by Alex Archer
“They all have polka dots,” she grumbled.
“Not all of them, just a healthy number of them,” Garin assured her. “You want to refine your description? Any particular facial attributes that stood out?”
“I didn’t see her face. She had dark hair.” Annja winced. Dark hair was de rigueur here in Spain. “Probably best to circle back and take a look up on the roof, see if a weapon was left behind.”
“That’s best left to the authorities, Annja. You don’t want to overstep the line here.”
He was right about that. But she hadn’t seen a patrolman on duty outside the stadium.
“I’m heading back to the stadium to check on Manuel. Come along, Annja.”
“Why would someone want to kill a matador?” she wondered, dodging a spinning flamenco dancer’s fringed shawl and ducking under low-hanging pendants that advertised Summertime Sangria.
“I don’t know. But that’s two murders and one attempted murder for you in one day. I think that’s a record, eh?”
If he didn’t count her run-ins with murderous pirates, ambushing guerrillas or Irish gunrunners. “I attract adventure.”
“More like chaos.”
They veered toward the stadium, but Annja paused and looked toward the celebration. Her instincts weren’t ready to let this one go.
“Can I meet you back at the stadium? Or even at El Bravo’s? I want to wander through the crowd a little longer.”
“Call me on my cell for directions,” Garin said and stalked off, his tall, bulky figure sticking out like the proverbial bull in the china shop as he navigated the festivities.
Annja swung around and eyed the alleyways and streets that turned off from the main road. The best place for a sniper to hide would be away from the crowd. Unless she was dressed as a dancer…
She passed a group of three dancers in polka-dot skirts in varying shades of red. They were all gray-haired and too well-rounded to have given Annja such good chase. A boy and girl she guessed were about ten danced with each other in a circle of clapping tourists.
Coming upon a dancer in a red-and-white polka-dot dress, Annja joined the crowd that stood around her. She held a regal pose, arms arced above her head and chin thrust down defiantly as she worked some fancy footwork on the cobblestones to no more than the clatter of the crowd’s claps. Palmas, Annja knew the rhythmic clapping was called. It punctuated the dancer’s moves, as did the occasional shouted “Olé!”
The woman’s hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Not nearly as smoothly coifed or styled as the other dancers around her. A sheen of perspiration beaded her neck and chest.
Annja moved to the front of the crowd, clapping in unison and mastering the open-palmed echoing palmas after a few tries.
The dancer spun around, her ruffled skirts dusting the air and revealing her rapid footwork beneath. It was amazing the punishing motions she could perform so forcefully and yet gracefully. Must be hell on the Achilles tendons.
Annja’s sight fell on the black mark on the woman’s wrist. Looked like a tattoo, but her rapid movement wouldn’t let Annja make out the design. Clutching her skirts at her hips, the dancer brought her dance to an end with a triumphant thrust of her hand to the sky.
The crowd cheered and some called for another performance, while the dancer’s head tilted down and her eyes angled to Annja. Her steady, dark gaze did not falter as she read Annja’s daring look. A smirk curled the corner of the dancer’s mouth. She stepped back and performed a twirl, fitting herself between two men in the crowd with a flirtatious ease, and then—she dashed.
Who danced and dashed? Only someone with good reason.
Annja took chase after the dancer, knowing with certainty she had found the sniper.
She dodged a basket seeming to float in the air, until her shoulder slammed into the basket carrier’s shoulder and the huge wicker conveyance wavered and toppled. Angry shouts followed in her wake.
The dancing and festivities stretched far ahead and down the street, seemingly endless. The partying would continue all night. Perhaps the hostel hadn’t been so wild, after all.
The dancer dodged into the crowd, but Annja stayed close. A swirl of skirt frilled alongside her, and the tourists jostled her off balance. Gripping a street pole, Annja swung her body around and, using the momentum to lunge upward, almost managed to grasp the dancer by the arm.
