by Lois Winston
“These men are part of a local crime syndicate run by Carlos Perella,” said another officer who joined us. He introduced himself as Captain De la Riva. Tall and thin with a high forehead, receding hairline, and a jet black pencil-thin mustache, he spoke in flawless English. “Balaguer is a low-level enforcer; Laporta is higher up the organization’s chain of command. Señor Perella has never gotten involved in kidnapping for profit before—at least not that we know of—he’s mostly into smuggling and money laundering, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
“What happens now?” I asked.
“That’s up to you, Señora Pollack. We can pick up Balaguer and Laporta and charge them with kidnapping, but you’d have to be available to testify in court.”
“We’re only here for two more days.”
“Even so,” De La Riva continued, “given Perella’s resources, the charges probably wouldn’t stick. He’s like your Teflon Don back in the States.”
“Hardly. John Gotti died in prison. Perella is very much alive and walking free.”
“We can offer you police protection while you’re here.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. They won’t make the same mistake twice. But what about Elaine Naiman? She’s their real target.”
“Her husband declined our offer. He has his own private security force to protect them both.”
“Then our business here is done,” I said.
“That blew a sizable chunk of our first day in Barcelona,” I said as Zack and I left the police station.
He squeezed my hand. “It could have been a lot worse.”
“I know.” An involuntary shudder ran through me at the thought of the gruesome alternatives. I’d been damn lucky.
TWO
Since Zack’s real work began tomorrow when Parc Güell would open two hours late in order to give him time to photograph the premises without tourists getting in the way of his shots, we had the rest of the day to ourselves. After a lunch of tapas and sangria, he took me on a whirlwind tour of Barcelona that included Gaudi’s masterpiece, La Sagrada Família, a one-hundred-thirty-year-old, still-under construction basilica that looked like Gaudi had created it by dripping wet sand.
At any other time I would have marveled at the art and architecture, but I found myself too distracted, filled with a sense that someone was following me. I held tight to Zack’s hand and continually darted glances over my shoulder. He kept up a lively banter, trying to put me at ease. Although he didn’t succeed, I forced myself to take part in the conversation.
“Makes you wonder if he worked under the influence of hallucinogens,” I said, half an hour later as I stared up at the mosaic embellished wavy facade of Casa Batlló, a building, like so much of Gaudi’s other work, completely devoid of straight lines. I’d never seen such fantastical architecture outside of DisneyWorld.
“He certainly wouldn’t be the first artist to do so,” said Zack.
“A painting created under the influence is one thing, but buildings that have stood for over a hundred years?” I shook my head, stealing another glance around the street as I did so. “Doubtful.”
*
The Museu Picasso, a series of five adjacent Gothic-baroque mansions, showcased the artist’s pre-cubist work. The Naiman collection filled three connecting rooms off an inner courtyard. Under normal circumstances, I would have been excited to attend the opening of a museum exhibit. However, tonight I was far more interested in the two guests of honor than any of the Picassos. I figured Elaine Naiman would be easy to spot. I simply had to look for a better-looking, better-dressed version of me.
I spied her the moment we entered the gallery. She wore a ruby red strapless taffeta cocktail dress that skimmed the top of her knees. A thick diamond choker wrapped around her long Audrey Hepburn neck, catching the lights and sparkling from across the room. Additional diamonds dripped from her earlobes, adorned her upswept hairdo, and clad both her wrists and multiple fingers. Most hip-hop tycoons wore less bling. Any one of Elaine’s baubles would pay off my entire Karl-induced debt and then some.
She and her husband held court in the center of the main room displaying their collection. Michael Naiman, a balding middle-aged man carrying too much weight for his less-than-average height, kept a chubby arm wrapped firmly around his wife’s waspish waist as they spoke with other guests. Men in black stood off to the side, continually scanning the room.
As Zack and I inched our way toward them, Elaine and I made eye contact. She wriggled out from her husband’s grasp and headed in our direction, surprise filling her face. Two of the security detail followed her. “We must be related,” she said, scanning me from head to toe. She held out her hand. “Elaine Naiman.”
“Anastasia Pollack,” I said, shaking her hand. “And this is Zachary Barnes.”
Elaine nodded at Zack. “Mr. Barnes.”
Zack returned the gesture. “Mrs. Naiman.”
“I don’t know if we’re related,” I said, “but we definitely have something in common.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m the person who was kidnapped earlier today by someone who mistook me for you.”
Elaine’s eyes grew wide as she gasped. Her hand flew to her décolletage. “Kidnapped? Are you kidding?”
“You don’t know?”
“No one said a word to me about any kidnapping. I hope you weren’t harmed.”
Odd since her husband claimed she was standing right beside him when Laporta called. “No, they let me go when they realized they had the wrong person.”
“Where did this happen?”
“At Parc Güell this morning.”
“I went to Parc Güell this morning.”
Naiman chose that moment to join us. Elaine turned to him. “Do you know anything about someone trying to kidnapping me today?”
“It was a hoax,” he said, placing his arm back around her waist. “Someone trying to extort money. I saw no reason to worry you.”
“It was no hoax,” I said.
