“As I told you, I don’t have much time. And please keep in mind: if it weren’t for the intervention of His Excellency the Most Reverend Bishop, this interview would not be taking place.”
“I’m very grateful for your time, ma’am. I’m quite aware of the demands on you in your capacity as senior deacon of the sacred Fellowship of the True Cross.”
“I beg to differ; I don’t think you have the slightest idea. Our fellowship is charged with protecting and promoting the heritage of the cross, organizing all the ceremonies, and supervising commemorative festivals. And as if that’s not enough, now we have the Jubilee Year bearing down on us.”
The Bear Lady came up to their table. “Very well, my dear, we really must see each other more often.”
“Most certainly.”
She lingered a moment as if expecting an invitation to join them, then walked off clutching the loaf of bread she’d just acquired. Or hunted down. The shadow of a smile flickered across Adriana’s thin lips, and Elías felt the twitch of a smile on his as well.
“Getting back to our subject, then,” he said. “I don’t wish to waste your time. People in town have offered me various accounts, and I’d like to get your honest opinion.”
“Proceed.”
“Some speculate that the Lignum Crucis never left Caravaca, and perhaps whoever has it now is going to make it reappear during the pope’s visit.”
“May God hear you.”
“When God caused the cross to appear several centuries ago, it was transported by angels, but I suspect this time He’ll leave everything in human hands.”
“Where are you going with all this?”
“To another popular theory.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“That you have custody of the cross. Or at least know where it is.”
“Slander! Mere speculation from jealous gossips. I won’t put up with such talk.” She reached for her bag, clearly intending to storm out, but Elías riposted before she could seize it.
“Nor will I! That’s why I put no credence in it.”
“Explain to me, then, how you dare repeat such scandalous accusations.”
“Because of who your grandfather was.”
“For someone who doesn’t care for gossip, you certainly seem bent on prying into my private affairs.”
“One of the theories going around is that your grandfather conspired with the chaplain to conceal the True Cross. Of course, I am here only to put that theory to rest.”
“No one has ever made such a barefaced accusation. Very well. I will tell you what I know. I can assure you unequivocally that no one in my family is a thief. My ancestors placed a blind faith in the True Cross, just as I do and as my own offspring do. For as long as Church records have existed, my family members have been part of the fellowship, their sole aim being to honor and protect the cross. And I assure you here and now, even if my grandfather had removed the Lignum Crucis, the only conceivable reason would have been to protect it. And therefore, once the danger was past, he would have delivered it into the hands of the appropriate authorities. If those authorities failed to do their sacred duty, as you are apparently speculating, that would be a completely different matter, and it would have nothing to do with me or my family.”
Without another word, she grabbed her bag, knocking Elías’s hat to the floor, strode to the counter, and dropped a few bills on the counter. On the way out, she paused. “Give my regards to His Excellency the Bishop.”
With a stiff nod, she marched out into the street without bothering to put on her coat. She’d left her coffee untouched.
Elías picked up his hat, relieved to find it wasn’t soiled. He needed to think now, and everyone knew the brain ran on sugar. It was time for one of those cream-filled pastries after all.
10
L regularly woke up in the middle of the night now, bathed in sweat, gasping for air, sometimes screaming from the gruesome memory that revisited her as a nightmare. She was haunted by visions of the glass box her uncle had commissioned. She couldn’t believe that she’d really watched his assistants roll it onstage and whip away the sheet to reveal a mustachioed man bound and gagged inside. Sifo, master of ceremonies of the Scottish Circus, had thrashed in terror as her uncle had lifted the chainsaw high in the air.
“Sifo wants a more spectacular act,” her uncle had told her. “He wants something the audience will never forget. So that’s what we’re going to give him.”
L had watched, paralyzed, as the chainsaw descended into the lower slot and bit into a knee with a sharp cracking sound. Blood splattered the interior of the box and sprayed across her uncle’s face. The crowd shouted as Sifo struggled, screaming into the gag, covered in sweat and the tears that streamed from his bloodshot eyes. The chainsaw rose, leaving behind two legs amputated in a surging tide of blood. L would never forget her uncle’s sadistic leer at the audience as he moved to the slot between the prisoner’s chest and chin. The victim slammed his head against the glass, perhaps trying to end his agony, but the executioner quickly obliged him with the chainsaw. Blood poured from the severed torso in a torrent. Some children in the audience screamed in delight as others sobbed. Their parents shrieked, retched, turned away. The scene veered toward chaos until her uncle shouted “Silence!” and draped the bloody box with the sheet. A bucket swung out over the stage, came to a stop above the coffin, and dumped its load of water. The concealed box burst apart instantly, and the sheet settled over the sodden shape of a human figure. A breathless moment passed. Then to everyone’s astonishment, the figure twitched and began to move. The enormous mustache emerged as the sheet was pushed aside, the man behind it safe and sound. The bewildered audience rose to its feet, unable to comprehend how the violent execution they’d just witnessed could have been faked. Applause was scattered at first but then intensified. With it came a few faint cries of “Bravo,” as well as some booing. Her uncle had subjected them to an excruciating ordeal but won them over with a happy ending.
