“Do you know the owner?”
“Saw him sometimes. He was a good-looking man—gray hair, wore a suit. Quite the gentleman! I never managed to get my late husband to put on a suit. Except for the funeral, of course. Then he didn’t have any choice.”
“You said he was a good-looking man?”
“My husband?”
“No, the man across the way.”
The woman leaned though the narrow gap in the door and whispered, “I think he’s dead. Poor man had a niece who came to visit sometimes, not real often. Almost never, to tell you the truth. He lived all alone and never went out except sometimes at night for a little while. For my money, he’s had a heart attack and his body’s been in there so long he’s shriveled up like a mummy.”
“Can you describe the niece?”
“Redhead. You’d like her. The two of you’d make a fine couple.”
Elías suppressed a grin.
“You said she came more than once?”
“Yeah. I might’ve seen her four, maybe five times.”
“And you’re sure of that? It couldn’t have been someone else?” If the woman was right, Alicia Silva had lied to him. Probably more than once.
“Sure as my hands have wrinkles.” She held them up for him to see.
Elías drew back slightly at the sight of her age spots and bulging veins.
“Have you seen anything strange over there recently? People you didn’t know?”
“No. But I go to bed early. A little warm milk with honey and my pink pill at eight o’clock. Getting old is a misery. Had to give up smoking and the little bit of bacon I used to have for lunch. Those doctors think they’re so clever, but they’re just sadists.”
“All right, that’s it, then.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Thanks very much.”
“Glad to help. If I was you, I’d put on a mask before going in there. Mummies probably don’t smell too good.”
Elías crossed the street and pushed the metal gate. It shuddered open and shrilly protested as if in warning. For an instant, he felt like the protagonist of a horror movie entering the haunted house on the hill. He followed the stone path to the front door, then knocked and waited. No answer.
He fished out his knife from his pocket and flipped out the nail file. He inserted it into the lock, gave it a couple of twists, turned the handle, and opened the door. His friend in the Guardia Civil had taught him the trick and had even given him a set of picks for more delicate work.
Cockroaches scurried off down the hall and vanished under a broken picture frame lying on the floor. The few visible pieces of furniture were dirty and covered with cobwebs. Doors to either side opened into bedrooms. One was empty, but the other looked like the master bedroom. It was just as filthy as the front hall, but in far greater disarray. Wardrobe doors hung wide open. Drawers and clothing had been flung on the floor. Sheets were in a heap in one corner, and the mattress, slashed from top to bottom, disgorged its foam insides. He stepped on something and leaned over to pick it up. A tiny plastic vial with some black residue inside. He pulled out the little rubber plug and sniffed, catching a whiff of something sharp but agreeable. Like the aged wine his uncle sometimes brought them, decanted from a cask where it had matured for long years, developing a full-bodied flavor that tasted something like cognac.
He returned to the hall and cautiously approached what he thought was the living room, wondering all the while if a mummy actually did await him. He stepped into the room, braced for the worst, then took a calmer look around. A table and two chairs had been overturned, and two armchairs had been slashed open. The sideboard had been emptied of its drawers, its contents scattered. There was a broken mirror; next to it was an ancient television with a chair leg protruding from the smashed screen, suggesting malicious delight. More empty vials were scattered about, at least seven or eight of them. He checked several and found that smell of ancient wine. Someone had been looking for something, and they’d deliberately destroyed things in the process. But a thick coating of dust proved the neighbor right: no one had been in here for years. He squatted next to one of the drawers on the floor and studied its scattered contents: used batteries, some bottles of medicine, playing cards from a Spanish deck. And then, at last, he spotted something useful: several boxes of matches, a lighter, and some coasters, all bearing the logo of a well-known piano bar in the heart of Murcia, the Midas.
He slipped a matchbox into his pocket and headed for the front door. Alicia had lied to him; she’d visited her uncle more than once. But that was in the past, at least four years ago. Was she telling the truth about the kidnapping?
The investigation was getting messy fast, and Elías knew he should forget about it, get out now, but he couldn’t. His uncle’s fierce insistence had only whetted his appetite. He couldn’t walk away. Especially after meeting that goddess, debating art with her, fantasizing about her.
He had to figure out why she’d lied. This puzzle had him completely hooked.
At least he had a lead. At the auction, Midas’s thugs had worn all-black attire, just like the person who’d picked up the painting from Alicia. And now, here was Midas once more, his name emblazoned on promotional junk in this dilapidated old house.
He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him, fully aware that the woman across the street was watching from a small upstairs window.
14
Elías walked past Murcia Cathedral. Spotlights highlighted the impressive façade of the town’s main attraction. The evening air was humid and oppressive beneath a threatening black sky. He strolled leisurely through the crowds on narrow La Trapería, the heart of the old city, converted now into a pedestrians-only promenade. Venerable businesses stood side by side with trendy gift shops. He crossed La Platería and soon came to a gilded door under the zealous guard of a bouncer dressed in all black. He wasn’t the least surprised by the uniform.
MIDAS PIANO BAR, the sign announced. He took a deep breath, removed his hat, and reflected for a moment before stepping forward to brave the lion’s den. The doorman nodded in welcome and ushered him inside. The place must have just opened, for it was almost empty. The barman looked up with a smile.
