The Matador's Crown

by Alex Archer

  Thinking to use the dancer’s performance as distraction to look around, Annja walked to the back of the club and noted the hallway at the end of the bar where the performers came and left the stage.

  Checking that no one was watching her, she slipped past the bartender, who was busy pouring shots for a noisy trio of college girls—one of whom attempted her own flamenco dance with a lift of her übershort skirt to the mockery of the elder drinkers around them.

  The hallway was dark, lit by lamps that glowed above doors and rooms blocked by strands of hanging red beads. Out in the club, the music had changed pace, and Annja heard a woman begin the haunting strains of a sad song.

  Annja was grabbed from behind by the ponytail, her head jerked back sharply.

  “What the hell are you doing here, señorita?”

  A blade touched the side of Annja’s rib cage, and she followed the woman’s directions down the dark hallway. She was led past a dressing room no larger than a closet and through a dented metal door outside into a dark alley. The dancer shoved Annja against the brick wall. Fine rain misted the air. The crisp coolness was welcome after the smoky club.

  Spinning around, Annja put her hands on her hips. The woman’s knife wavered before her, but the distance Annja had just gained would allow her time to dodge. “Happy to see you again, too, Ava.”

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Can’t a girl watch a show?”

  “Not you. Not this club.”

  “I see.” Annja nodded toward the street. “I didn’t see my name posted on the door with a big red X through it.”

  Ava spun the dagger in her fingers, obviously trying to intimidate her. She spun the blade as if she’d been doing it since she was a toddler. Most impressive, but Annja bet the woman would gape if she pulled her battle sword out of midair. Not the time for it. Yet.

  “We need to talk,” Annja said. “Without giving each other bruises. Is that possible?”

  The dancer gave her a disgusted once-over. “How do I know you’re not working for the police?”

  “You don’t, but I’m not. I’ve developed a distinct dislike for the police since I’ve come to Cádiz.” Still, she hadn’t decided to believe Professor Crockett’s claim that the police were dirty until she’d seen actual proof. “I need answers about Diego Montera, Ava.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “The internet is a marvelous place. There’s no picture of you on the club’s site, just that interesting tattoo of yours.”

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest, dagger tip tapping at her chin as she considered Annja’s suggestion. “Diego was a friend of mine.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  “I did not do that.”

  “I didn’t say you did. He was involved in something I believe was well over his head. Please, just a few minutes of your time to ask some questions. You can keep the knife pointed at me if it makes you feel better.”

  The woman tilted her chin up in a defiant gesture. “You’re either stupid or telling the truth. There’s a tapas bar down the street. You’re buying.”

  She followed Ava, dressed in full flamenco regalia, down the alley. Where the woman kept the dagger hidden was beyond Annja, but she had to say the ruffled-danger look really worked for Ava Vital.

  But it didn’t intimidate her in the least.

  * * *

  INSIDE THE RESTAURANT lit by green lights and decorated with kitschy palm trees, the dancer ordered tap beer and fresh prawns soaked in lemon and sage. She possessed the command of a man ordering dinner and taking charge, which Annja found familiar. A wise female alone in foreign countries on digs should always present confidence.

  “Who are you?” Ava asked after the waiter had dropped off the plate of appetizers and two beers. “Why should I trust you?”

  The beer was warm but had a spicy kick Annja suspected was clove. She put down half the mug before speaking. “I’m Annja Creed. I’m an archaeologist, and I was working on a dig in Puerto Real before coming into Cádiz to spend a few days at the city museum inspecting some Egyptian-found coins.”

  “You’re from New York,” Ava said.

  “Is my accent that obvious?”

  “I used to date a guy from Brooklyn.”

  “That’s where I live, but not where I was born. I guess the accent does affix itself to a person.”

  “Guy was an asshole.” Ava tilted back her beer and set the mug on the wobbly wooden table with a sharp thunk. Propping her elbow against the back of the chair, she lifted her posture defiantly. She had perfected the cool, don’t-mess-with-me stare. “You mentioned Diego?”

  “I was the one who found him dead in his hotel room.”

  “You were there? How did you find him? Did he invite you in?”

  “No, I had rented a room and happened to see his door open, and, well…”

  “And how did you learn he was connected to me? Is that why you chased me last night?”

  “I chased you last night because you took a shot at the matador. I had no idea, at the time, that you had ties to Diego until I found the website for the Gato Negra. Interesting how life doesn’t serve up coincidence, but rather clues to the greater picture, isn’t it?”

  “I just want to know why you’ve been following me.”

  “I know Diego played guitar at the Gato Negra and assume you danced for him.”

  “I did. As did the other dancers in the club. We all work together. Diego has excellent compas—he keeps the rhythm…. Kept the rhythm. But once in a while he tended to get carried away with flourishes. Distracted from my dancing, you know?”

  “I can imagine. The guitarist is not the soloist. The dancer is.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “But were you two close, away from the club?”

  Ava set back her shoulders and crossed her legs, kicking out a black velvet shoe.

  “Look, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life,” Annja said, “but you present an interesting twist to this case.”

  “The case? You said you weren’t with the police. I knew you were lying to me.”

