Turned to Stone (29 page)

“Let’s hope he listens to you,” said Inspector Giner. He scratched his earlobe and gave Laura a piercing look. “Because if he keeps sticking his nose into these people’s business, there’s a very good chance that they’re going to make him disappear.”

42

Cagliari—Sardinia

Blue neon letters spelled out the word
Cassiopeia
outside the street-level business in a three-story building on Corso Vittorio Emanuele, near Piazza Yenne, at the south end of the city. The old art gallery, which had been owned by Angelo Carrera, had since been converted by his daughter into two bright sections: a café whose classic decor made tasteful concessions to modernity, and an exhibition room where work by artists of all kinds could be showcased. Their debut exhibition, featuring works by the young painter Giuliano Fiore, was scheduled to open that night. This would be Cassiopeia’s first public event, and its owners saw this as their opportunity to build the gallery’s reputation within the city’s cultural circles.

Though establishments of its kind were not common in Cagliari, Cassiopeia’s sophisticated yet friendly atmosphere had drawn an enthusiastic crowd made up largely of young people looking to enjoy a pleasant evening out listening to music, drinking coffee or cocktails, and admiring the art show.

None of the revelers knew that the business was a front for the murky activities of Angelo Carrera and his tormented daughter. Not even Dino, who at that moment was working behind the bar alongside a young waitress, was aware of the true nature of the business or of his lover’s double life.

Rosa Mazi was tense, but her beauty that night still eclipsed any work of art they could have exhibited. She wore a sleeveless, navy-blue dress that emphasized her figure, and she was attentive to every detail, working hard to make sure the guests felt relaxed in a way she herself could not afford to feel.

She had spent the day removing all evidence of the family’s criminal activities from the yacht and packing up the artwork stored in her father’s apartment just a few meters above the gallery in which she now stood. The gallery owner side of her was trying to edge out the thief. The businesswoman ached to erase the criminal. Not even a gleaming smile could hide the princess’s desire to kill the monster.

Standing beside her, holding a glass of wine, a short young man with dark skin and an unkempt black beard wavered between his hostess’s words and the visitors’ reactions to the paintings. His fashion style—red shoes, yellow capri pants, and a green shirt with a waistcoat covered in some sort of badges—went way beyond eccentric.

“I don’t think I’ve had the chance to thank you, Rosa.” He took her hand and kissed it delicately. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“I should be thanking you, Giuliano. Look how many people have come to the opening!”

“No, no, you’ve misunderstood me,” the painter insisted. With a husky sigh he added, “What I mean is, I hope I can find a way to thank you.” A wine-stained tongue emerged from between his lips and moved suggestively. Rosa took a step back.

“You can discuss that with Dino. I’m sure he can think of a way.”

“Forget Dino. I thought you were the boss.”

“I am. But I’d rather talk about art.”

The painter stood up on his toes—Rosa was a full head taller than him—and put an arm around her neck. “And what are we talking about, if not art?” he asked with a broad smile.

“The guy’s all over her.” Roberto Barrero spoke with the bottle of Ichnusa beer he’d just ordered from the bar raised in front of his lips.

“What do you expect?” Jaime said. “He’s Italian and an artist.”

“Yeah,” Paloma agreed. “It’s in the genes.”

The three stood partially hidden behind some Ionic pillars that set the bar apart from the main gallery, observing the happenings around them and trying not to attract attention. They’d ordered and paid for their drinks separately, and crossed paths only briefly before disappearing back into the crowd of exhibition goers, of whom there fortunately were many.

Dressed in jeans, a dark jacket, and black shirt, with a slightly loosened red tie hanging around his neck, Jaime had no trouble recognizing the woman who’d almost killed him in El Burgo de Osma. That “Sandra” seemed like a clumsy teenager compared to this elegant gallery owner. But he would have to keep his guard up. Beneath her refined exterior was hidden a monster he should fear—and would confront, if necessary.

