by Alex Archer
And how did El Bravo play into all of this? A man who insisted all the artifacts he owned had been gifts. Had he obtained the crowns through others? She hadn’t found the replica shop and couldn’t know if that had been the truth. She suspected it was a lie, and walking up to a thousand-pound bull had pretty nicely cemented that lie.
“Time to pay the matador a visit and get to the bottom of this. I hope Garin decided to go club hopping this evening instead of visiting his friend.”
* * *
AWARE THERE WAS NO fight this evening and that it was late, Annja wasn’t sure if she’d find Señor Bravo at home. He’d indicated that besides bullfighting, women captivated his interest. He could be out carousing or seducing a beautiful woman right now. He could have someone at his villa.
Didn’t matter. She was through with tiptoeing.
She wasn’t sure of protocol. Could she knock on his door and expect to be admitted? Tomorrow was the big exhibition honoring the matador. He was supposed to kill six of the bulls in the fight. It would also bring him to his one-hundredth corrida of the season.
She’d worried about protocol for nothing. The butler let Annja in and offered her lemonade out on the patio under the glowing paper lanterns while he got Manuel, who was in contemplation. Most likely staring at the gold votive crowns, she decided. Contemplating their value? Or the life a man had paid to deliver one to Manuel’s hands?
Twenty minutes passed before the lithe matador appeared, buttoning up a loose white shirt. He wore slouchy jeans that wilted over his bare feet, and he would have looked like a regular beach bum if it hadn’t been for the slicked-back black hair and the cigar chomped at the corner of his mouth.
“Creed,” he said around the cigar as he sat and put his feet up on the wicker table.
He was using just her last name now? Not so friendly anymore.
“How’s the lemonade?” he asked, wincing as he looked directly at one of the paper lanterns. “Tart enough?”
“It tastes fresh squeezed.”
“Of course it is. I always demand the finest. What are you doing here, and so late?”
“I was wondering if you’d allow me another look at the Visigothic votive crowns you display in your sanctuary.”
“Why?”
His curt response took her off guard. The response “because I asked” wasn’t going to cut it, she suspected.
“As I’ve told you, I’m an archaeologist. I study medieval arts. It’s my specialty. The Visigothic crowns date back to the seventh century and earlier. At least, most of the ones in existence do. I’ve only ever seen the crowns in museums. I didn’t get a chance to look closely at the ones you own when I was here the other day, and…well…I’m a curious girl.”
“They are replicas. I cannot understand why they would prove of scholarly importance to you.”
“I know you believe them fakes. Garin gave me the address to the antiques shop in the old town. But I wasn’t able to find it. You said the artifacts you own are all gifts. What about the crowns?”
“I don’t recall. I own so many pieces, you understand.” He tapped the side of his head with a finger. “It’s late.”
“I know. I apologize. I had plans to fly out tomorrow after the fight, and I’d hate to leave Cádiz without knowing if I could have had a chance to examine the crowns more closely, perhaps even take a few pictures.”
She tossed out that last statement to bait him. If he didn’t allow pictures it would mean he had something he wished to hide.
Manuel tapped the cigar on a silver ashtray riveted to the wicker chair arm. He closed his eyes. “I thought I made it clear to you, Señorita Creed, I don’t like it when people touch my things.”
“I won’t touch them. I promise. I have latex gloves with me. Carry them wherever I go.” She pasted on her friendliest smile, which was not so garish as her beaming you-like-me-so-don’t-shoot-me smile or so sly as her sexy smile (rarely used unless she was desperate). “Please?”
Cigar smoke curling around his head, Manuel eyed her through narrowed lids. Everything about his attitude toward her had flipped on its head. No longer charming and interested, now he was guarded and cold. Once again, she felt as if she stood before a bull. Without a cape.
Out back by the fence she saw a figure stride along the side of the barn, shadowed to a black silhouette in the darkness. “Is that your assistant, Cristo?”
Manuel shrugged but didn’t turn to look. “He’s teaching a novice tomorrow. Doing some last-minute prep tonight.”
“You don’t do that? I mean, teach.”
“I don’t have the time. Cristo is a matador. He’s my best banderillero.”
“I understand he owns a bull ranch on the mainland?”
“It is something his family has been doing for decades, breeding toros. They are substandard.”
“You’d never stand before one in the ring?”
The matador shook his head, dismissing the suggestion as ludicrous. A puff from the cigar swirled fragrant smoke between the two of them.
“I was chased down the street by a bull as I was looking for the antiques shop,” she said. “I think the brand on its hindquarter was from Cristo’s ranch.”
That got his attention. He sat forward. “Is that so? A bull was loose in the streets of Cádiz? Where? When? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. But there were children in the area. They almost became collateral damage.”
“You say that as if you believe someone set the bull on you.”
“Señor Bravo, how often is it that a bull suddenly appears in the street?”
“Around here? More often than you would guess.”
“And yet there’s no stadium in Cádiz.”
“There are a few ranches along the coast. But Cristo’s ranch is on the mainland. It couldn’t have been one of his. I’m glad you weren’t harmed, and to hear that the children are safe.”
