Turned to Stone

by Jorge Magano

  “That’s not true. We can find another buyer. It’s an ancient sculpture, with a legend attached to it and—”

  “There’s no time! We have to get the bust out of here as soon as possible and go into hiding. We’ll figure out then what we need to do next, but for now the most important thing is to escape. How long before we can be ready?”

  Rosa had been about to tell her father that she did not intend to do any more jobs for him, that the next day her gallery was opening its first exhibition, and that as soon as the doctor made his payment she would be out of the game. But now she felt her legs tremble and her lungs fight for air. She couldn’t leave her father in the lurch. If this mission failed, there would be no profits from the Medusa, and she would be unable to meet her costs. Her future and her dreams would be lost.

  “How long, Rosa?”

  “I don’t know! A while. We have to pack it, load it up, get rid of—”

  “Make sure you’re quick. Galliano will have told them everything, and they’ll be preparing to come after us. He doesn’t know where we are, but the police are bound to find a connection. Be as quick as possible. When Clark arrives, tell him not to waste any time. You continue with your gallery as normal, as if nothing was happening. If they detect unusual movements, they’ll suspect. Don’t let me down, Rosa. This time, there’s not just a lot at stake. Everything is at stake.”

  41

  Madrid

  Laura Rodríguez was in for a surprise as she rode her bicycle in the area surrounding the auditorium of the University City. The day was cold, but the editor was determined to embrace a healthy lifestyle after twenty years of smoking and nearly forty of inactivity. Though the streets were flat, she struggled to keep up a respectable pace. Still, she worked hard, knowing—or at least hoping—that someday her suffering would be rewarded.

  Exhausted after her fifth lap around the sports grounds, she stopped at the south end of the park and sat on a bench to drink some water from her bottle. She was wiping her lips on her sleeve when the branches of some nearby bushes moved. Laura gave a start as two men in suits suddenly emerged. They looked at her cautiously, like two huntsmen afraid to startle a deer.

  “Laura Rodríguez?” asked one. He had coppery hair and wore an alert expression.

  “That’s me. Do I know you?”

  “I’m Inspector Víctor Giner. This is Officer Ramón Ezquerra. We’re from Heritage Squad.”

  Laura took a good look at Ezquerra, a well-built man with a broad forehead.

  “Don’t we know each other?”

  “We sure do. That business with the antipaganists.”

  Laura thought back several years to when Ezquerra had helped Jaime with an investigation into Egyptian reproduction stores that had been sabotaged by religious fanatics.

  “It’s been a while. Please, sit down.” She politely waved at the bench.

  The men exchanged amused expressions and, eschewing formalities, sat on the back of the bench with their feet resting on the seat.

  “We apologize for bothering you here, but we had to speak to you urgently,” Giner said. “Is it a Silvertrip?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The bike. A Silvertrip?”

  “I don’t know, it was a gift. Listen, it’s cold out, and I have to get to work. How can I help you?”

  “Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. Three nights ago, the police received an anonymous call from a man who was adamant that someone had kidnapped a nine-year-old boy and was holding him captive in a warehouse up for sale in the Tetuán district. The tip-off, initially, seemed implausible, but it turned out to be true. A patrolman went there and found the child.”

  “Yes, I heard it in the news. But what does that have to do with me?”

  “The boy is the son of Amanda Escámez, a Prado Museum employee and colleague of Paloma Blasco, Jaime Azcárate’s ex-girlfriend.”

  Laura swallowed hard. Jaime. It was always Jaime.

  “Please, go on.”

  “That same night, a few hours earlier, the police went to a derelict building on Plaza de España because local residents had complained about a racket coming from it. Squatters live in that building, along with families of Romanian immigrants and other homeless people. When the police arrived, some of the squatters claimed they’d helped a guy dressed as Batman get the address of the warehouse from the alleged kidnapper.” Giner broke off when Ezquerra began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. But if you could hear how what you said sounds!”

  “I know how it sounds; I was the one who said it.”

  Laura felt a bit bemused. She was beginning to think these two men had been out all night drinking and were just taking her for a ride. “A kid rescued by Batman,” she said. “At least that’s good news. Is there anything else you want to tell me? Did Spiderman intercept a drug delivery or—?”

