The Matador's Crown (11 page)

“The sun is setting,” Garin interrupted. “Let’s take our brandy out on the veranda.”

And without another glance from either of them, the men wandered out, leaving Annja searching for Soto’s name on the other posters. She didn’t find it. The two were tied together in a manner she couldn’t quite piece together. But she would.

12

The computer screen flashed through three different profiles, each an employee of the Cádiz PNP. César Soto paused on the one he deemed most likely to be the double-crossing thief who was looting artifacts from the Puerto Real site. Had the suspect also murdered the guitarist?

Soto wasn’t betting the farm on that one. He had his suspicions. Hell, he had a very clear idea of the culprit. And that was without taking fingerprints from the scene or standing in watch while forensics had done their work.

He wanted to nab the dirty cop. He oversaw this division and wouldn’t tolerate such a blatant flick of the finger at his command.

It was a good thing he’d sent Annja Creed out of the city. He didn’t need her interference or a leak to the media regarding the possibility of a dirty cop. She’d gotten too close to the truth, and he had the distinct impression she was too smart to let things go.

He picked up the sketch of the sniper’s face Creed had made adjustments to after the sketch artist had finished.

“How are you involved?” he asked. “Don’t make me come after you, Ava.”

* * *

A
NNJA
TOOK
A
CAB
back toward the old city, but got let off a few blocks from the Hotel Blanca. The streets were alive with tourists and she wasn’t in the mood to return to her room. At the aroma of spiced, savory meat and the sweetness of plantains, her mouth watered. Despite the five-course meal she’d packed away earlier.

It had been a while since she’d smoked Cuban with Bart McGilley back in Brooklyn. Bart worked for the NYPD and occasionally served as her contact, providing information only he could access in the police database. But first and foremost, he was a friend. She decided she’d call him the moment she returned to the States and set up a boxing date at Eddie’s gym. The strains of a flamenco guitar lured her through an inconspicuous black door and into the Gato Negra’s cool darkness, and that was without a secret password. Annja found a table at the back of the curved room in close confines with the tightly placed, small circular tables that seated one or two patrons nursing shots of wine or whiskey. The walls looked carved from stone, but it was just an effect on molded plaster, and the graffiti along the bottom hid a few chips out of it.

Alone beneath a single spotlight on the dark, narrow stage, the dancer began slowly, marking the
compas
with her footsteps, confident and stolid. She stretched up an arm, twisting her wrist in a graceful, compelling movement that demanded everyone watch as she interpreted the music.

Mixed with influences from Spain and the Moors, flamenco music had begun with the Romani Gypsies who expressed their fears, their heartaches and hardships through music. Flamenco had originally been focused on the singer and the dance. The guitarist was a later addition and was generally viewed by aficionados only as accompaniment. But now guitar soloists had made quite a name for themselves worldwide, though often the music was considerably altered beyond the influence of
flamenco puro.

The dancer was familiar because Annja had made a few touch-ups to her sketch earlier that day. Funny how her expression possessed more murderous intent while dancing than it had when she’d faced Annja down in the alleyway in a battle of strength. Fiercely intent in her movements, Ava Vital pushed out anger through her precise steps, weaving raw emotion into the fast rhythm of the dance.

The audience clapped
palmas
and an old man seated at the table next to Annja stomped his feet, performing a few fancy footwork moves himself. Annja almost wished she had some Spanish heritage herself because the mood and energy proved darkly alluring.

Thinking to use the dancer’s performance as distraction to look around, Annja walked to the back of the club and noted the hallway at the end of the bar where the performers came and left the stage.

Checking that no one was watching her, she slipped past the bartender, who was busy pouring shots for a noisy trio of college girls—one of whom attempted her own flamenco dance with a lift of her übershort skirt to the mockery of the elder drinkers around them.

The hallway was dark, lit by lamps that glowed above doors and rooms blocked by strands of hanging red beads. Out in the club, the music had changed pace, and Annja heard a woman begin the haunting strains of a sad song.

Annja was grabbed from behind by the ponytail, her head jerked back sharply.

“What the hell are you doing here, señorita?”