Miles Davis’s “Seven Steps to Heaven” drifted from a set of speakers, making Jaime wish he could enjoy the event in a more relaxed way. But there wasn’t time to hang around. He had a criminal to unmask, an art treasure to recover, and a legend to unveil. All of that was more exciting to him than the music. The buzz it gave him was physically tangible. This startled him until he realized that he was actually feeling his cell phone vibrating in his jacket pocket. He took a sip of his margarita and made for a group of young people who were drinking and chatting in a corner, using them for cover as he took the call.

“Tell me something I want to hear,” he said.

“It’s your lucky day. A door marked ‘Private’ and a storeroom.”

“And Paloma?”

“It doesn’t say ‘Paloma.’ Just ‘Private.’ ”

Jaime took a deep breath and gathered his patience. “I mean, is Paloma with you?”

“I know, you idiot. But, no. I thought she was with you.”

“I’ll find her and we’ll catch up with you.”

Jaime began looking around the gallery. He was worried she might be wandering about in plain sight, despite being Carrera’s main target. He’d tried to persuade her to stay behind and fly back to Madrid, but she’d flatly refused. She hadn’t wanted to meet the same fate as Preston, but, more than that, she wanted to be with them in the event that they found the Medusa.

He’d tried to convince her that putting her head in the lion’s mouth might not be the best way to secure a permanent future for herself at the Prado Museum, but Paloma had made her decision, and Jaime knew from experience how stubborn she could be.

Confident that no one was paying attention to him, he left his half-finished margarita on a table and headed to the exhibition area, where he found Paloma standing in front of one of the paintings, completely absorbed by it.

“This guy must be sick in the head,” she said, barely looking at Jaime.

“Why do you say that?”

“Why? Have you
seen
these paintings?”

“Artists have their own perspectives on the world.”

“Were you and I really in the same program at school? This guy’s a grade-A wacko. What about Roberto?”

“Don’t use our names,” Jaime said, barely moving his lips.

“Sorry. What about . . . Batman?”

“He’s found something. Let’s go.”

Jaime took Paloma by the arm and they headed across the room, but just before they reached the other side someone put a hand on his shoulder.
“Eh, amico!”

Jaime clenched his fists and turned. In front of him stood the esteemed artist Giuliano Fiore. He was holding a half-empty glass, and judging from his glassy eyes and lack of balance, he was well on his way to getting smashed—no doubt to help him forget the brush-off he’d just received from Rosa Mazi.

“Excuse me,” Jaime said, trying to push past him.

“Ah,
spagnolo
! I love Spain! Wine, women, Real Madrid!” He looked at Paloma. “Eh, hello.
Bella ragazza. Spagnola? Io sono l’artista.
”

Jaime gave a nervous smile and tried to pull Paloma away. This man was the star of the night, and they shouldn’t stand near him if they didn’t want their pictures to show up in the newspapers’ art sections. Besides, if word got around that there was a Spanish couple at the gallery, Rosa might suspect it was them.

“Eh, anche io ce l’ho, una bella moglie. Ma lei non mi ama.”

This guy’s loud behavior was becoming more conspicuous than his dreadful paintings, and several guests had already turned to look at him. Jaime considered dropping him to the floor with his fist, but that would just make things worse. Suddenly the painter grabbed Jaime by the arm and began to pull him toward a corner of the room. Jaime’s stomach clenched when he saw that the artist was leading him straight to where Rosa Mazi stood, speaking to a journalist.

“Vieni con me. Si chiama Rosa. É bella, come la tua ragazza.”

His horror mounting, Jaime tried to pull away from the inebriated pain in the ass who was dragging him into the very jaws of his enemy. He dipped his head down just as Rosa lifted hers, and for a second he was afraid their eyes had met.

In that one eternal, apocalyptic instant, he gave everything up for lost.

Then a man and woman stepped into their line of sight. Jaime took the opportunity to kick Giuliano in the shin and slip off into the crowd, confident that Rosa was so focused on the journalist, she hadn’t recognized him.

