by Lois Winston
“Why not divorce him?”
Elaine sighed. “There’s no way he’d ever let me leave him. Trust me. I’ve tried. The man is ruthless. This was my only option. I now have a hundred million Euros which will enable me to disappear. A bit of plastic surgery, a new identity, and Michael will never find me.”
“Don’t forget a Picasso worth millions.”
She took another sip of her coffee and spoke over the rim of the cup. “The painting was an afterthought. A brilliant one, though, don’t you think?”
“If you wanted to fake a kidnapping to disappear, why involve me? You obviously know Laporta quite well. How come he didn’t realize his thug had snatched the wrong person?”
“I first met Señor Laporta last night. He was following orders from his employer. He had no idea we staged the kidnapping.”
“We? You and Carlos Perella?”
“Me and Rafael Perella, Carlos’s son. Rafael is my lover.”
The plot thickened, but I still had many unanswered questions. “Were you really at Parc Güell yesterday?”
“Yes. I saw you wandering around the grounds and realized immediately that we might have a problem. Balaguer only had a headshot of me, and from the neck up, we look very similar.”
A diplomatic way of saying that from the neck down no one could possibly mistake my pear-shaped excess booty for her size two figure.
“I saw Balaguer walk out with you,” she continued, “but I couldn’t exactly stop him to say he had the wrong victim.”
“He might have killed me.”
“He was instructed not to harm you.”
“Your husband claimed you were in the room with him when he received Laporta’s call.”
Elaine scowled. “The bastard lied.”
“Didn’t he run a risk of the kidnappers harming you?”
“Michael is all about having the upper hand in negotiations. He wouldn’t care that he risked my life by hanging up on Señor Laporta. It’s all about winning with him. That’s when I decided to up the ransom demand to include his precious painting.”
There was still more that made no sense. “The police know Balaguer and Laporta abducted me. I picked them both out from mug shots. They’ll go after them for kidnapping you. Aren’t you worried your plan will backfire?”
“Your case has been dropped because you won’t be around to testify.”
“How do you know that?”
She smiled. “Do you think police corruption is something only found in the States?”
“That still doesn’t absolve them of your kidnapping.”
“Both have ironclad alibis for last night.” She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “And by now Señor Perella has made a very generous contribution to the Barcelona police pension fund.”
“That won’t stop your husband from going after them.”
“No, but this will.” She withdrew a white business envelope from one of her jacket pockets and handed it to me. “This is what you will give my husband when you return without me.”
The sealed envelope was devoid of any markings. I placed it on the table next to my coffee cup. “What does it say?”
“That I know where the bodies are buried, should he dare come after me or the people who helped me.”
“Literal bodies?”
Instead of answering my question, she graced me with a Mona Lisa smile, then said, “You should finish your frittata while it’s still hot.”
Having lost my appetite, I placed my fork on the plate and grabbed my glass of sangria, polishing off the wine in an attempt to stave off the rage building within me. Instead of calming me, the sweet fruity alcohol fueled my anger. “You used me,” I said. Worst of all, by drawing me into her scheme to defraud her husband, she’d ruined my Barcelona getaway.
“Not intentionally. It’s not my fault Balaguer grabbed you instead of me, and I had no idea you’d show up at the museum last night. I merely took advantage of an opportunity that presented itself.”
I slammed my empty glass onto the table. “I was tear gassed! Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about the tear gas. What can I do to make it up to you?”
I pushed back my chair and stood. “Look, I’m really sorry you’re married to an abusive control freak. I know what it’s like to discover your husband isn’t the man you thought you’d married. But you had no right to draw me into your drama. What if something had gone wrong? Those men had guns.”
“They were instructed not to harm anyone. They fired into the ceiling.”
“Thugs don’t always follow orders. Besides, bullets can ricochet. You have no idea what it was like in there with the room filling with tear gas and not even the emergency lights to guide us to safety. People panicked. Some were trampled in the dark and injured. Someone could have died. You risked my life and the lives of everyone else at that museum last night.”
To my surprise her eyes filled with tears. “None of that was supposed to happen. I just wanted to get away from Michael and make him pay for the way he’s treated me.”
I picked up the envelope and dropped it into my purse. “I’ll deliver the letter for you because I really have no other choice. Your husband is expecting me to secure your release. I need some explanation as to why that’s not happening, and I doubt he’d believe me. He already thinks I’m somehow involved in your kidnapping.”
“Thank you. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“Unless you have a way of turning back time, that’s not going to happen. Just get someone to bring me back to my hotel.”
Elaine picked up her napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “Of course.”