  “The thing is, Laura, we believe this Batman could really be a security guard named Roberto Barrero who works at the Center for Historical Research.”

  Laura closed her eyes, her heart sinking. The image of the Batman mannequin she’d seen in Roberto’s living room popped into her head. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

  “Based on statements by the owner of a nearby Chinese store. He said he heard screams and went outside to check things out. A van parked at the door to his store caught his attention; its rear was blocking off half of the entrance. He memorized the license plate. It turned out to belong to a Fiat Doblò owned by Roberto Barrero.”

  “I can see why you’d suspect him.”

  “There’s one other matter,” Inspector Giner said. “Two weeks ago, the Italian police reached out to warn us that one of the Alessandro Algardi fountains, stolen in the 1950s from the Granja gardens, may have shown up at a mansion in Bergamo. Officer Ezquerra and two other squad members went there to join the surveillance team the Italians had already set up.”

  “Hang on, this is a lot at once.”

  “I’ll give you the short version. The mansion’s garden was filled with a great many copies of mythological sculptures, but we had doubts about the possible authenticity of the fountain. We were right to be suspicious.”

  “Did you find something?”

  Ezquerra took over the explanation from Giner. “The mansion belonged to a rich neurosurgeon named Umberto Galliano,” he said.

  “A neurosurgeon mixed up in art theft?”

  “No, a collector. We’ve done a thorough background check on him, and his interest goes back a long way. His great-grandfather started bringing artifacts back from the Acropolis of Athens. The tradition of collecting continued for generations, until the authorities started cracking down on heritage theft. Federico Galliano, Umberto’s father, focused on obtaining works from auctions and galleries, and he passed his interest down to his son. But Umberto was lazy and didn’t share his father’s patience. He couldn’t be bothered to travel around hunting for antiques, so he decided to pay others to bring the pieces to him. He somehow wound up making contact with the most powerful and dangerous art-trafficking organization Europe has ever seen.”

  “The Pole’s gang.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But they were dismantled a few years ago.”

  “Yes, but they managed to cause some significant havoc first. We now know that Dr. Galliano was their best customer. Incidentally, he’s not quite right in the head. Like any fanatical collector.”

  An elderly lady with a little dog passed the bench and said hello to them. Ezquerra replied with a wave and stopped talking until she’d walked past.

  “After we found all this out, we obtained a warrant and searched the mansion. That place would make most of the world’s museums look about as exciting as my living room. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that was in there: medieval panel paintings, classical
sculptures, altarpieces, gold artifacts, furniture, armor. Pretty much anything you can imagine.”

  “All stolen?”

  “About forty percent of it.”

  “Did you arrest the doctor?”

  “He and his wife were both arrested and questioned. At first they denied everything, but the rich aren’t used to tough interrogations, and in the end the doctor broke down and talked.” Inspector Giner looked proud. “Now we know who supplied them with the objects.”

  For some reason, two disparate thoughts came together in Laura’s mind, and she imagined a stone woman with serpents for hair slowly descending the stairs in Dr. Galliano’s mansion. “Did the Algardi fountain prove to be genuine?” she asked.

  “Our experts confirmed as much.”

  “Did they find any other important pieces?”

  “All stolen artwork is important.”

  “I mean pieces by well-known artists. Were there others besides the Algardi?”

  “There was a Renaissance panel painting by Fra Bartolommeo, but we believe Galliano’s father acquired that piece legally. The rest weren’t by particularly well-known artists.”

  Laura hesitated to ask the crucial question. Out of loyalty, she was reluctant to reveal Jaime and Paloma’s secret. However, she thought better of the situation and took a deep breath before asking. “Tell me something: among the sculptures you found at the mansion, was there by any chance a bust of Medusa?”

  The men’s mouths dropped open and they looked at each other in astonishment. Giner spoke first. “A bust of Medusa? What do you know about that?”

  “What do you know?”

  “The commissioner leading the investigation in Bergamo was absolutely sure we’d find a bust of Medusa at the mansion. He must’ve meant the one that was stolen in Verona last month.”

  “Exactly. It wasn’t at the mansion?”

  “There was no Medusa,” Ezquerra assured her. “I helped with the inventory myself, and I can tell you that we didn’t find anything vaguely like a Medusa, other than the one that was part of the copy of Cellini’s Perseus. There was just about every mythological piece you could want: Hercules and Antaeus, Jason and Medea, a nude Aphrodite . . . but no woman with snakes on her head.”

