The Golden City

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Duilio pressed his lips together, trying to decide where to start. “We know for certain a young woman was trapped inside the house that went into the river recently.”

  “Inside?” The priest leaned forward, sounding incredulous.

  “Yes, tied to a chair. She was grabbed off the street, drugged, and placed inside the house while still unconscious. She had no chance of escaping alive once the house went into the water.”

  “You think Gabriel Espinoza did this?” Barros shook his head firmly. “No. He may be rather single-minded in the pursuit of his lofty artistic goals, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

  Duilio stared at the priest, weighing the conviction in his tone. The man believed Espinoza’s innocence, so any mention of necromancy would get a similar appalled reaction. But given what Miss Paredes had said about Espinoza’s calculations not accounting for the victims, it seemed that aspect of the artwork wasn’t his doing at all. Duilio tried another tack. “When was the last time you spoke to Espinoza?”

  “January, right after Epiphany.” Barros frowned. “He came back to his parents’ home after some disagreement with his patron, and he came to see me. I’m not his confessor. It was just talk, but he was quite upset.”

  That had promise, and if it wasn’t a confession, Barros was at liberty to discuss their conversation. “Upset?”

  “Something about the artwork. He didn’t want to tell me. And that his patron wanted to move him somewhere out of the city, away from prying eyes and . . . nosy writers, I believe he said. They had an argument that got out of hand. Espinoza even showed me a cut on his forehead where they’d fought over it.”

  Duilio recalled that dark spot on the floor in the apartment’s dressing room. “He had a fight with his patron?”

  “Well, not the patron himself. The man the patron sent to check up on him. I haven’t seen him since he told me that, so he must have given in and moved out of the city.”

  That would put Espinoza’s disappearance in early January, about the time the fifth house had gone into the water. About when he’d stopped giving interviews. So something had changed abruptly then. Perhaps Espinoza had learned about the victims and objected. “Father, did Espinoza tell you who his patron was?”

  The priest mulled that over, his lips pursed. “He said the work was being funded by the government, the Ministry of Culture.”

  “I thought there was a single patron,” Duilio said.

  “I believe the Marquis of Maraval was personally overseeing the artwork. Espinoza considered him the primary patron.”

  The Marquis of Maraval? The Ministry of Culture performed functions like the installation of sculptures in the Treasury Building and the restoration of tile facades in older parts of the city. They kept a finger on what newspapers published. But they had no control over the Special Police. Duilio didn’t see how the minister could be involved. “I see. Have you ever heard of a group called the Open Hand?”

  Barros sat back. “Espinoza mentioned them once, although I wasn’t clear who they were.”

  “In what context?” Duilio asked.

  “It didn’t make sense.” Barros sighed. “Espinoza saw something. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it made him think they were subverting his work.”

  That was an odd choice of word. “Subverting?”

  “Yes. It sounded insane, but he truly believed it. Somehow they intended to use his work of art to make the prince into the king of all Portugal.”

  CHAPTER 24

  The restaurant had filled with all manner of folk from the town, fishermen and laborers and tradesmen. The noise within the narrow room grew chaotic, but nestled where they were in the back, Duilio could still hear his companion’s voice. Over a fine lunch, Father Barros painted a picture of Espinoza as a man obsessed with his art, but not evil at heart.

  It seemed that Espinoza was as much a victim in this as Miss Paredes.

  After paying for the meal, Duilio took his leave of the priest. “You’ve been very helpful, Father. Be cautious whom you tell about this. It would be better to say nothing.”

  The priest rose and shook his hand. “I understand. I hope you find the truth, Mr. Ferreira. And keep an eye out for the fellow I saw earlier.”

  Duilio hadn’t forgotten the man in the dark suit. “I will, Father.”

  When he got out to the street, the sky had cleared considerably. People hurried by on the cobbles, and he fell in behind a group of fisherwomen, their embroidered aprons bright splashes of color over their floral-print skirts. By the time he’d turned onto Serpa Pinto Street, Duilio’s gift warned him he was being followed again. It didn’t feel like a warning of imminent danger, but a reminder he should be aware.