She saw Annja, then shoved a heavyset man drinking from a pewter mug toward her. Splattered with tequila, Annja apologized and swiped the back of her hand across her cheek without stopping.
They passed a group of men smoking cigars who whistled at the dancer as she swept by. In response, the woman flicked them the international symbol for “get out of my face.” They jeered and made some comment about Annja chasing her girlfriend as she raced by.
The dancer’s heels clicked madly as she picked up her pace. The nails in her shoes designed to make loud, exacting beats when flamenco dancing did not serve well for stealth. And Annja couldn’t imagine they provided good traction.
The dancer turned right, and the alley was so narrow Annja had to turn sideways. The dancer was thirty feet ahead of her and veered left down another alleyway.
Noting the fallen garbage can ahead, Annja sped up and jumped over it, landing smoothly. She swung around the corner where the dancer stood, poised for her approach. Charging her, Annja took a punch to the shoulder, which threw her off balance and against the brick wall. A heel kicked her in the hip and she felt a nail head tear her skin.
“You are loco!” the dancer accused her. Body poised in a half crouch for another punch, she waited for Annja to shake off the blow, then followed with another swing.
Annja was able to avoid the second punch with a dodge of her head to the left. She wasn’t dealing with a delicate dancer who liked to swing her skirts for a few coins, so she dropped all apprehension and swung her leg in a high kick, connecting with the dancer’s ribs and knocking her against the brick wall.
Sensing a battle sword would be overkill in this match, Annja didn’t summon it. Instead, she employed some martial-arts moves. She’d taken as many classes as New York City’s municipal gym offered to learn to protect herself. She used a muay thai elbow strike and followed that with a karate kick.
As she bent forward, the swing of her attacker’s fist missed. Coming upright, she charged the woman, slamming her against the wall a second time.
“You were on the rooftop,” Annja said in Spanish. “You shot at the matador.”
“I’ve been dancing for my supper all night,” the woman hissed.
The dancer lunged at her with both fists up. She swung, missing Annja’s head, but veered back with a left hook that skimmed her shoulder.
Annja blocked the foot that swung for her calf. “I’m not with the police,” she said. “I just want answers.”
“I sighted you earlier. You are working for the murderer,” the woman growled. Annja gripped her ponytail and shoved her cheek to the wall. She swore at her in vibrant Spanish.
“What murderer?” Annja demanded.
“El Bravo!”
Seriously?
“I don’t work for Maestro Bravo. I am, however, curious why a tiny thing like you likes to target practice with a famous matador.”
“His fame is bought with blood.”
“Isn’t that the point of bullfighting?”
Did the protesters go so far as to use real bullets? Enough of this. The woman matched her in skill and would go at her as long as Annja could manage. She needed backup.
Still bent in the position to regain her breath, Annja called the sword to her grip and swung up and across her torso. She charged the dancer, slamming her against the wall a final time with a fist to her shoulder. She fitted the blade up under her chin.
“Hey, now,” the dancer said in perfect English. She tried to get a good look at the sword, but Annja held it firmly against her neck. “You’re mighty intent on protecting a murderer, eh, Americano?�
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“Protesters usually carry signs and shout angry epithets. I can’t believe you’d go so far as to shoot the guy.”
“You think I’m protesting the senseless killing of bulls?” Despite the deadly blade at her neck, the woman laughed in a deep, throaty tone. “Oh, señorita, you have got it very wrong.”
Overhead, Annja heard giggles from a couple young boys who had stuck their heads out a second-story window to see what was going on. They held a huge paper airplane and made zooming noises.
“If I’m wrong, then correct me. Why did you take a shot at Manuel Bravo?”
“Because someone needed to.”
“That’s a poor excuse. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t make a citizen’s arrest—”
Something poked her above the ear. The dancer shoved Annja’s shoulders and slipped out of her hold. The paper airplane slid down Annja’s shoulder. The hard sole of the dancer’s shoe connected with her kidney. Pain shocked through her system. Letting out a guttural moan, she stumbled, crushing the paper airplane underfoot.
