by Jorge Magano
“Either that, or the one that got destroyed was the copy.” Jaime shook his head. “These people are ingenious.”
Roberto didn’t seem as impressed as they were. “Well, that’s all fine and good. But where’s the Medusa?”
“This must be the picture gallery,” Jaime said. “I bet you anything the sculpture room’s not far away.”
“I’ll take that bet. Show us the way. I’ll get my door-smashing boot ready.”
Back out in the hallway, Roberto noticed that one of the doorknobs had no lock. Without a word he approached and opened it. It was a bathroom. “Excellent. I need to take a piss.”
“Now?” Paloma sounded shocked.
“A joke. But . . .”
“What is it?”
Roberto shined his flashlight on the washbasin’s countertop, upon which lay a number of items: toothbrush, soap, razor, a can of deodorant. There was a smell of pine in the air and they could hear water running in the toilet tank, as if someone had recently used it. And everything was clean. Too clean for an apartment used only for storage.
The hairs on the back of Jaime’s neck stood up.
“I think someone lives here,” whispered Paloma. The knot forming in the pit of her stomach tightened when she heard the sound of a door opening at the end of the hallway.
Jaime gestured for his friends to retreat silently to the room where the paintings were stored, but before he could catch up, he heard a gravelly voice from somewhere behind him.
“Rosa? Rosa, is that you?” The words were spoken in Italian.
He had heard no footsteps, but Jaime knew someone was in the hallway, right behind him. Somebody switched on a light. Slowly, Jaime turned around. What he saw seemed like something out of a pulp fiction novel.
In the middle of the hallway stood an elderly woman with dark, wrinkled skin, dressed in a maid’s uniform. Her hands rested on an electric wheelchair that held the shell of what must have once been a complete man.
He was at least eighty, with a long face, prominent chin, and large ears that supported the arms of the tinted glasses he wore. These were the only parts of his anatomy that Jaime recognized as being human. The rest looked more like the body of a grub. The burgundy pajamas the man wore did not hide the absence of both legs or the grotesque curve of his right arm, which had been amputated below the elbow.
Jaime felt a combination of caution, apprehension, and pity. It did not escape his notice that, in addition to being paralyzed and mutilated, the man was virtually blind. Behind him, through an open doorway, Jaime could see a small television monitor and microphone set.
“Rosa, is that you?” repeated the old man with growing unease. “Signora Rizzo, what’s happening?”
The maid looked at Jaime, wide-eyed. “There’s a young man in the hallway, Signor Carrera.”
“A young man? Do you recognize him?”
“No. I don’t think so. Signor Carrera, it’s time for your juice.”
“Forget the juice for now. I have to take care of this.”
“But your vitamins—”
“The vitamins can wait. Who’s there? Answer me!”
Jaime thought it would be absurd not to say anything now when he had come so far. He mustered his courage and took a step forward. “I’m a friend of Rosa’s,” he said in Italian.
The elderly man’s eyebrows rose behind his dark glasses, perhaps the most expressive gesture he was able to perform. “A friend? Rosa never brings friends here. No one comes up to this floor. What do you want?”
Figuring he had nothing to lose in this situation and much to gain, Jaime decided against trying to hide his identity. Switching to Spanish, he said, “My name’s Jaime Azcárate. I’m working on a story for Arcadia magazine.”
The man’s eyebrows rose again, and stopped there, his surprise and alarm clear. “Signora Rizzo,” he said, “go in the other room and wait for my instructions.”
The aide frowned, her eyes fixed on Jaime. “Don’t keep him. It’s time for his juice and medication.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jaime. “We won’t be long.”
Once the maid had disappeared through the door at the end of the hallway, Carrera approached in his wheelchair, which he controlled with his right arm. He stopped in front of Jaime. “Azcárate? How did you get here?”
“I see you speak excellent Spanish. I’ve come to photograph the Medusa.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” Suddenly there was a clicking sound. Jaime turned and saw that Roberto had just snapped a photo from the doorway.
Sorry, he mouthed silently.
“This is private property,” the elderly man said. “Get out right now or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them,” Jaime said. “They’ll be thrilled to know that the Van Gogh from Amsterdam’s still intact. Along with all the other pieces you have stashed here.”
As Jaime continued to speak, Roberto and Paloma retreated stealthily to the room through which they’d entered the apartment. Roberto carefully closed the door behind them and took out his cell phone.
“What are we doing in here?” asked Paloma.
“Let Jaime do the talking, he’s got a knack for it. Meanwhile, an apartment with a hidden elevator, a collection of stolen paintings, and an old wreck in a wheelchair means it’s time for us to call in the cavalry.”
“But, the Medusa—”
“If it’s here, we’ll find it before the police arrive. But we should cover our asses; we don’t need a repeat of Verona.”
Roberto had just started to unlock his phone when suddenly he froze. The elevator behind him had begun to whirr. “What the fuck?”
“Someone’s coming up!” Paloma said. “We have to hide.”
