by Riona Kelly
While they ate, Roberto’s phone buzzed, and he excused himself to take the call. Watching his expressions shift and his free hand clenching and waving, Michelle guessed the intense conversation involved Arturo calling about the painting again. From the annoyed frown on Roberto’s face, she could surmise Arturo didn’t want to wait any longer for it.
When he returned to the table, she said, “He won’t wait another day or two, huh?”
“No. He needs it tomorrow. No excuses, he says. So it goes to him as it is. Little flaws and all.”
While he sounded resigned to it, she also picked up on the disappointment. “I know you would rather it be perfect, but there are times you just can’t do any more.”
“Let’s go dance off some aggression. We don’t want your leg to cramp again, and the exercise will help.”
The club was smaller and darker than the one at the hotel, but it was full of young people drinking, dancing, and making out in the corners. In fact, a bit of smooching was happening on the dance floor, as well. A few neon lights blinked in and out above the bar, and six people perched on stools in front of it. The dance floor was about a ten-foot-by-ten-foot wooden square with a dozen or so small tables surrounding it. People danced close to each other, making it a tight squeeze to get between them to even get to the floor.
Serious about coming to dance, Roberto led her out and began to bop to the rhythm. Mostly, upbeat rock music and free-form dancing kept them moving, but now and then it slowed down for a simple two-step or something in the Latin line that she fumbled as best she could. Michelle welcomed a break to sit and drink her cold cherry limeade for a half hour or so. Then he pulled her back to the floor for another four dances. Or was it five? She was losing count when she realized it was after midnight, and she hadn’t checked for a text from her aunt.
She found a table and sat to pull out her phone, her fingers searching in the handbag for it and coming up empty. She started taking everything out of it and couldn’t believe it when it was empty, and the phone wasn’t there.
“Oh, damn. Aunt Lindy is going to go nuts if I don’t get a text back to her soon,” she said as Roberto watched her reload the bag with her wallet, lipstick, compact, address book, sunglasses, and a toothbrush. He raised an eyebrow at the last item.
“You never know when you need one,” she told him and dumped it into the bag. “My phone must have fallen out at your place.”
“You can use mine.” He pulled it out to offer it to her.
“I don’t remember Lindy’s number. It’s in my phone, and I never memorized it.” She felt dumb.
He nodded. “Then let’s go back to the studio. You can get the phone, make the call, and then I’ll take you home.”
“Thanks, amigo. You’re the best.” Her smile lit up her eyes.
In less than fifteen minutes, they’d made the quick ride back to the studio. Roberto stopped at the door, pointed to the slightly opened edge, and caught her arm to hold her back. “Stay here,” he told Michelle in a barely audible whisper. He reached for a brick beside the door, then shoved it open and stepped inside.
Michelle waited with her body pressed against the outside wall trying to stay out of the way if someone should come bounding out. Unconsciously holding her breath in case someone might hear her, she waited and worried. A light came on in the room, and she heard Roberto shout in Spanish. It didn’t sound polite. Then it sounded like he ran upstairs, silence for a few minutes then steps coming back down.
“You can come in, Michelle,” he called to her.
She pushed through the door and stopped in shock. The studio looked like a tornado had gone through. Paintings and palates dumped on the floor, a couple of stands broken. Someone had made a total mess of it. Roberto straightened up the tipped-over sofa and dropped onto the arm of it to survey the mess.
“Is upstairs—?“
“No, it’s just down here. Nothing was touched upstairs.” His voice was flat.
“Why? Is anything missing?” She looked around, trying to see familiar paintings in the mess. Where was the sketchbook? What about the computer? Was it secure?
“I think so. If I am not mistaken, the commissioned painting is gone. I don’t see it under any of the ones scattered around. And I think one of the other better ones is gone, the dancer outside a club taking a break. And maybe more. Until I do an inventory, I don’t know what else might be stolen.”
“I’m so sorry. But it makes no sense. Who would take them?”
