by Sara Rosett
The other officer was in the workroom and called for Officer Alina, who went over to the door.
“Quickly,” Gloria said. “Tell me what happened.”
“It looks like Luis was attacked,” Zoe said. “I arrived to pick up the artwork this morning and found him unconscious in the workroom. The paramedics noticed some red marks on his neck that they thought were Taser marks. The blue butterfly painting and the Dalí sketch are missing.”
Gloria’s eyes widened. “Poor Luis. Is he going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. He was unconscious when they took him away in the ambulance.”
“And the artwork gone, too.” Gloria switched to Spanish, and Zoe had the impression that her language was a bit on the colorful side.
Officer Alina returned to the gallery, and Gloria fell silent, giving him an attentive look. He seemed to thaw a bit more.
With Gloria by his side, Officer Alina quickly ran through his questions, and Zoe summarized how she’d found Luis on the floor this morning. Then Officer Alina asked a question with the word Taser in it.
Zoe was beginning to hate that word. Gloria had barely finished asking if Zoe owned one of the devices, when Zoe said, “No, I do not own a Taser. I’ve never used one. And I did not hurt Luis.” Zoe looked directly at Officer Alina. “I want to contact the American Embassy. I’ve told you everything I know, and you have my hotel information if you need to get in touch with me.”
Gloria’s eyes flashed Zoe a warning as she translated for Officer Alina. Her “translation” went on for quite a bit, and Zoe thought she was probably modifying the statement—toning it down—but in the end Officer Alina gave a reluctant nod and only said a short sentence before pointing them to the door.
Gloria tucked her hand through Zoe’s elbow. “We can leave now. But the police may have more questions for you later.”
“What was that last thing he said? His frown was pretty intense.”
“You’re not to leave Madrid without speaking to the police.”
22
Gloria insisted on taking Zoe to eat lunch after they left the gallery, saying, “You need food and something to drink. And if you don’t, I do.” Zoe couldn’t remember what restaurant they’d gone to or the name of the dish she had. All she knew was that it was fish and that the restaurant was quiet. They’d sat at a booth in the back and rehashed everything that had happened. When they parted outside the restaurant, Gloria promised to call her after she visited Luis in the hospital.
She felt dazed. She hadn’t expected to find someone she’d met the day before unconscious. On top of that shock, the fact that the artwork was gone was still sinking in. She returned to the hotel and rescheduled her airline reservations and extended her room reservation at the hotel’s business center.
As she rode the elevator up to her room, she thought about how she’d break the news to Thacker about the artwork. This news was definitely something that couldn’t be done over the company app. She’d have to call him. She was considering various ways to tell him when she felt someone’s gaze on her. She glanced around the elevator and saw a man with a closely cropped Brutus haircut and jug ears watching her. The doors opened and he gestured for her to step out first. As she neared her door, her phone rang with an unidentified number. She wanted to let it go to voicemail but, considering everything that happened within the last few hours, she decided she better answer it.
“¿Señora Andrews?” The voice was too deep to be Officer Alina.
“Speaking.”
“I am Chief Inspector Munez. I’m investigating the incident at the Cabello gallery.” His English barely held a trace of an accent. “I would appreciate it if you could come to my office. I believe we have recovered the artwork that was stolen earlier today.”
Zoe had been about to unlock the door to her hotel room with the key card, but she paused. “That’s wonderful,” she said, stunned. She knew firsthand that the recovery rate for stolen art was extremely low. Thank goodness she hadn’t contacted Thacker yet. Much better to call with the news that the art had been stolen but recovered than the news that it was gone.
“I am glad you are pleased.”
“My client will be even more pleased than I am.”
“That is Mr. Thacker, I understand?”
“Yes, that’s right”
“Before you contact him, please come and see the artwork. The other gallery employee is unavailable this afternoon. We need to confirm that what we have is the missing artwork. Mr. Cabello is unable to help us at this point.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Zoe got the address and returned to the lobby. She asked the doorman to get her a taxi. The taxi driver gave her a second glance when she gave him the address, but he put the car in gear and drove her without another word. Her phone rang again, and she was relieved to see that this time it was Jack. “I’m so glad to hear from you.”
He asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes. There’s good news. The police have recovered the artwork.” A car cut in front of the taxi, and the driver hit the horn in a sharp blast. “I’m in a taxi on my way to see it, as you can probably hear.”
“Is Gloria going with you to the police station?”
“No need. A different officer, a chief inspector, called me. He speaks English fluently.”
“I don’t like you going by yourself.”
“I’m not crazy about the idea either, but I think it would be worse if I didn’t go. All they need me to do is identify the painting.”
Chief Inspector Munez was probably in his mid- to late-fifties and had a tanned face with pockmarked cheeks. His dark hair was going gray at the hairline where it was combed straight back from his forehead, but the ends of his hair, which reached to his collar, were black. He closed the door to the small room where Zoe had been waiting for nearly an hour. “Thank you for coming in.”
He carried a box and a folder tucked under one arm. He set the box at one end of the table, then removed the folder, and sat down across the table from Zoe. As he flipped open the thick folder, he took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. Without another word to Zoe, he skimmed the paperwork. Zoe felt the tension inside her ratchet up a notch. She had that awful feeling you get in a doctor’s office when you’re waiting for test results. After what seemed to be about a quarter of an hour, he leaned back. “The officers who were on the scene today brought me up to date. I apologize that the interpreter was not there.”
“My friend Gloria was able to help out.”
“So I understand,” Munez said, disapproval in his tone. Then his tone became brisk. “Let’s go through it all to make sure I understand exactly what happened.” He took off the glasses, threw them down on top of the file, and hooked his elbow over the back of the chair.
Zoe glanced at the box. “I thought I was here to look at the painting and sketch.”
“All in good time. Just tell me what happened in your own words.”
Zoe pressed down a spurt of irritation. If Officer Alina had brought him up to date, then he had all the information in front of him in the file, but Zoe knew the drill. He wanted to check her answers against what she’d said earlier. “I went to the gallery this morning to pick up—”
“No, start with your arrival in Madrid.”
“That’s a lot of boring tourist stuff, mostly.”
“I love to hear about my beautiful city.” He gave her a quick smile that seemed all surface with no sincerity to back it up.
“All right.” You asked for it, she thought as she proceeded to detail her movements from the moment she stepped off the plane. She chronicled everything from the rambling city tour with Gloria to her breakfast on the way to the gallery. Then she described how she’d found Luis unconscious and Pilar’s arrival. “Pilar called for an ambulance,” Zoe said. “The rest, you know.”
He picked up his glasses and tapped an earpiece against the file. “So what did Luis say when you spoke to him today?”
> “I didn’t speak to him today. He was unconscious.”
Munez smiled. “Of course. And what prior contact with him did you have before you arrived in Madrid?”
“I called him to set up an appointment. “
“And this was?”
Zoe thought back, working out the day. Traveling always screwed up her sense of time, and she wanted to make sure she didn’t give Munez any ammunition to accuse her of lying. She felt she needed to watch her step. While Officer Alina had a straight-forward manner and seemed to only be interested in getting the details down in his notebook, Zoe felt that Munez was carefully examining each word, searching for the slightest variable or inconsistency. “It would have been Friday.”
“And you contacted him because…”
“I learned he had purchased a painting that I was looking for.”
He slipped on his glasses and consulted the file. “That would be the butterfly and hummingbird painting by Martin Johnson Heade?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And the Salvador Dalí?”
“That was a last minute purchase. Gloria saw it and suggested that I mention it to Mr. Thacker. He was interested in it and purchased it as well. I was supposed to pick up both the painting and the sketch this morning.”
“Mr. Thacker…” Munez held the glasses by the earpiece and twirled them in the air. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Not a lot. I met him once. He’s semi-retired from the company he started. He’s a collector, and he’s expecting his art to arrive in the U.S. tonight.”
“On that topic…while it will be impossible for you to return to the U.S. tonight, I do have good news for you.”
Muniz closed the file, put his glasses on top of it, then shoved it out of the way with one hand as he drew the box to him. He took out a plastic bag and set it on the table between them. The glare of the overhead light prevented Zoe from seeing what it was for a moment, but the plastic bag was too small to contain the painting. A sick feeling settled her stomach. Had the painting been cut or damaged? Was it in pieces? She leaned forward and realized she had it all wrong.
“The Dalí sketch.” Hearing the disappointment in her own voice, Zoe added quickly, “This is wonderful. Mr. Thacker will be grateful you’ve found it.”
He took another plastic bag from the box and laid it beside the sketch. It was bigger and contained pieces of wood. “Are those…” Zoe pushed at the plastic, “…pieces of the frame?”
“Yes. It was broken—shattered, if you can use that word to describe wood. Completely destroyed.”
Munez didn’t reach back into the box. Zoe stretched and peered into the box. It was empty. “I don’t understand. You said you had recovered the artwork. This is just the Dalí sketch.”
“Which is artwork, no? Mr. Thacker was willing to pay quite a bit for the sketch, I understand.”
“Yes, of course,” Zoe said, but wasn’t about to be drawn into a “what is art” discussion. “What about the painting? The one with the blue butterfly and the hummingbird—where is it?”
“Still missing, I’m afraid. Let’s return to the sketch.” Munez gestured to the larger bag with the bits of wood. “Why was the frame destroyed?”
Anger bubbled inside Zoe. He’d deliberately misled her. His term “artwork” had been intentionally vague, and she had jumped to the conclusion that both the sketch and the painting had been recovered. But it wouldn’t do her any good to vent her frustrations. She drew in a deep breath and then said, “I have no idea why someone would do this to the frame.”
“Was the frame valuable?”
“As I said, I have no idea. I thought the value was in the sketch, not in the frame—at least that’s what I picked up from listening to Gloria and Luis discuss it. Gloria could tell you more, I’m sure. Where did you find it?”
“In the trash a few blocks from the gallery.”
“That’s impressive detective work,” Zoe said grudgingly, thinking of the tangle of busy, twisting streets around the gallery.
Munez pressed a finger against the plastic bag, pushing one of the pieces of wood away from the others. It had a dark spot on it. “The fool who stole it set it on fire before tossing it in the trash, and the smoke drew attention. A business nearby had a fire extinguisher. Because they acted quickly, the fire did not spread over more than the corner of the thick frame. The wrapping paper with the address of the gallery on it had also been discarded. It had been separated from the frame and was not damaged.”
“Do you think they burned the painting?” Zoe asked, alarmed as she envisioned the edges of the canvas blackening as flames closed in on those amazing iridescent wings. Surely someone couldn’t destroy something so beautiful. But it had happened before. She could only hope that the value of the painting, which she knew was more than the sketch, would ensure it wasn’t damaged.
“I have no evidence at this point that indicates that,” Munez said.
Zoe pulled at the plastic around the sketch. Except for a bent corner, it had escaped damage. “Why steal the sketch only to destroy it?”
Munez didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up both plastic bags. “I will let you know if we have further information about the painting.” He put them in the box and closed the flaps. “Now, if you’ll come with me, we need your prints. Then you’re free to carry on with your day.”
“You want my fingerprints?”
“For elimination purposes only.”
23
Zoe noticed the man with close-cropped hair and jug ears on her way back to the hotel.
Since she had to wait another hour to have her fingerprints taken, it was after six when Zoe left the police station, and Madrid was waking up from its siesta. Not wanting to be cooped up in a taxi, and with questions spinning through her mind, Zoe had decided the long walk back to the hotel was exactly what she needed.
She had paused to check her map when the man caught her eye, his gaze focused on her. The second he realized she’d noticed him, he looked away. The quick, jerky shift of his gaze worried her. If you caught someone staring, most people at least acknowledged the social faux pas with a brief smile or faint nod. He focused on a street sign and tugged at the lobe of his oversized ear.
Hadn’t she seen him in the elevator at the hotel this afternoon? She glanced back. Yes, it was the same guy. He wore a blue dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up and dark pants. His Brutus-style haircut was combed down over his forehead. The short haircut only emphasized his large ears. It was odd that their paths had crossed again in a city the size of Madrid. If she’d been hitting the tourist sites, it might be understandable, but she was returning from a police station.
She walked on, slowing at the next corner to look at the map again. A tilt of her head showed the man a few paces behind her on the other side of the street. He was walking at a leisurely pace, checking his phone.
Zoe’s phone rang, and she answered it before crossing the street.
“Zoe?” Thacker’s voice reverberated over the line. “What the hell is going on out there?”
“I’m not sure. Let me bring you up—”
“I’m away for a couple of hours, and I come back and hear the painting’s stolen? You’d think buying the painting would be the simple part. Once you found the damn thing, bringing it back should be easy.”
Zoe let him vent as she made her way down the curving cobblestone street, which was lined on both sides with tall apartment buildings. She glanced over her shoulder a few times—discreetly, the way Jack had taught her. She found a napkin in her pocket and half turned back to toss it in a trashcan. A few steps later she used the large window of a store to check the area across the street. Both times, she saw the man with the prominent ears as he took the same path she did, but on the opposite side of the street, his movements echoing hers. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
Thacker’s angry words tapered off, and Zoe said, “Let me tell you what I know.” She increased her pace as
she summarized everything that had happened. She darted to the right down a short street, then turned left at the next narrow street. As she hurried along she noticed the street was getting more crowded. Some people strolled and looked like tourists, but others seemed to be natives of Madrid with their wheeled shopping carts and briefcases.
Zoe spotted an arcade entrance that people were filtering toward, the Plaza Mayor. Of course the pedestrian traffic was thicker around the plaza. “I do have good news,” Zoe said. “I’ve just come from a meeting with a chief inspector.” Zoe was sure that Munez would characterize their meeting in another way—an interview with a suspect, most likely—but Zoe liked the word “meeting” much better.
“The Dalí sketch has been found,” she continued. “I’ve seen it. The sketch itself is undamaged, as far as I can tell. The frame…well, it’s not in such good shape.”
Thacker muttered an obscenity and said that he couldn’t care less about the frame. Zoe hustled on, skimming around the edge of the plaza. A quick glance over her shoulder showed the man, Jug Ears, as she was beginning to think of him, had followed her into the plaza, but he lingered at the entrance.
Maybe she was being paranoid. The plaza was a huge pedestrian crossroad. Perhaps it wasn’t so strange that Jug Ears had also entered the plaza after her. Perhaps his path was simply the same as Zoe’s, and it was a coincidence.
“So you have the sketch in your possession?” Thacker asked, and Zoe noticed that his typical speech pattern, which was usually layered with pauses, silent beats, and the emphasis of certain words, had disappeared. He was focused and all-business. The mischievous undertone of teasing that had come through when she met him in Vail had evaporated from his manner.
Zoe drew in a breath and braced herself for a renewed burst of anger from him. “It’s part of a police investigation, and Chief Inspector Munez says that it will be released when the investigation is complete.” Another string of obscenities flowed through the phone, but Zoe barely listened as she moved to a restaurant’s menu board and watched Jug Ears out of the corner of her eye.