A blade touched the side of Annja’s rib cage, and she followed the woman’s directions down the dark hallway. She was led past a dressing room no larger than a closet and through a dented metal door outside into a dark alley. The dancer shoved Annja against the brick wall. Fine rain misted the air. The crisp coolness was welcome after the smoky club.

Spinning around, Annja put her hands on her hips. The woman’s knife wavered before her, but the distance Annja had just gained would allow her time to dodge. “Happy to see you again, too, Ava.”

“Why are you following me?”

“Can’t a girl watch a show?”

“Not you. Not this club.”

“I see.” Annja nodded toward the street. “I didn’t see my name posted on the door with a big red X through it.”

Ava spun the dagger in her fingers, obviously trying to intimidate her. She spun the blade as if she’d been doing it since she was a toddler. Most impressive, but Annja bet the woman would gape if she pulled her battle sword out of midair. Not the time for it. Yet.

“We need to talk,” Annja said. “Without giving each other bruises. Is that possible?”

The dancer gave her a disgusted once-over. “How do I know you’re not working for the police?”

“You don’t, but I’m not. I’ve developed a distinct dislike for the police since I’ve come to Cádiz.” Still, she hadn’t decided to believe Professor Crockett’s claim that the police were dirty until she’d seen actual proof. “I need answers about Diego Montera, Ava.”

“How do you know my name?”

“The internet is a marvelous place. There’s no picture of you on the club’s site, just that interesting tattoo of yours.”

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, dagger tip tapping at her chin as she considered Annja’s suggestion. “Diego was a friend of mine.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“I did not do that.”

“I didn’t say you did. He was involved in something I believe was well over his head. Please, just a few minutes of your time to ask some questions. You can keep the knife pointed at me if it makes you feel better.”

The woman tilted her chin up in a defiant gesture. “You’re either stupid or telling the truth. There’s a tapas bar down the street. You’re buying.”

She followed Ava, dressed in full flamenco regalia, down the alley. Where the woman kept the dagger hidden was beyond Annja, but she had to say the ruffled-danger look really worked for Ava Vital.

But it didn’t intimidate her in the least.

* * *

I
NSIDE
THE
RESTAURANT
lit by green lights and decorated with kitschy palm trees, the dancer ordered tap beer and fresh prawns soaked in lemon and sage. She possessed the command of a man ordering dinner and taking charge, which Annja found familiar. A wise female alone in foreign countries on digs should always present confidence.

“Who are you?” Ava asked after the waiter had dropped off the plate of appetizers and two beers. “Why should I trust you?”

The beer was warm but had a spicy kick Annja suspected was clove. She put down half the mug before speaking. “I’m Annja Creed. I’m an archaeologist, and I was working on a dig in Puerto Real before coming into Cádiz to spend a few days at the city museum inspecting some Egyptian-found coins.”

“You’re from New York,” Ava said.

“Is my accent that obvious?”

“I used to date a guy from Brooklyn.”

“That’s where I live, but not where I was born. I guess the accent does affix itself to a person.”

“Guy was an asshole.” Ava tilted back her beer and set the mug on the wobbly wooden table with a sharp thunk. Propping her elbow against the back of the chair, she lifted her posture defiantly. She had perfected the cool, don’t-mess-with-me stare. “You mentioned Diego?”

“I was the one who found him dead in his hotel room.”

“You were there? How did you find him? Did he invite you in?”

“No, I had rented a room and happened to see his door open, and, well…”

“And how did you learn he was connected to me? Is that why you chased me last night?”

“I chased you last night because you took a shot at the matador. I had no idea, at the time, that you had ties to Diego until I found the website for the Gato Negra. Interesting how life doesn’t serve up coincidence, but rather clues to the greater picture, isn’t it?”

“I just want to know why you’ve been following me.”

“I know Diego played guitar at the Gato Negra and assume you danced for him.”

“I did. As did the other dancers in the club. We all work together. Diego has excellent
compas
—he keeps the rhythm…. Kept the rhythm. But once in a while he tended to get carried away with flourishes. Distracted from my dancing, you know?”