  “I’m not with the police,” Annja rushed out. “Just sit back and let me explain. I’m an archaeologist. And an occasional host of a cable television show that showcases monsters throughout history.”

  Ava’s frown deepened.

  “I travel a lot and on occasion join digs, as I did in Jerez. I’m not trying to solve Diego’s murder or even get the sniper who shot at the matador arrested. Not at the moment, anyway.” They exchanged serious stare time, and Annja served her most damning glare. “I’m involved because there’s an artifact I’ve had my hands on recently that showed up in Diego’s room. Stolen. More than half the artifacts you see in museums are obtained illegally.”

  “I don’t go to museums.”

  “Yeah, I would have guessed that about you.” Probably spent most of her time in gun shops pricing rifle scopes. “Still. Besides being concerned about the looted dig site, Diego’s death was senseless, and I do care about justice for him.”

  “The Cádiz police can take care of that.”

  “I spoke to the dig supervisor this morning, and there’s been another death.”

  “Probably not related,” Ava said too quickly.

  “What makes you say that? What do you know, Ava?”

  The dancer bounced her foot furiously, but then with a heavy sigh said, “Diego got involved with the wrong people, but they are not directly related to your archaeological dig.”

  “How can you know that? You must have been close to Diego to know what he was involved in off-club hours.”

  She shrugged. “We worked together, shared a beer once in a while, but that was it. Though I suspect he had a crush on me. He had that puppy-dog look that always made me uncomfortable.”

  “Who was he involved with? Was he picking up side jobs? Perhaps delivering artifacts to buyers? There was something missing from his hotel room. An artifact, I
suspect.”

  “I don’t know names or anything like that.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  Ava ate a few pieces of shrimp, then made a show of wiping her hands on the cloth napkin before leaning across the table. “All I know is Diego was trying to make extra money. Guitarists don’t make a lot, and he didn’t work every night at the club. My guess is he got involved with a shady group. He never mentioned anything about it to me, but that’s what I piece together from what you’ve told me.”

  “Did he mention where he was going that night or who he intended to meet?”

  Ava shook her head. “Like I said, I wasn’t as close to him as he would have liked me to be. He was mostly moon-eyed around me. Didn’t give me a lot of personal details of his life. If what he did was illegal, do you think he would tell me? No.”

  “So what makes you so sure it’s not related to the murder at the dig I mentioned?”

  She sighed. “I don’t. You make me nervous. I don’t like you, loco Americano.”

  “I’m having trouble finding your appealing qualities, too. Especially since you’ve got a blade tucked at your back.”

  “A blade I can handle well.”

  “I’m sure you can. Are you a dancer first or a sniper?”

  She jutted her chin disapprovingly and looked aside. Shouldn’t have expected an answer to that one.

  “I suspect the police are covering up for something. Someone. Probably the killer.”

  “Now you’re getting smart, Brooklyn.” Ava pushed aside her beer mug and leaned forward, tapping the table with an insistent finger. “And now you understand why I won’t be giving anyone information. Not even a curious archaeologist with bad fashion sense.”

  Annja looked over her colorful skirt. So she’d bought a stupid skirt.

  “Just leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone,” Ava said with the biting vitriol of a threat. “Diego’s killer will pay.”

  “You say that like you know who the killer is.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know who stole the artifact.”

  “No. I only know what I feel in my heart, and my heart tells me Diego got in the path of one very bad man.”

  “You took a shot at Manuel Bravo. You think he killed Diego? That would imply you believe he stole the missing artifact.” Annja pulled the plate of lemon-soaked shrimp closer and stabbed one with her fork.

  Ava remained tight-lipped, arms crossed even tighter.

  “Did Diego tell you it was Manuel he was going to meet? Ava, if you have information, I need it. The police need it.”

  More silence.

  So she tried a different approach. “How does a torero get involved in theft of artifacts?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But she did. The woman could cast all the threatening gazes she wanted at Annja—it only confirmed she held some information that might help her piece together the parts.

  “And how much is it worth it to you, a seemingly innocent flamenco dancer, to take another man’s life in revenge for one seemingly innocent guitar player? You say you didn’t have a relationship? I’m having trouble believing you in the face of such vengeful emotions against the matador.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know anything, Brooklyn.”

  “I found Diego dead on the bed. But the artifact he had with him was still in the room.”

  “What was it?”

  “A bronze statue of what may be a Baal god.”

  “I don’t understand what the hell you just said.”

  “A small bronze bull. That statue wasn’t stolen. There was a wood crate in Diego’s room, as well, and that was empty. I don’t believe the statue had been transported in that. You’re sure you have no idea what else he’d been carrying? It could be a means to pin the murder on the matador.”

  The woman stretched taller, meeting Annja’s gaze. She tilted back the beer, then stood and nodded to an elderly man who complimented her on her dancing as he passed their table. “Stay out of it, Brooklyn, or you’re going to get hurt.”

  Annja also stood and let out a soft chuckle. She put her hand to the woman’s shoulder. Ava roughly pushed it away. “We can get more accomplished if we work together.”

