The Matador's Crown Read online

  “Well, there was a stab wound in his back, but I won’t make a judgment call on his talent.”

  Harlow choked on his beer. He set the mug down on the napkin and, face tight, smoothed the napkin out neatly to each corner before tapping his watch. “I’m so sorry, Annja. Finding a dead body is certainly not the best way to start the day. What the hell happened?”

  “Someone killed him for an artifact.”

  “Is that so? How do you know?”

  “Listen, this is privileged information and the police are handling the case, but…”

  “A mystery? Tell me.”

  “There was a wooden crate in the room, and whatever had been inside it was gone. I suspect the murderer stole it. I also suspect it was an artifact, though I can’t be sure. I took pictures, but the police erased them from my camera.”

  “Bold. On both your parts.”

  “You’ve still got the pictures you transferred from my cell phone, right?”

  “Of the bronze statue.”

  “Great.” She paused. “There was another artifact that wasn’t stolen. One I actually unearthed a day ago.”

  “What? You don’t mean…”

  She nodded. “The bronze bull statue.”

  “But how? You just discovered that on Crockett’s dig.” The man wiped a hand over his face and shook his head. “Damned looters.”

  “That has to be the case. Someone looted Crockett’s site and made a quick turnaround, hoping to sell it. But apparently Diego Montera was carrying something of even more interest and value if his killer left the statue behind.”

  “Which would give one reason to assume what was stolen was more valuable,” Harlow deduced. “Where’s the Baal statue now?”

  “In the police evidence locker room, I’m sure. I handled it, with gloves on, and took pictures, but—”

  “You should have slipped it into a pocket, Annja. That piece was an awesome little find.”

  She hadn’t thought it so remarkable, but then remembered his interest in bull artifacts.

  “It’ll run through the system eventually. You’ll get your hands on it sooner or later, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t bet the farm on that one. Police evidence tends to find its way to the University of Cádiz on the mainland. Damned Edmond Rogers, head of acquisitions, will have his hands all over the thing before I will. That they get first dibs at police seizures is such a bloody crock. They don’t even have an archaeological department. Their focus is marine studies.”

  “Well, you’ve still got the picture I took on-site.”

  He nodded and looked aside, wincing. Disappointed, surely. But what could either of them do? Annja didn’t make it a habit to steal police evidence. Not that she hadn’t done so before; she just wouldn’t call it a habitual thing.

  “I’m going to look into it,” she said. “If the site was looted, and the artifacts were turned around in less than a day, that tells me there’s an illicit antiquities operation in town.”

  “There are likely many operations in town. This is a seaport.”

  “True. I’ve got to call Jonathan Crockett. Or rather, I think I’m going to head out there after we’ve eaten.”

  “You’ve more work at the museum. You think you have time to do that?”

  Annja tilted her head at the man. “Professor, I’m surprised. This reeks of everything I thought you abhorred. I thought the museum took a hard stance against acquiring items without provenance?”

  “Damn it,” he said softly. Clasping the mug, he stared out the window at passing tourists. After a few moments, he swung a look at her. “Annja, forgive me. I’m being absolutely rude. You must be in a state to have found a body. Are you okay?”

  “Sure. Nothing I haven’t—” She cleared her throat and took a long swig of the cool lemon water. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen things,” he said. “But as archaeologists we usually find the bodies long after death, and that involves little blood or gore.” He reached across the table and laid a hand over hers. “If you need to talk, I can take the rest of the afternoon off.”

  She appreciated his kindness. His reputation as being a hardnose had never been apparent to her. “Thank you, James. But I really am fine. And I am going to drive out to Crockett’s site, so I won’t be at the museum this afternoon. Is it all right if I stop in tomorrow to finish my work with the coins?”

  “Of course.” He rubbed a hand along his thigh, the wounded leg, she assumed. He’d mentioned he felt constant pain, yet was able to bypass painkillers by using visual relaxation. “Yes, you’re right. Spain’s cultural heritage is not a renewable resource. If illicit trade is going on in the city, it’s our responsibility to put a stop to it. Now that I think on it…perhaps you’ll want to take a closer look at Jonathan Crockett. He’s a retired college professor who can’t find funding for a big-time dig so he’s taken what he can to keep his fingers in the dirt. A man like that…you never know what he’d do for cash.”

  Annja didn’t know Crockett well, but the few days she had worked alongside him, she hadn’t gotten the murderer vibe from him. Or the I-will-sell-potsherds-for-cash vibe, either. But she wouldn’t assume anything right now.

  “You worked with him?”

  “It’s been over a decade, but we headed a dig together in Egypt along the Nile valley. I had to keep an eye on him. Finds went missing that I couldn’t prove.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The waitress arrived with two steaming-hot plates. Annja dug into the thin omelet stuffed with onions and tiny prawns.

  The professor studied her intense enjoyment for a few moments, smiling before diving in himself. So she was a hearty eater. It was always wise to eat her fill whenever she was around food, because there were long times when she wasn’t able to eat. Either because of her work schedule, travel or, more often, because of mysterious dealings that involved her stowing away in a ship’s hull or battling gunrunners or falling into a pit in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

  After they’d eaten, with a promise to stay in contact with Harlow regarding details of the case, Annja stepped out of the tapas bar into the searing summer sun, courtesy of the god Mot. Glancing to the left, she spied the sea and a beautiful white-sand beach littered with bikini-clad women and children. Out on the water a windsurfer cut through the silver waves.