It was, in truth, nothing of the sort. L knew perfectly well that the man who’d crawled from beneath the sheet wasn’t Sifo. The mustache was fake, and, as the circus folks had secretly agreed, the real Sifo would never again tell anyone what to do.
While the spectators marveled, little L, only eight years of age, felt her stomach knot in revulsion.
11
Elías drove back to his office after the brief interview in Caravaca. Lola was waiting for him with a reminder that he was several days overdue with his appraisal of items from an estate. That took him until almost four in the afternoon, and then he called it a day. Caridad was out celebrating her new job with some friends, so he’d have to eat alone. At home, he heated up a plate of leftover fettuccini alla puttanesca and downed it with a glass of wine while watching television. After an evening coffee, he washed up, put on his trench coat and fedora, and went out to deal with something that had been bothering him.
The insistent east wind pushed him along the climbing, narrow streets that eventually led to the top of Cartagena’s Despeñaperros Castle. Paseo Alfonso XIII, the principal access to the town, bordered the far side of the hill. The address was etched in his memory, and it didn’t take him long to locate the building and heavy front door. He didn’t approach immediately but instead went to a nearby café. He ordered a black coffee from a waiter in his late fifties, a thin fellow with a greasy comb-over. Elías was careful to conceal his disdain.
“Excuse me—my wife gave me a package for someone named Alicia Silva, but I don’t know her. I was told she lives in the building next door.”
The man gave him a blank look. “Never heard of her.” He kept wiping the bar.
“My wife said she’s a really stunning redhead. I imagine she’d be hard to miss.”
“Somebody like that, I’d remember,” the man said. “But I spend all my time inside here. Wouldn’t run into her unless she actually came in.”
Elías paid for his coffee and left without
touching it, brushing past a couple of workers in grubby overalls on their way in. The waiter was right. This wasn’t a place a woman like Alicia would go. He settled his hat on his head and firmly cinched the belt of his coat against the howling wind.
In different circumstances, he’d have cashed in a favor and enlisted an acquaintance to watch the entrance. He needed her routines, movements, and associates so he could profile her. But getting someone else involved might complicate things even more. And he was well aware he was going against his uncle’s instructions.
The apartment building stood next to an ancient cinema that had been shuttered for years. A tattered poster for its last film still hung there, displaying the image of a tough guy with a pistol silhouetted against a huge explosion.
Elías studied the intercom panel by the door and pressed the button for apartment 10C .
After a moment, a woman’s voice responded. “Yes?”
“Alicia Silva?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’m from building maintenance. I have a report of a leak coming from your bathroom.”
The person on the other end hung up with a sharp click, and the lock disengaged. He pushed the door and looked left and right before stepping into the lobby. Checking the mailboxes, he saw that several, including 10C, weren’t labeled. He called the elevator and rode up to the tenth floor. He stationed himself before the apartment and pressed the bell.
The door opened and there she was, his Olympic goddess. She started in surprise and gasped. She tried to slam the door shut, but Elías blocked it with a foot across the threshold. She spun and disappeared into the apartment.
Elías followed her. The odor of incense permeated the place. The front hall opened into a large room lit up by a wall lamp. The furniture was sparse and cheap: a sofa, a dining table with four chairs, a shabby cabinet. No prints on the walls, no family photos. And no sign of his painting.
The woman stood silhouetted against the window, her back to him as she stared down into the street.
“I’m actually a private detective,” he told her.
“I stole the painting,” she replied.
Elías was taken aback. She turned toward him and strode to the table. Now at last he could appreciate again her fine features, her voluptuous curves, and the glow of her skin.
“Listen, I’m not going to waste your time.” She sat down, her expression disconsolate. “All I ask, please, is that you don’t report me to the police. I—I had no choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did try to buy it.” She lowered her eyes in shame, stared at the table, and appeared to be on the edge of tears. “But the bidding went so high that I couldn’t. I had no choice but to steal it.”
“That makes no sense at all. You sell the painting to the auction house and then try to buy it back at a much higher price?” Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak. “Did you suddenly realize it was worth more than what you got for it?”
“It’s not about money.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“They warned me not to go to the police.” She was sobbing now. “If I do, they’ll kill him.”
“I’m not a policeman.” Elías took a seat and put a hand on hers. “Who are they threatening to kill?”
The woman hesitated but then got to her feet. “Forgive me, I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, I need one. Badly. If you don’t mind.”
Alicia went to the cabinet and took out a bottle of cheap whiskey. She poured some into a glass and turned around. “Will you help me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She sat. “You really are a private detective, aren’t you? You look like you stepped out of one of those noir novels from the 1950s.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Then I’ll hire you. I don’t have any money, but if we recover the painting, I’ll give you whatever percentage you want of the sale price.”
