The body in the bed wasn’t Oihana. It was Alba’s mother, Nieves.
A pale lady, at peace with death. She died that way.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She had a massive stroke. There was nothing they could do.” Alba pronounced the words slowly. She was repeating them, practicing, so she didn’t forget. They would become her shield in a performance worthy of her mother’s talents.
“Come here, I’m…I’m s-s-sorry. S-s-sorry.” Something in my brain was short-circuiting. My Broca’s aphasia was reappearing, like a nightmarish flashback.
I held Alba, moved by her indomitable strength. We had no need for words. We were two orphans on the front lines now, as Grandfather used to say. We were truly alone. Motherless and fatherless—alone.
I held her for a long time, but Alba was already far away.
Very far away.
What felt like lifetimes later—though my cell phone said it was only twenty minutes—Alba surfaced again. I listened to her frantic thoughts with the patience spouses have for each other.
“Do you know what my last conversation with my mother was about? She told me this hospital was founded by María Sarmiento, the wife of Fernán Pérez de Ayala. It was originally called Hospital de la Virgen del Cabello. The couple inherited a protective instinct for the city. Like you. You can’t help it. If there’s a murder in Vitoria, you won’t be able to sit around twiddling your thumbs at the police station in Laguardia. It would drive you crazy. Do I have the right to ask you to renounce your identity? I don’t want you to be frustrated with your life. I believe my mother found what made her happy in life. When I was little, she used to tell me, ‘Be who only you can be. Do what only you can do.’ No one else can do what Kraken does; no one else could have solved the double crime of the dolmen after twenty years—or the Water Rituals case. It’s who you are; it’s what you do best.”
“Are you leaving me?” I whispered.
“No, but I can’t force you to back my decision.”
“I will back you all the way, Alba. How could I not? We’re a couple. You aren’t alone in this. Will you take Deba with you?”
She nodded. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll pick her up from the nursery and take her with me. I have a few days’ bereavement leave. I’m putting Estíbaliz in charge of the investigation. You have your work cut out for you here: three murders, little evidence, and no obvious motive.”
“I know.”
“Will you come to see us every day?”
“It’s only a fifty-minute drive. A fifty-minute drive won’t keep us apart.”
17
THE NEW CATHEDRAL
UNAI
October 2019
Midday. Nieves’s funeral had just finished. I won’t give any details. I’ll keep Alba’s suffering to myself. Estíbaliz was so upset, I had to stop her from kicking a derelict grave. Luckily, Alba didn’t see. Alba read Maya Angelou’s famous poem, “Still I Rise.” Then she and Deba left for Laguardia. I headed to Vitoria with a specific destination in mind. I made my way to the steps of the New Cathedral, looking for a young skateboarder.
I counted nine of them, a big gang. Caps, hoods, piercings.
No sign of MatuSalem.
Matu was my unofficial IT consultant. He was my go-to person, only—and I mean only—when it was absolutely necessary. I would use him only if Milán ran up against a brick wall.
MatuSalem was prickly, morose, and foul-mouthed, and I had the greatest respect for him—not only because he was a young genius but also because his worldview was more sensible than that of most adults I knew. He’d managed to turn his life around after a foray into credit-card fraud landed him in jail at eighteen. There, Tasio Ortiz de Zárate, who had been convicted twenty years earlier for the double crime of the dolmen, had taken him under his wing. He made sure that no one touched the boy while he was in prison. MatuSalem had been loyal to Tasio ever since.
Matu was reluctant to do me favors, but he was the only hacker I had. My other contact in the hacking world, Golden Girl, had disappeared after the Water Rituals case was solved.
I sat on a bench next to an enormous yew in Florida Park, watching the skaters. The location brought back sad memories. I was on the verge of leaving when he appeared at the front of the cathedral. I hadn’t seen him in more than two years, but he still looked like a kid. He was twenty-something now and still small, skinny, and smooth-faced. He looked like a manga cartoon, with his doe-like eyes and blue hair hidden under his signature white hoodie. I recognized his skateboard, too, with its image of the biblical patriarch Methuselah. Matu was also a good street artist and belonged to the Brush Brigade, a band of volunteers who decorated the city’s walls with murals.
