Alex Archer - The Matador's Crown

“They have a job to do. I’m sure they can’t all be bad.”

He winced and again shifted the tobacco to the other cheek. “You some kind of movie star?”

The thought process that had generated such a question baffled her. She hadn’t mentioned her work with Chasing History’s Monsters to the other officer. Even so, hosting the cable television show hardly qualified her as a movie star. “Why do you ask?”

“I did a search for you on the internet. Something about a monster chaser came up.”

Good old Google.

“It’s a cable television show that explores the facts behind monsters, legends and other myths throughout history,” she explained. “I am one of the hosts. As an archaeologist, I offer a unique perspective. But I am far from what you’d consider a movie star. What does the television show have to do with this case?”

“Just wondering what sort of publicity is going to develop if you start opening your mouth.”

“I—” That had been a clear threat. She could feel his condemning stare penetrate her skull. “I’ve no intention of speaking about this to anyone. I’m hardly in a position to be doling out details on a murder case. In fact, I’m headed out of town soon. I’ve been working with the city museum, looking over a recent acquisition of Greek coins found in Egypt. In another day I’ll have all the notes I need for my project, and then I’ll hop a flight back to New York City.”

“Then I wish you a good journey.” He tipped his hat to her. “Thank you for the information, señorita. Please give your contact phone number and the location you’ll be staying at after leaving Cádiz with my secretary. You are witness to a crime scene, you understand.”

“Of course.” She slung the backpack over her shoulder and offered her hand to Soto, which this time he shook. “Luck with the case.”

After speaking with the secretary and signing the report of the information she’d given, Annja pulled out her cell phone and dialed Roux. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. The man had connections worldwide. She recalled listening to him and Garin wax over their visits to Spain in the 1950s and how they’d loved the country and the bullfighting. As well, the man was interested in art and antiquities, so she figured he might have some connections.

His phone rang over to an answering machine, which surprised her. Usually the former soldier—fifteenth-century soldier, to be accurate—had a cell phone on him. She had no idea where in the world he could be right now. But if he was at his Paris château, they were in the same time zone.

She tucked her phone away and decided to try back later.

Foregoing a return to her hotel room—surely the police would still have the dead man’s room marked off—she headed toward the Cádiz city museum on the Plaza de Mina. But a block away from the museum, James Harlow waved her down on the sidewalk and redirected her to a nearby tapas bar.

James Harlow was a slender man in his fifties who walked with a cane, due to an injury to his hip he’d never explained to Annja. He dressed in Oxford plaids and bespoke leather shoes, and had a habit of checking his watch with a tap to the crystal face.

Inside the cool bar, with walls painted blue and wicker ceiling fans, Annja ordered lemon water from the waitress. Harlow followed that up by ordering lunch for the two of them. The tortitas de camarones sounded delicious.

Harlow hooked the cherrywood cane on the edge of the table and leaned on his elbows toward her. “You’re getting a late start this morning, too, I see.”

“Not by choice. I spent the morning at the police station.”

“The police station? I’ve heard the hostels tend to have some wild parties, but, Annja, what were you up to?”

She liked that he joked with her so easily. No professional rivalries between the two of them.

“I decided sleep was more valuable than partying, so this morning I checked into a place I thought would prove more restful. But in the room next to mine I found a man who had been stabbed to death.”

“Are you serious?” He sat back in his seat and stared at her. “What are the odds of that? You do have a manner of sniffing out intrigue wherever you go.”

He’d confessed to following her adventures on Chasing History’s Monsters, but that show was just the tip of the iceberg with Annja Creed. The man couldn’t possibly be aware of all the adventures that had demanded she wield a sword to save innocent lives.

“Must be the young man I heard about on the radio twenty minutes ago,” he said. “A guitar player?”

“Yes. Did they mention his name?”

“Uh, Diego someone. Montera? That could be it. I noted it because I think there’s a family of toreros by that name. It’s also what they call the hat a matador wears in the ring, a montera. So, someone didn’t like his music?”

“Well, there was a stab wound in his back, but I won’t make a judgment call on his talent.”

Harlow choked on his beer. He set the mug down on the napkin and, face tight, smoothed the napkin out neatly to each corner before tapping his watch. “I’m so sorry, Annja. Finding a dead body is certainly not the best way to start the day. What the hell happened?”

“Someone killed him for an artifact.”

“Is that so? How do you know?”

“Listen, this is privileged information and the police are handling the case, but...”

“A mystery? Tell me.”

“There was a wooden crate in the room, and whatever had been inside it was gone. I suspect the murderer stole it. I also suspect it was an artifact, though I can’t be sure. I took pictures, but the police erased them from my camera.”

“Bold. On both your parts.”

“You’ve still got the pictures you transferred from my cell phone, right?”

“Of the bronze statue.”

“Great.” She paused. “There was another artifact that wasn’t stolen. One I actually unearthed a day ago.”

“What? You don’t mean...”

She nodded. “The bronze bull statue.”

“But how? You just discovered that on Crockett’s dig.” The man wiped a hand over his face and shook his head. “Damned looters.”

“That has to be the case. Someone looted Crockett’s site and made a quick turnaround, hoping to sell it. But apparently Diego Montera was carrying something of even more interest and value if his killer left the statue behind.”

“Which would give one reason to assume what was stolen was more valuable,” Harlow deduced. “Where’s the Baal statue now?”

“In the police evidence locker room, I’m sure. I handled it, with gloves on, and took pictures, but—”

“You should have slipped it into a pocket, Annja. That piece was an awesome little find.”

She hadn’t thought it so remarkable, but then remembered his interest in bull artifacts.

“It’ll run through the system eventually. You’ll get your hands on it sooner or later, I’m sure.”

“Don’t bet the farm on that one. Police evidence tends to find its way to the University of Cádiz on the mainland. Damned Edmond Rogers, head of acquisitions, will have his hands all over the thing before I will. That they get first dibs at police seizures is such a bloody crock. They don’t even have an archaeological department. Their focus is marine studies.”

“Well, you’ve still got the picture I took on-site.”

He nodded and looked aside, wincing. Disappointed, surely. But what could either of them do? Annja didn’t make it a habit to steal police evidence. Not that she hadn’t done so before; she just wouldn’t call it a habitual thing.

“I’m going to look into it,” she said. “If the site was looted, and the artifacts were turned around in less than a day, that tells me there’s an illicit antiquities operation in town.”