“Hi there,” Elías said. “I’m looking for a man who used to come around here a lot.”
Elías didn’t know what the connection was between Midas and Alicia’s uncle, but the number of Midas trinkets in the house suggested the man had been more than just an ordinary client.
He showed the barman the photo. To his surprise, the man said nothing but stepped to the end of the bar and made a phone call. After a short exchange, he hung up.
“Wait just a moment. They’ll be right down. Would you like a drink?”
“A Manhattan,” Elías responded automatically.
Then Elías took a longer look around. It was a fairly large bar, decorated in a baroque style with lots of oranges, purples, and pinks. The walls were hung with photos of jazz singers in gilt frames. Sculptures covered with gold leaf were stationed all over. Most were of naked women in various postures, some sensual and others verging on obscene. Almost all had been rigged into lamps, lightbulbs in their hands or in less dignified parts of the body. The diffuse light gave the room an atmosphere of discreet intimacy. Small tables sat two or four. In addition to the bar where he stood, there was another shaped like a question mark made of enormous black and white keys, wrapped around a piano. No one was playing yet, but John Coltrane’s saxophone sang from hidden speakers. The music was good, but Elías found the decoration deplorable. Painfully kitsch.
The waiter brought him a tumbler with a dark cherry submerged in its scarlet depths. Elías removed his coat and took a sip. The mixture of whiskey, vermouth, and bitters gave his system a pleasant jolt. He saw someone descending the back stairs. The tall, portly man had a wild haircut and a jutting chin under several days’ stubble. His tiny eyes were dark and inscrutable. He wore distressed blue jeans, a black double-breasted jacket, and a white shi
rt. His carefully studied business-casual style wasn’t particularly original. A self-assured and slightly menacing smile played about his lips. He strode toward Elías with the purposeful movements of an actor onstage. The man nodded to the waiter, who began mixing him a drink.
He held out a large hand, and Elías felt the roughness of the man’s calloused palm. “I’m Midas.”
“Elías, private detective.” He took the photo out of his jacket pocket and put it on the bar. “I’m looking into this man’s disappearance.” He slid the photo closer. “Do you recognize him?”
Midas looked a bit startled. The bartender set a gin and tonic before him. Midas took several long sips, evidently deciding how to respond.
“Of course I recognize him. He used to work here as a pianist and singer.”
“Pianist?” Alicia hadn’t mentioned the man’s musical talent. “Until when?”
“About four years ago.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“We had to fire him. A competent musician, but he was hooked on booze. And probably stronger stuff too, I’m afraid.” Elías recalled the vials in the abandoned house. “He was late a lot, and sometimes he was too messed up to perform.”
“Do you know if he had a family? Wife, kids?”
“He had a niece who worked here for a while. This spectacular redhead with the voice of an angel and the heart of a devil. Man, did she cause a lot of trouble! Liked to cozy up to men, suggest she could show them a good time: ‘I’ll take you to the cockfights,’ stuff like that. After she left, we found out she’d been stealing from us—and our clients. A real snake.” He gave Elías a piercing look. “But I’d give anything to see her again.”
Elías didn’t acknowledge the implicit offer. He took out a second photograph. “You know anything about this painting?”
“I know it was hers. That’s all.”
“That’s why you sent your goons to Madrid?”
Midas took his time, nursing his gin and tonic. He turned his intense gaze back to Elías. “I just told you I’d give anything to see her again.”
“Sounds like you’re harboring a grudge. Did she steal something valuable from you?”
“Something money can’t buy.” His bitterness sounded sincere.
Elías tossed back the rest of his Manhattan. Midas did the same with his gin and tonic.
“That’s all.” Elías took out his wallet, but Midas brushed it aside.
“It’s on the house.”
“Thank you.”
“Who’s your client?”
“That’s confidential.”
Elías turned to go. Midas reached out, took his arm, leaned in close. Their eyes locked.
Midas’s voice was breathy. “Face of an angel, heart of a devil.” His voice rose in anger. “Watch out, friend. If she gets her claws into you, you’re done for.”
Elías pulled himself free from the man’s grip. He put on his fedora. “I know how to take care of myself.”
He left the bar, anxious and perplexed. He called Alicia’s number, intending to confront her with this information. A recording informed him that the number had been disconnected. He wandered aimlessly through the streets of Murcia and quickly became aware he was being shadowed by a man in the familiar black uniform. The gangster must have been hoping he’d lead them to Alicia, whose story now seemed like pure invention.
It was starting to seem like everyone involved in this case was a liar.
15
The town was in a remote valley in the Pyrenees, on one of the many tributaries of the Bidasoa River. L loved to drive along those mountain roads, thrilling at the impressive vistas around every turn. She usually didn’t care for landscape art, but out here she almost felt the tickle of an artist’s brush opening this fantastic, painted panorama to her.