He shook his head. “I can only think of one person. Arturo. He is the only one who was concerned about the commission painting. The other, I don’t know.”
“Why would he take it? You were giving it to him tomorrow.”
* * *
Michelle stood behind Roberto while he demanded to know if Arturo had his paintings, and the smaller man denied it in both English and Spanish. Still shaking his head, Arturo opened the door to the bedroom and switched on a lamp so they could see nothing was hidden. Roberto stepped into the room, but Michelle stopped just inside the door. Even the closet, holding about a dozen hangers of clothing, was merely an open alcove in the room with nothing hidden in it. A single bed sat in the middle with a lamp on a little nightstand next to it. A short dresser occupied the entry wall, and a computer tablet sat on it, which appeared to be all Arturo used for handling his business.
Judging from the look of consternation crunching his confused face, she would say he was telling the truth. Weasel-looking or no, he didn’t look like he had the nerve to steal anything, and the apartment reflected a poor person’s home.
“The commission painting is gone,” Roberto told him in English for her sake.
Arturo looked stricken. “¿Qué? ¿Está tomado?”
“Yes. That one and at least one other painting I was doing for the gallery downtown. The best pieces. There may be more. I have not been through everything yet.”
Arturo sank onto the bed, the shock still on his face. “Este es terrible, amigo.” Then he recalled Michelle and switched to English. “My client— Our client is expecting delivery this week. What can I tell him?”
Roberto shrugged. “The truth. It’s been stolen. I can recreate it, but it will take at least two weeks.”
Arturo looked like he might cry. “The commission I get on it is my rent money. I was counting on it.”
Sitting on the bed, Roberto dropped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I can loan you some to tide you over. I have another painting you might sell to someone for more cash. I will give it to you.”
Michelle saw the tears in Arturo’s eyes as Roberto talked to him and stepped away from the doorway, leaving the two friends to their privacy. She felt like an intruder, and this was between them. Going back to the kitchen, she opened her bag and pulled out her wallet. She slipped two twenty-euro notes onto the counter where Arturo could find them. She was a soft touch, and maybe it would buy the scrawny-looking guy some food. Hell, it might even be enough to pay the rent on this hovel.
She stood near the door in the living room, waiting nervously, when Roberto hurried out, leaving Arturo behind. He caught her hand and rubbed the back soothingly. “I am sorry for dragging you along. I was so angry.”
“I know. It’s okay. But now, we need to report the break-in. You have valuable paintings missing.”
“Si. Arturo will contact our client and see if he will wait for the painting. It was a good commission, and I would be unhappy to lose it. But it is what it is, no?”
Roberto called the police to report the theft while he climbed back on the bike. He thought maybe they would need to go by the police station and file the report, but an officer said he would come out to investigate and take his statement there. They barely made it back to the studio before a police car pulled up in the narrow road and parked. Roberto greeted the officer and opened the door to allow him in.
The place was still a mess, nothing new added to the piles, and nothing picked up. Roberto explained the
whole situation to the officer, a middle-aged man with a pleasant smile and a bushy mustache who kept eyeing Michelle with a twinkle in his eye.
The officer took both their statements and handed Roberto a form to complete for the insurance company. Using his phone, he took about ten photos of the mess. “Do you have any photos of the missing paintings?” he asked Roberto in Spanish.
“I think I do,” he answered, his eyes going to his computer. “If they didn’t destroy any files on my computer.”
“Good. You send them to this email at the station,” the officer said and handed him a business card. Then, he said he would send someone over to test for fingerprints and to not touch anything until he was done.
Roberto tossed the form on the kitchen counter. “Like I have insurance to cover my losses. To them, it would be just canvases and paint, nothing of any real value. I am a street artist. How you say it? A dime a dozen?”
Michelle nodded. “Yeah. Only you aren’t just a street artist. The painting was worth quite a bit.”