He noticed me from twenty yards away, even though I thought I was in a discreet hiding place. For MatuSalem, paranoia was an occupational hazard. He gestured at me, warning me not to approach.
I complied and sat on my bench watching pigeons strut around until I heard his youthful voice behind me.
“El Jardín Secreto del Agua.”
Meekly, I obeyed. I was feeling amenable that day. I’d just buried my mother-in-law, and I was in no mood for an argument.
I crossed the park at a leisurely pace. People cycled and strolled past me: older residents with pushcarts, dogs taking their owners for a walk through the park’s maze of towering trees. The world kept turning, indifferent to the hole Nieves had left in the lives of the handful of people I loved the most.
I entered the Jardín Secreto del Agua, a secluded garden. Hundreds of plants formed a mosaic at my feet.
After a while, MatuSalem appeared in his white hoodie, glancing over his shoulder.
“How many times have I told you I don’t want to be seen talking to a cop?” he scolded in a whisper.
“I know, and I’m sorry to bother you, Matu, but I need you to find a name for me. It’ll take you five minutes, and my team is taking forever.”
“I wish you’d stop asking me for help. I always end up doing something illegal,” he muttered.
“It’s about the two girls.”
“Which girls? The ones who were abducted?”
“I work for the Criminal Investigation Unit. What other girls could I possibly mean?”
“What happened to them? The only details in the news were that Estefanía was found dead and that her little sister died yesterday. I saw Fani around; my girlfriend sometimes hung out with her cuadrilla. It’s all they talk about these days.”
“Yes, of course, everybody here knows everybody else. Some bastard trapped them behind a wall in an apartment on Calle Cuchi. While you and I were going out for drinks, they were screaming for help just a few yards above our heads. But no one heard them—not you, not me, not even the neighbors. Certainly not Estefanía’s friends, who probably walked right past the entrance to the building, right below the room’s window. Oihana watched her big sister die of hunger and thirst and then had to live with her corpse in a twenty-square-foot space for days. When we found her, she was already too far gone. She couldn’t talk. Only you can help us shed some light on this crime.”
The harsh truth affected him, despite his characteristically cocky indifference. He swallowed hard a couple of times, and his chin was quivering.
“You think I could find this asshole?”
Could—the conditional. Matu was starting to entertain the idea of helping me. I turned up the pressure a notch.
“With a keystroke, I’m sure. Please, employ your superpowers to help poor Oihana and Fani.”
Matu thrust his hands into his pockets and began kicking at some stones uneasily.
“What’s it about?” he finally asked.
“The e-mail that triggered this inferno was sent from a specific location. I want to know everything about the sender. I want to stop him. I don’t want
more white coffins.”
“You’re messing with me, Kraken. I told you I don’t want to get involved, but you make it impossible. You come here, flatter me, use me, and then go. I realize it’s for a good cause, but you’re the one who chose to be a cop, not me.”
“What do you want?”
“You don’t get it. I’m not playing hard to get, and I’m not bargaining with you. I’m not for sale. I’m saying no. I don’t want this in my life.”
“Me either. But sometimes people get killed, and if we all refuse to get involved, every psychopath who decides to hurt other people will have carte blanche. I won’t let that happen.”
Matu stood, stomped on the tail of his skateboard, and looked at me as though I were trying to sell him bad dope.
“No, Kraken. Don’t ask me again. You choose to inhabit this dark world, but I don’t. Agur.”
“Agur,” I replied, gritting my teeth.
It was amazing. This boy genius was giving me life lessons that I probably wouldn’t learn on my own, even if I lived to be a hundred.
Frustrated, I left the garden and took the tram to the Lakua headquarters. I had a meeting I couldn’t miss.
