The Lords of Time

by Eva García Sáenz

  He tapped me on the arm again in that friendly gesture. It was as fake as everything else about him.

  “We will be carrying out routine interviews with everyone connected to your father. But let me repeat what you just said, so I can be sure I’ve got it right. You’re insinuating that your father’s death was not the result of natural causes or an accident. You’re accusing your sister of being involved in his death in order to gain control of his fortune, is that right? Because if that’s your formal statement, you’ll have to sign it.”

  “Come on, Andoni. Think about it,” his brother whispered to him. “You’re upset right now, but this isn’t a casual conversation you’re having in a bar. You’re accusing Irene of something serious. Don’t do this to us. Papa doesn’t deserve it.”

  The eldest son clenched his fists and sighed in frustration.

  It took another ten minutes to get rid of them. Once they left, I sat staring at the white door.

  “A dynasty at war.”

  “Come back to the twenty-first century, Kraken. We need you here,” said Estíbaliz.

  “I’ll put it in modern terms: there’s going to be hell to pay over the inheritance.”

  “What did you think?” Estíbaliz prompted Milán.

  “Andoni Lasaga is domineering and impulsive. He’s not intelligent. He talks about his father in the past tense, which is striking. His cell phone is expensive, but it’s several years old and the screen is cracked. He wears designer shoes, but the soles are worn. He’s dressed in formal mourning clothes, but the sleeves and collar of the suit are frayed. By contrast, the younger brother is not nearly as ostentatious, but both his cell phone and his clothes are new and of good quality.”

  I nodded proudly. We had trained Milán and Peña, taught them to observe closely, and at this point, I doubted whether we had anything more to teach them.

  “In addition,” she went on, “Doctor Guevara told me she knew the family, so I asked her for more information on them. Andoni used to work for his father’s business, but he was useless and was eventually dropped from the board. He used to, and possibly still does, receive an allowance from his father, but he has an expensive lifestyle and he spends money like there’s no tomorrow, so he’s always short on funds. The remaining children are discreet; they form a united front. They all have university degrees and have been trained to take over the business, but their sister is the real brains of the family: top marks, MBA, positions abroad. She’s been working for her father for more than ten years. She started at the bottom and worked her way up. She has experience in every department. But it doesn’t look like Antón Lasaga was in any hurry to step down. I think we’re going to have to go to Armentia.”

  “To Armentia?” asked Estíbaliz.

  “That’s where our fashion king lived. He owns several properties but lived in a villa in Armentia.”

  Just then, Peña came in carrying a thick folder.

  “I was looking for you. I think I’ve identified our nun. I’ve collated all the information we got from the witnesses who were in Villa Suso yesterday: a hundred and eighty-seven people. Only six say they saw a nun. All six say she was a woman, good-looking, thirty or forty years old. Between five feet and five feet six inches tall. One witness thought she was short. The other five didn’t notice anything unusual about her height. Two state she was wearing a white habit and a white wimple; the other four say the habit was white but the wimple was dark, either black or dark brown. It was night, it’s impossible to know.”

  The principle of false memory, I thought. Witnesses never turned out to be as reliable as they believed themselves to be.

  “Then…” Estíbaliz chimed in, “we’re looking for a woman?”

  “A Dominican.”

  “A Dominican?”

  “Yes. I’ve spent the entire morning researching nearby religious orders. If we accept what most of the witnesses and Inspector López de Ayala say, the suspect is a Dominican nun, likely from the convent of Nuestra Señora del Cabello in Quejana.”

  “That’s in the Ayala region. Kraken, weren’t your ancestors the lords of Ayala?” said Estíbaliz.

  “Of course; I have a castle there, and lands as far as the eye can see….But seriously, from what I’ve read in the newspapers, that convent is empty, and the order moved to San Sebastián a few years ago. Besides, the half dozen or so nuns left at the time were in their nineties. I did not chase a ninety-year-old across those rooftops, I can assure you.”

  “Unless she experienced an extremely long youth or was exceptionally healthy,” my colleague retorted. “In any case, if the convent closed years ago, maybe the habit has nothing to do with the Dominicans. White habit, black wimple. Someone who wants to disguise themselves as a nun could easily choose that combination. But let’s not get carried away just yet. We still have to interview everybody who works at the medieval market to find out if anyone there was dressed like a nun. Peña, I need you to coordinate that with a couple of uniforms.”

  “Milán, we need you to get online and start looking at the black market,” I said.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Someone who bought Spanish fly recently. Search the IP address and see if you can trace where it came from. If it is cantharidin, it’s a banned substance. Let’s see what you can find.”

  “If there’s anything, I’ll find it,” she said.

  Estí smiled. This was a tic, a kind of mantra that Milán had. Our colleague always repeated that phrase whenever we asked her to conduct a difficult search in the backwaters of the web. And she usually succeeded: I hadn’t needed to consult my outside computer experts, MatuSalem and Golden Girl, for three years. I preferred doing it this way; it isn’t a good idea to ask the devil for too many favors. He just might drag you into the flames.

