The Lords of Time

by Eva García Sáenz

  “And what’s your answer?” she asked.

  “That the universe is lazy.”

  “Lazy?” she repeated, scratching her head.

  “Yes, lazy. It doesn’t try to arrange coincidences—that’s why they so seldom occur. What I mean is that I don’t believe there can be three coincidences in this case: a leading figure in the textile industry dies using the same modus operandi employed in a novel that is being launched the same day and time as his murder. No, the killer wants to send a message, and he’s made this death public because he wants us all to understand: ‘This murder is related to the novel. Investigate that.’ And that is what I plan to do.”

  I looked at her and said, as if I were delivering judgment, “It’s time for me to talk to the publisher.”

  8

  ÁLAVA-ESQUIVEL PALACE

  UNAI

  September 2019

  I was destined to meet one of the most unusual and exceptional people I’d ever encountered during my career as a criminal profiler. But when Estíbaliz, Milán, and I walked to the Álava-Esquivel Palace, we had no idea what lay in store for us.

  The building was doing its best to withstand the ravages of time, but the façade was still covered in mesh to protect it from falling masonry. The gardens lay on the border of the San Roque and la Herrería districts, and behind their incongruous palm trees rose a dilapidated white stone building. Inside lived the last courtiers of Vitoria: families paying a pittance to endure the damp and peeling stucco walls.

  I stepped under the doorway’s rounded arch and pressed the intercom.

  A deep voice answered: “Who’s there?”

  “Prudencio, this is Inspector Unai López de Ayala. Could you open the door?”

  It took him a couple of seconds to reply. “Of course, Inspector. Straightaway.” With that, he buzzed me in.

  Estí, Milán, and I skirted a colorful tricycle and climbed a bowed staircase to the third floor.

  “Milán, were you able to find any trace of Spanish fly on the black market?” I asked as we climbed.

  “Nothing,” she replied with a smile and a shrug, but it somehow sounded like a yes. “There are lots of products being sold as Spanish fly, but they’re actually made from L-arginine and vitamin C. They’re all fake. No one asks for genuine Spanish fly. What’s the point? There are thousands of varieties of Viagra available at every price imaginable. There is nothing to indicate that anyone is selling authentic Spanish fly. There’s no supply and no demand. I don’t think anybody buys it on the Internet.”

  “Well, then…?”

  “He made it himself. The insects, the blister beetles. He crushed their shells to get two grams of pure Spanish fly.”

  “Are you saying you found somebody who bought the insects?” asked Estíbaliz.

  “No, but I found something better.”

  “What do you mean?” Estí probed.

  “I came across a report around the end of August about a robbery at the Natural Science Museum. Someone stole two hundred Coleoptera that had just been delivered to expand the insect collection. When I remembered the report, I thought, What if the blister beetle was one of the insects taken? If you think it’s worth checking out, we could visit the museum after we speak to the publisher.”

  “Fine, you do that,” I said, casting a sideways glance at Estíbaliz to see how she was doing.

  My colleague pulled up the collar on her military jacket. She looked detached. The Natural Science Museum was located in la Torre de Doña Otxanda, so we would have to walk past the esoteric bookstore that had once belonged to her murdered brother, Eneko. Had Estíbaliz been able to move on? Even though several years had passed, can you ever move on from the loss of a brother, even one who was an irresponsible drug dealer?

  “What’s worrying you, Estí?”

  “The investigation into Lasaga is taking time away from our search for the two sisters,” she muttered, without looking in my direction.

  “What if they left home of their own accord?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Estefanía didn’t get along with her younger sister. Maybe they argued; maybe Estefanía hit her harder than she meant to, then got rid of the body and ran. In that case, there would never have been a kidnapping and, therefore, no ransom demands. What if there’s no predator? What if it is as simple as the ancient story of Cain and Abel?”

  “You must have little faith in the human race! Sisters killing sisters….I can’t even think about it,” Estí snorted, staring at a pair of tiny, egg-shaped windows.

