Turned to Stone Page 21

  Jaime could see that the woman was on the verge of falling apart. “Don’t worry, Amanda. Paloma’s told us everything.”

  “She has? So you know about my boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “They’ve kidnapped my son! Oscar says that if I don’t hand the document over by Wednesday, I won’t see Hugo alive again.”

  Jaime couldn’t believe how far this whole business had gone. Over nothing more than a legend, someone was willing to both kill and kidnap. Paloma had already mentioned Preston, and from the disparaging tone she’d used Jaime had gathered just what kind of person he was. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out that the man was using blackmail to muscle in on the deputy director position. But how had he found out about Paloma’s research in the first place? Jaime took a tissue from his pocket and handed it to Amanda.

  “Thank you,” she snuffled.

  “Why didn’t you tell Paloma about this?”

  “I did. And she went nuts. She didn’t tell me anything about her document; she’s obsessed with this project, whatever it is.”

  “Hasn’t she done anything to push back against this Preston?”

  “It’s not Preston’s doing. The kidnapper forced him into blackmailing me.”

  “You must’ve at least told the police.”

  “Preston warned me not to. He says they’re watching me. God, I’m so scared!”

  Jaime tried to keep a clear mind. “You say you have to give the document to Preston by Wednesday.”

  “Yes. Or—”

  “Don’t worry. Paloma has decided to cooperate. I’m sure she’ll help you now. Anyway, someone got here before you did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Paloma’s research isn’t here anymore. They’ve taken it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I came to get it, too. It looks like someone else has a key to this apartment. Do you know who it could be?”

  “Well . . . I didn’t exactly tell you the whole truth before. I was Paloma’s roommate—that part’s true. But I took these keys from her at the museum. I had another set at home, but I couldn’t find them.”

  “Things are becoming clearer,” Jaime said. “This Preston, how are you meant to get the document to him?”

  “We’re supposed to meet on Wednesday, at the entrance to work. But what am I going to tell him now? I don’t have anything to give him!”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just make sure you meet him. What are you doing right now?”

  Amanda gave him a curious look. “Nothing. Why?”

  Jaime finished shaping the idea he’d been working out in his head. As bad as the situation seemed, this new information helped him know which way to go next. “How about a guided tour of the official headquarters of Arcadia magazine? Wait there a second, and I’ll take you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Paloma’s room,” Jaime said. “I have to find my shoes.”

  32

  The clouds that had flown over the city all day long now made good on their threat to unload their contents onto the streets, enveloping the Prado Museum in a cloak of lead-colored rain. As he parked nose-to-curb on Calle de Felipe IV, Roberto Barrero reached over and switched on the windshield wipers in his Fiat Doblò. In the seat beside him, Jaime spoke to Paloma on his cell phone.

  “You’ll see us as you come up the road. A white van covered in bird crap.”

  “Hey!” Roberto protested. “Let the rain do its job, and then we’ll see whether there’s any bird crap.”

  A panoramic view of the main entrance to the museum stretched out before them. Jaime’s mind hadn’t stopped working since his conversation with Amanda, and he had carefully worked out a plan whose top priorities were keeping Paloma safe and Oscar Preston under observation. It was now the day when Amanda had to hand over Paloma’s work to Preston, and Jaime and Roberto wanted to make sure there were no complications.

  A moment later, a purple umbrella emerged from the grassy slope that separated the museum from the parking area, with Paloma under it. At the sight of her, Jaime’s heart skipped a beat. She looked like a little mouse coming out of her burrow, well aware she was surrounded by hungry cats.

  “Is that her?” asked Roberto. “She’s not the kind of girl I pictured you with.”

  “That’s because you have no imagination. Give her a beep.”

  Roberto honked his horn a couple of times and Paloma turned and ran toward them. Jaime climbed out and opened the rear door for her. “How did it go?” he asked as Paloma settled into the backseat.

  “No one tried to kill me, if that’s what you mean.” Paloma turned to the driver’s seat and was surprised by the sight of Roberto’s shaved head, goatee, and black T-shirt. He looked like a member of the Hells Angels. “Hello. I’m Paloma.”

  “Pleased to meet you at last. Jaime’s always going on about you.”

  Paloma was taken aback by the comment, but she smiled. “I’m surprised you put up with him.”

  “You know how it is: you grow fond of the little shit.”

  Jaime looked at Paloma. Her eyes betrayed a nervousness that was less about the threat to her life and more about the knowledge that someone wanted to take away everything she’d worked so hard for.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Why aren’t we leaving?”

  “I’m waiting for your friend Preston.” Roberto kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. “He leaves through the side door, right?”

  “Yes. When I came out, he was just getting ready to leave. It can’t be long now.” Paloma looked at the two men, an eyebrow raised. “Why do you want to see him?”

  “It was your boyfriend’s idea,” Roberto said. “I’m just providing logistical support.”

  “My boyfriend?”

  “He means the muscle of this operation,” Jaime said. He looked at Roberto. “Can’t you turn the heat on? My toes are like ice.”

  “As the señorita wishes.”