Naiman raised both eyebrows. “And how would you know that?”
I stole a quick glance at Zack and could tell his wheels spun as quickly as mine. Someone was lying, and my money was on the guy who built bombs for a living.
“Because the kidnappers grabbed me, thinking I was your wife.”
Naiman’s dismissive head-to-toe once-over of me silently stated he didn’t believe anyone could mistake me for his wife. On that much, I had to agree.
“How do I know you weren’t in on it?” he asked.
“That’s ridiculous. If I were, would I be stupid enough to show up here and speak with your wife?”
“Most criminals are stupid,” he said. “That’s why they eventually get caught.”
I glared at him. He glared back. Then he dismissed me by turning his back and dragging his wife toward another group of guests.
“Something doesn’t add up,” I said.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Zack, “but it’s not our problem. Let’s grab some wine and look at the paintings.”
We were sipping sangria in front of L’Ascète, the portrait of an elderly man painted during Picasso’s Blue Period, when Elaine Naiman joined us. “My husband’s most prized possession,” she said with a nod to the painting and a scowl on her face. “He claims the model is his great-grandfather, the founder of Global Armament.”
“Is it?” I asked, surprised she’d come back to speak with us but not surprised to find two of the men in black shadowing her. A quick scan of the room showed Michael Naiman being interviewed by a television crew off in one corner of the room. He might keep a low profile back in the states, but he certainly courted the press in Europe.
Elaine laughed. “Highly unlikely.” Then she sobered and placed her hand on my arm. “I want to apologize for the way Michael treated you.”
“He should be the one apologizing,” said Zack.
She sighed. “That’s not going to happen.” Then she turned
to me. “Let me make it up to you. Have brunch with me tomorrow. I’m convinced we must be related, and I’d like to figure out how. Where are you staying?”
“The Regina.”
“Shall I send a car for you at nine?”
Since Zack would be tied up for several hours the next morning, I agreed. Elaine glanced over her shoulder. The interview showed no signs of ending. “Looks like I have time to powder my nose,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
She headed in the direction of the ladies’ room. Zack and I moved on to the next painting. A moment later the museum plunged into darkness, and shots rang out. A woman screamed.
Thick smoke filled the room. Panic ensued.
“Tear gas,” said Zack. “Try not to breathe.” I clamped one hand over my mouth and nose. My eyes and lungs burned.
All around us people stampeded, plowing into each other as we all desperately sought an exit. Whoever had pulled the plug also disabled the emergency lights. Zack held fast to my arm and dragged me along in the pitch blackness to what I hoped would be fresh air.
We finally made it to the museum courtyard and collapsed against a stone wall. The courtyard filled with the sounds of coughing, gagging, and retching as others joined us, their bodies barely visible from the only available light, a half-moon darting in and out of the clouds. In the distance I heard approaching sirens.
Several minutes later the symptoms of the tear gas began to abate. Murmurs of speculation about what had happened replaced the coughing, gagging, and retching. Everyone suspected an art heist, but no one was willing to reenter the gallery to confirm that hypothesis.
After a few minutes the lights came back on. The police streamed into the courtyard and herded us all into a room in one of the other museum buildings. Several people had sustained injuries during the stampede. A few showed signs of concussion while at least one woman had suffered a broken wrist when she tripped and fell.
While medics treated the injured, an officer made his way around the room, checking our names against the official guest list. Detectives began questioning everyone. As I waited, I scanned the room. “I don’t see the Naimans or their bodyguards.”
“Not everyone from the opening is here,” said Zack. “Some people probably took refuge elsewhere in the museum and are being questioned in another area.”
That made sense. Except a minute later Michael Naiman stormed into the room, his men in black following close on his heels. “Elaine!” he yelled. He stopped at the entrance, scoping out the clusters of people while his men branched out around the room.
Not finding Elaine among us, Naiman turned to one of the detectives and demanded, “Where the hell’s my wife?”
THREE
Elaine Naiman had disappeared.
“I saw her heading in the direction of the ladies’ room just as the lights went out,” I told the detective standing nearest to me.
Naiman heard me and pounced. “You again!” He marched across the room and pointed a stubby finger at me. “You’re involved in this somehow. What have you done with my wife?” He tried to grab my arm, but Zack stepped between us and blocked him.
Naiman turned to the detective. “I want them arrested.”
“On what charges?” The three of us spun around. Captain De la Riva, flanked by two officers, stood at the entrance to the room.
“I don’t care what you charge them with.” Naiman turned back to me and Zack. “My men will get to the bottom of this, and when they do, you’ll spend the rest of your lives in a Barcelona jail.”
One thing I’ve learned from my recent interactions with the police back home is that they don’t take kindly to civilians poking around on their turf. Captain De la Riva was no different. He bristled. “Mr. Naiman, you and your men will leave this investigation to me and my department, or you’ll find yourself charged with obstruction.”
Michael Naiman was a man used to giving orders, not taking them. He bristled back. “Then do your job. Find my wife. And do it fast, or I’ll have your badge.”
So not the right thing to say to the man. A moment later two officers escorted a handcuffed Michael Naiman from the room.
