The Matador's Crown

“So tell me what you know,” she said, her attention following the construction crew working on the bridge with pneumatic hammers and drills. “You always know something.”

“I know you stumbled onto a body this morning.”

“Word travels fast. And you rushed to Cádiz to console me?”

He chuckled as he drove off the bridge. “I’ve been in Cádiz a few days. Roux knew that and sent me to see if you needed any assistance.”

“Awful swell of the guy.” Of the two of them, she would have preferred Roux’s assistance. The old man was more like a father to her and she never felt overly threatened by his presence. “Yes, a dead body, placed most conveniently next to the room I had rented.”

“And it’s related to some kind of artifact?”

She wouldn’t question the man’s knowledge. Garin Braden had access to intel that would make the CIA blush. “A bronze totem in the form of a bull, possibly representing Baal. Ceremonial, I assume, or it could have been a commemoration piece. Who knows, it could have been a tourist tchotchke. Did you hear about the other artifact?”

“Just the one. What was the other?”

“I don’t know. It was missing.”

He flicked her a questioning glance. “Stolen?”

“From the dead man. The dead musician.”

“Ah. I sense an adventure coming on.”

“In fact, we’re headed to the first stop right now.” The stretch of road around Puerto Real quickly segued from pavement to gravel. “Turn left. It’s only a few kilometers ahead. So, do you also have information on the dead man? I was given his name, but not by the police.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“I was first on the scene, but I could only tell them what I knew. Which was very little.”

“A little is more than nothing. You hungry?”

“Just ate. We can stop if you are.”

“I’ll do for a bit.” The Jeep navigated the increasingly rough road like a dream. “Looks like you’re taking us into the boonies, your favorite kind of place.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not heading into mountainous terrain.”

“The tires are off-road all-terrain.”

“Yes. Glad you’ve already tested them when it sprinkled yesterday.”

“It was a damn good downpour.”

“Sure, if you say so.” Changing the subject, Annja said, “I’d held that very bronze statue a day ago.”

“Is that so? Now I’m intrigued.”

“It takes a lot to get your interest.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow, which was more a come-on than castigation. She ignored the flirtation.

“I unearthed it on the dig we’re heading to right now. It had been waiting for cataloging to be sent back to the University of Cádiz. I believe it was Spanish. It had a decorative Moorish arabesque circling the bull’s neck. But beyond that, I hadn’t the time to do further research.”

“Spanish artifacts are to be expected when one digs on Spanish soil.”

“Not always. Pieces of history travel all over the world and can be found thousands of miles from their original country of provenance. At the time I found it, we thought it was part of thieves’ booty.”

“So it had once been stolen. You unearthed it. Then it was stolen again? Or do you suspect someone from the dig of handing it over to the dead man?”

“I don’t know. The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, seemed on the up-and-up. I’m a pretty good judge of character. But I have no clue regarding Diego Montera. The dead man,” she added when Garin raised a questioning eyebrow. “He may have been some guy on the dig crew who was handed a valuable artifact and wanted to get some fast cash for it.”

Garin stared at her. “A musician on a dig?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he stole it, but if that was the case, I suspect it wasn’t planned. Although, if he wasn’t crew, someone had to have smuggled the bull off-site. I don’t know. Its value is questionable. It was small, a simple piece.”

“Sounds like a delicious mystery. Too bad you’re not a homicide detective.”

“No, I’m not. Doesn’t mean I don’t have an interest.”

“In the objects a dead man was carrying?”

“Archaeology is all about deciphering the objects people carried, wore, used, lived in. I’m an object detective.”

This area of Spain had been gone over by archaeologists many times in the past century, but a recent chunk of mountain had been dislodged and had changed the landscape, prompting new discoveries.

The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, was a laid-back Englishman who had never aspired to anything but squatting in the sun all day, his hands in the dirt. And he had a trust fund to make it happen. He was a hard-core archaeologist. Quiet, he never bragged about his finds or elaborated overmuch. He measured his words, and Annja had been fine with that. The sun had toasted his skin nicely and enhanced the distinguished lines at the corners of his eyes and temples. His sun-streaked brown hair never did stay in the ponytail he tied at the back of his head, and as dirty as he got, his clothing always looked freshly pressed. A well-seasoned man, he was movie-star fodder, without the ego or need for fame.

That James Harlow had suspected him of underhanded dealings didn’t feel right, but Annja would reserve judgment until after she’d talked to him.

Garin pulled the Jeep outside the main—and only—tent, dirt billowing up from the tires in a cloud. The soil was a fertile mix of gravel, sand and silt in the southern areas of Spain, ideal for viticulture.

Annja jumped out into the dirt cloud. “You stay here,” she told Garin.

“Don’t think so.” He patted the linen jacket over his heart. The man, who now made his home Germany, tended to favor semiautomatic pistols manufactured there or in Austria. “I’ll be your backup.”

“Don’t go all alpha on me, now. The villagers are not going to attack with trowels and buckets.”

“If someone here is selling artifacts to people who apparently kill to obtain them, you want to be safe.”

“I don’t know Crockett is selling artifacts. I highly doubt he is. Ambition is not one of his finer points.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be inconspicuous.”

Garin got out and stood beside the Jeep. With his height, broad shoulders and chiseled square jawline, he looked the medieval warrior trying to masquerade as a regular Joe. The man would never achieve subtlety.

“Inconspicuous. Bang-up job.” Annja stabbed him with a look, then strode toward the tent, leaving the misplaced warrior to guard the battlements.

The dig area was quiet. The excavation unit marked off with stakes and string before she’d arrived days earlier looked like the pit to hell, blackened by the shadows. It was only four feet deep. Crockett had gotten a lot done with the few college students who had occasion to drop in for a day at a time. No one except Crockett stayed on-site overnight, so either they had all taken a day off or had decided to start late. Really late. It was after noon.

She called out, but no one replied. Crockett’s tent door was untied and flapping in the breeze. She peered inside. Empty, except for two tables used to sort out artifacts, and bag and catalog them in a field notebook. