1532750838

by Lotta Smith

  I looked at the title page. “Is it in Spanish?”

  “Yes. The title in English would be something like Ye Olde Tales of India and Witchcraft.”

  “Okay, so the setting of this book is in India.” I had no idea why he was using a book about old tales as a reference, but I decided to play along and enjoy my lunch.

  “Not the India in the Asian continent. The book refers to the North and South American continents that Columbus mistook as India. What do you know about Spanish history in the sixteenth century?”

  “Sixteenth century? Isn’t that when Pirates of the Caribbean was set?”

  “No, the movie series is set in the eighteenth century. Anything else you know about the historical events in the sixteenth century?”

  “I don’t know. They were cruising in big vessels. I think big vessels like the ones departing from the Port of Miami nowadays. Royal Caribbean, Princess, Disney, you name it.”

  “Is that a joke?” Rowling furrowed his eyebrows.

  “You know what? I’m not much into history. In my opinion, history is a novel with no taste, written by the people who claimed victory over those who had lesser say.”

  “I understand you suck at history.”

  “I was good at art history. Looking at all the lovely pottery, paintings, and sculptures was absolutely fascinating. On the other hand, I had no interest in general history. All the battles, wars, treaties, and politics were boring. They were just old events with similar, boring names. Perhaps if history textbooks were written in the same style and voice as the New York Post, they would be more readable.”

  “Okay, cut it out. I should have skipped the backstory.” Rowling rubbed his temples.

  The food came and we started eating.

  Cutting up his juicy and delicious-looking ribeye steak, Rowling said, “Basically, the sixteenth century was the prime time for Spain and Portugal, exploring the world’s seas, opening world-wide oceanic trade routes, and colonizing large parts of Mundo Nuevo, a.k.a. the New World. The Portuguese became the masters of Asia’s and Africa’s Indian Ocean trade, and the Spanish took a large part of the Americas. Back in that time, the economy was literally booming in those areas. It is said that approximately five tons of gold and three hundred tons of silver went across the Atlantic Ocean directly to Spain from Central and South America each year. Thanks to the enslavement of the native people, forcing them to work without pay, it was a business with super-efficient profitability. Thus, a humongous wealth went to Spain. Meanwhile, thanks to the endless influx of said wealth, the people in Spain stopped working, which suddenly degraded the general labor ethics among them. The Jewish replaced the Spaniards in labor forces, and eventually, they took over the world of finances.”

  I listened while munching on one of the large shrimp. I didn’t dare interrupt his story by asking things like, ‘What does that have to do with human-eating microorganisms?’ because I was getting keen on knowing more about the story.

  Snatching a shrimp from my plate, he continued. “There’s a chapter about this villain called Alejandro Tremellius, a Spanish colonel who served in the New World as the manager of a gold mine for five years. He did a great job for the government of Spain in the New World, meaning he made the natives’ lives a living hell.

  “Tremellius was a typical villain who had appeared in many stories like Grimm’s Fairy Tales. He was greedy, sadistic, and evil, yet he knew how to sweeten up with the powerful. He was such a common villain that he couldn’t have had his name in the book if it weren’t for his sudden disappearance in the year 1547 from his home in Toledo.

  “When he disappeared, Tremellius was a wealthy retiree. After his successful deployment in the New World, he landed a new career in the maintenance of the public order back home in Spain. Again, he did an outstanding job, taking care of the Protestant movement by forcibly suppressing the mob of humans. In addition, he literally made a killing during the procedure by making false accusations of conspiracy on several innocent Jews. He employed intense torturing, and he didn’t let them go until they paid him handsomely.

  “According to the book, he knew how the Protestants, the Jews, and the native peoples loathed him, but he didn’t seem bothered by such feelings like regret and remorse. At home, he was a loving father and husband. In his retirement, art was his new passion, and he was determined to have great success as a painter. He was set on taking a victory over the El Greco, who was the ‘it’ painter in that time and probably one of the most well-known artists in history.”