*
My harrowing experience earlier in the day, coupled with my presence at the museum, also seemed too coincidental for Captain De la Riva. He requested I return to the station for additional questioning. At least no one handcuffed me before escorting me from the building.
Once at the police station, Zack and I were led into De la Riva’s office rather than into separate interrogation rooms. I took that to mean he—hopefully—didn’t believe Naiman’s accusations against me. The captain motioned to the two straight-backed wooden chairs on one side of his cluttered desk as he settled into a more comfortable chair behind the desk.
“What can you tell me about the events at the museum?” he asked.
Zack and I informed him of our two conversations with Elaine Naiman. “Someone lied,” I said. “When Laporta called him, I heard Naiman claim Elaine was in the room with him, but Elaine told us she knew nothing about the call or an attempted abduction.
“She also said she was at Parc Güell this morning,” added Zack.
“Why were the two of you at the museum this evening?” asked De la Riva.
“We were invited by the director of Parc Güell,” said Zack. “You can check with him.”
“I will. Meanwhile, I’m going to have to request you hand over your passports.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because we can’t have you leaving the country during this investigation. You’re a crucial witness and possibly even—how do you say it in America?—a person of interest.”
“But I have to get home to my children.”
“You’d better make other arrangements for them.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes to find Elaine Naiman.”
I jumped to my feet, nearly toppling my chair, and leaned halfway across the desk separating us. My entire body shook. I don’t know which was greater, my fear or my rage. “I had nothing to do with her disappearance. I’ll prove it. Give me a lie detector test.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Pollack!”
Zack placed his hand on my arm and guided me back into the chair. Tears filled my eyes. What if this case turned into an Amanda Knox type fiasco? I could wind up unjustly confined to a Barcelona prison for years. My kids might have kids of their own before I won my release.
De la Riva leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his chin, and segued into a more fatherly attitude, one he probably learned in Interrogations 101 back at the police academy. “For what it’s worth, Mrs. Pollack, I believe you, but I still cannot have you leave the country until I get to the bottom of this.”
I needed him to consider other possible suspects with likely motives, scenarios that didn’t involve me.
Think, Anastasia!
I had taken an instant dislike to Michael Naiman. His condescending attitude toward me, not to mention his accusations, reminded me of every super-smug, ego-driven misogynist with whom I’d ever crossed paths. And I’d crossed paths with quite a few over my forty-two years. Powerful, wealthy individuals like Michael Naiman did what they wanted when they wanted, trampling anyone who dared to cross them.
Then it hit me. Maybe that’s exactly what was going on here. I fought back the tears, took a deep breath, and tossed out the most logical of theories based on watching and reading decades of national news headlines. “I’ll bet Naiman is behind his wife’s disappearance.”
O.J. Simpson, Scott Peterson, Drew Peterson, Charles Stuart—more often than not, and despite how much they present themselves as grieving husbands, back in the States, the perpetrator usually turns out to be the spouse. Why should it be any different in Barcelona?
“What are you suggesting?” asked De la Riva.
“Were any paintings stolen?”
“None.”
No surprise there. Tonight’s attack had nothing to do
with an art heist and everything to do with an heiress heist. “Maybe Naiman orchestrated both incidents to get rid of his wife permanently—setting the stage with a bogus kidnapping attempt earlier in the day prior to tonight’s actual abduction.”
“To create plausible deniability?”
“Exactly.” The more I thought about it, the more sense it made—especially since everything about Michael Naiman sent the needle on my Creepometer soaring well past the red zone. “Think about it. He doesn’t tell his wife about the first attempt, then brushes it off as a hoax when she learns of it and confronts him. Yet he alerted you about the ransom demand.”
“But you told us Balaguer and Laporta didn’t realize they’d grabbed the wrong woman. If they were working for Naiman—”
“Why assume they were working for Naiman?” asked Zack. “Someone else would have orchestrated everything, keeping Naiman’s hands far from any taint. They set up Perella’s organization to misdirect your investigation. Anastasia identifies her kidnappers as two of Perella’s henchmen, and the police go after the syndicate for an attempted kidnapping. No one suspects Naiman. When Elaine is actually abducted, you’ve got a prior attempt—one that Naiman reported to you—already on record. And the kidnappers already fingered.”
“Don’t forget,” I added, “Naiman refused police protection for his wife.”
“That’s true,” said De la Riva.
“Did you ever speak directly with Elaine Naiman after you interviewed me earlier today?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Her husband didn’t want to worry her.”
“Of course he didn’t. And now we know why. Let’s not worry the little lady. Wealthy hubby will handle everything for her.” Typical male chauvinism coupled with music to the ears of a cash-strapped police department. De la Riva’s budget wouldn’t take a hit to supply protection to a tourist.
I pressed on with my theory. “I’ll bet he’s got a mistress waiting in the wings to become the next Mrs. Michael Naiman. For a man of his means, murder would be a much cheaper solution than divorce. What’s one more dead body to him? He deals in death on a daily basis.”
De la Riva stroked his chin. “An interesting theory, Mrs. Pollack. One worth pursuing further.” He held out his hand. “But I still need your passports.”