  He ducked down Godinho Street. It was narrower and led only to the harbor’s construction yards and the southern breakwater, but would afford him a chance to see if anyone was behind him. There was little there beyond a few factory offices, which should minimize the number of bystanders who might be hurt should Mata appear and take a shot at him.

  As Duilio expected, the man in the dark suit—the one who’d followed him from the tram—appeared at the end of the street behind him. It wasn’t Mata, but there was no telling how many people were working with him.

  Duilio reached inside his jacket, unsnapped his holster, and searched the area about him. There was no traffic in sight; too close to lunchtime. Ahead of him waited the abandoned construction yard with its neat rows of giant granite blocks. He could only hope he got there before anything happened . . . and that Inspector Gaspar and Joaquim were keeping an eye on him, as planned.

  The granite blocks would supply excellent cover. The ocean beyond the yard presented an escape route as well; he could outswim most men. He would need to reach the water first, though. Duilio jumped the gate into the construction yard, edged between two rows of stone blocks, and headed toward the giant crane on its rails at the end of the unfinished breakwater.

  His gift abruptly warned him, a spasm down his spine.

  His mind raced, taking in everything about him. Shadows moved on the far left of his vision. From that direction his nose picked up the tang of perspiration. The man in the dark suit was behind him, still on the road, which meant someone else was in the construction yard already. Mata? Weighing the distance between himself and the iron base of the Titan, Duilio bolted that way.

  He’d almost reached it when a shot rang out. Duilio crouched but kept moving. That shot went high, pinging off the body of the crane with a metallic whine.

  Reprieved, he threw himself the final few feet toward the Titan’s base.

  He stumbled over the rail on which the crane ran but managed to get behind the iron wheels. His heart was racing, pulse thudding in his ears. He glanced up at the base of the crane that shielded him—terrifyingly huge now that he was under its bulk. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he quickly looked down, noting for the first time the revolver in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing the thing.

  There was movement in the yard. He could hear the scuffling of feet on gravel. One man called to another, confirming there was more than one person about. Duilio huffed out a breath, pressed the side of his face against the cool iron, and made himself breathe slower so he could listen. What was going on out there?

  Another shot sounded. This one ricocheted off the ground near his left hand, sending a shower of rock chips spraying about. He jerked back, but not before a chip caught the side of his cheek. He hissed and pressed the back of his right hand against the cut. It came away bloody.

  Damnation. He needed to get behind his attackers, however many there were. Out here on the end of the breakwater, they couldn’t miss him if he made a run for it. They had him pinned down behind the Titan’s wheels. He glanced toward the edge of the breakwater more than a dozen feet away. His mind spun, trying to weigh the odds.

  He didn’t want to kill anyone today, but he might not have any choice. He could swim back to the quay and get behind the man. The revolver wo
uld probably still fire, which gave him six shots, but he couldn’t trust the old derringer once it got wet.

  A third shot hit the iron wheel near him. Duilio jerked back and pressed himself against the wheel again. Two more shots followed. They sounded like they’d come from different spots, farther away, but he couldn’t be sure. Duilio held his breath.

  Above the wind and the clinking of the chains hanging from the Titan’s boom, he heard moaning. He dared a glimpse in that direction and saw Mata slumped against the stones, clutching his belly.

  “He’s down, Mr. Ferreira,” a man with a Brazilian accent shouted. “Come on out.”

  Duilio didn’t think the Brazilian was in league with Mata. Surely he wouldn’t announce himself that way if he were. That didn’t necessarily mean he could trust the Brazilian, and his gift supplied nothing. But he needed the answer enough to risk going out there.

  Mata lay next to the first row of giant granite blocks, with the man in the dark suit standing over him, his pistol trained loosely on Mata. Inspector Gaspar approached, jumping over the gate at the entrance of the construction yard. Once he reached them, Gaspar knelt down and began to check Mata’s injuries.