  When we entered the gates to the huge private property in Armentia, in the south of Vitoria, I suppressed a whistle. The villa was imposing, but so was the garden. A woman around thirty-five, with short hair and long bangs hanging over one eye, approached us. She was carrying a rake and wearing gardening gloves. She looked extremely sad. Her handshake was as firm as her elder brother’s.

  “I imagine you must be Irene. Our condolences.”

  To Estíbaliz’s astonishment, I went up to Irene and kissed her on both cheeks. I noticed she was wearing a gray scarf and had on a perfume that seemed familiar.

  “Inspector López de Ayala, and my colleague is Inspector Ruiz de Gauna,” I said.

  “Thank you, Officers. I came to the villa this afternoon: He likes to rake the lawn, he says it relaxes him. With the gusts of wind we had a while ago, I thought the garden would be covered in leaves, and…I had an almost physical sensation. When I saw what it was like, only a few hours after his passing…I just know that my father would want someone to tidy up,” she said in a low voice. “You must know—how long does it take until you start referring to someone you lost and loved so much in the past tense?”

  Five days on average, I thought. But I didn’t say it—this wasn’t a day for statistics.

  “It depends on the person, I’m afraid,” I replied quietly.

  “My mother six months ago, and now my father. It makes your head spin when you learn that you’re an orphan, even though I think somehow he prepared me for it. Maybe I shouldn’t mention that. Everything seems to come pouring out, and I’m trying to stay strong with you two here. I suppose I’m a walking cliché: an only daughter spoiled by her father.”

  “You don’t seem like a spoiled daughter,” I said. “I heard you could have worked in your father’s business from the beginning, but that you didn’t want to.”

  “I wanted to gain experience so I’d be able to help as much as possible. I didn’t consider a job my birthright, simply because I was the boss’s daughter. I’ve only just realized that now I’ll no longer be that. I won’t have
my office next to his.”

  “Tell me about your brothers,” Estíbaliz interrupted.

  “We’re a close-knit family. We have our ups and downs, but you won’t find rifts between us.”

  “What if there were rifts?” my colleague probed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A couple of hours ago, two of your brothers showed up at our headquarters. Andoni accused you of being manipulative and asked us to investigate you in connection with the deaths of your parents.”

  Irene stopped raking the leaves. Despite her apparent strength, she was so upset that she had to lean on the rake’s handle.

  “I must say, I didn’t expect that,” she said. “It’s a little disheartening, especially on a day like today. I don’t want you to think I’m a saint or a fool, because I’m neither, but I’m not going to stir things up. I won’t say anything against my brothers, although it hurts—it hurts a lot—that they could say that about me. But if you’re here, you must not believe my father died of natural causes. If somebody did something to him and you think it could be one of his children, I think you’re mistaken.”

  “Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt your father—an associate, or ex-associate? Can you think of any motive they may have had?”

  “I don’t think you realize how large my father’s fortune is. In our family, discretion is considered a question of survival. In the dark days of ETA violence, nobody in the Basque Country could afford to flaunt their wealth. Anyway, do come in.”

  Irene invited us inside. The living room was dominated by a bookshelf that stood twenty feet high. In the right-hand corner, an armchair that probably cost my annual salary plus expenses stood waiting for an owner who would never return. How many hours had Antón Lasaga spent there?

  “What kind of books does he like?”

  “He adores the Middle Ages. Especially Álavan medieval history.”

  “Do you know if he read the novel The Lords of Time?”

  “He was always reading something. He forced himself to read at least a hundred pages every night, no matter how much work he had. It was his own time, and this was his sacred space. He concentrated so hard that he never heard anything going on around him, not even five children jumping on his knees. I suppose he must have read that novel, like everybody else. But the truth is I never talked to him about it specifically.”

  “Well, obviously your father loved books. Did he write any himself?”

  Irene looked puzzled.

  “Not that I know of. He is…he was very private in his ways. He wrote ideas on sheets of paper or in notebooks, but I always thought that they had to do with his business. Is that important?”

  “Forget my question; I just got carried away when I saw this huge library,” I said with a smile.

  I went over to the only shelf that didn’t contain books. On it were framed family photographs: his five children at different stages in their lives, his black-and-white wedding photograph, sepia photos, the eighties in full color with Antón sporting a mustache, and the nineties when he had a more sober look. None of them highlighted his daughter, which was interesting, since it contradicted the eldest son’s theory. If she was indeed her father’s favorite, he was careful not to show it.

  Irene didn’t seem to mind our thinly disguised inspection of family mementos. She seemed lost in her own recollections. When she stood behind me and looked at the photos, I could almost hear her sighing.

  That smell….

  “Could you send me a list of fifteen of your father’s closest friends?” I asked, stepping back into the role of inspector.

  “Fifteen?” she asked with surprise. “Yes, of course. Let me think about it.”

  I gave her a card with my contact information.

  “And finally,” said Estíbaliz, “there are some questions we have to ask. Don’t take this the wrong way, it’s our job. Where were you yesterday between ten o’clock in the morning and half past seven in the evening? Did you have breakfast, lunch, or tea with your father?”

