The Matador's Crown (21 page)

24

Annja received a police escort to the stadium in Jerez, arriving after the third bull had been dragged from the ring by a team of mules. César Soto accompanied her in, and while she wasn’t under arrest, she got the feeling he didn’t want her to stray too far from his side. Fair enough.

She spied Garin Braden in his summer linen suit. The seat next to him was empty. He puffed away at a cigar, a bottle of beer in his other hand.

“I’m going to talk to a friend. Just over there,” she said to Soto.

“Fine. I’ll take a look around.”

They both had their eye out for Ava Vital.

Shuffling by those patrons seated on cushions—
fanning themselves against the oppressive heat, even at six in the evening—she arrived at the empty seat. “Mind if I sit?”

Garin looked up at her, shook his head in disbelief, then splayed a hand toward the seat. She sat and eyed the matadors, who were currently caping the fourth bull, while El Bravo watched from the
barrera
.

“Thought you’d be in New York City by now,” Garin commented around the stub of his cigar. “Or did you take my threat as a joke?”

“No. Didn’t take it as a threat, either. I had some loose ends to tie up.”

“Not at this corrida, you don’t.”

“No, not here. Back at the city museum. I found the man responsible for looting Crockett’s dig and his associate, who may be connected with the warehouse by the sea. And now I wanted to take in the matador’s last fight.”

“It’s not his last—” Garin swiveled to stare at her. “What do you have planned?”

“Nothing. Not yet. I’m here to watch the fight. I promise. The professor at the museum was arrested for trafficking in stolen antiquities.”

Garin didn’t even smirk. She had expected a triumphant “see, I told you so” smile.

“Still doesn’t explain Diego Montera’s death,” she continued.

“Don’t want to hear it, Annja. Just shut up and watch or find another seat.”

She could abide by those terms. With Officer Soto’s position marked to her left, Annja observed as the fourth and fifth bulls charged out into the ring and El Bravo dispatched both within the fifteen-minute time limit. One bull remained. If he were successful, it would be the matador’s sixth kill of the day and the one hundredth of the season.

Garin lit up another cigar. Twilight overtook the day and a cool breeze sifted down among the
contrabarrera
where they sat. “You talk to Roux?” he asked.

“Is there a reason I should?”

“Just trying to make conversation.”

Which meant he didn’t want to talk about anything she’d learned here in Cádiz. Annja would put this visit down as something she should never again bring up with Garin. Soto had mentioned an arrest of a dealer who worked along the shore. She could guess that perhaps Garin had done his
shopping
there. It was the only reason he would be offended by her involvement in solving the antiquities theft.

Fair enough. They both had things they didn’t wish to discuss with the other, and best keep it that way.

The final bull was released and it charged into the ring with explosive aggression, kicking out its back hooves and stirring up the dust. After that display it settled immediately and looked around, eyeing, it seemed, everyone in the first row behind the
barrera
and then the two matadors who approached it with the bright magenta-and-yellow capes.

Out of the ring, a flash of red caught Annja’s eye. Standing below and to her left, a woman with black hair pulled tightly back in a bun with two curls on her forehead wandered along the exit aisle. Ava Vital, in full flamenco dress. The dancer winked at her, then walked along the front row. She greeted an older man in a black fedora with a kiss to either of his cheeks and sat next to him.

Annja exchanged glances with César Soto. He nodded once and tugged down his cowboy hat, maintaining his post five rows behind Ava on the aisle. Had Ava seen him? Couldn’t have. If they were seeing each other in any way beyond mere friendship, Annja wondered what was going through César’s mind right now. Perhaps it had been an assumption on her part to put the twosome together. They obviously shared secrets, though, so she intended to keep an eye on both of them.

“You know the dancer?” Garin asked.

“Yes. Shared a beer and a sword fight with her. She’s the one who wants El Bravo dead.”

“The sniper?” He observed her through the wispy cigar smoke. “Wonder if that’s the one Manuel had such a fiery relationship with.”

“She is. I found an article about them online. But they’re no longer dating?”

“No, he got rid of her months ago. Very domineering, as I understand, and not faithful. She wants him dead? Not a surprise, considering their tempestuous relationship. Do you think she’s carrying?”