  Laura thought for a moment. It seemed that nobody yet suspected the significance of the sculpture. She considered explaining it to the officers, but Jaime had explicitly asked her not to speak to anyone about it, no doubt to protect Paloma’s research. Exercising her renowned caution, she looked for another way to arrive at the heart of the matter. “You said that the doctor admitted who had supplied the stolen art.”

  “That’s right,” answered Giner. “Apparently, it’s an organization headed by a family that manages the details of every operation and hires assorted mercenaries to do their dirty work. We have reason to believe that one of these mercenaries led the hijacking of the freighter Artemis. It’s likely that another was responsible for kidnapping Amanda Escámez’s son, and was later tormented by this . . . Batman and his army of squatters.”

  Ezquerra gave another laugh, and Giner silenced him with a glare.

  “Do you know what family it is?” Laura asked.

  “We have some information.”

  “So you have them in custody.”

  “Not yet. There’s a small hitch.” The two policemen looked at each other in discomfort.

  “I see. I guess that’s why you’re here.”

  “Right again. We know that your contributor Jaime Azcárate has been conducting his own investigations.”

  Laura shrugged. “What can I say? What Jaime does outside of office hours is his business.”

  “Nobody’s blaming you. Or him. However, it has been brought to our attention that Azcárate and three others—whose descriptions fit those of Paloma Blasco, Roberto Barrero, and a Prado Museum researcher named Oscar Preston—left on Wednesday for Verona, the city from which, ‘coincidentally,’ the Medusa you mentioned was stolen. Last night one of them was found dead. Murdered, probably.”

  Laura’s heart skipped a beat. “Who?”

  “Preston. He died from a blow to the head while showering in his hotel. We’ve spoken to Amanda Escámez, who initially was very guarded. In the end, she broke down and told us everything. The details are still unclear, but apparently Preston had something to do with her son’s abduction.”

  “The others—what happened to them?”

  “They managed to get away after a dramatic escape through the streets of Verona.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “All three are unscathed. And that, partly, is what worries us.”

  Laura felt as if her nose was beginning to freeze. She took a tissue from her pocket and blew it loudly. “What are you implying?” she asked.

  “Dr. Rodríguez, it’s possible the three of them are in trouble with the law.”

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble? If it’s true what you say, it was thanks to Roberto that you discovered the whereabouts of the boy. And I’m certain that, were it not for Jaime, Paloma would be dead. Where are they now?”

  “The Italian police questioned them for a few hours before releasing them. But it’s possible they’ll be charged with illegal possession of firearms.”

  “What?”

  “In the hotel room and on the bus, there were cartridges from two different pistols.”

  “They must be the killer’s.”

  “That’s the most logical hypothesis. However, one of the shells matched another found in the building on Plaza de España, where our Batman went into action. We believe Roberto Barrero stole the weapon from the murderer and took it with him. And clearly he used it.”

  Laura could feel her heart beating.

  “What worries us, Dr. Rodríguez, is that soon after making their statements and being released, Azcárate and the others disappeared.”

  “What’s the problem with that? You said yourself: they were released.”

  “Do you know where they’ve gone?”

  “No. Jaime hasn’t contacted me since Monday.”

  “We suspect they’re in Cagliari, the capital of Sardinia. At least, that’s what the search history on the computer at their hotel in Verona would suggest.”

  “Why Sardinia?”

  “You tell me, Laura. You know Azcárate. What’s he intending to do?”

  “Write an article,” Laura said, knowing that she was telling only half the truth.

  The fact was, she knew Jaime Azcárate well and was aware that for him, his work for the magazine was just an excuse to embark on romantic adventures like this one. Jaime was out to solve the mystery of the blood of Medusa, find the sculpture, and—perhaps—win back Paloma’s affection.

  She decided to end on a good note with Giner and Ezquerra. “Gentlemen, I can assure you that Jaime won’t jeopardize your investigation, if that’s what you’re worried about. As soon as I get back to my office, I’ll reach out to him to see if he’s gone off script. If he has, I promise I’ll call him back immediately. You have my word.”

  “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.