  Roberto turned the control knob and warm air flowed from the vents.

  Five minutes later, Jaime watched Amanda Escámez’s unmistakable figure leave the museum accompanied by a man with curly hair and glasses. Amanda’s expression was one of contempt, while the man displayed a tepid smile. It was obvious to Jaime that this was the odious Oscar Preston.

  “Amanda and Preston seem to be getting along nicely,” he remarked.

  “He makes me sick,” Paloma said. “Look at him, all happy to be getting his hands on my work.”

  Jaime kept his eyes fixed on Amanda and Preston. “After this he’ll deliver it to whoever told him to get it. Then we’ll know for sure who we’re dealing with.”

  Paloma looked at Jaime. “Is that why you insisted we give him a printed copy?”

  “Exactly. Something he couldn’t send via email, so he has to go out on the street and actually hand it to someone.”

  “He could send it by regular mail,” Paloma said.

  “I doubt it. Whoever it is will want it as soon as possible.”

  “But they already have it. They took it from my apartment. Why haven’t they told Preston to cancel the mission?”

  “I don’t know. But the fact that we know something he doesn’t is our trump card.”

  “If you ask me,” Roberto said, “I reckon they intend to cancel him.”

  Paloma looked appalled.

  “Kill Preston?”

  “It’d be great, wouldn’t it?”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Roberto’s an animal,” Jaime said. “But he’s right about one thing: these people don’t mess around. They tried to kill me first, and then you. It’s possible they want to get rid of Preston, too. Anyone linked to the Medusa is at risk.”

  “But Preston doesn’t have anything to do with the Medusa.” />
  “Not directly. But these murderers don’t seem to care about tiny details like that.”

  They watched as Amanda and Preston stopped in the middle of the parking lot and she handed him a folder. “He has it,” Paloma lamented. “I hope you enjoy it, you rat.”

  Jaime turned to her. “It won’t do him any good. The people who blackmailed him already have it, and Ricardo Bosch will know that the work and the discovery are yours entirely.”

  “How will he know? He doesn’t want us to submit anything until the deadline.”

  “But you’ll do it anyway. Tonight you’ll email him your work and in the subject write ‘Do not open until such-and-such a day.’ It’ll be like a Christmas present.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to tell him the whole story?”

  “Not until Amanda’s son is safe. You’ve seen what they’re like. The moment they sniff danger, they get trigger-happy. Or train-happy. Or walk-in-freezer-happy.”

  “In that case, I don’t understand what we’re doing here. I’m sure these people are watching Amanda to make sure she doesn’t let the cat out of the bag. If they figure out that we’re trying to mess up their plans—”

  “There’s nothing suspicious about this. You and I are friends, and I’ve come to meet you. Anyway, we’re being careful. The other day, after Amanda left your apartment, I waited for almost twenty minutes before leaving. I doubt they know we’re planning something together.”

  “I can’t believe this jerk!” Roberto interrupted. “Is that sports car his?”

  Paloma followed Barrero’s gaze and saw that Preston and Amanda had stopped near a blue BMW Z4 with gleaming bodywork. “The pig sure does love to show off.”

  They watched from their seats as Preston pointed at the car and appeared to offer Amanda a ride home. After first spitting on his suit, Amanda turned and, with her customary sway of the hips, stalked off through the heavy rain. The American wiped off the gob of spit and then climbed into his car and started the engine.

  Roberto found it easy enough to follow the conspicuous sports car down Paseo de la Castellana. Once the museum was behind them, he positioned himself at a cautious distance and kept his eyes on the target. Oblivious to being followed, Preston drove calmly to a pretty, landscaped area near Calle de Arturo Soria. As he parked in a private space outside a thirteen-story tower surrounded by yellowing trees, Roberto double-parked the van on the street.

  “Now what?” Paloma asked. “Are we going to sit here all night?”

  “You won’t,” Jaime replied. “And neither will I. We’ll get a taxi and go somewhere safe. Now that we know where he lives, the main thing is to keep you out of danger. We have a tough day ahead of us tomorrow, and you should rest.”

  Though Paloma had no idea what Jaime had arranged for that night, she did know his plans for the next day. Missing work for an indeterminate period wasn’t the best way to secure the job she wanted, but the conversation she’d had with Jaime and Laura at the CHR had convinced her that leaving the country was the only way to stay safe. As much as Jaime wanted to protect her, the fact was, she would always be an easy target in the city. Amanda had promised to cover for Paloma and tell their boss that she’d left in a hurry to take care of her sick mother.

  Jaime and Paloma got out of the van, and she took refuge from the rain under a bus shelter while he spoke to Roberto through the open window.

  “You sure you’re okay with this?”

  “I’m sure. I’d been thinking of heading to my grandma’s village for vacation, but this is way more fun.”

  “Thanks, Roberto. I don’t say this often, but you’re a true frie—”

  “Hey! Get away from my car. You’re drooling all over it.”

  Jaime chuckled. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  “If someone dies, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Roberto closed the window, blew them a kiss, and disappeared behind a curtain of rain.