“I can imagine. The guitarist is not the soloist. The dancer is.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“But were you two close, away from the club?”

Ava set back her shoulders and crossed her legs, kicking out a black velvet shoe.

“Look, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life,” Annja said, “but you present an interesting twist to this case.”

“The case? You said you weren’t with the police. I knew you were lying to me.”

“I’m not with the police,” Annja rushed out. “Just sit back and let me explain. I’m an archaeologist. And an occasional host of a cable television show that showcases monsters throughout history.”

Ava’s frown deepened.

“I travel a lot and on occasion join digs, as I did in Jerez. I’m not trying to solve Diego’s murder or even get the sniper who shot at the matador arrested. Not at the moment, anyway.” They exchanged serious stare time, and Annja served her most damning glare. “I’m involved because there’s an artifact I’ve had my hands on recently that showed up in Diego’s room. Stolen. More than half the artifacts you see in museums are obtained illegally.”

“I don’t go to museums.”

“Yeah, I would have guessed that about you.” Probably spent most of her time in gun shops pricing rifle scopes. “Still. Besides being concerned about the looted dig site, Diego’s death was senseless, and I do care about justice for him.”

“The Cádiz police can take care of that.”

“I spoke to the dig supervisor this morning, and there’s been another death.”

“Probably not related,” Ava said too quickly.

“What makes you say that? What do you know, Ava?”

The dancer bounced her foot furiously, but then with a heavy sigh said, “Diego got involved with the wrong people, but they are not directly related to your archaeological dig.”

“How can you know that? You must have been close to Diego to know what he was involved in off-club hours.”

She shrugged. “We worked together, shared a beer once in a while, but that was it. Though I suspect he had a crush on me. He had that puppy-dog look that always made me uncomfortable.”

“Who was he involved with? Was he picking up side jobs? Perhaps delivering artifacts to buyers? There was something missing from his hotel room. An artifact, I suspect.”

“I don’t know names or anything like that.”

“What can you tell me?”

Ava ate a few pieces of shrimp, then made a show of wiping her hands on the cloth napkin before leaning across the table. “All I know is Diego was trying to make extra money. Guitarists don’t make a lot, and he didn’t work every night at the club. My guess is he got involved with a shady group. He never mentioned anything about it to me, but that’s what I piece together from what you’ve told me.”

“Did he mention where he was going that night or who he intended to meet?”

Ava shook her head. “Like I said, I wasn’t as close to him as he would have liked me to be. He was mostly moon-eyed around me. Didn’t give me a lot of personal details of his life. If what he did was illegal, do you think he would tell me? No.”

“So what makes you so sure it’s not related to the murder at the dig I mentioned?”

She sighed. “I don’t. You make me nervous. I don’t like you,
loco Americano.
”

“I’m having trouble finding your appealing qualities, too. Especially since you’ve got a blade tucked at your back.”

“A blade I can handle well.”

“I’m sure you can. Are you a dancer first or a sniper?”

She jutted her chin disapprovingly and looked aside. Shouldn’t have expected an answer to that one.

“I suspect the police are covering up for something. Someone. Probably the killer.”

“Now you’re getting smart, Brooklyn.” Ava pushed aside her beer mug and leaned forward, tapping the table with an insistent finger. “And now you understand why I won’t be giving anyone information. Not even a curious archaeologist with bad fashion sense.”

Annja looked over her colorful skirt. So she’d bought a stupid skirt.

“Just leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone,” Ava said with the biting vitriol of a threat. “Diego’s killer will pay.”

“You say that like you know who the killer is.”

“I do.”

“Then you know who stole the artifact.”

“No. I only know what I feel in my heart, and my heart tells me Diego got in the path of one very bad man.”

“You took a shot at Manuel Bravo. You think he killed Diego? That would imply you believe he stole the missing artifact.” Annja pulled the plate of lemon-soaked shrimp closer and stabbed one with her fork.

Ava remained tight-lipped, arms crossed even tighter.

“Did Diego tell you it was Manuel he was going to meet? Ava, if you have information, I need it. The police need it.”

More silence.

So she tried a different approach. “How does a torero get involved in theft of artifacts?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”