  “Outshining the El Greco? Seriously?” I muttered.

  “Tremellius’s ambition sounds like a joke here in the twenty-first century, but he lived in the sixteenth century, and he was serious.

  “Indeed, it is recorded in this book that he wasn’t a bad painter. His paintings were good, except they were not as striking or sensational as those of El Greco’s. He was a strong sympathizer of hostile art critics against the acclaimed painter living in the same city.

  “Tremellius worked hard. He had achieved moderate success, but the gap between El Greco and him was getting even bigger. Frustrated, he blamed paints, brushes, and canvases. He blinded one of his servants by poking him in the eye with a brush, which helped Tremellius’s already bad reputation nose-dive. As a result, he grew even more aggressive.”

  And Rowling’s story reached its climax….

  “One day, an old Jewish man knocked on his door. He told Tremellius that he was a merchant and a huge fan of his art.

  “His compliment earned him an opportunity to pitch his product to Tremellius. The man said to Tremellius, ‘Our enterprise has just acquired the most fascinating and mystical painting material from a Portuguese merchant. This material was extracted from a particular kind of moss existing in the crater of the most deadly active volcano from the deepest part of Africa. Have you ever seen the Kano school of Japanese painting? Indeed, some of the greatest masters of this school used this material to create spectacular paintings. The Japanese named this product Busu and, even in Japan, only a chosen few artists have access to it. All you need to do is mix the material with your paint and work on your masterpiece. Busu responds to light stimuli, and starts pulsating with the paint. This response gives amazing effects to your already great masterpiece, making your art even more animated and sensational than ever.’”

  I could almost hear the Jewish guy pitching.

  “Back then, paintings from Japan were hot among the European art society. According to the book, Tremellius was always enthusiastic about trying new painting material. Indeed, he might have been willing to employ even the darkest power of Lucifer if there were even the smallest chance of defeating El Greco.

  “Still, Tremellius put on a skeptical façade. ‘How would I know if you’re telling the truth? Then again, your tale was intriguing. Though my talent as an artist isn’t something affected by painting materials, I can always try new products. Leave all of this new paint. I’ll try it first and consider paying for it later.’

  “‘I’m awfully sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I cannot do that. Actually, half of what I have here is reserved for Señor El Greco. You know, the price is not too high, but a promise is a promise.’

  “The price quote he reluctantly gave to Tremellius as the deal with El Greco was as much as the average annual salary of an upper-class bureaucrat.

  “‘I’ll pay twice as much as that. Leave the paint already!’ Tremellius almost snatched it from the merchant. True to his words, he paid the full price in cash, though he didn’t forget to say, ‘If this paint turns out to be fake, I’ll find you, kill you, and let the pigs eat your flesh. You understand?’

  “Using the ‘magical’ paint, Tremellius started working on a new project named The Dark Trinity, in which he had planned to portray Lucifer as the son. Withdrawn in his atelier, he even banned his family from contacting him while he worked.

  “The only person who was permitted to come near him during this time period was his servant o
f thirty years. He delivered meals to the atelier’s door twice each day.

  “On the thirtieth night, the servant delivered dinner to his master’s atelier. Upon leaving, he caught a joyous shriek from Tremellius.

  “‘Dios mio! It’s true…. He is moving! Lucifer’s whole body is pulsating as if he is about to come to life! I can’t wait to have this work evaluated by the critics! Look at Lucifer, his evilness… it’s completely different from the other parts I had painted with regular paint. I must admit that this new product is groundbreaking, giving an absolute contrast between justice and immorality.’

  “Those turned out to be the final words of Tremellius.

  “The next day, the servant came to the atelier as usual to deliver breakfast and fetch the dinner tray. What was unusual was that the food was untouched.