The dancer’s heels clicked away down the street.
8
They didn’t speak until the van arrived at Manuel’s villa on the beach in Cádiz. A crowd had already gathered, and they could see people out back on the veranda.
“Where is your beautiful American archaeologist?” Manuel Bravo asked as they got out of the vehicle.
Garin considered the question. If the man wasn’t pursuing the bulls, it was women. Few other pursuits interested him. Not bad interests to have. Both, in their own manner, dances with death.
“She stayed in Jerez. Went after the shooter.” He straightened his linen jacket.
“Is that so? Quite the adventurous woman. I like that. But unlike most other women I’ve seen on your arm. She is a challenge to you, yes?”
“You could say that. It doesn’t bother you a little that someone took a shot at you after the fight?”
A woman in a tight red dress, which she discreetly tugged to cover her lushly rounded assets, winked at both of them as she passed them, heading toward the crowd. Bravo tried without success to keep a lascivious smile from his face. “A man has his enemies, both dangerous and seductive. You are a perfect example, Señor Braden. I have never seen you without that pistol under your arm. Who do you need to protect yourself from?”
“One never knows.” And that was enough of this conversation. “Who is that woman over there?” Garin asked, nodding toward the blonde with the dangling earrings and—damn, but that dress would not stay up.
“Isabella. She prefers her men rough. Let me introduce you.”
He followed the maestro, not giving Annja Creed another thought. The woman could take care of herself.
* * *
ANNJA GASPED IN a breath, her vision focusing on the empty alleyway. She tilted her head to home in as she followed the noisy footfalls of the dancer’s retreat.
Jogging forward, she stretched her torso to defeat the pain that seized her rib cage. The muscles had been bruised, which caused the most pain. Working through it, she began to run. When she reached a T in the street where the dancer had turned right, the alleyway stood empty. Strings of laundry fluttered like festival flags in the night.
The rattling bark of a noisemaker directly behind her startled her to spin around. Bringing up her fist, Annja stopped before connecting with the face of a man pushing seventy. His stance wobbled and tequila wafted from his breath.
At sight of her clenched fist, he waved her off with a dismissive gesture, muttered something about gringos and teetered down the alleyway in the opposite direction.
Annja stalked down the street, taking in all the shadows, recessed doorways and turns. Instinctively she knew she wouldn’t find the sniper tonight.
She returned to the stadium, where the crowd had thinned. The protestors still remained, their chanting as determined as ever. They’d taken to shoving flyers in the windows of passing cars.
According to a passerby Annja questioned, Manuel’s van had driven off ten minutes ago. Garin must have been in the van. Half a dozen police marked out the area, and Annja sighted César Soto’s cowboy hat. Beneath the brim, he grimaced at the protestors. She could feel his frustration.
She wasn’t aware the Cádiz police had jurisdiction on the mainland but Cádiz was a province, so possibly they did operate on all the surrounding towns.
At sight of her approach, he shook his head in disbelief. Hadn’t expected to see her again so soon. And not looking too thrilled, either.
“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised after your message earlier,” he said as she came up to him. The body out at Crockett’s dig.
“You’re quite the character, Miss Creed. You joining the protesters?”
“You’ve pegged me wrong, Officer Soto. I followed the shooter.” She gestured over her shoulder in the direction she’d come from. “But lost her.”
“You followed the— Her?”
Annja nodded, predicting another trip to the police station in her near future.
The officer eyed her warily. “Me and you? We need to talk.”
“I’ll give you her description and answer any questions you have.”
“Yes, you will. And we’ve another dead body to discuss. Simon Klosky was brought into the morgue an hour ago.”
“Like I said, I’ll tell you all I know.”
Without comment, he directed her to the passenger’s side of a waiting patrol car. They drove across Le Pepa and back to the police station, which had a great view of the Atlantic Ocean from the dispatch area. Once again, Annja found herself seated on a hard metal folding chair in the interrogation room, giving details of the shooter’s face to Officer Soto, while an artist in the corner sketched quietly.
