Turned to Stone Page 2

  For once, life’s injustices belong to someone else, he thought. Other people have to work, and I’m here on vacation.

  That is . . . more or less on vacation, he corrected himself. Though the trip to see the exhibition had been planned for pleasure, he knew that Laura Rodríguez, editor of Arcadia, would ask him to write a few lines for the magazine’s next issue.

  For several weeks now he had felt an inexplicable inner turmoil. He didn’t know whether to attribute it to all the changes happening around him or to how little he himself had changed. At some point he had decided that the journey of life was more important than the destination, and ever since, he had felt fulfilled, free, and happy. His work at Arcadia made it possible for him to enjoy his independence while simultaneously making use of his training as an art historian and realizing his vocation as a journalist. Still, for reasons he didn’t understand, he’d been feeling a void for almost a month, which was why he had decided to take things easy and get away from his usual surroundings for a few days.

  The waiter brought out the salad, and Jaime dressed it in oil and a splash of vinegar. He’d just pierced an asparagus spear and was lifting the fork to his mouth when he heard a timid cough off to his side.

  Jaime turned and saw the man who a few moments earlier had been eating and working at the back table. Now, he was standing as stiff as the asparagus still quivering on Jaime’s fork. The man smiled with perfect teeth, and his bronzed skin was covered in tiny scars, like furrows on a sown field. The graying roots of his blond hair suggested he was in his fifties, and the body under the brown suit appeared strong and fit. His computer tablet was now tucked under his arm, and he wore an expensive-looking pair of leather gloves despite the warm temperature in the restaurant.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” the man said, “but are you Jaime Azcárate?”

  Jaime did not know what to say. If he said no, he’d be lying, but if he said yes, he would be forced to talk to the man. The last thing he wanted right now was someone pestering him.

  Curiosity won out. “Yes. And you are?”

  “My name’s Amatriaín. Vicente Amatriaín. I’m with the EHU. Do you mind if I sit down? You can eat while we talk.”

  Jaime did not need to be told he could eat while another person sat at his table, but out of politeness he merely gestured at the empty chair in front of him.

  “Thank you,” said Amatriaín.

  “Who did you say you’re with?”

  “The EHU—the Europol Heritage Unit. Europol is the European Police Office. I’m sure you’ve seen us in the news.”

  “I filled the TV with water and turned it into a fish tank long ago. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Okay, not really. But I wouldn’t mind, given the crap they put on TV nowadays . . .”

  “Allow me to explain. The Europol Heritage Unit was set up six months ago. It’s like the Narcotics or Homicide Department—but more sophisticated, shall we say, and operates throughout Europe.” Amatriaín showed his perfect teeth again. “It’s comprised of investigators and officers from all the security forces in the European Union. As you well know, a fanatical artifact thief can be as dangerous as any drug trafficker. Could you bring me a café solo, please?”

  This request was directed at the waiter, who had used so much gel and hairspray, his head appeared shellacked. He had positioned himself near the table, making it impossible for them to speak privately. At this request, however, he nodded and withdrew, leaving Jaime and Amatriaín alone.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for disturbing you,” Amatriaín said, with a concern that seemed genuine to Jaime. “But I need to speak to you about a case we’re investigating.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Your boss told me you were here on a trip.”

  “Really? How discreet of her. I must remember to post my naked photos of her on Facebook.”

  “I had to lean on her a little,” Amatriaín confessed. “She’s a tough woman.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  “People say a joy shared is a joy doubled, and a problem shared is a problem halved—but if you ask me, having the freedom to travel without considering anyone else is a problem joyfully solved.”

  Amatriaín looked down at Jaime’s salad as if meditating on what he’d just heard.

  “You said Graciela told you I was here,” Jaime prompted him.

  “Yes. When I contacted the Center for Historical Research a few days ago, Dr. Isidro Requena confirmed that he and some of his researchers are prepared to cooperate with us. When I explained the case yesterday to your employer . . . sorry, what was her name?”

  “Graciela.”

  “Forgive me, but I thought Arcadia’s editor was named Laura.”

  “And forgive me, but I had no reason to believe you’d actually met her. Now I do.”

  Jaime popped a slice of boiled egg into his mouth while Amatriaín processed what had just happened. Glancing at him sideways, Jaime thought the white-toothed blond appeared annoyed.

  “You’re quite clever,” said Amatriaín.

  “And you’re beating around the bush. Why don’t you tell me what your problem is and why Laura let you come and find me on my weekend off?”

  “A well-deserved break, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’ve been reading your articles, and the one you wrote a few years ago on the Brotherhood of Saint Fructus and Solomon’s Table was an excellent piece. It’s a shame you had to leave out everything related to the Mossad agents’ involvement in the operation.”

  Jaime’s knife and fork fell onto his plate with a sharp metallic ring. At the table with the silent couple, the girl turned around and looked at him. Jaime gave an awkward smile by way of an apology.

  “How do you know about that?” he asked.