  “Look where we work. Do you really want to talk about faith in the human race?” I winked at her to dissipate the growing tension hanging in the air. “But let’s say I’m wrong. What could have happened to them, Estí?”

  “A sixteen-year-old girl wouldn’t run away with the body of her twelve-year-old sister. She wouldn’t be able to carry a burden like that,” she insisted. “Estefanía is just a kid. Something had to have happened. Besides, we found a trace of Oihana’s blood.”

  “We’ve been going around in circles for two weeks without a break in the case. No matter how hard our investigations get, we have to make progress where we can. And that brings us to—” I stopped outside the door of the third-floor apartment.

  “Good morning, Prudencio,” I greeted the owner, who was standing at the doorway.

  “Pruden, call me Pruden. And don’t stay out there. Come in.”

  We crossed the threshold into Malatrama, the publishing house. The office had an open floorplan, with several slender columns rising to a white, vaulted ceiling with wooden beams. All four walls were plastered with images of frightening goddesses and apocalyptic science-fiction landscapes. The art had a dizzying effect. It made me feel tiny. And apparently I wasn’t the only one who was affected.

  “Can you really concentrate with these images around you?” Milán blurted. “They’re so—”

  “So striking, so full of life, so imposing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They’re a tribute to the publishing house’s biggest successes…until now,” said Prudencio. He was barefoot on the warm wooden floor, wearing a pair of white linen pants and a white smock that strained under the weight of his enormous belly. With his white hair and curly beard, he reminded me of a druid about to devour a roasted boar.

  Even though it wasn’t a particularly hot day, Prudencio wiped sweat from his chubby cheeks with a small handkerchief. He held a large watering can in his other hand.

  “I was watering the plants,” he said, noticing my gaze. “I think I saw you at the book launch.”

  We followed him through a set of double doors that opened onto a narrow inner patio. When I leaned cautiously over the rail, I could just make out a pleasant communal courtyard several floors below. Tidy geraniums coexisted with the damp laundry that hung on the line under a flimsy canopy. I could hear the everyday sounds of the building: saucepans being pulled out of drawers, TV sets blaring the morning debates. I felt like I was peeking behind the curtain, catching a glimpse of the small intimacies of life in central Vitoria.

  The scent of potatoes and chorizo wafted from the first-floor apartment on the right, where a grandmother was cooking breakfast. Estíbaliz tried to cover the rumbling of her stomach.

  “I like to think about the fact that I live in a place people have been living in for a thousand years, before this palace was even built. And you,” he said, pointing at me with a guffaw, “you’re a López de Ayala, so what a coincidence that you live right next to the entrance to La Correría.”

  I cursed under my breath. Did everyone in this city know where I lived? There was no way to remain anonymous here, not since I’d been shot three years ago and a crowd had filled my doorway with candles.

  “In the fifteenth century, when warring factions were struggling f
or control of the city,” Prudencio continued, “your ancestors controlled several strategic gates into the town of Victoria. The Ayalas gathered at the doors to San Miguel Arcángel Church. The Calleja family met at Portal Oscuro, which is close by at the end of the Anorbin district, or Angevín, as it was called in medieval documents. The Ayalas protected the interests of the city’s first inhabitants. Does the apartment on the Plaza de la Virgen Blanca belong to your family? That would be an interesting coincidence.”

  “No, it’s a rental I got for a real bargain.”

  “It’s curious, though—an Ayala is still watching over that part of the city.”

  I liked the idea of being the custodian of my neighborhood, but it meant nothing. Try telling the two missing girls or the murdered father of five that I was keeping Vitoria safe.

  “Let’s not digress,” I said, clearing my throat. “To your earlier point, yes, I was at the launch. I went hoping the author would sign my book, just like everybody else. But he seems to be very elusive.”

  “Private, I would say.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “I wish I did.”

  “But you have your suspicions,” said Estíbaliz.

  “Why don’t we sit down? I haven’t offered you anything to eat or drink.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble. We won’t keep you long; we have a thousand and one things to do today. We’re here because we have begun an investigation into Antón Lasaga’s death. His body was found in the restrooms at Villa Suso.”