“Who can know what she’s got hidden in those ruffles? I don’t know the man she’s sitting next to. Do you?”

“Can’t get a look at his face, but he doesn’t seem familiar.”

“I can’t imagine she’d risk taking a shot at El Bravo before a stadium full of people.” And especially with her miserable aim. “I should move closer.”

Garin gripped her arm, staying her. “Bravo has stepped out before the bull. She won’t make a move now. Too risky with all these witnesses.”

“She could put a bullet through his brain and be gone before anyone can identify the direction of the shooter.”

“Annja.” He pressed a warning palm on her thigh.

She nodded. “Fine, but I won’t be able to concentrate on the fight.”

“You watch whatever draws your attention.” He turned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Only half-confident César Soto would get to Ava before she could make a move—because if the two were involved, and he had a bone to pick against El Bravo, what would stop him from allowing Ava to make the shot?—Annja had to force her attention to the ring.

El Bravo, wearing a sky-blue suit of lights, stirred the audience to their feet with rousing cheers as he performed an exquisite veronica that swept the bull along his body. The matador, strong and straight, arced his arm over the bull’s back, guiding it almost, yet making it appear to be as soft as a caress. It was a beautiful moment, and Annja found herself with the crowd standing and cheering.

Bravo walked skillfully before the bull, assessing its next move. It was still frisky, not having been stabbed by the picador. In fact, when the mounted picador appeared at the gate, the matador waved him off. The crowd gasped in unison. Highly unusual not to pic the bull. Instead, El Bravo gestured toward his second in command. Cristo stepped out from the
barrera
and handed Bravo two barbed darts frilled with red paper.

The crowd leaned in as the matador raised the spikes above his head, one in each hand, defying the bull to rush him while his body was at its most vulnerable. The bull did. El Bravo lunged, seeming to rise from the ground without effort, and landed the banderillas dead center of the massive hump behind the bull’s neck. Cheers erupted as the bull made a circle around the matador, testing the pain it had been delivered, but determined to charge the cape again.

This bull was still strong, not having been properly weakened by the lance.

“Is this common?” Annja asked Garin.

“Never seen it done before. He’s putting on a show. But it’s dangerous.”

Another set of banderillas was placed with equal bravery, and Annja heard Garin remark at Bravo’s masterful skill.

Her attention dropped to the first row where Ava watched, the dancer’s back straight and chin level. She didn’t react with the crowd, maintaining a stoic posture. Where did she keep her weapon?

Annja glanced to where César stood—he wasn’t there.

Never had she felt so at odds. Clearly, she had no authority. She must trust Soto had everything under control.

El Bravo caped the bull using grand sweeping veronicas that elicited enthusiastic olés from the audience. As he’d explained to Annja when he’d been teaching her, he slowly revealed his body to the bull. First his feet, then his knees, then with a big gesture that splayed the cape in a circle about his body, all of him. Toying with his opponent, but also tiring the animal that continued to charge the cape. Blood soaked the bull’s back where the darts clung. The
morillo
had swollen, and she sensed in this heat, the animal was suffering.

When Bravo returned to the barrier to claim the smaller muleta cape and
estoque,
the crowd was startlingly still. The bull stood, both front hooves planted firmly in the sand, shoulders squared. The matador had placed him correctly for the faena, which would end in the kill.

Manuel turned to the crowd, lifting his
montera
hat high to salute them. He turned the entire circle, acknowledging all. Stillness hung in the air like a humid cloud. El Bravo twisted around, and when he stopped, Annja felt as if he looked directly at her.

He
was
looking directly at her.

She glanced at Garin. He tilted his head, as if to say, yes, he is.

The matador bowed grandly toward Annja, tucking his hat against his stomach, and then kissed his fingers and blew the acknowledgment toward her.

“Hell,” Garin muttered. “He’s dedicated the kill to you.”

“That is so wrong. I don’t want—”

“Quiet, Annja.”

She decided an acknowledging nod was necessary. The crowd erupted in applause at sight of her acceptance. She certainly hoped none of them thought she was Bravo’s girlfriend. A glance toward where Ava sat found her posture stiff. She wasn’t applauding.

