Turned to Stone

by Jorge Magano

  “You can discuss that with Dino. I’m sure he can think of a way.”

  “Forget Dino. I thought you were the boss.”

  “I am. But I’d rather talk about art.”

  The painter stood up on his toes—Rosa was a full head taller than him—and put an arm around her neck. “And what are we talking about, if not art?” he asked with a broad smile.

  “The guy’s all over her.” Roberto Barrero spoke with the bottle of Ichnusa beer he’d just ordered from the bar raised in front of his lips.

  “What do you expect?” Jaime said. “He’s Italian and an artist.”

  “Yeah,” Paloma agreed. “It’s in the genes.”

  The three stood partially hidden behind some Ionic pillars that set the bar apart from the main gallery, observing the happenings around them and trying not to attract attention. They’d ordered and paid for their drinks separately, and crossed paths only briefly before disappearing back into the crowd of exhibition goers, of whom there fortunately were many.

  Dressed in jeans, a dark jacket, and black shirt, with a slightly loosened red tie hanging around his neck, Jaime had no trouble recognizing the woman who’d almost killed him in El Burgo de Osma. That “Sandra” seemed like a clumsy teenager compared to this elegant gallery owner. But he would have to keep his guard up. Beneath her refined exterior was hidden a monster he should fear—and would confront, if necessary.

  Miles Davis’s “Seven Steps to Heaven” drifted from a set of speakers, making Jaime wish he could enjoy the event in a more relaxed way. But there wasn’t time to hang around. He had a criminal to unmask, an art treasure to recover, and a legend to unveil. All of that was more exciting to him than the music. The buzz it gave him was physically tangible. This startled him until he realized that he was actually feeling his cell phone vibrating in his jacket pocket. He took a sip of his margarita and made for a group of young people who were drinking and chatting in a corner, using them for cover as he took the call.

  “Tell me something I want to hear,” he said.

  “It’s your lucky day. A door marked ‘Private’ and a storeroom.”

  “And Paloma?”

  “It doesn’t say ‘Paloma.’ Just ‘Private.’ ”

  Jaime took a deep breath and gathered his patience. “I mean, is Paloma with you?”

  “I know, you idiot. But, no. I thought she was with you.”

  “I’ll find her and we’ll catch up with you.”

  Jaime began looking around the gallery. He was worried she might be wandering about in plain sight, despite being Carrera’s main target. He’d tried to persuade her to stay behind and fly back to Madrid, but she’d flatly refused. She hadn’t wanted to meet the same fate as Preston, but, more than that, she wanted to be with them in the event that they found the Medusa.

  He’d tried to convince her that putting her head in the lion’s mouth might not be the best way to secure a permanent future for herself at the Prado Museum, but Paloma had made her decision, and Jaime knew from experience how stubborn she could be.

  Confident that no one was paying attention to him, he left his half-finished margarita on a table and headed to the exhibition area, where he found Paloma standing in front of one of the paintings, completely absorbed by it.

  “This guy must be sick in the head,” she said, barely looking at Jaime.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why? Have you seen these paintings?”

  “Artists have their own perspectives on the world.”

  “Were you and I really in the same program at school? This guy’s a grade-A wacko. What about Roberto?”

  “Don’t use our names,” Jaime said, barely moving his lips.

  “Sorry. What about . . . Batman?”

  “He’s found something. Let’s go.”

  Jaime took Paloma by the arm and they headed across the room, but just before they reached the other side someone put a hand on his shoulder. “Eh, amico!”

  Jaime clenched his fists and turned. In front of him stood the esteemed artist Giuliano Fiore. He was holding a half-empty glass, and judging from his glassy eyes and lack of balance, he was well on his way to getting smashed—no doubt to help him forget the brush-off he’d just received from Rosa Mazi.

  “Excuse me,” Jaime said, trying to push past him.