  “I don’t think so. We are not together. I work alone.”

  “As a sniper? You’ve been trained. And your fighting skills are expert. Who are you?”

  “Who are you?”

  Annja held out her hand and said, “Annja Creed. Want to try this over? You are Ava Vital. Dancer. Sniper. Professional assassin?”

  The dancer moved quickly, dragging Annja away from the table and slamming her against the brick wall. She turned up a roundhouse and landed her heel against Annja’s gut. They were only noticed by a couple of men sitting three tables away at the back of the restaurant. The men didn’t move to stop the scuffle.

  Not willing to throw a punch and attract more attention, Annja got up from the kick. “You’ve had

  martial-arts training,” she said. “Or is the roundhouse kick standard in flamenco dance schools?”

  “I’ve always been a dancer. I was born with the rhythm in my blood. It is duende.”

  Annja had heard the term before. The natural rhythm born to dancers and musicians.

  “The desire to kick ass came later.” Ava slammed her palm to Annja’s shoulder, pinning her to the wall. Annja relaxed, unwilling to cause a scene. “I served in the Special Forces a few years, but I found spying more interesting. I was given more training, but too quickly the entire training program was disbanded. I was left unemployed.” She released Annja and shifted her hips to a more powerful stance, hands fisted at her sides.

  “So you’re using your skills to commit murder?”

  Through the restaurant’s speakers, a guitarist played a mournful tune and a singer punctuated the song with a low and lingering bellow Annja felt vibrate in her gut.

  Ava asked, “Did you enjoy the bullfight?”

  She wouldn’t bother to ask how she knew she’d been to a fight.

  “It was…a new experience for me. First time I’ve witnessed a live fight.”

  “Did you approve?”

  “Of the spectacle? To a degree.”

  Ava shook her head. “Americans.”

  She stood ready to deliver a fist or a kick, but sensed the dancer had used her silly threat and wasn’t going to attack again. “Spaniards,” Annja replied.

  That curled the corners of Ava’s lips into a smile.

  “I need your help,” Annja said. “I want to find out what was worth killing Diego for. What was in the crate. And who, in fact, stabbed him in the back to get it.”

  Ava studied her. Working out the pros and cons of revealing all that she knew, Annja guessed. For someone who had publically attempted to murder a man, it was a wise pause.

  By rights, Annja should make a citizen’s arrest and haul her into the police station. But she wasn’t too sure César Soto would arrest Ava or instead slap the handcuffs on Annja. After all, he’d had her escorted from the city and thought she’d be in London right now.

  “Have you considered the method of killing yet?” Ava asked with a sly glance to the stage where the dancer marked out the compas in alternating steps and claps.

  “A stab to the back. Are you aware of that?”

  “It was on the local radio,” Ava explained. “I’m wagering Diego’s death is similar to another stabbing here in the city not a month ago. Guy was found on the beach bleeding out, but by the time they got him to the hospital he was dead. The stab wound was made from above the head.”

  “That information couldn’t have been relayed on the radio.”

  “Rumors have circulated,” Ava said. “If you’re a performer in the old city, you hear things. Do you want me to tell you this, or are you going to continue to question my sources?”

  Her hands akimbo, Annja nodded for her to continue.

  “The blade was deliver
ed over the head, into the spine at an angle. A method of placing the blade that is very familiar to some in the city. You understand?”

  Annja pondered that, trying to figure how or why the murderer would stab in such an awkward manner. To go in over the head, he would have had to approach the man from the front, to allow him to see what was coming, instead of knifing him in the back from behind. It was a bold move, much like…

  When it came to her, Annja met Ava’s eyes and the woman nodded in acknowledgment.

  “The estocada?” The moment of truth during the bullfight when the matador thrusts the estoque sword into the bull.

  “But is that possible with a human?” she continued. “To sever the aorta from such an angle? The anatomies of a bull and a human are completely different.”

  “Does it matter? The act of placing the blade was the same as a torero to the bull. Now do you have to question if it was El Bravo who killed Diego?”

  “Of course I do. I have no proof he was in the Hotel Blanca that night. There are any number of matadors in the city. And just because a move associated with the torero was used doesn’t mean the murderer actually was one.”

  But truly? A matador had murdered Diego Montera?

  “Who told you this?”

  “Not important,” Ava said. “Think about it. You look like a smart woman. You’ll put the pieces together.”

  The dancer who would be an assassin strode out, grace evident in the swing of her shoulders and the sturdy placement of her steps. A few admirers followed her exit, including Annja.

  Ava believed the bullfighter had killed Diego. What motive could he have?

  The walls of El Bravo’s villa had been lined with artifacts depicting bulls. He’d said they were gifts. But wouldn’t a man interested in bull paraphernalia have taken the Baal statue from Diego’s room?

  And why was Ava so determined to take revenge against him? She had implied she and Diego weren’t close, had no sort of relationship outside of the club. Hardly reason to want revenge against a man she suspected had killed a fellow worker.

  On the other hand, Annja should never judge what pushed a person to murder.

  She needed to get back to the hotel and check online to see if anyone had replied about the photos she had uploaded.