* * *
—
Half an hour later, we closed the door to the conference room. Estíbaliz had asked Milán, Peña, Muguruza, and Doctor Guevara to join us. Estíbaliz seemed to have regained her composure since Nieves’s funeral. She motioned for me to sit down, and then she kicked things off.
“As you’re all aware, DSU Salvatierra is on bereavement leave and has left me in charge of our ongoing investigations. I’ve called this meeting so we can share our progress on Antón Lasaga’s poisoning and on Operation Frozen, which has taken a devastating turn. Let’s start with Antón Lasaga. Agent Peña, tell us what you have.”
“The judge signed a warrant that lets us monitor Lasaga’s five children, including their cell phone usage. We’ve traced their movements and the calls they made in the days before and after their father’s death, and we found nothing suspicious. We paid special attention to Andoni, the eldest son, because of the accusations he made against his sister, Irene, but he has no prior drug convictions, nor has he had any contact with known criminals. He’s just a playboy who has run up a few debts. Irene’s alibi also checks out—she was working all day. We spoke to the dozen or so close friends on the list she provided, but, again, nothing out of the ordinary came up. Lasaga was focused on his work and occupied with his routine.”
“Sergeant Martínez,” I asked Milán, “was he involved in any land or property disputes in Valdegovía?”
“I checked. There’s nothing on him or on his company. His children confirmed it.”
“Did you also look into his surname?” I asked.
“I didn’t have to; his daughter gave us a copy of their family tree. There are no distant ancestors from Álava, and none of the surnames that appear in the novel are in their genealogy, if that’s what you’re asking, Inspector. However, I did find something else interesting. I spoke to the director of the Natural Science Museum in la Torre de Doña Otxanda. It looks as if the thieves didn’t just steal the two hundred insects, they had also tampered with other display cabinets. The museum staff is taking inventory to see if other specimens are missing. The director sent the delivery notice for the stolen insects.” Milán placed a document in a plastic sleeve on the table. Attached to it was an orange Post-it note with the word here written in capital letters next to a big arrow.
“Lytta vesicatoria,” Estíbaliz read aloud. “Blister beetle. So we know that a couple of weeks ago, someone stole the raw material for a rare poison that was used to kill Antón Lasaga. It might give us a lead, but I doubt the judge will agree that it’s solid evidence. Whoever stole these insects isn’t necessarily our murderer. Also, when we investigated the theft, we didn’t find any suspects. Doctor Muguruza, your team cross-referenced the prints you found at the scene and there were no matches with our database. Isn’t that correct?”
The head of forensics nodded.
“In other words, this case is still wide open. We’ve made zero progress.”
“I might have a line we can follow,” Peña offered, raising a tentative finger.
“Go ahead,” said Estíbaliz.
“A couple of hours before the book launch, an event for Álava-based businesses took place at Villa Suso Palace. Antón Lasaga’s PA confirmed that his boss attended. I’m just waiting for the organizers to send me a list of the other guests. The most interesting part is that they were served cocktails and canapés.”
“That’s significant. The timing matches when we suspect he ingested the cantharides, and his stomach contents are exactly what you’d expect: smoked salmon, caviar, porcini mushrooms…” Doctor Guevara said, reading the list from her report out loud.
“So it’s possible someone laced one of the canapés with poison,” said Estíbaliz.
“In a mushroom vol-au-vent, for instance,” the pathologist said, nodding. “He could have bitten into it and swallowed, even though the sauce tasted unpleasant.”
“Ugh!” said Milán, wrinkling her nose. “You know what it tastes like?”
“There aren’t many references to it in forensic literature, but I dug up a fragment of an account that mentions Germana de Foix, Ferdinand the Second’s second wife. Historians depict her as a passionate eighteen-year-old. Maybe she just wanted the aging king to give her an heir before he died. Germana refers to ‘those nauseating black powders the king takes in his beverages.’ That suggests it tasted bad but was not intolerable.”