  And then she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man leaning against a metal street pole pasted with posters for flamenco dance concerts. Arms crossed high over his broad chest, and a smirk softening his square face from its usual steel to the lesser iron, his presence wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should’ve been.

  “Garin Braden,” she muttered, not in an altogether welcoming tone. She’d decide soon enough if she was pleased, indifferent or just plain offended to see the man.

  3

  “Surprised?” Garin asked in Spanish, waiting for her to approach, which Annja did with forced disinterest. He looked abnormally vacationy in his pale cream linen suit and straw fedora. Garin presented her with a different side of himself each time she ran into him.

  Annja replied, using the local dialect, “I’m never surprised that you always seem to know exactly where I am at any given time. It’s your innate Annja radar, right?”

  “Something like that.” His dark eyes, shaded by the hat, held hers. Annja didn’t flinch. “Also not a surprise to learn you were in a building of authority earlier.”

  “That would be what most people call a police station.”

  Likely, it wasn’t innate radar but rather GPS coordinates Roux had gotten from her earlier call. And he’d already let Garin know about it? Interesting. The two men didn’t work together unless there was something in it for both of them.

  “Is that so? And here I thought my Spanish was so good.” He switched to English. “So what adventures have you been up to? Slaying bad guys? Leaping tall buildings in a single bound? Chasing after dusty old pots?”

  She walked
along the stretch of stucco and brick buildings fronting the beach and he paralleled her. “I have a feeling I don’t need to answer that one. You already know why I’m in Cádiz. Actually, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  “I confess I do know the reason you were at the police station. That sort of information just comes to me, you understand. My people keep a keen eye out for threats, danger and—”

  “I’m a threat?”

  “No, you fall squarely in the Persons of Interest category.”

  “Of course.” He did, too. Sort of like an ancient Grecian urn was interesting to her. “So Roux is one of your people?”

  “When it serves me.”

  The sidewalk narrowed and the big man’s arm brushed hers as they walked. He was a good head higher than her five foot ten inches—probably pushing six-four—and his shoulders were as broad as the toro bravo they bred for the bullfight here in Spain. Annja mused that he even possessed all the qualities matadors looked for in a bull: aggression, strength, stamina and intelligence. He was also several centuries old, which made him irresistible to her. And that offended her moral need to remain aloof toward the man.

  “Headed anywhere in particular?” he asked.

  “Off this sandspit to Puerto Real, to a little dig tucked on the edge of town.”

  “Ferdinand and Isabella’s town,” he commented.

  Annja searched historical dates in her head. Puerto Real had been founded by King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile near the end of the fifteenth century. Garin had been walking this earth since the early fifteenth century.

  Okay, she’d give him that one.

  “The town has been around since before the Romans,” she said. “Ferdinand made it a royal port to lure trade from North Africa his way.”

  “He was not a stupid king. And his wife was hot.” He gestured to the black Jeep parked ahead. “I’ll give you a ride. It’ll give us an opportunity to catch up.”

  Blinking into the sun, Annja agreed she did want to catch up—and learn what Braden knew about her latest adventure. Even if she didn’t trust the man as far as she could toss him. And with his bulk, that was more like a drop down her body before she sprained a wrist.

  Sliding into the Jeep’s passenger seat, she buckled up and tossed her backpack into the open truck bed. She hadn’t missed the dried mud on the wheel rims and quarter panels. “You doing some off-roading in the area?”

  “Rained yesterday.”

  “Sure. And that pitiful sprinkle managed to splatter your rearview mirror with mud.”

  “You got it.”

  Garin probably fancied himself an international man of mystery—which he was—but Annja knew he used the persona around her only when he wanted to tease her. On the other hand, he had secrets. Lots of them. And sometimes it was better to let things slide than to question them.

  Garin eased into traffic and headed toward the ancient defensive walls that had circled the city since Roman times. Gadir, the name the Phoenicians had given the original outpost, meant “walled stronghold.”

  They didn’t speak as Annja took in the scenery. Two massive electricity pylons hugged either side of the Bay of Cádiz as they neared La Pepa, the bridge that accessed the mainland. It was one of the longest cable-span bridges in the country. On the pylons, steel framework supported electric power cables. She wondered with amusement how long before Wi-Fi and satellites obliterated the need for such things.

  “So tell me what you know,” she said, her attention following the construction crew working on the bridge with pneumatic hammers and drills. “You always know something.”

  “I know you stumbled onto a body this morning.”

  “Word travels fast. And you rushed to Cádiz to console me?”

  He chuckled as he drove off the bridge. “I’ve been in Cádiz a few days. Roux knew that and sent me to see if you needed any assistance.”

  “Awful swell of the guy.” Of the two of them, she would have preferred Roux’s assistance. The old man was more like a father to her and she never felt overly threatened by his presence. “Yes, a dead body, placed most conveniently next to the room I had rented.”

