Alex Archer - The Matador's Crown

She disguised her humph by turning away from him. Garin pulled the Jeep to a stop before the Hotel Blanca. She gave him the look. The look that said she wasn’t stunned he knew where she was staying. He had his ways, and he’d never divulge his methods to her. Made it more intriguing that way.

“One hour!” he called after her retreating back.

* * *

CLOSING THE HOTEL room door behind her, Annja shucked off her boots and patted off her dusty cargo pants before starting up the coffee machine on the bathroom counter. A bullfight? There were less interesting ways to spend an afternoon. But she couldn’t enjoy anything until she got a little research done and made the call about the body at the dig site.

She dialed the police station, asked for Officer Soto and was put through to a machine. Fine with her. Made telling him about the body, but forgetting to mention whether or not she had seen Crockett, easier. She left her cell number because she predicted Soto would have real smoke coming out of his ears once he got her message. Unless he already knew about Simon Klosky’s death...because he’d been there when the guy was killed.

If the police had stolen artifacts and were reselling them on the black market, they were likely involved in looting other digs in the area. Annja immediately got online and searched for digs in progress. The closest was in Granada. Two hundred and fifty kilometers away. Depending on the illicit operation’s size, it could be local or international.

The museums, along with dealers and collectors, often inadvertently supported the illegal antiquities trade, and sometimes made the unconvincing argument that looters put history into the hands of the people. History yanked from its origins and placed without provenance or context before the unaware but appreciative public. Right. She was glad James Harlow was one museum employee not on that list. Much as he’d wanted to get his hands on the bull statue, he was as concerned about the illegal buying and selling of antiquities as was she.

Archaeologists and the source nations would continue to fight the underground trade, but it was getting more difficult every day as war, and pillaging of the spoils, saw major museums looted and priceless artifacts damaged or lost.

Sipping the passable coffee, she paced before the open seaside window, breathing in the ocean breeze.

Professor Crockett’s suggestion the Cádiz police were accomplices in the looting still didn’t place a name to Diego’s murderer. If the police were involved they would cover it up. Had likely already marked the file Unsolved.

She hated knowing Diego’s death would be swept under the carpet like so much trash. She didn’t know the guitarist, but everyone deserved justice.

Flipping open her cell phone, she dialed James Harlow, who answered on the first ring.

“I’ve just returned from Crockett’s dig site.”

“So what have you learned?”

“I spoke to Jonathan Crockett while he held an AK-47 on me.”

“I knew it. The bastard,” Harlow said on a hiss. “He’s implicated himself. He’s probably behind the young musician’s murder, as well.”

One thing was clear, James Harlow really wanted to pin this on Crockett. Annja made a mental note to find out if the two men had a rivalry. She wasn’t about to judge anyone until she got all the facts. And what did she really know about Harlow?

“Crockett’s site was raided, he claims, by the Cádiz police.”

“What? Really? That doesn’t make sense. The authorities have always proved helpful to me.” She heard the familiar sound of a fingernail tapping a watch crystal. “Don’t you suspect it was a lie? The man is shifty.”

“Not sure. The dead body in the dig pit makes me wonder. Crockett said the police killed Simon Klosky, his assistant. Did you know Simon?”

“No, sorry. Another dead man?” The pause on the line was disturbingly long. She had second thoughts about revealing this information to Harlow, but his knowledge of the city and the local archaeological digs and personnel could help her. He finally asked, “Where’s Crockett now?”

“Said he’s going to pack up and get out.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I left a message about finding the dead man. This links me to the two deaths. I worked on the dig for two days. I handled the bull statue before it was stolen.”

“Right. I didn’t think of that. You could also be implicated. But still...you had to call in a report.”

“It’s my duty.”

“So the product circulates in a close range,” Harlow said. “Interesting. Though it could be a starting point for something larger. I can’t pinpoint a source. I suspect they must be operating close to shore, for shipping, perhaps. I haven’t gone so far as to cruise the area, mind you. Skulduggery is not my strong suit. Besides, I imagine there are countless illegal operations in the

area. Always seem to be in rich archaeological geography.”

“Can you run some kind of background check on all of Crockett’s other digs?” she asked. “See if there have been other robberies?”

“Sure, gladly. In fact, I’ve been looking into Crockett since you brought him up yesterday. I’ve got records for most of his work in the area, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything for the past year. He hasn’t turned in any field reports or catalogs. Hence, the reason I suspect him in dirty dealings. Will you be coming to the museum tomorrow?”

“That’s my intention. I still have some final notes to make on the coins. Thanks, James. I’ll talk to you soon.”

When she should have felt relieved to have discussed the details with someone else who could relate, Annja was now uncertain if James Harlow was the man to share that information. He hadn’t sounded gung ho about tracking the looters. Maybe he wasn’t as on board with the idea of refusing artifacts without provenance as she had assumed?

Or maybe it really was a rivalry between the two men, and he was more focused on slandering Crockett’s name than the real issue.

Clicking over to the Photos file on her laptop, Annja opened the six shots of the bronze bull she’d taken on-site and studied the few details in the Moorish carvings around the neck.

Online, she turned to archaeology.net and uploaded the photos of the Baal statue. She was calling it a Baal statue, but really, it could have been made to represent anything, not necessarily the mythic Canaanite god of fertility. She usually got a few replies to her queries, and some often led her to the truth about the particular item she had posted.

“Let’s hope the bull can be traced.”

6

Much as she was ambivalent about the corrida—she was neither for nor against bullfighting—Annja had to admit the atmosphere of the bullring satisfied her love of competitive sporting events. She wasn’t convinced, though, that the corrida was competitive, unless that competition was between the matadors.

Sea scented the air, combined with sweat and women’s perfume. Cádiz didn’t have a stadium for bullfighting so they had driven back to the mainland to Jerez de la Frontera, where the summer festival featured two weeks of fights.

The audience was colorful, peopled with stalwart aficionados sporting cigars, straw hats and beers who had probably never missed a fight in decades, alongside tourists toting seat cushions emblazoned with the stadium’s logo. And local women wearing the flamenco-style dress, which ruffled in many layers from the knee down to the ankle. Odd. They must be dressing for the tourists.

Flamenco guitar music played over the loudspeaker, and down in the barrera—the outer row of seats that circled the ring—an impromptu set of dancers stomped out a beat, arms twisting above their heads. The people in the grandstands around them clapped compas and cheered them on with shouts of “Olé!”