  Jaime raised his hand to hail a taxi, and within minutes he and Paloma were comfortable in the backseat of one, on a course for the CHR building.

  “What exactly is your friend going to do?” she asked.

  “We’re sharing the workload. I’ll be protecting you; Roberto gets Preston.” He smiled and pushed aside the wet hair on her forehead. “Looks like I’m the winner in this situation. And I guess you lucked out, too.”

  Paloma didn’t answer.

  Wearing pajamas and a dressing gown, Oscar Preston finished the last of his turkey sandwich and left the plate in the sink. It was almost midnight, but he couldn’t sleep. He had read the document that Amanda had given him, and he couldn’t believe what it said. If he was interpreting the information correctly, Paloma had discovered that the sculpture stolen from the museum in Verona last month was much older than previously thought and was also linked to the legend of the blood of Medusa and its alleged magical properties. Talk about a bombshell! If this research came to light, it would cause an uproar in the media and would be featured on TV and in newspapers all over the world. Not to mention that it would put Paloma automatically in the deputy director’s chair.

  Until now, Preston had felt sure of himself. His recently resuscitated work on The Colossus, the controversial painting traditionally attributed to Goya, cleared up many doubts surrounding the old debate. Preston had centered his attention on the brushstrokes found in the bottom left-hand corner of the painting, which some historians believed to be numbers, but others claimed were the initials of the painter Asensio Juliá. The analyses, reading, and interviews he had been carrying out for months went a long way toward answering the question of whether it had been a mistake to remove the painting from the catalogue as a result of its attribution being brought into doubt.

  Now he knew that Paloma’s research ran circles around his.

  He felt pathetic. He felt a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t alleviate with medicines or food. From the beginning, he had been certain that his work would bring him victory. Then this Clark had appeared with his veiled threats and murky deals, sowing seeds of doubt. Now Preston knew the truth: he was a failure who, on top of everything else, was up to his neck in thievery, kidnapping, and extortion. Just what his high blood pressure needed.

  He was passing the plate under the faucet when the telephone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Oscar. Can you come down?”

  It was Clark. His voice made Preston shiver. “Yes. I have it.”

  “Marvelous. Now shut up and come down.”

  He got dressed and went down to the street. The gray car was parked near the entrance, under the incessant rain. Without asking for permission, Preston opened the door and sat beside the man with the familiar mustache and nose plaster.

  “Good evening, Oscar. Shall we go for a drive?”

  “Now? It’s late. I was about to go to bed.”

  “This won’t take long. Do you have the document?”

  Feeling a pain in his heart, Preston put the folder on the dashboard.

  “Excellent.”

  “Now you’ll do your part, right? You’ll let me publish this work? It’s—”

  “It’s fabulous, I’m sure. Honestly, I have no idea what it’s about—I’m just a messenger—but I trust your opinion. Sadly, though, I’m afraid you won’t be able to publish it.”

  “What do you mean? We had a deal.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “And Amanda’s son? Where’s the boy?”

  “The boy’s fine. We’ll keep him safe until we know that what you’ve given us is good. But don’t worry, he’ll be free tomorrow.”

  Preston looked Clark in the eyes and was surprised to find Clark’s usual friendly glint wasn’t there. Before he could say anything, Clark started the engine and drove to a street near Plaza de España full of bars with neon signs that advertised drinks and girls
. He parked in front of a Chinese discount store and they got out of the car. They walked past a police station, dodged a group of drunks, and headed toward a tall, dark building just opposite the Torre de Madrid.

  Bolts of lightning lit up the graffiti-covered exterior and an old Telefónica billboard, imbuing the scene with a desolate, science fiction–like atmosphere. The glass in the door had been smashed to pieces, as had the bulb that at some point in the past must have lit the building’s interior. Strewn about was all manner of junk: paper, bottles, assorted packaging, and condoms. The strong smell of filth was nauseating.

  There was nothing but a cavity where the elevator had once been. Clark gestured to Preston to climb up one of the rusty old staircases. On the first landing, Preston was shocked to find beggars sleeping under cardboard boxes. The place was like the scene of a nuclear disaster.

  Clark told Preston to keep climbing. He had noticed the man’s growing unease some time before, and he placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

  “Easy, Oscar, everything’s fine.”

  “What is this place? I hope you’re not taking me for tapas again.”

  “No, no. There’s no tapas here. Just drugs and hookers, but unfortunately we don’t have time for that. The boss wants to talk to you.”

  “The boss?” Preston didn’t understand. His clothes were soaked from the rain and his glasses had misted up.

  “The man who’s paying us,” Clark said with a wink. “Come on, it’s time to forget that wimpy art stuff and meet some really important people.”

  They climbed several more flights of stairs to the ninth floor, where Clark pushed open a metal door with a loud screech. Preston stepped through, panting from exertion and anxiety. During the climb he had seen it all: immigrant families huddled under blankets, ragged young people with dreadlocks, and haggard individuals smoking something pungent. What was he doing there? All he wanted was to go back to his apartment. If these men wouldn’t let him publish Paloma’s work, then he’d just have to investigate the history of the Medusa himself and write his own study.