“But I can’t prove it to them.” He grabbed a beer and offered her a cola before they dropped onto the sofa to wait for the forensics person to arrive. Well into the early hours of the morning, the tension and excitement of the night took a toll on both of them. Michelle yawned and sipped the cold drink.
“So you and Arturo were friends from school?”
He laughed. “No, Arturo is from here. I went to school near Malaga. I met him when I first moved here. He tried to be an artist, but he wasn’t so good. So instead, he decided to become an agent and try to sell art to shop owners or hotels for a commission. It worked okay, then he started getting orders from a few private clients, and a few sales a year keeps him in his apartment.”
“I see.” Michelle thought for a few minutes. “Arturo has more than one private client who requests paintings, you say?”
He nodded.
“I know it’s probably a long shot, but is it possible any of the other private clients might have resorted to stealing paintings?”
Roberto frowned as he thought about it. “I don’t see why one would. They request them through Arturo, and it is only a few weeks at most before I have it done.”
The knock at the door halted the conversation, although Michelle continued to think about a possible motive for stealing them. The forensic officer came in, talked to Roberto for a few minutes, then began taking more photographs of the crime scene while she and Roberto watched with interest from their perch on the sofa.
He used a hand-light to shine on the paintings, easels, and the scattered palates. His head swayed back and forth as he gazed at each item. “Only one set of prints on these,“ he told Roberto. “They are probably yours unless the señorita touched them?”
“No. She picked up the sketchbook but didn’t touch any of the paintings,” he answered.
The expert detected fingerprints on the computer and camera as well, but still only the one set. He asked Roberto for his phone and pointed the light at it as well. “The prints look the same as the others, but I will scan and run them to be sure. I think your burglar used gloves. You say the only area disturbed was the downstairs?”
“Yes. Nothing looked out of place upstairs, and the only things I have of any value are here. Mostly the paintings, my computer, and the camera. I am not a famous artist, so I don’t see why he took the paintings. The computer or the camera would have been worth much more.” Roberto gazed at the piles of paintings on the floor with resignation.
“It is extraño,” the tech agreed. “But who knows what the burglar wanted? Maybe it was a troublemaker or someone who wanted to create a problem for you. Up to the detectives to figure out.” He packed up his things and headed for the door. “Do not disturb anything down here until you hear from the department. They may want to take another look. I don’t think there is any more evidence here.”
Half-asleep by this point, Michelle had stretched out on the sofa. Through nearly closed eyes, she watched as Roberto walked with the tech to the door. She barely saw Roberto nod as he showed him out the door, closed it, and put the safety lock on.
She was out like a tripped circuit breaker before he turned again.
Chapter 10
Lindy woke late in the morning to an empty bed. She turned to look at the clock and saw it was almost eleven. Snapping to her senses, she reached for her phone to see if she had any messages. When she saw one, she expected it to be from Michelle but was disappointed it came from Colin. She didn’t even read it, skipping over it to see if she had missed one from Michelle, but there was nothing.
Anxiety hit her, and she called Michelle’s mobile phone. It rang and rang and rang as she let it go for at least fifteen rings before giving up. She wasn’t answering her phone. Lindy hurried to the bathroom to take care of necessities then took a quick shower to wake up and wash the scent of the night off her before she returned to her phone.
She called the hotel in Marbella, had them ring their room, and waited as she hoped for an answer. The hotel operator came back on to tell her no one was picking up. She asked if she might page Michelle in the hotel, suggesting she may be at lunch. The operator put her through to the main desk, and Lindy went through the whole request again. There was a delay and recorded music while the clerk presumably paged her niece in the restaurant and the lobby. Lindy fidgeted, panic growing in her as she feared something might have happened to Michelle.
The clerk came back on. “I’m sorry, señora. She does not answer the page. Both keys to your room are checked in, so it appears she is not in the hotel or the room right now. You can try again later.”
“Wait,” she said before he hung up. “Could you please put a message in her box to call her aunt?”
“Of course,” he said, his voice calm and agreeable as if nothing was out of order while she imagined the worst.