What was El Bravo up to?

The bull hadn’t moved. Its tongue lolling, it had been exhausted from the fight. Yet, it held its head up, which indicated there may be fight left in it.

Bravo lifted the muleta cape and stepped forward, approaching the bull. He bowed to the animal. Placing the cape between his knees to hold it, he then took the
estoque
and, gripping the ponytail he’d secured at the back of his head, neatly sliced it off.

Garin hissed and said, “No.”

Before she could figure out what that meant, Annja found herself crying out with the rest of the crowd.

Cape again in hand, the matador stepped forward, arm raised with the
estoque
aimed downward—yet he didn’t leap to deliver the coup de grâce.

The bull lifted its head.

A woman behind Annja screamed. Others cried out and men groaned.

The bull charged. A horn gored the matador’s chest, right through the heart. Manuel’s sword hand swung backward. The blade dropped to the ground. The horn emerged through his back. El Bravo’s body was lifted as if it was a rag doll and joggled on the bull’s horn, which turned bloody as the matador’s life spilled from the wound.

The bull hadn’t expected such a heavy load, and falling to its knees, its exhausted head dropped. The horn was still impaled in Bravo’s chest.

The matador didn’t struggle because he was dead.

The other matadors rushed to assist their maestro. One picced the bull on the back with the picador’s lance, and another lunged to place the coup de grâce at the base of the bull’s brain, forgoing the cut to sever the aorta.

The bull dropped to its side. Pulled from the horn, the matador tumbled to the bloodied ground. In one great, heartbroken howl, the crowd cried out in shock.

Unsure what had just occurred—why had Manuel seemingly walked right into the horn?—Annja had the sense to look for Ava. The dancer was no longer seated.

César Soto stood at the end of the row where Ava had been, his attention on the exit and not the ring. He was watching the woman in the red flamenco dress leave.

Ava Vital paused before she was out of Annja’s sight and turned to look directly at her. She winked, then nodded once and left the stadium.

Soto exchanged glances with her. He shrugged and stepped aside as some from the patrons rushed up to the barrier wall to get a closer look at the tragedy. It was out of his hands. He’d come to stop a potential assassin, not witness a suicide.

Garin stood, as did Annja. The five-hundred-year-old warrior buttoned his linen suit coat and cocked his head to the side as if to stretch out a kink. He stepped around her and, without a word, walked out of the stadium.

She didn’t go after him. His hero had just committed suicide. And Annja knew the guilt that had haunted El Bravo glittered back at his villa over the sanctuary altar. Two Visigothic crowns, bought for the price of human lives.

25

The following morning Garin Braden didn’t offer Annja a ride to the airport. She did see him drive by the hostel in the rental Jeep, but if he had noticed her walking toward the bus station, he gave no clue.

She lugged the backpack over a shoulder and pulled out her cell phone to verify she had received an electronic boarding pass. The night she’d been escorted to the airport, she had exchanged her ticket to fly out to London this afternoon. She had about two hours to make Jerez de la Frontera.

A patrol car stopped beside her, and César Soto nodded through the open window. “Señorita Creed. Need a ride?”

“Yes, to the airport.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Hop in.”

She tossed her backpack in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat. Soto headed toward La Pepa Bridge.

“How’s James Harlow?” she asked.

Soto signaled, checked his rearview mirror and made a turn. “He posted bail.”

“What? But I thought…”

“We were unable to make any charges stick. It’s impossible to determine if Señor Harlow had a hand in accepting stolen goods. And we don’t have the man-hours to go through the records at the museum.”

“I can’t believe that. You had enough man-hours to track the guy and arrest him in the first place. I thought Maria Alonzo—”

“We managed to connect her weapon to the bullet in Simon Klosky’s back. But even though she’s pinned Harlow as a partner in crime, there’s no evidence. Only hearsay.”

“But Harlow was behind the robbery at Jonathan Crockett’s dig site. He said as much to me. You were outside the door when he confessed.”

“Impossible to prove, and he has an alibi. Namely, you.” He waited for her to respond, but Annja knew that was the truth.