“We still don’t know whether the poisoner specifically targeted Antón Lasaga, or whether killing any of the entrepreneurs would have suited his or her purpose,” I said. “What we do know is we have three murders with an unusual modus operandi. The similarities between these crimes and the ones described in the novel are too obvious for us to ignore.”
“What if the killer targeted a random businessman, but at a specific time and location?”
“Very good, Peña,” I said encouragingly. “Why might that be?”
“To link the death to the novel, of course.”
“Who could have laced the canapé with poison?” I asked the room.
“Any of the kitchen or catering staff hired for the day,” said Estíbaliz.
“One of the cleaners, or the janitor at Villa Suso,” suggested Milán.
“Someone dressed as a nun?” said Peña.
“And why would someone dress up as a Dominican nun?” I prodded.
“Because the medieval market offers the perfect excuse to come in a disguise, and with a wimple, no one would be able to see their face,” he replied.
“Good, but let’s not make assumptions yet. Any of the other guests could have laced the canapé,” I pointed out. “We need a list, Peña.”
“Didn’t you go to Nograro Tower to ask about the nun’s habit?” interjected Milán.
“We did, but the costumes were part of a temporary exhibition and are no longer on display,” said Estíbaliz. “But I’ll go back to the tower and ask the owner about it again. And, since I’m sure you’ve noticed that the e-mail sent to Malatrama’s publisher came from Nograro, you should know that both Inspector Ayala and I interviewed Alvar several times. He denies sending the e-mail, just as he denies having written The Lords of Time.”
“Martínez, did you find out if Ramiro Alvar de Nograro has a cell phone registered in his name?” I asked.
“I checked all the service providers. He’s probably the only person on the planet who doesn’t have a cell phone,” she said.
“What about Diego Veilaz, Ltd.?” asked Peña.
“It’s a joke. The publisher signed without checking the register. It doesn’t exist. The tax number is fake.”
“Then we can assume that the author has no interest i
n making money from the novel. The aim was to publish the text,” I said. “Inspector Gauna, when you next speak with the lord of the tower, ask him if he donates to the Museum of Natural Sciences.”
“I will,” she nodded. “We’re going to keep looking into him, but we need to focus on other lines of investigation as well. We need something we can bring to the judge. Okay, now let’s move on to the two sisters.”
“One last thing,” said Milán. “Malatrama’s publisher gave us a list of the twenty-eight graphic artists he usually employs. I’ve run background checks, and I’m currently getting their alibis for the afternoon of the book launch. Nothing so far.”
“Thanks, Detective Martínez. Great work,” said Estíbaliz. We all suppressed a smile when Milán blushed. “Moving on. Doctor Guevara, what can you tell us about the autopsies on the Nájera sisters?”
“We found no evidence of sexual violence. The older sister died six days into their captivity, and her body wasn’t moved postmortem. She died where we found her. The younger girl had a cut on her arm, made by a knife or another sharp object that wasn’t found at the scene. The blood found in the family home probably comes from that wound.”
“Then we can safely say that they were trapped behind the wall at the end of August, before the novel was published,” I said. “This isn’t a copycat killer who was inspired by the book. And it isn’t someone who abducted the girls after poisoning Antón Lasaga and decided to improvise by walling them up to make it look like the work of a serial killer. This is the best indication we have so far that the killer knew what was in the novel before it was published. That rules out the average reader as a suspect. But it doesn’t help us move forward.”
“I have something interesting to report,” Peña piped up. “I spoke to Oihana’s father yesterday, after he was informed of her death. He wasn’t as upset as when we found his daughters, probably because he was either prepared for the worst or just emotionally exhausted. He told me he had a family locator app on his phone so he always knew where his elder daughter was. Remember, we found her phone in her bedroom. Either her kidnapper left it behind so she couldn’t be traced, or the girl did so her father wouldn’t know where she was going that night.”
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