She hung up and sat on the side of the bed, feeling numb. This was the worst possible situation. She was in another damn country while her niece was missing in Spain. Her brother would hang her out with the wash to dry if he learned about it. If she didn’t find the girl, it would be worse. Why wasn’t she answering her phone?
And where the hell was Colin? At last, she called up his message and read it. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her when he woke to go check out the sea road. He expected to be back by one and told her to go ahead and order breakfast or lunch in for herself. They had a three-twenty ferry back to Algeciras.
“No!” she cried the word aloud. “Oh, no. I have to get back to Spain now.” Shaking with worry and agitation, she called Colin’s phone and waited for him to answer. At first, she thought she wasn’t going to have any more luck with him than with Michelle, but then he picked up on the fifth ring.
“Colin, Michelle is missing,” she blurted into the phone, her voice a tone sharp with her worry.
“Missing? What happened?” he asked. His voice was concerned but not panicked. Of course, she wasn’t his niece.
“She hasn’t gotten back to me since yesterday afternoon, and she’s not answering her phone. She’s not picking up at the hotel. I’m afraid something terrible has happened.”
“Now it might not be bad,” Colin said, trying to be reasonable. “Do you have the boy’s phone number? The artist?”
“Roberto? No, I don’t. Oh, I should have gotten it before we left. I am such a dope.” Her voice cracked as she hovered on the edge of tears.
“Don’t panic. It may be nothing. She may have a dead battery, or she dropped the phone, and it’s not working, or she accidentally turned it off.”
“I guess it’s possible. She has been bouncing all around with it, and it’s her third one this year.” He was making sense, but it didn’t reassure her. “Are you coming back yet?”
“I have one more location to check out, and then I’ll head back. It won’t be long. Get some food and a coffee, and try not to worry.” He sounded so reasonable as he said it, but as soon as she hung up, the anxiety and guilt set in aga
in. What was she thinking? She should never have brought Michelle to Europe at all.
Coffee and a breakfast roll arrived via room service, and Lindy signed the bill in between nervous glances at the clock. Where was Colin? She sipped at the coffee, but couldn’t eat the roll. She called Michelle again and sent text messages. She paced back and forth, barely noticing the twinges in her still-sore ankle. She’d packed her overnight bag, ready to leave for the ferry as soon as possible. They needed to get back to Marbella quickly.
By the time Colin opened the door, she was a frenetic hurricane of worry.
“I still can’t reach her,” she told him. “We have to get back as soon as we can. I need to find her.”
Colin pulled her in his arms, offering comfort while he tried to contain her frantic hand motions. “Just calm down. You can’t do anything right now, and I need you to settle down so we can discuss this logically, darling.”
“Logically? My niece is missing! My responsibility. I shouldn’t have left her there alone. I was an idiot to do it. What was I thinking?”
“You’re not an idiot.” He picked up on the last thing she said. “Lindy, she is seventeen, not a little girl. And she’s a smart girl.”
“Seventeen-year-old, smart-ass girls get abducted and killed, too, you know.” Her voice was angry when she ripped herself out of his hold. “She may have been in an accident on the damn motorcycle or went out into the sea and drowned, or who knows what?”
Colin held up a hand with his index finger in the air as if to warn her. “Listen to yourself. You’re creating scenarios that haven’t happened and worrying about what if’s. Until we learn something, this is doing no good. Just sit down, drink some water and wait, and I’ll try to at least alleviate some of your fears, okay?”
She glared at him, feeling like he was trying to pacify her when she was being ripped apart with her worries. Nonetheless, she dropped to the chair in the room, poured a glass of orange-infused water, and sipped it.
Colin pulled out his smartphone, looked up a number, and dialed. Whoever he called, he spoke to them in Spanish as he asked a few questions and waited for answers. He didn’t sound alarmed, but Lindy’s anxiety grew as he talked. “Si, muchas gracias,” he said, then gave out his phone number, which even her limited Spanish recognized.