At that moment I heard what sounded like a helicopter off in the distance and approaching fast. The noise grew to deafening proportions as it hovered overhead. Had Michael Naiman planted another bug that Laporta overlooked? How far would Naiman go to drag his wife back? Would his men in black drop down on us, guns blazing? I looked up and held my breath.
Elaine stood. “That’s my ride.” Señor Laporta will return you to Barcelona.” As if on cue, Laporta arrived, carrying two large suitcases that I assumed contained her clothes and all those diamonds from last night, perhaps much more. Someone probably entered her home and packed for her while we were all at the museum.
Elaine grabbed hold of the portfolio. I followed them both out to the back of the house where the helicopter landed in the middle of an expansive lawn. The pilot stepped out, grabbed the luggage and portfolio, and stored them inside the chopper.
Elaine took both my hands in hers and kissed me on both cheeks, European style. “Once again, thank you,” she shouted into my ear over the roar of the rotors. “I hope at some point you can find it in your heart to forgive me for dragging you into this mess.”
She stood back and our eyes locked. It might take awhile, but I probably would forgive her. Her bruises spoke volumes as to the hell she’d lived through with Michael Naiman. I nodded. She smiled, turned, and headed for the chopper.
SIX
Laporta and I watched as the helicopter carrying Elaine rose into the air, then headed east. “Come, Señora Pollack, I will return you to Barcelona.”
He led me back through the house and out the front door to his waiting Mercedes. As we got underway, I took out my phone. By now Zack would be frantic. Laporta reached across the seat, grabbed the phone from my hand, and slipped it into his breast pocket. “Not until I drop you off, por favor.”
We drove in silence for most of the return trip, one that took far less time than the drive to the villa. Within an hour we arrived in the center of Barcelona. “If you don’t mind, Señora, I will drop you off at Plaça de Catalunya.”
“That’s fine.” I understood his hesitation to pull up in front of the hotel. Neither of us knew who’d be waiting there—Naiman, the police, or both. For his own protection Laporta couldn’t risk being seen dropping me off at the hotel. Cars, trucks, and touri
st buses circled the plaza. Street vendors, residents, and tourists jammed the area. No one would notice me stepping out of his car, especially if he parked on the side of the plaza farthest from the hotel.
He pulled up to the curb on a street across from the plaza and handed my phone back to me. I stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something, but he just clicked the door locks open, reached across the seat, and opened the passenger door. I unfastened my seatbelt and stepped out onto the curb. He nodded once after I closed the door before he pulled back into traffic and drove off.
I powered up my phone and checked for messages. Zack had called half a dozen times. Instead of listening to the messages, I called him.
He answered on the first ring. “Are you all right? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m at Plaça de Catalunya, and I’m fine.”
“I didn’t know what to think. You had me crazy with worry.”
“I couldn’t use my phone. I’ll tell you everything as soon as I get to the hotel.”
“The police are here. And Naiman.”
“I figured as much.”
“Is Elaine with you?”
I took a deep breath before I answered. “No. It’s complicated. Don’t say anything to Naiman.”
“Okay.”
I hung up, crossed the street, and cut through the plaza. The sun blazed overhead; a slight breeze whipped through my hair. Zack and I should be out enjoying the city on such a gorgeous afternoon. Instead, I expected to spend the remainder of the day being cross examined by Michael Naiman and debriefed by the police. At least I no longer had the feeling someone followed me.
As I approached the hotel, I counted three police cars parked in front of the building. The moment I stepped inside the lobby Naiman accosted me, two of his men in black close behind him. “Where’s Elaine? Why isn’t she with you?”
“Elaine is safe,” I said.
“I don’t believe you. You’re involved in this. I’ve known it all along.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist, squeezing so hard that I could feel the bruises forming.
“Let go of her,” said Zack.
“Not until she tells me what she’s done with my wife.” He started shaking me. His goons stole a glance at each other, then stepped back as the half dozen policemen milling around the lobby drew closer, their hands resting on their guns but not interceding on my behalf.
Zack tried to pull Naiman away from me, but when he refused to release his grip, Zack landed a punch squarely on his jaw. Naiman stumbled backwards, pulling me along with him. Zack yanked me free as Naiman fell flat on his back.
He zeroed in on his bodyguards. “Don’t just stand there gaping! Help me up!”
When neither stepped forward to offer him a hand, he rolled to his knees and leveraged himself off the marble floor. His entire body shook with rage, his face growing purple. “I’ll deal with the two of you later.” Then he pointed one of his pudgy fingers at Zack and screamed at the policemen, “I want that man arrested for assault!”