  Prudencio stopped in his tracks, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “So, it wasn’t a natural death. I wondered why you wouldn’t let us leave, and why you questioned so many people. The officers said it was routine, but it seemed odd.”

  “We can’t confirm the cause of death. We’re in the early stages of the investigation, and we’re following several lines of inquiry. We don’t wish to alarm you, but we do have to determine whether Lasaga’s death was related to the book launch, so it’s important to know the name of the author of The Lords of Time.”

  “The ghostwriter, you mean,” Estíbaliz whispered in my ear.

  “Well, I won’t lie to you. I do have my suspicions,” Prudencio said, turning to stare at one of the murals. “I know what you’re going to ask me. How can I not know who he is? Have I never met him, never spoken to him on the phone? Didn’t we meet to sign the book contract?”

  “Yes, those are some of the questions we have,” I said.

  “He communicated with me through e-mail, and he always used the pseudonym Diego Veilaz. This is a small publishing house, and we don’t normally publish fiction. We produce graphic novels, and we do contract work for exhibition catalogs, usually financed by museums or local councils….But when he sent me that manuscript, how could I refuse? It was pure gold. This business is largely a series of gambles; you never know how the market is going to respond to anything. But I was willing to take the risk for this novel, even though it took us out of our comfort zone. After all, I had my bookstore distribution network, a couple of salesmen, contacts with the printers, and a warehouse to distribute the book. I had all the necessary infrastructure. And finding a good illustrator for the cover was the least of my worries—I work with them every day.

  “In any event, our business was conducted by e-mail. Of course, I insisted we meet in person. I always want to get to know my authors. We end up having a close relationship, because there are lots of creative decisions that must be made throughout the publishing process. But with him, the relationship proved impossible. Still, I couldn’t let the opportunity to publish that book slip through my fingers.”

  “You said you have your suspicions,” I prodded.

  “And I do. Look, you’ll understand better if I show you something,” he said, leading us over to his computer screen.

  “I have two e-mail addresses. The first appears on the publishing website. That’s the one used by the artists and institutions that want to work with us. It’s public, so you can’t imagine how many e-mails I receive. The second is my personal e-mail address, which I only give to authors after we’ve signed a contract.”

  “How many authors do you have?”

  “Not many, twenty-eight.”

  “You’re trying to tell us that the author of The Lords of Time got in touch with you directly via your personal e-mail, not through the e-mail address listed on your website. That’s why you have your suspicions,” I suggested.

  He looked surprised, tugging the curls of his beard.

  “You’re a quick study, aren’t you? Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to show you. Either the writer has already published with me, or, and this is impossible to know, someone gave him my e-mail address. But honestly, there are very few graphic novelists, and that world is extremely competitive. They have a hard-enough time finding a publisher; they aren’t going to share their contacts with their rivals. I doubt any one of them would hand out my e-mail address, at least not without asking my permission first or mentioning that someone they knew was going to contact me about publishing a novel.”

  “So we have a list of twenty-eight graphic novelists who could also be our author,” said Milán, a gleam in her eye. “Could you give us access to your contact list?”

  “Of course. I have no desire to obstruct a criminal investigation. Although you must understand that this is confidential information.”

  “We understand,” I said. “It won’t leave our hands. But I got the impression you had one or two specific people in mind.”

  “I’m going to take a look at your computer,” said Milán, who was already seated on the publisher’s huge throne. “I’ll leave it the way I found it, but I want to trace all of these addresses and determine where these e-mails were sent from. Could you pull up your correspondence with the author for me?”

  “No problem,” he said, and typed Diego Veilaz.

  We looked on eagerly as Milán got to work. A few minutes later, the magic happened: a spot in the Valdegovía Valley appeared on a map of Álava province.

  “That’s strange…” the publisher mused.

  “What is?”

  “That was one of my bets.”

  “I went to an exhibition there a few months ago,” Estíbaliz broke in.