  “That’s not your concern. Anyone who works at the EHU knows these things. And remember that yesterday—”

  “Yes, yes. I imagine Dr. Rodríguez embellished the story.”

  In fact, Jaime knew that Laura Rodríguez never exaggerated; on the contrary, she tended to play down the adventures of her most zealous contributor. That was the only way she could stay out of trouble with her superiors—and with the law. Jaime felt certain that she would not have told this man half of what had happened to them at that accursed finca—an episode he would just as soon forget.

  He made an effort to calm himself as he picked up his cutlery again. Amatriaín reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper that he placed in front of Jaime. “Do you know this work of art?”

  Jaime identified the subject of the pencil drawing the moment he picked it up. It was a bust of Medusa, the creature from Greek mythology best known for being cursed with snakes in place of hair, and for turning to stone anyone who looked her in the eyes. The drawing itself had quick, precise strokes; it showed that the artist had a good command of volume, shade, and perspective.

  “Very nice,” Jaime said after a while.

  “It doesn’t tell you anything?”

  “What’s it going to tell me? It’s a drawing. Did you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations. It’s very good.”

  “Thank you. But you don’t know the piece?”

  “At first glance, no. It looks like a bust of Medusa. The sculpture is baroque—Italian, I’d guess.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you. Are you telling me this particular piece doesn’t ring any bells?”

  “Señor, it’s obvious from the way you’re insisting that you know I’m familiar with it. Why don’t you just hurry up and tell me what you want?”

  “Let’s see,” a voice broke in. “One peppered tenderloin here. And one café solo there.”

  The waiter with the
impressive hair had arrived just in time to ease the tension. Amatriaín seemed to realize that he was going about things the wrong way, because when the waiter left he cut straight to the chase. “Two years ago you wrote an article about this statue, attributing to it a curse that has caused many of its owners to die under strange circumstances.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Readers go crazy over wild stories.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. But the article’s bibliography included an essay you wrote with someone named Paloma Blasco, published in the Revista Complutense in 1999. In it, you attributed the work to the Italian sculptor Andrea Bolgi.”

  “An essay, you say?”

  “An essay on classical iconography in Italian baroque sculpture. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Laura Rodríguez—”

  “Laura Rodríguez may look like an alien, with that red dye she puts in her hair, but she’s actually a human and she does make mistakes. Sorry, but if you don’t mind I’m here for a few days’ relaxation and—”

  “Just one moment.” Amatriaín turned on his iPad. “You claim you have never written an essay on Italian baroque architecture—”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Then can you explain this to me?”

  Jaime froze when he saw the PDF document shown on the screen: “Gods and Monsters in Italian Baroque Sculpture.” By Paloma Blasco and Jaime Azcárate.

  Hit and sunk by damn technology. “All right,” he conceded. “Am I supposed to feel guilty about this?”

  “I suppose not. But I’d like to know why you lied to me.”

  “Because my tenderloin’s going cold.”

  “It’s a serious question.”

  “And a serious answer. I’ve had a tough few days, and I’m trying to unplug from work.”

  “I understand. But what can you lose by giving me a few more minutes? I’m sure you already know the bust of Medusa disappeared last month from the museum where it was on exhibit.”

  Jaime admitted that he’d seen it in the news. The Pontecorvo House Museum in Verona. A robbery in the middle of the night, a security guard killed, and the statue gone. Amatriaín gave him a look. “Didn’t you say you don’t watch TV?”

  “I get my news on Twitter.” Jaime realized right away that he’d put his foot in his mouth. What if this bore decided to follow him online? He sliced off a piece of tenderloin and tried it. Immediately, he regretted not ordering the pickled partridge. What part of “medium rare” had that chump with the haircut not understood?

  “Both the plundering of archeological sites and thefts of works of art are on the rise,” said Amatriaín. “Since 2004, the number of cases has risen fivefold. While there have been isolated cases like the remarkable robbery at Oslo’s Munch Museum, most of the thefts have been from houses. This incident at the Pontecorvo is one of the rare occasions when thieves have been bold enough to break into a museum.”

  “The Pontecorvo House Museum is hardly the Louvre,” Jaime pointed out. “Force a door, load the sculpture onto a wheelbarrow, and breeze out of there the same way you came in. It doesn’t seem like a particularly spectacular feat.”

  “That’s the thing: there wasn’t even a broken window. No forced door. Nothing. The morning after the robbery, everything except the statue and the poor security guard were in their places.”

  “What happened to the security guard, exactly? The press was vague on that point.”

  “The girl in charge of opening up the museum found him on the floor. His back was broken from a fall. He was still alive when they took him to hospital, and en route he kept muttering something about being attacked by a woman with snakes for hair. He died two hours later.”

  “How many security guards were there?”

  “Just him. It’s a small museum, so they don’t need more than one.”

  “Clearly they do. Any other leads?”

  “The autopsy revealed something strange in his blood—a toxin that couldn’t be identified. Tests on the Aperol Spritz he had drunk that evening revealed traces of an extract of Psilocybe semilanceata.”

  “A hallucinogen.” Jaime showed no sign of surprise.