  “Ah, spagnolo! I love Spain! Wine, women, Real Madrid!” He looked at Paloma. “Eh, hello. Bella ragazza. Spagnola? Io sono l’artista.”

  Jaime gave a nervous smile and tried to pull Paloma away. This man was the star of the night, and they shouldn’t stand near him if they didn’t want their pictures to show up in the newspapers’ art sections. Besides, if word got around that there was a Spanish couple at the gallery, Rosa might suspect it was them.

  “Eh, anche io ce l’ho, una bella moglie. Ma lei non mi ama.”

  This guy’s loud behavior was becoming more conspicuous than his dreadful paintings, and several guests had already turned to look at him. Jaime considered dropping him to the floor with his fist, but that would just make things worse. Suddenly the painter grabbed Jaime by the arm and began to pull him toward a corner of the room. Jaime’s stomach clenched when he saw that the artist was leading him straight to where Rosa Mazi stood, speaking to a journalist.

  “Vieni con me. Si chiama Rosa. É bella, come la tua ragazza.”

  His horror mounting, Jaime tried to pull away from the inebriated pain in the ass who was dragging him into the very jaws of his enemy. He dipped his head down just as Rosa lifted hers, and for a second he was afraid their eyes had met.

  In that one eternal, apocalyptic instant, he gave everything up for lost.

  Then a man and woman stepped into their line of sight. Jaime took the opportunity to kick Giuliano in the shin and slip off into the crowd, confident that Rosa was so focused on the journalist, she hadn’t recognized him.

  He took Paloma by the hand and, not caring whether anyone was watching, slipped with her behind a set of red curtains draped over the wall across from the entrance.

  “Narrow escape,” he whispered, his heart thumping in his chest.

  “What happened?” said Paloma.

  “Later.”

  In front of them stood the metal door Roberto had discovered on his first sweep of the premises. Careful not to make any noise, Jaime opened it, and they followed the hallway down a set of stairs that led to a dark storeroom. Roberto was inside inspecting the basement room with a small LED flashlight.

  “Welcome to the Batcave,” he said in greeting.

  “Seriously?”

  “Just be glad I didn’t bring the suit.”

  “You’re such a dork,” Jaime said. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say it was the Minotaur’s labyrinth, or—”

  “There you go again with your bullshit. Batman’s no less of a myth than Perseus.”

  “Perseus? It was Theseus who killed the Minotaur.”

  “I know that, smart ass. Perseus killed Medusa.”

  “Can you two stop?” Paloma said. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “The lady’s right,” Roberto exhaled. “What the fuck took you so long?”

  “We were chatting with the artist.”

  “That guy? He should be locked up. His paintings are a pile of shit.”

  Paloma looked at Jaime. “See?”

  “If they find us here, we’re the ones who are going to get locked up.” Jaime glanced around him at the near-empty storeroom. “What is this? You said you’d found something.”

  “I did find something. A storeroom!”

  “And the Medusa?”

  “Fuck me, you don’t ask much, do you? Behind that door, there’s a garage with a truck in it, but I already looked inside and it’s empty. Look what I found in the corner, though: an elevator.”

  “Do I lo
ok like a guy who’s hunting for elevators?”

  “Maybe you should be, shithead. Your building doesn’t have one, and it’s the stairs or nothing. Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “Busy with the press, but I don’t know for how long. We have to be quick.”

  Paloma looked around. “Quick with what? There’s nothing here.”

  “I think I get it,” said Roberto. “Go up in the elevator and see where it takes us. If this storeroom’s empty, there must be a floor that isn’t. If Jaime’s right, the Medusa’s waiting for us somewhere in the building.”

  “Let’s go then. Got the camera?” Jaime said.

  “In my jacket pocket.”

  “And the jacket?”

  “Shit!” Roberto turned back to an old table and grabbed the cinnamon-colored jacket they’d bought, like Jaime’s clothes, at a discount store in the city’s shopping district. “Sorry. It got hot in here.”

