capture her features and melancholic expression.

  “Alvino did it,” she said, sounding sad. “He started drawing as a boy at boarding school, and he never gave it up.”

  “It’s very good,” said Jaime.

  “That was just a sketch. Perhaps Arcadia could do a feature on his work.”

  “I’m sure that could be arranged.” Jaime rubbed his hands together as he considered what he was about to say. “Isabel, I’m going to ask something that might sound very strange, but I need you to answer me honestly. Do you think there’s any chance Alvino is alive?”

  The question not only surprised the woman—it infuriated her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know it’s difficult to consider such a thing. But the bad blood between Alvino Nascimbene and the Carrera family was too strong for it to have simply ended. One of Carrera’s sons died recently, and there are those who believe Alvino might have had something to do with it.”

  “Who would believe that?”

  “The son himself. When he died, he said Alvino’s name.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for his death, but either he was badly mistaken, or he had a very sick sense of humor.”

  Isabel disconnected the chat as quickly as she could, leaving Jaime staring at an empty screen. He glanced longingly at his coffee machine and got up from his chair. Maybe a café solo would help him process all he’d just heard. As he always said, there was plenty there for a story. He needed to let the information sink in, and he decided to devote the rest of the morning to making sense of it.

  He hadn’t the slightest suspicion that he was about to receive the call that would change everything.

  28

  This time, Clark didn’t have to waste time picking the lock. After breaking into Señora Julia’s apartment, he had entered Amanda’s place next door and found a set of keys from when she and Paloma were roommates. Slipping into his target’s apartment was quicker and easier this time, although he wasn’t so sure he’d find what he was looking for there.

  In Paloma’s bedroom, the music CDs were arranged in rows on a bookcase opposite the computer desk. There weren’t that many of them, but in an age when physical music formats were on the verge of extinction, even this small collection was big enough to catch the eye. The titles were so varied, a psychologist using them to gauge something of their owner’s personality would likely conclude she was a woman open to anything. Leonard Cohen and Brahms; Manolo García and B. B. King; Bob Dylan and Andrew Lloyd Webber; Lou Reed and Enrique Morente: all coexisted peacefully on the shelves, waiting to be played whenever they suited the CD owner’s mood.

  Clark moved quickly. In an instant, all the discs were in his metal briefcase.

  The previous day, Rosa had called him from the Phoenix and told him to break into the apartment and take the discs. Clark hadn’t understood why, but Rosa had insisted so strongly he couldn’t refuse.

  He had always known that his uncle’s daughter was not just gorgeous, but also brilliantly intuitive. Clark was certain that when the family fortune was divided up one day, the biggest share would go to Rosa—especially now that Leonardo had snuffed it. But he wasn’t worried. When the time came, he’d find a way to make sure he got his piece. He deserved something as reward for getting his hands dirty for the family over the last two decades.

  The assignment in El Burgo de Osma had gone badly, it was true, but his commitment to the family would be taken into account. As would his kidnapping of the brat, his coercion of Oscar Preston, and this second raid on Paloma’s apartment. Angelo knew he could count on Clark for anything, and Clark did not intend to disappoint him. He had both willpower and a genetic advantage; he barely felt tired even after a full day of physical exertion. The doctors had called it an anomaly, but he considered it a gift. And he used all of it in service to the cause.

  Gripping the briefcase, he locked Paloma’s apartment and went looking for a place with Wi-Fi. He settled on an empty ice cream shop, where he ordered a chocolate milkshake. He pulled out a small laptop computer and inserted the disks one after the other.

  The thirteenth disc brought him luck. A broad smile spread beneath his plaster-covered nose as he connected to the Internet. Within a few seconds, Rosa’s face was peering back at him from the screen.

  “Yes?”

  “I did it.”

  “You got them?”

  “While she was at the museum. You were right: it’s all here, on a CD by some . . . Andel.”

  “That would be Handel, you oaf.”

  “No, no. It’s a silent h. Andel. The full document is here: text and images. You’re brilliant, little cousin. How did you figure it out?”

  “I went to Leonardo’s cabin and went through his things.”

  “Is that right?”

  “What isn’t ‘right’ is what he was doing. He’s ripped off Papà all he could, and then some. I looked through his music collection, and inside a Megadeth album was a piece of paper listing his accounts, payments from clients—stuff like that. Business he’s been doing behind the family’s back for years. It wasn’t the only one. I found several other similar documents. Then I remembered there were music CDs at Paloma Blasco’s apartment, and thought she might have done something similar.”

  “They’re not there anymore.” Clark grinned. “Now what? Can I go back to the warehouse? I had to leave the kid by himself.”

  “First send me the information on the CD, then wait for instructions. I’ll contact you as soon as possible. And Clark . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “If you hurt that boy, I’ll pull out every hair in that mustache of yours, one by one.”

  The screen went dark. Clark felt aggrieved by the threat. He tried to be friendly and efficient, but Rosa never cut him any slack. He finished his milkshake and began to upload the data from the disc. It was received a few minutes later on board the Phoenix.

  Rosa finished printing Paloma’s document and ran from Leonardo’s study to the yacht’s main lounge.

  “What is it?” came the guttural voice from the portrait of Angelo Carrera.

  “We have it. We have Paloma’s research.”

  “And the Chronicle of Asclepius?”

  “A few scanned pages. But those are the ones that interest us.”

  “Dr. Galliano would’ve paid a handsome sum for the original.”

&n
bsp; “What does it matter if they’re not the original? I’ve examined the pages, and they’ve been taken from the genuine document. They include everything Dr. Galliano needs to know in order to be satisfied with the Medusa.”

  “Congratulations, Rosa; I never doubted you could do it. One day, you’ll be the richest person in Sardinia, by far.”

  Rosa looked down.

  “That’s not my goal, and you know it,” she said in a steady voice. “You have what you wanted. Now will you please accept my resignation?”

  “That, never.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’ve never understood this attitude of yours. You’ve been a natural leader ever since you were a little girl, yet you insist on living a mediocre life.”

  “I’m thirty-nine years old; I can live whatever kind of life I want to.”

  “Not until you’ve finished what you started. Call Clark and tell him to call off the business with Preston. Now we have the document, he’s no use to us anymore. Have him let the boy go.”

  Although that pacified Rosa, her relief was short-lived, as another grisly order immediately followed: “Once the child is back with his mother, have Clark find a way to get rid of Preston.”

  “Are you serious? Kill Preston?”

  “It’s necessary to our mission. Any complication that might compromise us must be eliminated.”

  “How is he going to compromise us? He doesn’t know anything.”

  “Not yet. But all he would have to do is apply a little pressure to Paloma Blasco, and he’d discover everything. And who’s to say he won’t go public in order to score points with his boss? Tell Clark he can choose the method. But first send me that document. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

  “You’re sick, Papà. And so is Dr. Galliano. Why did he have to involve Preston? Couldn’t Clark have done everything himself? You’re so . . .”

  Without bothering to finish, Rosa stormed out and headed to the study that had been her brother’s, to send her father a copy of the document. She thought again about how Leonardo’s stupid ambition led to his annihilation. She wasn’t like him; she needed to convince herself of that. She would be more than content to throw herself into her gallery-café-school project with Dino, the man for whom she’d left the museum in Verona—and whom she’d been deceiving since the beginning of their relationship.