  “The servant notified the family. After a heated discussion, and weighing the pros and cons of paying a visit to the atelier, they broke down the door. Inside, a large canvas stood on the easel in the center of the room. Scattered on the floor were the paints, palettes, brushes, and the garments; however, Alejandro Tremellius was nowhere to be seen.

  “When they took a look at the canvas, the piece of artwork seemed quite unusual. The background was painted in complex dark tones, and the Holy Spirit and the Father were drawn and painted. But what appeared to be Lucifer as the son was nothing but a huge, body-shaped blank space.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Then what? Did they find the killer?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” he said matter-of-factly. “I didn’t exist in the sixteenth century.”

  “Uh-huh” was my response. I was getting used to his presumptuous attitude.

  “Uh-huh? That’s all you have to say?” He frowned.

  “In addition, thanks for a lovely lunch.” I smiled, sipping a nice cup of peppermint tea. “The Kobe beef sliders were very yummy, and the shrimp…. They were just divine.”

  “Okay. Anyway, based on the way Flynn disappeared, the possibility of Extremus-tardigrada—a.k.a. Busu—being the murder weapon is pretty high. In addition, this book hasn’t been translated into English, so we can narrow the suspects to those who can read Spanish.”

  “Wow, so we have only forty-five million suspects in the nation!” I said. “Not to mention that anyone can download the e-book.”

  “Fortunately, the number of suspects is pretty limited.” Rowling made a swiping move with his right index finger, telling me the book was only available in hardcover edition. The only reason he had the e-book version was because USCAB happened to be a major developer in the e-book industry, and most of the books he called references had been converted into e-books just for him. According to him, they were old books and copyright wasn’t an issue.

  Rowling put his empty coffee cup on the table. “Let’s go back to the NYPD.”

  Ten minutes later, we were back in the interrogation room at the 34th Precinct, where John Sangenis was being held.

  I could tell how unhappy Detective Fender was from his facial expression, but of course, Rowling didn’t care.

  “Stop playing a game and just admit that you murdered Ivan Flynn,” Rowling told Sangenis.

  “Oh, what an irrational guess. What a terrible interrogation. Talk about a false accusation,” Sangenis responded in a flat voice.

  “Hmm, that was better than the last time, in that you didn’t squawk. Still, you’re far from being a decent actor.”

  Following Rowling’s sarcastic remark, Sangenis snarled, “What about you? For a decent investigator, you’re doing nothing but making a groundless accusation against me. You’re not following protocol, and you have no evidence. I don’t know how you can live with that.”

  “That’s not an issue for me. I’m not a decent investigator.” Rowling shrugged.

  “Wow, you can be quite modest if you try. I’m surprised!” Sangenis threw his hands in the air.

  Rowling responded with a one-eyebrow raise. “Don’t get me wrong. I meant to say that I’m a phenomenal investigator and not a decent investigator, which allows me to skip the menial order of procedures.”

  Sangenis’s jaw dropped; he was at a loss for words. I was standing by the door, trying to be as invisible as possible. In addition, by being close to the exit, I could run.

  Detective Fender stage-whispered to me, “Are you sure it’s okay to let him have his way?”

  “What do you think?” I asked. “No offense, but I suppose you’re much more familiar with dealing with him than I am. Actually, today happens to be my first day working with him, and I’m quite lost here.”

  Fender shut his eyes, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath.

  Immediately, I regretted saying that. Obviously, my response wasn’t something he wanted to hear. I was afraid he would start yelling at me like a temperamental attending physician, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I don’t know how you ended up in your position, but I’m sorry.”

  I was touched. Actually, I almost cried. Fender had just told me the nicest thing I’d heard in months. During my days in clinical rotations, the majority of attending physicians were evil and mean-spirited. They yelled at me, pushed me around, and humiliated me whenever possible. I was called a moron at times when I couldn’t give them the right answer, and also when I did come up with the right answer but they were hoping I’d screw up. I got used to being the recipient of verbal and psychological abuse to the point that I always prepared myself for being treated badly. It was unbelievably fabulous to know that not all people were malevolent.