“You forget: it’s already my painting, and I have no intention of selling it.”
In fact, it was property of the bishop’s office, but he left out that technical detail.
“Well, then, I’ll help you get the painting back, and in return, you find my uncle.”
“What happened to your uncle?”
“It was his painting, not mine.” She looked up in mute appeal. Elías found himself moved by those enormous green eyes in that mess of tears and streaked mascara. She took a gulp of whiskey.
“Continue, please.”
“Are you going to help me?”
“I haven’t decided yet. No one’s ever hired me in such a bizarre fashion.”
“Bizarre? No, I don’t think so. I believe in destiny.” Her eyes fixed intently upon Elías. “I grew up with my uncle; he was like the father I never had.” Elías felt as if she could see right through him. “When we went our separate ways, he gave me the painting. But now everything has gone to hell, there’s almost no work, and the little work out there is for practically no pay.”
“So you had to sell it. You had no choice.”
“Exactly.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Oh, oh, um.” She cast about for words. “I work for an agency.”
“What kind of agency?”
“A temp agency. I do hostess work. It’s called Paris Selection. Listen, do you want to hear my story or not?”
“Please.”
“I was so broke I had to sell the painting. But right after, I got a ransom note demanding the painting in exchange for my uncle’s life. That’s why I tried to buy it back. When that didn’t work, I had to steal it.”
“Pretty daring of you.”
“I had no choice.”
“Did you deliver it?”
“Yes.”
“And your uncle?”
“No sign of him.”
“You should have gone to the cops.”
“I know!” The tears began again. “That’s so easy to say now, but what if I had and they’d killed my uncle? I couldn’t live with myself.”
“I suppose you must have some idea of who the kidnappers are.”
“No, unfortunately, I don’t.”
“What’s so important about this painting? It’s not even an authentic Bacon.”
“You think not?”
“There are lots of similarities but some significant differences as well. No, I don’t think it’s authentic, but something about it has obviously attracted some serious interest. Who knew about the existence of the painting?”
“I never told anybody about it. I have no idea what my uncle might’ve said.”
“Does your uncle have any enemies?”
“None that I know of.”
“What about you?”
“No. No enemies.”
“How did the kidnappers contact you?”
“By phone. They called my cell phone from a blocked number.”
“We could trace the number through the service provider, but it’s sure to be a pay phone or a burner cell. How did you deliver the painting?”
“They told me to roll up the canvas, put it in a mailing tube, and take it to the Terraza Saray Bar in the Alameda neighborhood. I was to sit on the terrace and hang a bag with the tube on the back of my chair. So I did. Before long, a man in a suit came up behind me, picked up the package, and walked off as if nothing had happened.”
“What color was his suit?”
“Black. He was in all black. It was kind of funny.”
All black, huh? “And then what happened?”
“Nothing, and that’s what’s so terrible.” Her voice quavered. She gulped down the rest of her booze and left the glass on the table. “I haven’t heard anything since.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a phony kidnapping? Did they give you any proof?”
“Yes. They sent a photo o
f my uncle with the ransom note. Holding a newspaper. You know, to confirm the date.”
“May I see it?”
“No, I’m sorry. They told me to destroy it along with the note.”
“You’re too obedient.”
“Because I’m scared; I’m so scared. I’ve never been in a situation like this. I don’t know what to do. All I want is to make sure nothing happens to my uncle.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe your uncle himself is blackmailing you?”
“My uncle?” Her eyes opened wide. “Why would he do that?”
“For the cash?”
“Then wouldn’t the note ask for money instead of the painting?”
“Maybe. Unless he suddenly realized how valuable it was and regretted giving it to you.”
“Definitely not. You don’t know him. Money isn’t important to him.”
“Money is important to everyone.” A tense silence ensued. She looked away, toward the window. “Maybe you should tell me more about your uncle.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Describe him. Do you have a photo?”
“Yes, hold on for a second.” She left and came back a moment later. She handed Elías a photograph. It showed a man in his forties, silver haired except for a couple of shocks of black combed back from either side of his forehead. Almost like a pair of horns. He wore a gold-colored jacket, a white shirt, and black trousers. “That’s from when we were in the circus. My uncle was a magician.”
“Any distinguishing marks?”
“Yes. Four gold teeth. In the front on top; each one is engraved with a letter. They spell SCOT.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re telling me this is a man who doesn’t care about money?”
“He spent the last of his savings on those teeth!” Alicia insisted. “They got broken one day when he was on a bender, so what was he supposed to do? My uncle was a performer; he always paid attention to his appearance.”
“Engraved gold teeth. I could think of cheaper and more refined ways to fix a mouth. Whatever. Let’s not argue about your uncle’s questionable tastes. Did he drink a lot?” Elías’s eyes went to the glass on the table. She looked down in embarrassment.
The Dark Circus Page 8