  The plan to crash the opening and search the Cassiopeia Gallery had occurred to Jaime while at the Pontecorvo House Museum the very moment Sabina handed him the invitation. The information he’d gleaned from their conversation had convinced him there was a good chance that the Carreras hid their stolen goods at the gallery before selling them to their clients. An art gallery was the perfect front. The stolen works could come and go in full view without anyone noticing a thing.

  After being released by the Verona police, the three companions had returned to the hotel to collect their luggage and pay the bewildered owner whose unlucky establishment had lost a shower door and gained a dead body. Next, they climbed into Roberto’s van and travelled west to Livorno, where they caught the ferry to Olbia, on the northeast coast of the island of Sardinia, and then drove over two hundred kilometers south.

  Jaime had come to the conclusion that they should avoid hotels along the way, not wanting to leave too obvious a trail after Laura Rodríguez’s call telling him about her meeting with the inspectors and warning that the police were looking for them.

  “Don’t worry, Presidenta,” he had said. “I’m a journalist and I’ll do my job: nothing more, nothing less.”

  “You’ll be careful?”

  “As careful as always.”

  “God help us, then.”

  After he’d talked to Laura that afternoon, they’d located the gallery on a city map and gone to a department store on Via Regina Elena to buy clothes appropriate for an art gala: elegant, but not too eye-catching. They had cleaned themselves up as best they could in a restaurant bathroom, but wound up having to make a quick exit after the owner caught Roberto standing on a soaking wet floor, smothering himself in deodorant and free cologne samples.

  The storeroom elevator Roberto had discovered turned out to be a freight elevator, which added weight to the theory that works of art were stored in the building.

  “Can’t you imagine the Medusa riding up in this thing?” Jaime said in excitement.

  Roberto wasn’t so optimistic. “What about riding down? Can’t you picture it leaving this place forever? The bust and the magical blood are probably in the hands of a collector already. That, or they were never here.”

  “Batman sure is a downer,” Paloma observed.

  “At least he’s more realistic than Perseus,” Roberto said.

  Jaime ignored the exchange. A shiver ran down his spine as he walked into the service elevator. A second shiver followed when he saw his own face in a mirrored elevator wall. Though he’d dressed up and shaved, his reflection showed the strain and exhaustion of the last few days. He felt sore and depleted, but at the same time was as excited as a teenager on his first date. The Medusa was close. He could feel it.

  There were three buttons on the panel. When Roberto pressed the middle one, Paloma shuddered. Jaime took her by the hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  “How do you do it?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Stay so calm. I’ve watched you get chased, beaten, and shot at, Jaime. And instead of running home you go back for more.”

  “Seriously? I was under the impression that you thought I lived in a fantasy world.”

  “Well, maybe I was wrong about that.”

  “That’s a relief.” Jaime gave her a little half smile. “Anyway, you’re hardly the queen of the chickens. You had the chance to call it a day, and here you are.”

  “Yeah, but I’m peeing my pants.”

  “You think I’m not?”

  Paloma turned to Roberto. “What about you?”

  “Me? Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve done this sort of thing. In situations like this, the important thing is to focus on stealth and caution.”

  “And what if they discover us anyway?” Paloma asked as the freight elevator stopped with a shudder.

  “Then fuck stealth and caution, and run like hell,” Roberto said.

  43

  The elevator doors opened onto a gloomy hallway. Across from them, a pair of abstract paintings by an unknown artist hung over a wooden credenza. Roberto shined his flashlight on the paintings and screwed up his face.

  “So, art historians, what do you think?”

  “They’re not exactly straight out of MoMA,” Jaime said. “They look like they were painted by someone’s nephew. Hey, Dark Knight, have you got a spare flashlight? I can’t see a thing.”

  “I bought this one for myself while you were wasting time looking at clothes. But you can borrow my lighter.” Roberto pulled a plastic cigarette lighter from his pocket and passed it to Jaime. “It’s no Zippo, but you might be able to get it to work.”