“And Ava Vital?”

“The only crime she may have committed was wanting the matador dead.”

“Attempted murder. Don’t forget that.”

“Right. But she didn’t get her man. And wanting someone dead is very different than actually making them dead.”

“If I were you, I’d tread carefully around that woman.”

“I’ll take that suggestion to heart. The case is closed, Señorita Creed. The torero who received stolen goods is dead.”

“At least one votive crown in his sanctuary was stolen from the Cluny museum about six months ago. I’m sure they’ll appreciate its return.”

“I’ll make a note of that. After it’s been run through evidence, I’m sure it’ll find its way home. We’ve already contacted that place in Oxfordshire to have the bronze bull scanned. I’ve given them your number as an additional contact.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry about Manuel’s death. You two were once friends.”

“Never friends. Our families had a blood debt that had gone on too long. I should have ended it years ago.”

“He was supporting you, but you didn’t need the money.”

“You’d be surprised at the medical bills I still owe for that accident over a decade ago on the Bravo ranch. Blood debts run deep, señorita. It isn’t something you can understand.”

“Probably not.”

“El Bravo will be lauded as a hero tomorrow and buried the next day. The bull that took his life has been donated to St. Mary’s children’s home in the old city as Manuel would have wished. He will be missed. That’s all I wish to say about it.”

She nodded. “Thanks for telling me that. I can now leave the country knowing the police have a handle on at least one illegal antiquities operation. Or do they? If you can’t pin it on Harlow, and I suspect Maria Alonzo was only a liaison, do you have the suspect?”

“The warehouse that burned by the ocean is connected to one other shop in town. I’ve already got men on it. We do what we can, Señorita Creed. Stolen artifacts aren’t high on the list when we’ve got to protect our citizens first and foremost.”

She wouldn’t mention that they’d neglected to protect Diego and Simon Klosky.

Twenty minutes later, Soto drove her up to the curb at the Jerez airport.

“Thanks,” she said and got out to retrieve her backpack. She slapped the open passenger door and waved him off.

“I think I’ll stick around to watch you fly out,” Soto called.

She deserved that one.

* * *

B
ROOKLYN
WAS
HER
HOME
, and Annja was glad to be back. She jogged down the running path in Prospect Park and noted a crew of three men trimming an oak tree set back about fifty yards. Chain saw in hand, one man swung from a branch high up in the tree using only a rope. He had no safety harness and wasn’t secured with belts.

She waved as she ran by, and one of the men whistled at her.

Her cell phone rang. She paused, still walking in a circle to keep her blood rushing, and answered.

A lab technician from Diamond Light Source, the synchrotron facility at the Harwell Science and Innovation Campus in Oxfordshire, let her know the results on the scan of the bull statue. “I can send you a pdf of the scan if you like.”

“Yes, I’d like that.” She gave him her email address. “What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

“Seriously? There’s nothing inside the bronze bull?” She stopped, her free hand on her hip. A pair of joggers ran around her, and she stepped onto the grass beneath the cool shade of a weeping willow.

“I suspect you’ve been talking to Rockford LePlante,” the technician said.

That he assumed the correct answer so easily made Annja feel the dupe. Kicking herself for not taking the time to check LePlante’s credentials, she asked, “Not a reliable source?”

“Far from it. The man collects conspiracies. Every year it seems he’s off on a new adventure to find another legendary village, jewel or lost civilization. The ruby in the bull’s belly was an urban legend, Miss Creed. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Not as sorry as I am to have been duped. But thank you for your time and expense. I appreciate the information.”

“Thank you. We’ve been able to pass this little bull statue, as worthless as it may be, along to the British Museum, where they will decide if provenance proves it belongs to France. It can be traced to the Anne of Austria dowry, though, so chin up, eh?”

“Thanks again. Goodbye.”

She opened the file of the scan, and even though the cell phone screen was small, it was very clear there was nothing inside the bull’s belly.

“And two men, possibly more, died because of it.” She shook her head and tucked her phone away and started up a fast walk. She didn’t feel energetic enough for the jog now.

She couldn’t win them all.

* * * * *