Turned to Stone (3 page)

“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 someone 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?

The darkness seemed blackest when he was alone with his pillow at night. He spent his days working at the magazine and busied himself searching for mysteries and hidden treasures. But when he finished an article or returned home from an expedition, he felt as if the earth was swallowing him up. His mother, the few times she’d seen him recently, had noticed the change. She had attributed it to a single cause, asking: “Why don’t you find yourself a nice girlfriend?” Jaime had burst out laughing. He didn’t think that was a good solution. At best, he’d simply infect someone else with his pessimism. Instead, he’d sold his old Renault 21 and was learning to shoot a gun. A positive way to deal with what he was feeling? Who could say?

And now there was this business with the Medusa . . .

God knew Jaime had tried to forget about the damn statue and enjoy his weekend, but good intentions weren’t enough. From the moment he’d arrived back at his guesthouse, he had been lying on the bed, looking at the drawing of the sculpture and thinking about the university study. He hadn’t exactly lied to Amatriaín when he said he’d never written an essay on Italian baroque sculpture, but that didn’t mean that no such study existed. A person who Jaime once had been very close to kept popping into his mind and then disappearing again after delivering a look of disdain and a single message:

Moron.

That one word, mysteriously conjured from the past, tormented him now just as it had after arriving by text message more than a decade earlier.

He grabbed his gin and tonic, leaned back against the bar, and looked around the room. On the dance floor in the back, just visible through dense smoke tinted with green light, a group of girls dressed in skimpy Friday-night attire danced to Shakira, Britney Spears, and El Canto del Loco. Jaime wondered whether they were just there to dance or they had something else in mind. It made no difference to him either way. He’d never been the type to approach a woman in a bar.

Or almost never: the one time he’d tried, his friend Roberto had been forced to step in to keep him from making a fool of himself. Since then, Jaime had always waited for women to take the initiative—something that, men know, almost never happens.

As he was mulling this over he felt a presence next to him at the bar. He turned to find himself next to one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

She was tall, almost as tall as Jaime, with wavy black hair, bronzed skin, and bright, almond-shaped eyes accentuated by violet eye shadow that gave her an exotic look. Her sleeveless black dress was cut low enough to drive the bartender’s cleavage from his memory, and her legs were long and strong-looking. If she had looked any more appetizing, thought Jaime, she’d have to be served up on a toothpick.

“Hello!” she said with a disarming smile. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Jaime racked his brain, but it was pointless. If he’d crossed paths with this woman before, her image would have been etched into his memory. He could have said that, but he replied, “Nah. You’re mistaking me for my womanizing brother. I’m the intellectual one.”

The girl laughed, and Jaime, seeing the effect humor had on her, relaxed and readied his weapons of seduction: a series of silly phrases and amusing stories that usually worked on girls who were easily entertained. “That was a lie,” he corrected. “Actually, I have a sister, but she doesn’t look anything like me.”

“Too bad for her.”

“That’s what I always say.”

Jaime tensed when the stunning brunette began to flirt with her eyes. What was this? It wasn’t unusual for women to notice him. He was tall and slim—handsome even, his mother would say—but this was too easy. He wondered if the girl was Vicente Amatriaín in disguise, and he was tempted to stick his hand under her dress to find out. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sandra.”

“Nice. I think you’re the first Sandra I’ve met.”

“Shame. They say good things come in threes.”

“Maybe they don’t in my life.”

Sandra laughed again. “And you are . . . No, wait. Let me guess. Jorge.”

“Almost: Jaime.”

“Hey, I was only . . .” She counted with her fingers and laughed again, “three letters off. But I could still swear I’ve seen you before.”

“You’re sure?”

“When you say it that way, I guess not.”

There are few things more stupid than a conversation between two strangers in a bar,
Jaime thought. Which was precisely why he decided to relax and play the game. He put on his most carefree expression and bought the woman a drink. After all, that was what she was looking for.

After two martinis and a couple more gin and tonics, Jaime gleaned that Sandra was of Milanese origin, which explained her musical accent, and that for several years she had been living in Soria. She worked as an administrative assistant for an insurance company and had travelled to El Burgo de Osma for the weekend to get away from work pressures. She also mentioned a lawyer she’d been living with for two years, who had left Sandra for a colleague who was five years younger than her. Since then, Sandra said, she had stopped taking men seriously and now only used them for sex. This last part, said in such a self-assured, natural way, came as a pleasant surprise to Jaime, who in a short span of time had come to know all about the private life of this stunning brunette. She hadn’t even bothered to ask where he was from.

She drained the contents of her glass through lips painted violet to match her eyelids, then slowly leaned toward Jaime’s ear and whispered something.

“What did you say?” he asked over the crowd noise and music. “Speak louder!”

Sandra’s sudden laugh was a bit too enthusiastic. Clearly the martinis had gone to her head.

“I said, shall we leave? It’s so hot in here!”

“If you like. I’m easy prey today.”

She laughed again, and as she stepped back, bumped into a girl who was arguing with her boyfriend. Jaime recognized them as the angry couple from the restaurant, but he had no chance to acknowledge them, because Sandra had grabbed him by his belt and was dragging him, stumbling, toward the door.

The night was cool, and Sandra covered herself in the red overcoat she had reclaimed from a peg on the bar. As they walked together, Jaime listened to the rhythmic clacking of her heels and tried to guess her age. She might have been four or five years older than him, but her beauty and spirit made her age irrelevant. When they’d reached Casa Genaro, he opened the guesthouse door slowly to avoid any creaking sounds. “Don’t make any noise. The landlady might not like me bringing a drunk woman back to my room at this time of night.”

Sandra could not contain herself and let out a burst of laughter just as Jaime put one hand over her mouth. He scooped her up, one hand behind her knees, and carried her up the stairs. She smelled good, like berries. At the door to his room, he stopped and put her down. “It appears that you like me,” she said, giggling at the bulge below his belt.

“Don’t get too excited,” he replied, reaching into his pocket and taking out a big key that was chained to a domino. “But my pants
are
starting to feel tight.”

Sandra ran her tongue over her lips. “Maybe you should take them off.”

“Shh, be good for a minute. Once we’re on the other side of this door, you can be as bad as you like.”

Under the alcohol’s influence, Jaime wasn’t even surprised by his good luck. He hadn’t expected to go to bed with anything but his pillow and his own drunken self, so the unforeseen encounter was boosting both his self-esteem and his virility. However, the thrill was short-lived. He hadn’t yet managed to get the key in the lock when an alarm bell rang in his mind. Something was not right.

He looked at Sandra. Her expression had turned cold, and the “sweet girl” mask was gone, leaving a face as hard as granite. Jaime still didn’t understand what was happening until he felt a metal object pressing into his side over his leather jacket. Slowly, he dropped the key into his pocket then held up his hands.

“Very good, Einstein,” she said in a deep voice Jaime hadn’t heard before. “Now walk in front of me and down the stairs. Slowly and quietly.”