“Thank you. The bull’s brand was a half circle above a bar.”
He flicked the ash from the end of his cigar, but it missed the silver tray. “That’s quite startling. That is Cristo’s brand.”
“Believe me, it was startling to me to find myself standing before a full-size bull who apparently had not seen a person on foot before.”
“You think it was a ring-bred bull?”
“It charged movement.”
“As would most any bull.”
“I caped it with a colorful skirt. The morillo was large.”
“I see.” Manuel nodded. “I’ll speak to Cristo directly.” He stood, setting down the glass of lemonade next to the ashtray.
“About the votive crowns, first. Would you mind?”
With a heavy sigh, he nodded. “I sense you will not give up otherwise.”
“I can be very determined.”
He gestured that she follow him inside the house. He turned on no lights, so she navigated down the dark hallway with a palm against one wall.
“Soto says you’ve been poking your nose into police business,” he said over a shoulder. “Why is that?”
So he had talked to César Soto recently. “It wasn’t something I set out to do. I witnessed a crime that needed to be reported to the police, and did so. That crime, a sniper taking a shot at a famous matador. If that’s called poking my nose into things, then Officer Soto has a strange perception of right and wrong.”
“He doesn’t like you,” Manuel said.
They arrived at the door to his sanctuary, but he didn’t open it. A light from the dining area glowed down the hallway, making it possible to see his face, though it was still shadowed.
Annja shoved her hands in her pants pockets and kept up the hopefully endearing-yet-curious act. “You and César Soto are friends?”
“As I explained when you were here the other night, we once were. Now we are not. But I run into him at the fights. I appreciate you trying to help, but this isn’t your concern. I trust César will track down the shooter and take care of the matter.�
�
But she already knew the shooter’s identity and had even shared drinks with her. What was so difficult about tracking her down?
She stepped to the side, bringing him around so the light fell on his face. “Do you know Ava Vital, Manuel?”
The matador tilted his head at her. “A dancer? I’ve heard of her. Why do you ask?”
“You two have never spoken? Perhaps after a fight or a party?”
“I find the question strange and prying.”
“I’m sorry. I met her at the club where she dances, and she mentioned the great torero El Bravo. Just wondering if you two had met. So. The crowns?”
Manuel pushed open the door and ushered her into the room ahead of him. A flip of the light switch turned on the line of halogen lights above the altar, but the room remained low-lit and peaceful.
Annja fished out a pair of white latex gloves from her backpack and held them up in question. He nodded, then crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. Not about to leave her alone, of course.
She sensed he was lying about Ava. But why?
The first crown was smaller than the one to her right. Annja made a cursory inspection of it, but she was eager to look at the bigger one that featured the letters dangling around the base.
It was suspended from a gold hook linked into a short length of chain. She followed the chain up to the ceiling. The screw holding the first crown had been painted white to match the ceiling, obviously installed when the room had been decorated or the ceiling had been repainted. It had been there a while to judge from the gray coating of dust.
The second screw hook was shiny gold metal. There were flakes of wood dust on the inner curve of the hook.
“This one must be a recent acquisition.”
“Why would you assume that?”
She shrugged. “Looks like you’ve recently put it up.”
“Sometime this year,” he offered casually. “I lose track of dates and time when the season is upon me.”
Uh-huh. Yet the fresh sawdust indicated this addition could have been as recent as a few days.
With a glance first to Manuel, she then carefully touched one of the gold letters dangling from the base of the crown. The capital A and next to that a capital L. Altogether, it spelled out “Given by Alaric.”
She had a match. This crown had been stolen early in the twentieth century from the Madrid museum, and hadn’t been seen since. Until now.
She traced a fingertip over a sapphire the size of a dime and sensed Manuel’s posture by the door shift. She was touching his stuff. And he must know that if anyone could have an idea if this item was genuine—and possibly stolen—it was her.
Which put her in a bad situation if the man was as violent as Ava Vital had intimated. He was a trained killer. Artistic as Garin claimed that skill to be, she wouldn’t let down her guard.
But she couldn’t stop herself from pushing a little harder. “These aren’t replicas.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m sure you’re aware these couldn’t have possibly been obtained legally.”
“I’m not privy to the intricacies of the law regarding ancient treasures. What are you accusing me of, Creed?”
“Nothing. Yet.”
“I acquired these from a secondhand party in the little shop I mentioned to Señor Braden.”
“So, they weren’t gifts. Earlier you couldn’t recall if they had been gifts.”
“You’re making this sound like an interrogation. I have no idea regarding the origin of those crowns. Nor do I care if they are authentic or merely copies. They have a sacred meaning to me. Though every moment you are near them you draw away some of their sanctity.”
Uh-huh. Whatever. “If authentic, and I believe they are—at least this one here—these crowns were once owned by kings. This says ‘Given by Alaric.’ Do you know who that was?”
Arms crossed tight over his chest, the matador shrugged.
“He was a Visigoth king in the fourth century.”
“I am not a big fan of history. I have heard how kings once fashioned the crowns to give to churches. They are made by royalty and with holy intentions. It is why they are sacred to me.”