  “What a cheapskate.”

  On the floor, resting against the wall, were two suitcases with combination locks.

  “It looks like your girlfriend’s ready for a trip,” said Roberto.

  Beyond the entrance hall was a spacious living room without a single decorative element, just a bare table and some chairs. One side of the room opened up into an unfurnished kitchen. It was clear nobody lived there.

  With Roberto in the lead, shining his flashlight, they crept down a long hallway with doors on either side. The first door led into a small study containing a walnut desk with several thick folders piled on top. Jaime picked one up and asked Roberto for some light. There was nothing inside but invoices and documents related to the gallery and bar. Also on top of the desk was a framed photograph of a luxurious yacht, the name Phoenix painted in black letters on its side.

  Jaime was about to try his luck with the next door when Paloma called to them from the other side of the hallway. “Look at this!”

  Jaime walked into the room and froze when he found himself facing the almond-shaped eyes of Rosa Mazi. Once he’d recovered from his fright, he stepped closer to the bedside table to study the photograph more closely. The young woman in the picture must have been about seventeen years old, and she’d struck a smiling pose beside a racehorse. Though it was clearly the same person, this woman had little in common with the one now entertaining her guests below them or the one who’d tried to turn Jaime into a human Popsicle in El Burgo de Osma.

  “Your girlfriend’s a looker, but she’s a bit weird.” Roberto studied the shelves along one wall of the room. “What kind of woman would put the complete works of Nora Roberts next to The Aeneid?”

  “The same kind of woman who’s capable of holding a gun to a guy’s head after seducing him: a real romantic.” Jaime took in the room with a quick glance, saw that there were no sheets on the bed, and concluded that no one had slept there for some time.

  There was just one door they hadn’t yet tried. Before opening it, the three of them looked at each other anxiously. What if they were wrong? What if what they’d thought they would find wasn’t there?

  Their fears proved true when they found themselves in a completely empty room: no furniture, no wallpaper, not even a light
bulb.

  “I don’t know how I could’ve gone along with such an idiotic plan,” Paloma said, disheartened. “Jaime and his fantasies.”

  “You said you were wrong about them.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. There’s nothing in this apartment.”

  Certain what they sought was not there, they retraced their steps back to the elevator, got in, and pressed the top button. There was still one more floor to search, a chance that Jaime’s hunch had been right. When the doors opened after a few seconds, they were faced with what looked like a wooden board blocking the exit. Jaime knocked lightly with his knuckles, and a hollow sound echoed back.

  “Is the whole floor walled off?” Paloma asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jaime took a deep breath, put a hand on the board, and slowly pushed until there was a crack big enough to look through.

  With the help of Roberto’s flashlight, they determined that the room was small and, like the apartment below, had been abandoned long ago. It smelled damp, there were large water stains on the gray walls, and water dripped from the ceiling. They pressed their ears against the wooden panel and, hearing nothing, pushed it aside and stepped out of the elevator. The panel turned out to be a false door that, from the other side, disguised the elevator as a closet. They found themselves in a hallway identical to the one in the apartment below, but with one subtle difference: all the doors in this hallway were locked.

  Paloma looked at Jaime. “Now what?”

  “A locked door’s always a good sign. Roberto, do you have your Swiss Army knife?”

  “Right here. But why do you need it?”

  Before Jaime could stop him, Roberto kicked the doorknob, breaking the lock, and the door swung open. “Good work,” Jaime grumbled. “Nice and quiet.”

  “I don’t mess around.”

  Upon entering, they found countless packages sealed in bubble wrap piled up against one wall. Carefully Jaime tore the wrapping off of one. It appeared that his suspicions had been right. Paloma copied his actions and was stunned to find a Van Gogh painting identical to one stolen in Amsterdam and subsequently destroyed by the thief. “Is it a copy?” she asked.