  Duilio walked cautiously along the rails toward them. His heart was still thumping erratically, but at least his breathing sounded normal. When he’d gotten within a dozen feet, he paused. “Who are you?”

  The man in the dark suit came toward him, giving Duilio a better look than he’d gotten on the tram. He had slender features and a lean build, suggesting athleticism, but he seemed tired, worn. His dark gray suit was of a modest Portuguese cut, and his composure after a shoot-out suggested he’d seen the like before. “Anjos,” he said in his Brazilian accent. “Inspector Gabriel Anjos.”

  Gaspar nodded curtly to Duilio, confirming that, and turned his attention back to the assassin. He’d opened Mata’s waistcoat and shirt and was surveying a seeping injury that looked to be near the man’s liver. A police-issue pistol lay a few feet away, ignored.

  “Would have been nice to know who you were sooner,” Duilio said to Anjos.

  “There wasn’t time,” Anjos replied. “You’ve got a nick on your cheek.”

  Duilio tugged out a handkerchief and dabbed his cheek. It had nearly stopped bleeding. Still keeping his distance, he gazed at the assassin. A youngish man with a stocky build and regular features, there was little to distinguish him from thousands of other men in the Golden City—save that Duilio had been attacked by him in a tavern earlier in the week. “This is Mata, isn’t it? The same man who killed my brother?”

  Anjos regarded Duilio with narrowed eyes. “Yes. Don’t get ideas. He’s our prisoner.”

  Did the man think he was going to attack Mata? Duilio turned his eyes back to the assassin. Gaspar was attempting to staunch the wound with a handkerchief, but Duilio suspected it was already too late for a hospital. An internal injury like that was almost always a death sentence.

  I should feel . . . more, Duilio thought.

  “He’s not going to make it until she can get here,” Gaspar said, looking up at Anjos.

  Anjos nodded grimly. “You ask him, then.”

  Gaspar grasped the wounded man’s chin with a bloody hand. “Who ordered you to kill Alessio Ferreira?”

  The assassin laughed wetly. “I don’t know.”

  Gaspar shot a glance up at Anjos, who nodded. He turned back to Mata. “How did you get the order, then? Who gave it to you?”

  Mata coughed, and blood speckled his lips. “No one.”

  “That’s true,” Anjos inserted quickly.

  Duilio glanced at the Brazilian. How did he know that?

  “How did you get the order?” Gaspar asked again.

  The assassin laughed. “They’re left on my desk in my home. Don’t you get it? I can’t tell you anything. You might as well shoot me now.”

  Duilio frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard such a story before—a note left on a desk.

  “He means that,” Anjos told his partner. “It’s the truth, as much as he knows.”

  Aha! Duilio glanced back at the Brazilian. Anjos must be a Truthsayer, able to parse out the truth or lie in another’s words. It wasn’t a common gift, but not nearly as rare as Gaspar’s ability. It explained why Anjos had been doing the questioning of members of the Special Police. They couldn’t lie to him, not successfully.

  Gaspar gripped the assassin’s chin. “Same with Ferreira here?”

  But Mata coughed, and blood splattered the back of Gaspar’s hand. Duilio had a feeling they weren’t going to get any more answers. “He’s dying, man.”

  “I know.” Gaspar wiped away the blood that now bubbled from Mata’s mouth. Mata slumped to the ground, lacking even the strength to sit up. Gaspar propped him on his side, but Mata’s coughing grew fainter.

  Duilio watched Mata as the man’s breathing calmed again. He’d expected to feel more anger, but Mata wasn’t truly Alessio’s killer. He’d simply been the tool that carried out the orders. No, someone else had pulled the man’s strings.

  Anjos glanced back toward the quay and waved to a group of uniformed police officers who approached from the town. Workers were beginning to return from their lunch breaks, and a few stood watching curiously at the construction yard gates. Two of the officers stopped at the gates and took up a position there, keeping the civilians out, while another pair entered the construction yard and approached them.

  Anjos drew out a handkerchief and covered his mouth as he coughed. “I would rather have gotten him back to the city,” he said as he folded the handkerchief, “but I don’t think he would have spilled anything useful. The best way to keep an assassin from talking is not to tell them anything in the first place.”