I held out my arm for all to see. Red marks encircled my wrist. “You assaulted me!”
He ignored me, instead turning to the nearest policeman. “I want them both arrested. Now! Or I’ll have your badges.”
His standard threat to law enforcement, apparently. Michael Naiman was used to people jumping the moment he snapped his fingers. No one jumped, and that infuriated him even more. Veins bulged in his neck. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward me. That’s when the police finally went into action, grabbing him before he got any closer.
“I’ve had enough,” I said. I reached into my purse, withdrew Elaine’s envelope, and handed it to one of the policemen. “This is from his wife. It will explain everything. I’m going up to my room. Please tell Captain De la Riva I’ll stop by later to brief him on what happened and pick up my passport.”
I turned and headed for the elevator. Zack followed. As the doors closed behind us, we heard Naiman roar. “I guess he read Elaine’s letter,” I said.
After Zack and I spent some much needed alone time together and I filled him in on everything that had happened after he left for Parc Güell, we headed over to the police station to retrieve our passports.
De la Riva led us into his office and offered us seats. He informed us that he’d read Elaine’s letter and that we were no longer persons of interest. “I’m sorry for your less-than-enjoyable stay in our city, Señora Pollack.” He opened his top desk draw, withdrew our passports and handed them to us. “Perhaps you’ll return in the future and see Barcelona as it is meant to be seen.”
“Perhaps.” Although highly unlikely unless some overly generous leprechaun decided to grace me with a pot of gold.
“We need to discuss Señor Naiman,” he said.
“Why?”
“He claims you abetted in the theft of his painting.” He turned to Zack. “And that you, Señor Barnes, assaulted him.” The chief shrugged his shoulders. “However, we cannot seem to find any witnesses to corroborate his claims.”
“Six of your officers and two of his own men witnessed him attack me,” I said.
“That is my understanding. Do you wish to press charges? Señor Naiman is currently residing in one of our holding cells.”
“I think Señor Naiman will suffer much more from his wife’s actions than any sentence he’d receive for assault.”
“And the Picasso?”
“His wife has the painting.”
“Being his wife, that would make her half owner. Therefore, I see that no crime has been committed.” He rose and extended his hand. “Have a safe trip home.”
Epilogue
A week after our return from Barcelona, I arrived home from work to find a FedEx envelope addressed to me from a bank in Switzerland. Inside I found a note from Elaine Naiman.
Dear Anastasia,
I hope this letter finds you well. Although I realize you were never a willing participant, I wanted to thank you once again for helping me in my escape from Michael. The situation became far more complicated than I ever anticipated, and I’m sorry you were drawn into the drama.
During our conversation over brunch, you alluded to having your own marital problems. I asked Señor Perella to check with some of his associates in the States and learned that your husband left you deeply in debt. I hope the enclosed check will both help you pay off some of that debt and compensate you for the trouble I caused.
With deepest appreciation,
Elaine Naiman
I reached into the envelope and withdrew a second piece of paper, a bank check for twenty-five thousand dollars.
A Note from the Author
Thanks so much for taking the time to read Mosaic Mayhem. I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please consider writing a review and also telling your friends about the book. I’d truly appreciate it.
Authors often take artistic liberties, something I did in the writing of Mosaic Mayhem. Although L’Ascète (The Ascetic) is an actual painting by Pablo Picasso, it is still very much a part of the Barnes Foundation collection.
If you’d like to learn of new Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery releases as well as other books by me and my Emma Carlyle alter-ego, you can sign up for my newsletter by clicking here: [email protected]. You have my word that you won’t be flooded with emails, nor will I ever share or sell your email address. You can also unsubscribe at any time.
Finally, typos and errors are the bane of every author’s existence. No matter how many times this book was proofed, one or two (hopefully no more!) may have slipped past me and those who helped edit this book. If you find a typo, please let me know. The beauty of e-books is that errors can be corrected very easily. You can email me at [email protected].
Happy reading!
Lois Winston
About the Author
Lois Winston is an award-winning author, crafts designer, and literary agent. She currently writes the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollac
k Crafting Mystery series featuring magazine crafts editor and reluctant amateur sleuth Anastasia Pollack. Kirkus Reviews dubbed the series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” Lois is also published in romance, romantic suspense, humorous women’s fiction and non-fiction under her own name and in romance, romantic suspense, and chick lit under her Emma Carlyle pen name. Visit Lois at http://www.loiswinston.com, visit Emma at http://www.emmacarlyle.com, and visit Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers character blog, www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com. Connect with Lois on Twitter: https://twitter.com/Anasleuth
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
About the Author