“Yet if you acquire them from a shop that sells replicas, how can you believe them real?”
“I like to believe they could be real. I do not question.”
“If I am not mistaken, this very crown went missing from the Cluny museum a few months ago. Actually, it was being shipped to the museum and got lost in transport. By lost, I mean stolen. You’ve got stolen property in your possession.”
“Have you proof?”
No. There were no photos online, nor did any of the research indicate King Alaric had actually fashioned a crown, but many historical details had been lost over the centuries. And not every single moment of every historical figure’s life had been recorded. The words surrounding the bottom of the crown were the proof she needed to request the crowns be authenticated.
“You going to report me to Soto?”
“For some reason, I suspect Soto would arrest me instead of you. Besides, artifact theft should be reported to the local museum, as well as the authorities. Did you hear about the man who was murdered a few days ago in the Hotel Blanca?”
“My focus is on the ring. It would prove deadly if I littered my mind with every little problem in the world. War, terrorism, senseless killings and natural disasters.”
He was deflecting the topic.
Annja removed the latex gloves and tucked them in a front pocket. “The man, Diego Montera, was killed with a knife or sword run through his spine from a position above his head. Similar to the estocada delivered by the matador to the bull during the faena.”
“There are as many toreros in Spain as there are rock stars in your America.”
“You have to admit the method of killing is unique.”
“A stylish move.”
“Stylish.” She tapped the gold crown with a fingertip, then remembered his extreme annoyance over having his things touched. And she wasn’t wearing the gloves. “Sorry.”
El Bravo’s jaw stretched so tight his cheeks had blanched and his eyes should have blazed a hole through her heart.
“Creed, you are poking about for something. You dance around your suspicions like a matador plying the cape to a frisky yearling. I am a matador, not an asesino.”
Murderer of people.
“My whole life is the bullring,” he continued. “I have nothing else besides it. I live, eat, sleep and dream the corrida. Because of that dedication, my soul requires something else.” He gestured to the crowns. “Salvation. Peace of mind away from the world. You know? I kill for my supper. Kill. Do you think salvation can ever be mine?”
“I, uh…” She was no one’s confessor.
“These splendid effigies—real or fake—offer me a bit of that salvation I seek.” He held an index finger before the crown, right where she had tapped it. “But once it is tainted, it no longer gives salvation. The energy has been weakened, diluted by the careless touch of another.”
He stared at her as if squaring her up for the delivery of the estoque. “You’ve tainted it.”
“Didn’t even leave a fingerprint. Besides, it wouldn’t be wise of me to leave fingerprints on a stolen—”
Annja turned to find a dagger a foot from her face, the tip directed toward her eye. The matador wielded it with cool élan. The blade was shorter than the estoque he used for the killing stab and must have been concealed in a pocket. His eyes defied her to make her next move.
“Seriously? You’re going to cut me for touching the votive crown? An object you claim may not even be authentic?”
“You’ve tainted my salvation.”
“And you are a nut job.”
She backed toward the door, but the matador beat her to it and slammed it shut. His face had grown even paler, and malevolence brightened his dark gaze.
“You want to taint your sanctuary wi
th my death?”
“Death brings me honor.”
He slashed the dagger at her and she dodged, luring him to the right toward the altar. Annja stepped up onto the prie-dieu and tapped the crown, setting it wobbling. Gasping, Manuel’s attention became glued to the artifact. It gave her time to grab the door handle and rush out of the room. She didn’t want to fight the guy.
As she ran through the dark hallway, she realized she’d taken a turn into the bedroom—not the exit.
Calling forth the sword, it filled her grip with a solid reassurance. Annja held it hilt-up at her chest, blade beside her head, shoulders against the wall, as she waited. If she ended up injuring the bullfighter, César Soto wasn’t going to go easy on her, that was sure. Neither would anyone in Cádiz and likely all of Spain. Not to mention she’d bring down Garin’s wrath.
She eyed the window, which was shuttered with an elaborate Moorish-style dark wood screen. Just as she dashed for it, Manuel entered the room. She heard the sweep of his blade cut the air. Hooking an elbow about the bedpost, she swung around with the sword.
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“Does it matter? Girl’s gotta protect herself from loco toreros. This is how I do it.”
“Oh?” He strolled toward her, the blade held high and tilted downward as if positioned to enter the back of the bull’s neck. He held the erect posture of a matador defying his opponent to charge. “Then show me what you have, Annja Creed. You think you can bring this torero to his knees? Deliver me the coup de grâce.”
“I just want to walk out of here in one piece and with as little bloodshed as possible.”
“You know too much. That’s unfortunate, since you are so pretty.” He slashed the blade toward her, and she stepped to the side, both hands around the sword hilt, but still unwilling to take a swing at him.
“So my suspicions about the votive crown are true? Where did you get it? From a local seller?”
“As I’ve said, I go through a dealer. I never wish to know the origins of the items I purchase.”
“You had something to do with the bull being released in the street.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“It was Cristo, then. Does he look after his maestro’s best interests? Issue threats to those who might learn too much? I’ve been told you and Cristo have a rivalry.”