But before they could return to the hallway, the freight elevator stopped at their level and the false closet door opened. A man in a suit with blue eyes and a scar-covered face walked through and regarded Roberto and Paloma with a look of disbelief.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Roberto positioned his large frame between Paloma and the stranger. “Who are you?”
“I’m Vicente Amatriaín. I work for the EHU.”
Roberto relaxed. “I was about to call you.” He showed Amatriaín the hand that still held his cell phone. “I’m Roberto Barrero and this is Paloma Blasco.”
“What’s going on? Is Jaime Azcárate with you?”
Roberto threw Paloma a look of annoyance. “Why does your boyfriend always take all the credit?”
Amatriaín grew impatient. “Where is he?”
Roberto pointed at the door.
“Stay here,” the policeman ordered. “And don’t do anything stupid. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Don’t worry,” Roberto called after Amatriaín as he set off down the corridor. “At this point, we’re almost completely out of stupid things to do.”
44
Jaime didn’t waste any time. Certain that his friends were in the process of alerting the authorities, he figured he’d try to get as much information out of the old man as possible. “I suppose the Medusa’s here, behind one of these doors.”
“The Medusa?” the man asked. “I don’t know what Medusa you mean.”
“Sure you do. Bolgi’s Medusa, which you ordered stolen from the Pontecorvo House Museum. Of course, you already know that it’s not by Bolgi, and that it’s much older than people think. You still have it stored here because your buyer, Dr. Galliano, was arrested before you’d gotten your hands on the document that proves that the sculpture is also a reliquary containing the blood of Medusa.”
Jaime was disappointed not to see any surprise register in the old man’s face. The lips remained firm, the eyes under the dark glasses did not blink, and not a drop of sweat appeared on the wrinkled brow. “Suit y
ourself. I’m calling the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the end of the corridor. Jaime turned and was stunned to see the figure approaching them. “Azcárate, step aside please.”
Jaime moved out of the way. He could just make out Paloma and Roberto at the end of the hallway, watching from a safe distance. Then he looked at Amatriaín. The sight of him pointing a handgun at an old, profoundly disabled man was almost absurd.
“What’s happening?” the man asked. “Who are you?”
“I’d keep quiet if I were you,” Amatriaín said. “Don’t make the situation worse for yourself.”
“There’s been a mistake. I don’t know what you’ve been told about me, but I’m not who you think I am.”
“Oh but you are.” Amatriaín advanced until the barrel of his gun was less than an arm’s length from the old man’s head. “You’re what was left of Angelo Carrera after his boat sunk. Are you going to deny it?”
“What is it you want?” the man asked.
“You know exactly what. Where’s the Medusa?”
“You as well? You’re all obsessed.”
The appearance of Amatriaín had taken Jaime by surprise, but it also put him in an awkward situation. It was clear that he had little choice. He could either stay and watch as the conversation deteriorated or leave with his friends before the shooting started. The first choice could be one he would regret; the second might mean losing the Medusa forever. He decided to take a risk.
“If I may, I suspect that—”
“Shut up, Azcárate, and don’t underestimate this old man. He’s tricked us all since he faked his death in that shipwreck. Unfortunately for him, he almost died for real before his son and daughter gave him oxygen and got him to dry land. After they managed to get him out of the water, a stroke turned him into a vegetable.”
“How do you know any of this?” the old man asked.
“I can answer that.” Jaime threw a few glances at Roberto and Paloma, trying to warn them of what was coming. He took a deep breath. “He knows because he’s the one who tried to kill you.”
Angelo Carrera looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“So this is the historic moment,” Jaime said, “when Angelo Carrera and Alvino Nascimbene finally come face-to-face.” To judge from Amatriaín’s face, one would think that time had stopped. The expression on his tanned, scar-covered face was ice-cold. Unblinking and apparently unmoved by Jaime’s words, he continued to point the gun at the old man. Though he remained silent, his lips began to tremble.
That was when Jaime knew he had struck a bull’s-eye. Paloma and Roberto had gotten the message and retreated, which bolstered his confidence. Now he just had to stay brave. He wished now that he’d finished his whole margarita.
“Nascimbene?” Angelo Carrera stammered. “You’re Alvino Nascimbene?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Amatriaín said, his lips still trembling.
Jaime slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on now, Vicente. We know each other! Oh, sorry!” he apologized, realizing he’d struck the injured shoulder. “I didn’t mean to call you Vicente—or to hurt you. Are you all right?”
“I’ll say it for the last time, Azcárate: step away and let me do my job.”
“And what is your job? To kill this old man like you killed his son on board the Artemis? To steal the Medusa and then take credit for finding it? Or perhaps to destroy it, along with the dreams of this man you hate so much? Don’t be fooled, Signor Carrera,” Jaime said to the man in the wheelchair. “This person’s name is Alvino Nascimbene, and he’s no policeman, or secret agent, or anything close to it. He was a security guard. He’s married and has a daughter and a little house in Trujillo. His last known employment was at the Leoni Antique Center, until it burned down in a fire. A fire that he started.”