He took Paloma by the hand and, not caring whether anyone was watching, slipped with her behind a set of red curtains draped over the wall across from the entrance.

“Narrow escape,” he whispered, his heart thumping in his chest.

“What happened?” said Paloma.

“Later.”

In front of them stood the metal door Roberto had discovered on his first sweep of the premises. Careful not to make any noise, Jaime opened it, and they followed the hallway down a set of stairs that led to a dark storeroom. Roberto was inside inspecting the basement room with a small LED flashlight.

“Welcome to the Batcave,” he said in greeting.

“Seriously?”

“Just be glad I didn’t bring the suit.”

“You’re such a dork,” Jaime said. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say it was the Minotaur’s labyrinth, or—”

“There you go again with your bullshit. Batman’s no less of a myth than Perseus.”

“Perseus? It was Theseus who killed the Minotaur.”

“I know that, smart ass. Perseus killed
Medusa
.”

“Can you two stop?” Paloma said. “You’re making me nervous.”

“The lady’s right,” Roberto exhaled. “What the fuck took you so long?”

“We were chatting with the artist.”

“That guy? He should be locked up. His paintings are a pile of shit.”

Paloma looked at Jaime. “See?”

“If they find us here, we’re the ones who are going to get locked up.” Jaime glanced around him at the near-empty storeroom. “What is this? You said you’d found something.”

“I did find something. A storeroom!”

“And the Medusa?”

“Fuck me, you don’t ask much, do you? Behind that door, there’s a garage with a truck in it, but I already looked inside and it’s empty. Look what I found in the corner, though: an elevator.”

“Do I look like a guy who’s hunting for elevators?”

“Maybe you should be, shithead. Your building doesn’t have one, and it’s the stairs or nothing. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Busy with the press, but I don’t know for how long. We have to be quick.”

Paloma looked around. “Quick with what? There’s nothing here.”

“I think I get it,” said Roberto. “Go up in the elevator and see where it takes us. If this storeroom’s empty, there must be a floor that isn’t. If Jaime’s right, the Medusa’s waiting for us somewhere in the building.”

“Let’s go then. Got the camera?” Jaime said.

“In my jacket pocket.”

“And the jacket?”

“Shit!” Roberto turned back to an old table and grabbed the cinnamon-colored jacket they’d bought, like Jaime’s clothes, at a discount store in the city’s shopping district. “Sorry. It got hot in here.”

The plan to crash the opening and search the Cassiopeia Gallery had occurred to Jaime while at the Pontecorvo House Museum the very moment Sabina handed him the invitation. The information he’d gleaned from their conversation had convinced him there was a good chance that the Carreras hid their stolen goods at the gallery before selling them to their clients. An art gallery was the perfect front. The stolen works could come and go in full view without anyone noticing a thing.

After being released by the Verona police, the three companions had returned to the hotel to collect their luggage and pay the bewildered owner whose unlucky establishment had lost a shower door and gained a dead body. Next, they climbed into Roberto’s van and travelled west to Livorno, where they caught the ferry to Olbia, on the northeast coast of the island of Sardinia, and then drove over two hundred kilometers south.

Jaime had come to the conclusion that they should avoid hotels along the way, not wanting to leave too obvious a trail after Laura Rodríguez’s call telling him about her meeting with the inspectors and warning that the police were looking for them.

“Don’t worry, Presidenta,” he had said. “I’m a journalist and I’ll do my job: nothing more, nothing less.”

“You’ll be careful?”

“As careful as always.”

“God help us, then.”

After he’d talked to Laura that afternoon, they’d located the gallery on a city map and gone to a department store on Via Regina Elena to buy clothes appropriate for an art gala: elegant, but not too eye-catching. They had cleaned themselves up as best they could in a restaurant bathroom, but wound up having to make a quick exit after the owner caught Roberto standing on a soaking wet floor, smothering himself in deodorant and free cologne samples.

The storeroom elevator Roberto had discovered turned out to be a freight elevator, which added weight to the theory that works of art were stored in the building.