  “I was in my office and had several videoconferences. I’ll ask my secretary to send you my schedule. Everyone I met can corroborate where I was during those hours. I didn’t see my father yesterday. It was a workday, and we were both very busy.”

  “What happened to your mother?” asked Estíbaliz, seemingly out of the blue. This was something she did occasionally, to catch her interviewee off guard.

  I simply watched.

  More sadness. True sadness.

  “A traffic accident. Carlos was driving.”

  “Carlos?” I asked.

  “Our driver. He’s always been with us—he was like an uncle. He worked for the family for decades. They both died after several days in the ICU. It was a violent crash.”

  I looked around me. This was the most luxurious house I’d ever seen in Vitoria.

  “Your father was diagnosed with Marfan syndrome, wasn’t he?”

  “He was. It wasn’t public knowledge, but we talked about it within the family, everybody was aware of his illness. His cardiologist has it…had it…under control. At his age there can sometimes be problems with the aorta. The syndrome makes the walls thinner.”

  “Thank you so much, Irene. We won’t bother you anymore. Do send us that list of friends and have your secretary send us a copy of yesterday’s schedule. We’re sorry to have met you under such sad circumstances.”

  “It’s no trouble. I’ll show you out.”

  Estíbaliz and I found a secluded bench on our way back to the car and sat for a while. It took some time to gather our thoughts.

  “Do you think it was her? Do you think she was in a hurry to inherit?” Estí prompted me.

  “No, her grief is genuine. She was wearing a scarf that belonged to her father. She must have found it in his bedroom. It was soaked in that expensive cologne we smelled yesterday when we bent down to check his pupils. The first thing she did today was a pointless but sentimental task: clearing the leaves out of his garden. No one is going to see it, and more leaves will fall tomorrow, but she did it for him.”

  “Or she could be a born manipulator, as her eldest brother claims.”

  “That’s hard to tell after one interview, but she might have manipulated us. Even so, it’s not her, or any of her brothers. And Antón Lasaga didn’t take the Spanish fly voluntarily, either. He loved his wife, even though the children aren’t his. Carlos, the driver, was their father.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Where would you like me to begin?”

  “With why they’re not his children? That would be a good start.”

  “Five children, all of whom have a father with Marfan syndrome. Did you get a good look at the photos? All five are of normal height; their photos show no evidence of the syndrome. Each child had a fifty percent chance of inheriting the illness. None of them did. Statistically, that’s almost impossible.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “As Grandfather would say, he raised someone else’s litter.”

  “And yet you’re sure none of them gave their father Spanish fly.”

  “None of them. They all knew he had a weak heart, and Spanish fly is a vasodilator. Whoever poisoned Lasaga gave him a two-gram dose, a lethal amount for a healthy person. That reveals the murderer’s intent—and it’s our best clue. Any of the children, Irene included, would have wanted us to believe that their father took Spanish fly as a stimulant. With Antón’s condition, even a normal dose would have killed him. But the killer didn’t have that information, which rules Lasaga himself out as well. If he took medication for his heart problems, why run the risk of using an aphrodisiac? And why give himself a lethal dose? I don’t believe it was a suicide, either. Symptoms of Spanish fly poisoning are dirty, painful, and uncomfortable, and he didn’t stay at home that day. He was s
een in public. A private man wouldn’t have been walking around after poisoning himself, and he wouldn’t expose his family to such a dreadful scandal. The murderer must have been in his orbit. So the way I see it, there are two options: either the killer was an acquaintance, or he chose his victim at random. When I saw Lasaga’s house, I thought of one of the mortal sins: greed. We want what’s in front of our faces. But now I’m not so sure, and it scares me, Estí. The idea that he may have been a random victim scares me a lot.”

  “Because if that’s the case, we won’t be able to find a link between the murderer and the victim. There won’t be one.” She finished my train of thought, as if she could read my mind.

  After so many years of working together, we had developed a sort of hive brain.

  * * *

  —

  Back home that evening, I sat in an armchair looking out over the Plaza de la Virgen Blanca, the heart of the city. Deba had fallen asleep on my lap, and I had put her to bed. Alba lounged on the sofa while I read the copy of The Lords of Time that she had given me.

  We had exchanged copies of the novel with inscriptions.

  It was something we had started doing as a couple who enjoyed reading. If we both liked a novel, we gave a copy to each other, and we competed to see who could write the most memorable, most passionate inscription…whatever occurred to us at the time.

  On the first blank page of The Lords of Time she had copied a poem by Maya Angelou that her mother used to recite on stage: You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. In the copy I bought for her, I’d written a phrase by Joan Margarit: A wound is also somewhere to live.

  “You’re very pensive, Unai. I don’t know whether I find it sexy or worrying.”

  “Do you mind if I think out loud? Tonight, not even you will be able to disperse the storm clouds.”

  “Go on then. What are you so worried about?”

  “Here are a few questions from Profiling for Beginners: Why did someone do it like that? Why here, in this city? Why now? Why Spanish fly? Why in Villa Suso? Why during the launch for a novel that has three things in common with his death: the place, the trade, and the MO?”