  “And it’s related to some kind of artifact?”

  She wouldn’t question the man’s knowledge. Garin Braden had access to intel that would make the CIA blush. “A bronze totem in the form of a bull, possibly representing Baal. Ceremonial, I assume, or it could have been a commemoration piece. Who knows, it could have been a tourist tchotchke. Did you hear about the other artifact?”

  “Just the one. What was the other?”

  “I don’t know. It was missing.”

  He flicked her a questioning glance. “Stolen?”

  “From the dead man. The dead musician.”

  “Ah. I sense an adventure coming on.”

  “In fact, we’re headed to the first stop right now.” The stretch of road around Puerto Real quickly segued from pavement to gravel. “Turn left. It’s only a few kilometers ahead. So, do you also have information on the dead man? I was given his name, but not by the police.”

  “What did you tell the police?”

  “I was first on the scene, but I could only tell them what I knew. Which was very little.”

  “A little is more than nothing. You hungry?”

  “Just ate. We can stop if you are.”

  “I’ll do for a bit.” The Jeep navigated the increasingly rough road like a dream. “Looks like you’re taking us into the boonies, your favorite kind of place.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re not heading into mountainous terrain.”

  “The tires are off-road all-terrain.”

  “Yes. Glad you’ve already tested them when it sprinkled yesterday.”

  “It was a damn good downpour.”

  “Sure, if you say so.” Changing the subject, Annja said, “I’d held that very bronze statue a day ago.”

  “Is that so? Now I’m intrigued.”

  “It takes a lot to get your interest.”

  He lifted one dark eyebrow, which was more a come-on than castigation. She ignored the flirtation.

  “I unearthed it on the dig we’re heading to right now. It had been waiting for cataloging to be sent back to the University of Cádiz. I believe it was Spanish. It had a decorative Moorish arabesque circling the bull’s neck. But beyond that, I hadn’t the time to do further research.”

  “Spanish artifacts are to be expected when one digs on Spanish soil.”

  “Not always. Pieces of history travel all over the world and can be found thousands of miles from their original country of provenance. At the time I found it, we thought it was part of thieves’ booty.”

  “So it had once been stolen. You unearthed it. Then it was stolen again? Or do you suspect someone from the dig of handing it over to the dead man?”

  “I don’t know. The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, seemed on the up-and-up. I’m a pretty good judge of character. But I have no clue regarding Diego Montera. The dead man,” she added when Garin raised a questioning eyebrow. “He may have been some guy on the dig crew who was handed a valuable artifact and wanted to get some fast cash for it.”

  Garin stared at her. “A musician on a dig?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe he stole it, but if that was the case, I suspect it wasn’t planned. Although, if he wasn’t crew, someone had to have smuggled the bull off-site. I don’t know. Its value is questionable. It was small, a simple piece.”

  “Sounds like a delicious mystery. Too bad you’re not a homicide detective.”

  “No, I’m not. Doesn’t mean I don’t have an interest.”

  “In the objects a dead man was carrying?”

  “Archaeology is all about deciphering the objects people carried, wore, used, lived in. I’m an object detective.”

  This area of Spain had been gone over by archaeologists many times in the past century, but a recent chunk of mountain had been dislodged and had changed the landscape, prompting new discoverie
s.

  The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, was a laid-back Englishman who had never aspired to anything but squatting in the sun all day, his hands in the dirt. And he had a trust fund to make it happen. He was a hard-core archaeologist. Quiet, he never bragged about his finds or elaborated overmuch. He measured his words, and Annja had been fine with that. The sun had toasted his skin nicely and enhanced the distinguished lines at the corners of his eyes and temples. His sun-streaked brown hair never did stay in the ponytail he tied at the back of his head, and as dirty as he got, his clothing always looked freshly pressed. A well-seasoned man, he was movie-star fodder, without the ego or need for fame.

  That James Harlow had suspected him of underhanded dealings didn’t feel right, but Annja would reserve judgment until after she’d talked to him.

  Garin pulled the Jeep outside the main—and only—tent, dirt billowing up from the tires in a cloud. The soil was a fertile mix of gravel, sand and silt in the southern areas of Spain, ideal for viticulture.

  Annja jumped out into the dirt cloud. “You stay here,” she told Garin.

  “Don’t think so.” He patted the linen jacket over his heart. The man, who now made his home Germany, tended to favor semiautomatic pistols manufactured there or in Austria. “I’ll be your backup.”

  “Don’t go all alpha on me, now. The villagers are not going to attack with trowels and buckets.”

  “If someone here is selling artifacts to people who apparently kill to obtain them, you want to be safe.”

  “I don’t know Crockett is selling artifacts. I highly doubt he is. Ambition is not one of his finer points.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be inconspicuous.”

  Garin got out and stood beside the Jeep. With his height, broad shoulders and chiseled square jawline, he looked the medieval warrior trying to masquerade as a regular Joe. The man would never achieve subtlety.

  “Inconspicuous. Bang-up job.” Annja stabbed him with a look, then strode toward the tent, leaving the misplaced warrior to guard the battlements.