“You’re out of your mind, Azcárate.”
“Oh, really? And what do you call murdering your classmate just to get your hands on a statue he knew absolutely nothing about?”
“Classmate? What are you talking about?”
“An old friend you studied art curation with: an agent who specialized in the recovery of stolen artifacts. His name was Vicente Amatriaín.”
“I’m Vicente Amatriaín!”
“Well, that’s what your face says, and no doubt your identity card and Europol badge, too. Documents can be forged, and plastic surgery can work wonders. And fingerprints, as you well know, disappear if you have a convenient sulfuric acid accident, for which no records, anywhere, exist. However, there’s one thing you were unable to completely erase: your talent for drawing. As an art historian, I could tell that the sketch of the Medusa that you showed me in El Burgo de Osma was by the same hand as the portrait you did of your wife.”
The man who had been passing himself off as Vicente Amatriaín turned and trained his weapon on Jaime. His eyes were bloodshot, and spotless dentures showed through what appeared to be a demented grin. “I thought you were intelligent, Azcárate, but you’ve proven yourself a total idiot. What are you hoping to achieve? You could’ve just left and I wouldn’t have had to kill you.”
“You’re right about that,” Jaime admitted with a defiant smile. “But you’re forgetting about my friends.”
45
While Jaime was doing his Hercule Poirot act, Clark entered the Cassiopeia Gallery and looked around in horror at the crowd of artsy intellectuals. Dino, who was serving customers behind the bar, noticed the newcomer and went to meet him. “Hey, can I help?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for your bimbo.”
“Excuse me?”
“My cousin Rosa. Where is she?”
Dino wrinkled up his nose. The man wore a dirty baseball cap and a grimy brown raincoat and smelled foul. With his bruised face, broken nose, and scabby hands, he looked like he’d been in some kind of accident.
“You’re Rosa’s cousin? The one that called in the middle of the night? It’s good to meet you. Rosa has never introduced me to anyone in the family.”
“No shit, dickhead. So, run along and get her, will you? And bring me a beer or I’ll help myself.”
Dino was unaccustomed to being spoken to this way, but he put up with it since it was a relative of Rosa’s. He went grumbling to the bar, served Clark a bottle of Peroni from which he drank deeply, and then Dino pointed toward the exhibition area. Clark found Rosa doing her best to dodge the advances of a short young man who seemed rather drunk.
“Hello, Rosetta. Your boyfriend has very bad manners.”
“Clark! You’re here already?”
“No, I’m a hologram. Who’s this dwarf?”
Giuliano Fiore puffed his chest out and clenched his fists. “Who are you calling dwarf, asshole?”
Clark smiled like a barracuda and opened his raincoat to reveal the butt of the pistol he wore under his armpit. All hostility drained from the painter’s expression.
“Excuse me, Rosa. I’m going to . . . speak to the press.” Fiore scuttled off with a few backward glances.
“Who was that idiot?” Clark asked.
“Giuliano Fiore. The artist.”
Clark looked around him. “These paintings are his?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I like them. They have style.”
Rosa gave a restless sigh. “How are you, Clark?”
“Wiped out, as always.” He winked at his cousin and lifted his bottle. “Although I feel much better now.”
Rosa screwed up her nose and noticed that some nearby guests were throwing side glances at Clark and matching her expression. With his appalling appearance, dirty clothes, and bad odor, he stuck out like a skunk in a parade of pedigree dogs. She took her cousin by the arm and led him to a corner. “This is my last night of family business, Clark. If we get through this, I’m done.”
“Come o
n, Rosa. This work is hard for me, too. I’ve been loyal to your father for twenty years, and to tell you the truth, I’ve fucking had it with getting the crap kicked out of me for the sake of some old cripple. But I’m still here.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot. And don’t push it; that’s my father you’re talking about.”
“I don’t give a shit. How’d it go on the boat?”
“There’s nothing left. I copied everything onto an external drive and infected the computers with a virus so the data will be impossible to recover.”
“Good work, cousin.”
“I hope so. Now go up there and get everything ready to bring down to the truck. And while you’re at it, take a shower.”
“A shower?” He sniffed his underarm. “What for?”
As Clark elbowed his way past the guests who looked at him with irritation and disgust, Rosa stepped outside for some air. In less than an hour, they would usher the people out and close the doors to the gallery. She and Clark would then bring down the works of art that her father kept in the apartment upstairs and load them onto the truck to take them to the family’s warehouse at the port.
She sighed, hating herself for having been unable to cut free from her bonds sooner. Now her special night stood to be ruined by her father’s absurd ambition—his damned obsession with accumulating more money and power than he could ever use, especially since he was supposed to be dead. She turned to go back into the gallery and found herself looking at Clark’s flushed face.
“What is it now? Weren’t you going upstairs?”
“I was, but come and see what I’ve found.”
Rosa followed Clark to the basement storeroom. There, tied to each other with rope, were a stout man with a shaved head and goatee and a dark-haired woman.
“What’s this?” Rosa asked, perplexed.