  Amatriaín nodded. “I’d heard that you were a capable mycologist.”

  “An enthusiast, nothing more. My grandfather was the expert on fungi. I simply learned a few of their names when I was a boy.” Jaime smiled. “There are some things that, for better or for worse, one never forgets.”

  “In this case, for better. As you said, Psilocybe semilanceata has potent hallucinogenic properties. Combining it with alcohol, especially for a man nearly seventy years old, is almost certainly fatal—not because of the interaction between the two substances, per se, but because the subsequent disorientation poses a high risk of accident for the person who consumed them. That is precisely what occurred. The disorientation also explains why he thought Medusa herself attacked him.”

  “The curse of Medusa. Since you’ve read my article—”

  “Let’s not play games, Azcárate. This was a robbery and homicide, nothing more.”

  “And that seems trivial to you?”

  “Not at all. The main suspect was the girl, of course; she was the last person besides the victim known to have been at the museum. The carabinieri questioned her thoroughly, but could find nothing linking her to the robbery. According to her statement, the poor man was sitting near the main entrance when she left. When she returned the next day, she found him lying on the floor, in the throes of death. It was only later that she realized the statue was no longer in its place. Her innocence is almost beyond doubt; she has alibis: the wife of the deceased security guard, who saw her outside the museum that night, and a boyfriend.”

  “Of the security guard?”

  “Of the girl.”

  “Right.” Jaime wolfed down another piece of tenderloin and chased it with a gulp of wine. “You make this robbery sound like the work of a genius. How far do you figure the security guard must have moved away from the main entrance for him not to have seen anyone come in?”

  “Not far. As I said, it’s a small museum. It doesn’t even have cameras installed.”

  “If your description is anything to go by, this isn’t a difficult case. Investigate the employees. I bet someone has a copy of the key. They found a way to drug the old man’s Aperol, waited until he was out of his head, then opened the door and snuck into the museum. After they took out the guard, they grabbed the sculpture and left. No need to call Sherlock Holmes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to order dessert then head back to my hotel for a nap. I’d like to see the exhibition this evening.”

  “Don’t bother. Have you seen the line? It goes almost all the way around the cathedral. If I were you, I’d wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “Perhaps.” Jaime fixed him with a look. “And what do you suggest I do in the meantime to keep boredom at bay?”

  For a moment Amatriaín was confused. Speaking to Jaime Azcárate was like playing tug of war with an opponent who had complete control over the rope.

  “Well . . . you could help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Come on, Azcárate. You studied this almost undocumented sculpture, then wrote about it in a university essay and an article for Arcadia. For better or for worse, that makes you the world’s foremost expert on the piece. Maybe you could tell me why the thieves were so interested in it.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know. It was created by a minor sculptor about whom very little is known. Who stole it and why? I don’t have the faintest idea. Why should there be a special reason? You said yourself that thefts are on the rise. This case doesn’t seem all that complicated to me. What do you need me for? And I’ll remind you: I’m here to enjoy a brief and well-deserved vacation.”

  “But doesn’t it seem odd to you that so
meone would go to so much trouble to steal this particular statue? There are far more valuable works of art at that museum. And if a museum employee is responsible, why would that person risk losing their job and going to prison? There must be more to this Medusa than meets the eye.”

  Jaime listened sleepily, his arms crossed, then gave a rather unenthusiastic laugh. “All right. You win. No doubt the Medusa is the key to finding a treasure of incalculable value. Or perhaps the secret to eternal life. With your imagination, you should write a series of mystery novels set in the art world. For a while they were quite fashionable—”

  “Azcárate—”

  “—although lately their popularity has dropped, and I hear publishers aren’t taking on unknown writers anymore.”

  “Hey—”

  “But why don’t you give self-publishing a go? You could try your hand at mommy porn. Or perhaps that new thing with dinosaurs?”

  “Azcárate, I’m being serious!”

  Jaime called over the helmet-haired waiter, paid the exact amount of the bill plus a two-euro tip, then stood and, with a polite nod of the head, turned and left the restaurant.

  Amatriaín sat looking at the money and empty plates, trying to understand what he had done wrong, why the conversation had not panned out as he expected. Then suddenly he pushed aside the dishes and looked under his iPad. A glint flashed in his eye.

  It appeared that Jaime Azcárate’s lack of interest was all an act.

  He had taken the drawing.

  2

  The bartender’s cleavage threatened to spill from her neckline, but somehow stayed in place as she served a gin and tonic to the stranger who had found himself in the bar.

  Looking resigned, Jaime stared at the transparent liquid that sparkled in his glass. The alcohol could not distract him from the fact that his current crisis did not fit any of the previous patterns. It had been almost ten years since he hit the milestone age of twenty-five; he had just six to go before he reached forty. He lived on his own, he had fantastic friends and a job that he was passionate about, and he was accountable to no one but himself. So what was going on with him? What was the cause of the emptiness he’d been feeling for some time now and the source of the whisper in his ear that said he was throwing his life down the toilet?