  She stepped back and began searching for something on her cell phone.

  “Your GPS is pointing to the Nograro Tower, in Valdegovía Valley, isn’t it?” she asked, still staring at her cell phone.

  Milán nodded, and Estí motioned me over discreetly.

  “One of the rooms there was displaying a habit worn by one of the Dominican nuns from Nuestra Señora del Cabello. Take a look, Kraken,” she whispered, showing me a photo of a slender mannequin wearing the same habit as the one I had pursued across the tiles of San Miguel Arcángel’s roof.

  “Pruden,” I said, “did you hire any actors to liven up the book launch?”

  “Actors? I don’t know what you mean. I can assure you, the archaeologist who was with me worked on the excavations carried out by the Santa María Cathedral Foundation.”

  “No, not the archaeologist. I want to know if you hired a Dominican nun.”

  “It never even occurred to me. The novel is a bestseller, so what would’ve been the point?” He blew out his cheeks and wiped the sweat from his temples once more.

  Dead end, I told myself. We would have to search for our nun on other roofs, because there was no sign of her here.

  “Let’s go back to your bet. You said you weren’t surprised the e-mail was sent from that spot in the Valdegovía Valley.”

  “Ramiro Alvar Nograro, Lord of Nograro Tower,” Pruden replied somberly, as though the name should mean something to us.

  “Who?” asked Estíbaliz, her interest aroused.

  “The twenty-fifth Lord of Nograro,” he explai
ned. “A young man, not yet forty, but a real scholar. He’s very shy. He was educated like a nineteenth-century lord and has an encyclopedic knowledge of his family’s noble history. I remember he told me about someone being buried alive. I can assure you: he was born, brought up, and will die without ever stepping foot outside his tower. His ancestors have been the lords of that valley since the Middle Ages. The eldest sons inherit the name Alvar, and their brothers take it as a second Christian name, in case the heir dies without children. That’s how they’ve done it for more than a thousand years. I think it’s the only heritage in the province that’s been wisely administered for a millennium. They still lease all the homes and all the land around the tower. Back in the day, they ran the forge, the mill, and the church, like the Mendoza, Avendaño, and Guevara families. Ramiro Alvar once told me, somewhat shamefacedly, that he had done the calculations and he was so rich that his descendants wouldn’t need to work for the next five hundred years. Yet I doubt whether a young recluse like him, no matter how brilliant or well educated, will have descendants. When we were working together, he never came to me. I always had to go there.”

  “What were you working on?” Estíbaliz asked.

  “The catalog for an exhibition about the Valdegovía Valley organized by the Ugarte Town Council. It was some time ago. Ramiro Alvar wanted to promote the exhibition in order to attract tourists to the region. He’s always been a local patron, discreetly.”

  “That must have been the exhibition I went to,” said Estíbaliz. “Do you have a copy of the catalog?”

  The publisher nodded and went to look for it on one of the shelves.

  “Does Ramiro Alvar fit the profile?” I asked.

  “Honestly? I thought it could be one of several male and a few female authors, but yes, I’ve always wondered whether it was him.”

  “You say he’s extremely shy.”

  “He’s a bookworm. Apprehensive and unaccustomed to dealing with others, other than the woman the local council hired to lead tours of the tower. That said, he’s well loved in the town. The mayor and town councilors say he’s easy to work with; locals and even his own lawyers go to see him when they have a question about their lease. He’s like a relic from another time, though. He doesn’t even have a cell phone; he says he doesn’t need one. It’s true, he uses a landline in one of his offices. I got the impression he never leaves the grounds. He lives on the top two floors of the tower. The first floor houses a permanent exhibition of family heirlooms: antiques, army uniforms, ancient matchlock guns or harquebuses, saddles, books from his ancestors’ library….There are all kinds of people in his family tree: soldiers, priests, men of letters, local mayors. Similar faces are repeated in engravings and photographs throughout the house: first daguerreotypes, then black-and-white photos, then sepia, and finally full-color portraits.”