  The two uniformed officers had reached them and knelt to inspect the body. Gaspar picked up the assassin’s discarded pistol and came to Anjos’ side. “He’s unconscious.”

  Duilio watched as the officers prepared to carry Mata out between them. “I had an investigator looking for something previously stolen from my house,” Duilio said, figuring it was better not to say what was missing in front of the two unfamiliar officers. “He was warned off by a note left on his desk, in a locked house.”

  Gaspar snorted. “Someone picked his lock—nothing more.”

  He’d thought exactly the same at the time. “But the same method was used, which struck me as important. We have reason to suspect Paolo Silva was behind that theft, but no proof.”

  Anjos produced a cigarette case from a coat pocket. “I’m familiar with the case. We don’t have any grounds to question Silva, but other recent developments suggest he doesn’t have the missing item.” He withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and put away the case with a fluid ease that spoke of long practice. “We do, however, intend to question Silva the first time he gives us an excuse. I suspect he knows a lot more than he’s told anyone.”

  Duilio held his tongue. With a Truthsayer present, it would settle the matter of the theft permanently. It would be nice to know.

  The two uniformed policemen carried a now-unconscious Mata out of the construction yard, leaving Duilio with the two foreigners. “They’ll take him to the station,” Anjos said once they’d gone. “They’ll bring a doctor in, but I don’t think he’s going to regain consciousness.”

  Duilio had to agree. He touched his cheek again and found that the nick there seemed to have stopped bleeding. “Well, I got two things from Father Barros, who, as it turns out, is an old friend of Espinoza and talked with him back in January when he came here. First, Espinoza’s work might have been subverted. And second, he thought the Open Hand wanted to use it to make the prince into a king.”

  Anjos ground out what remained of the cigarette with his foot. “How the devil is that supposed to work?”

  “I don’t know,” Duilio said. “But Espinoza saw something. That’s why Espinoza fled to Matosinhos in a short-lived attempt to hide from his patron.”

  Anjos nodded. “Did Barros kno
w who that patron was?”

  “Not exactly,” Duilio admitted. “Barros thought the artwork was funded by the Ministry of Culture, overseen by Maraval himself.”

  Gaspar cursed under his breath and turned to Anjos. “She went to go talk to him. To ask about the table spell.”

  The Lady? Duilio recalled her mentioning she knew Maraval. “If he’s involved . . .”

  “Then she could be walking into trouble,” Anjos said. “Miguel, go.”

  Gaspar tossed the assassin’s discarded pistol to Anjos and took off at a run.

  “Should we go with him?” Duilio asked.

  “No.” Anjos checked the safety on Mata’s pistol and tucked it in a pocket. “If Maraval harms her, Miguel will kill him. The fewer witnesses, the better.”

  Duilio wasn’t quite certain whether the Brazilian inspector was serious. Given the unforgiving look he’d seen in Gaspar’s eyes, Duilio wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. He wondered if the man intended to run the full four miles back to the city.

  That question was answered before he asked it. Joaquim came jogging into the construction yard, a rifle slung over his shoulder by the strap. He held his hands wide. “Where did Gaspar just go? He took the carriage.”

  “Back into the city,” Duilio answered him. “Where were you?”

  Puffing out his cheeks, Joaquim pointed back toward the row of businesses that lined the road leading up to the construction yard. “Rooftop.”

  “Well done,” Anjos told him. “You picked a good spot.”

  “Thank you,” Duilio added. Joaquim did have a talent for being in the right place at the right time. “Good shot.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Joaquim protested. “I was aiming for his leg. Damn. Please tell me he was the one who’s been after you. The one who killed Alessio?”

  “Yes,” Anjos answered him.

  Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face. “Good.”

  “He wasn’t going to tell us anything,” Anjos said. “I’ve seen that often enough, so I know what it looks like.”

  Duilio would bet money that a Truthsayer was indeed a good judge of whether a man was going to spill information. “So, where do we go from here?”