  “Thank you very much, Detective Fender,” I said, sniffing a little.

  “It’s okay. Compared to the last time, he’s behaving. I guess you have a good influence on him.”

  “You think so?”

  Meanwhile, Rowling was still talking to John Sangenis, but I was too busy befriending the detective and wasn’t paying much attention to my boss. In addition, his voice had dropped, so I couldn’t hear him very clearly.

  Still, I caught Sangenis retorting, “What the hell are you talking about? Can’t you at least try speaking in a language I can understand?”

  Arms crossed, Rowling stared at the wannabe actor, but he didn’t say a word.

  Precisely at that moment, Sangenis’s lawyer appeared, requesting the 34th Precinct release her client immediately.

  “I’m leaving. I’m totally sick of playing along with your little game. If you want to have a conversation with me, I recommend getting a warrant next time!” Snarling, Sangenis stood.

  Detectives Fender and Lamont clenched their fists.

  “We will,” Lamont said through gritted teeth. “See you soon.”

  “By the way,” Sangenis turned to Rowling, “does it make you feel good about yourself when you judge people as if you’re the supreme justice?”

  “Of course I feel good about what I do,” Rowling declared. “Are you implying there are better things to do in life? If so, I’m more than happy to hear that.”

  Then it was Sangenis’s turn to shut up.

  Grinning like a cat licking cream, Rowling added, “Anyway, keep barking all you want. You won’t last long anyway.”

  “I will file a formal complaint against all of you here for police brutality and a violation of human rights, and I’ll sue you like hell. So be prepared,” Sangenis spat before he turned on his heels and left, flashing a victorious smile.

  It was John Sangenis’s one minute of victory. Actually, it was his final moment of triumph because, later that day, he disappeared from the surface of the Earth.

  As in literally.

  The police couldn’t keep Sangenis in custody; however, that didn’t mean they gave up catching him for good.

  When he went back to his apartment in Brooklyn, a couple of detectives from the 34th Precinct followed. Luckily, there was a grocery store in front of the building where Sangenis lived, making it easy for the detectives to conduct surveillance on the target. Plus, both his unit and the entrance to the
building were clearly visible from the parking lot. Indeed, it was an ideal building for a stakeout, for it had no back door.

  As it grew darker, the detectives saw the light flickering in Sangenis’s window on the third floor. Behind the curtain, they could see the movement of a silhouette.

  At first, there was little activity in the apartment as they watched the silhouette sitting, standing, and coming in and out of their vision.

  A van with ‘Bobby’s Movin’ Diner’ written on both sides stopped in front of the building, and a guy in a uniform carrying a Styrofoam container went inside, came out, and then left.

  The light was still on at a few minutes past midnight, and for the first time, there was a major move behind the curtain.

  In front of the detectives’ eyes, the human-shaped silhouette of John Sangenis started bouncing up and down. It turned and twisted while wiggling and jumping, and then it dropped to the floor.

  At first, they wondered if the target was practicing hip-hop, freestyle dance moves, but all of a sudden, the fast-paced movements stopped.

  While the detectives shook their heads in confusion, wondering if the target was trying to provoke them, they heard the dispatcher on the radio saying there was a noise complaint at the apartment they were watching.

  According to the dispatcher, neighbors on the second floor heard a series of earsplitting screams.

  When they entered the apartment, there was no sign of life.

  In the room facing the parking lot, the detectives discovered clothes and shoes scattered on the floor, which they positively identified as the garments John Sangenis was wearing when they saw him last. Also, an empty bottle of ketchup and an empty Styrofoam container were scattered on the floor. Strangely, both the bottle and container were completely clear of condiment or food particles, as if they were washed and cleaned. Just like the night of Ivan Flynn’s disappearance, a candle was blazing.

  Considering Sangenis couldn’t get out of the building without being seen by the detectives, they had no choice but to come to the conclusion that he had disappeared from his apartment.