Annja detailed how she had chased the woman after realizing she was more than a dancer, and that she had spoken briefly to her. She didn’t mention Garin. It was always easier, if not wiser, to keep that man’s name quiet.
“Are you often compelled to take the law into your own hands, Miss Creed?” Soto asked in a tight tone. She had decided tense and pissed off were his two standard settings.
“There were no officials outside when the matador was shot at, so I followed her.”
Soto tapped the table with the eraser end of the pencil he’d been clutching for the past half hour of questioning. “Twice in one day you’ve graced my humble office. That’s a new one for me.”
She felt no need to respond.
“You done, Sophia?”
“Yes.” The artist set the sketch on the Formica table before Annja and she leaned forward to study it. She had come pretty close, but the dancer’s face had been rounder on top and narrower on the bottom.
“May I?” Annja asked and gestured to the artist’s pencil.
With reluctance, and a nod from Soto, Sophia handed over her pencil. Anna was used to sketching when she was out on a dig. She drew objects in situ by stretching out string to form a grid over the site to ensure accuracy and scale. And while she didn’t fancy herself a portrait artist, she erased some of the lines and drew a narrower jaw, adding a long sweep of ponytail at the side of the head, until she was satisfied.
Placing the drawing on the table and turning it to Soto, she said, “That’s her. Dark hair and eyes. Heart-shaped face.”
“That’s half the female population of Cádiz,” Soto said, unimpressed. “More than half.”
Annja studied the portrait again, then held it back as if she were looking at the face of a woman standing in the festival crowd. It was a common face, with no remarkable shape to it or odd scars or distinguishing hairstyle beyond the ponytail, which was odd for a dancer, but not for a tourist or local.
“Well, that’s her,” she said, sliding backward against the ungiving chair. Her body language had slid into defensive disinterest, but she was tired, and yes, her defenses were up. “She had a tattoo on her wrist but I wasn’t able to get a good look at it. Left wrist, I’m sure.”
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He made a notation of that. “That could help. You two fought?”
Rubbing her hip where she’d taken a brutal kick, Annja nodded. “She wasn’t a street scrapper. Definitely trained. But then if she’s a sniper, I assume she received training somewhere.”
“We try not to make assumptions here, Señorita Creed.”
“Of course, that wouldn’t be wise. When are you going to ask me about Simon Klosky?”
The artist shifted uncomfortably on her chair. Soto drew out a new file from beneath the one he’d been making notes in.
“Simon’s death may be related to Diego Montera’s murder,” she said. “But I’ll leave the police work to you.”
Soto’s mouth gaped open. “How do you know Simon Klosky, Señorita Creed?”
“I told your officer this morning that I had been working on a dig in Puerto Real alongside Professor Jonathan Crockett. Klosky was one of many college students who spent a day or two on the dig to get hands-on experience. No one was scheduled for a particular shift. It was very laid-back.”
Soto drummed his fingers across the thick manila file on the table before him. She wondered how to bring up the possibility that the police were involved.
“I returned to the dig this morning to find Crockett in a state after he was robbed yesterday evening.”
“Still in a state after a robbery that took place almost twenty-four hours ago? How come he didn’t report it?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Soto pierced her with a hard gaze.
“Officer, the theft of minor artifacts from dig sites is so common, and it isn’t often local police have the time or the consideration to look into it. I suspect Professor Crockett was still…in shock. One of his assistants was murdered during the robbery.”
Soto sat up straight and gestured for the artist to leave the room. Then he clicked on the intercom attached to his lapel and requested another officer join him to take notes.
The same officer—Maria Alonzo—who had questioned her earlier this morning entered the interrogation room, took one look at Annja and her eyebrows rose under her shock of dark bangs. She was about to say something when Soto gestured for her to sit and start taking notes.