She followed the twists and turns of the narrow road. The Harley had been a gift from a client in Pamplona, a young guy with lots of money who’d been terribly disappointed to hear she was leaving. The motorcycle was registered in his name. Just as well, considering that she possessed no documents at all—no national ID, no driver’s license, no birth certificate. Legally, she was a non-person, just like the rest of the circus folks. She didn’t wear a helmet, just relied on green-tinted wraparound sunglasses to keep the wind out of her eyes. She was confident that if she got in trouble and the Guardia Civil stopped her, she could sweet-talk them out of asking for her papers.
She zoomed through Bera, a noisy little village where three- and four-story stone houses lined the main street, their long wooden balconies providing a touch of color. Townspeople strolling to the marketplace stopped to gawk: the children at her motorcycle, the women at her wild hair, the men at her ass. Just short of the French border, she turned off onto a goat track through a beech forest and bounced along until the path ended at a stone bridge. On the far side beyond the village, a vast green meadow stretched to the distant mountains. Her uncle had said there used to be vineyards here in the old days. The Pyrenees stood silhouetted against the sky, their snow-covered crests reaching up into the clouds. L stopped to survey the abandoned houses along the riverbank. Mirrored in the water, they offered a picture of perfect symmetry, as if the earth had somehow disappeared and left them suspended with sky both above and below. Each was two stories tall with an attic, and most had begun to crumble. Sections of roof had fallen in. In some spots, a wall had collapsed into the river.
The silence was broken only by rushing water and gusts of wind. Though it was summer, the air was chilly. She zipped her leather jacket tighter and twisted the throttle. The Harley gave a roar and leaped forward. Her blood froze as she crossed the stone bridge. She would never have come back alone if her uncle weren’t here.
She pulled up in front of her mother’s house, the home of her ancestors. No need to knock; the door swung open as soon as she touched the handle. The smell of grilled meat wafted down the dark, narrow hallway. L made her way past a couple of closed doors along a narrow hall and into the main room. Logs were burning in the fireplace, crackling and spitting contemptuous sparks. A rabbit was roasting on a spit. A battered wingback chair faced the fire, its back to her. A pale hand hung from one arm of the chair, clutching a wine bottle. L opened the blinds.
“What are you doing here?” Her uncle’s hoarse voice was broken with fatigue and alcohol.
“I came to do some dusting.” She took a chair across from him. “What do you think? I got fed up with Pamplona. There’s nothing there but fiestas, sex, and great food.”
“Get—the hell—out—of here!” Her uncle waved the bottle at her. He looked even worse than he sounded, a creature more animal than human. His shoulder-length hair and beard had gone entirely white except for those two black streaks on either side of his forehead. He stank; he probably hadn’t showered since he’d last shaved. Missing front teeth completed the resemblance to a furious wild boar.
“You have to come with me.”
Her uncle squinted at her, raised his arm, and threw the bottle. It exploded against the wall next to her head.
L held out the newspaper clipping. He peered at it and then opened his eyes wide.
“Did you find it?” He struggled erect in the armchair, straightened his back, and brushed the hair out of his face. Suddenly, he looked almost human.
“Yes, and I went there.”
“Where?”
“Murcia.” L smiled and reached out to help him to his feet. “Come on. I found you a job.”
16
Elías had never thought of becoming a private detective. The professor who supervised his master’s thesis in art history suggested it, explaining that police didn’t take art theft very seriously and that many cases went unsolved. And yet there was a lot of money at stake. “It’s an unexploited niche with tremendous potential, just waiting for someone like you.”
Elías realized she was right; it was an ideal combination of hi
s interests. He had business cards printed offering Private Investigations and Art Appraisal. He took criminology classes while evaluating artwork for his uncle and found that detectives and historians had much in common. Both gathered leads, compiled them, and formulated hypotheses to solve mysteries.
One day, while strolling through the market, he saw a felt fedora lying neglected next to a box of castanets and a pile of superhero action figures. He took it as a sign. He bought the hat, sent it to the cleaners, and found a matching coat in a thrift shop. This secondhand shopping had disgusted Caridad but delighted his sister. Elías just knew it was important to look the part. If he was going to be a private detective, he had to present the classic image impressed upon the public by hundreds of noir films and novels.
The trench coat and fedora hung on the office coatrack as Elías reflected on his current investigations: the ersatz Bacon and the Cross of Caravaca. His uncle had made it abundantly clear that he was to concentrate on the cross, yet the painting called to him far more insistently. He had to go back to Midas’s piano bar. He was sure he’d find leads there to exploit.
Lola knocked at the door. Someone must have proclaimed it Pink Day, for she was dressed from head to foot in that color. It gave her the sticky look of an enormous piece of cotton candy.
“Your mother—”
But before she could say another word, the person in question shoved Lola aside and barreled into the office like a locomotive.
“I don’t need permission to enter my son’s office. Here, take this.”
She threw Lola her Chanel jacket along with a withering look. Elías knew his mother was intentionally provoking Lola, daring her to react. Lola accepted the garment and withheld comment, no doubt trusting the laws of karma. She closed the door behind her when she left the room.
His mother approached his desk, elegant as ever. Elías rose to receive her. She took his face in her hands, went up on tiptoes, and kissed his cheeks, exuding a dense aroma that overwhelmed his senses. Then she seated herself in one of the visitors’ chairs.
The Dark Circus Page 10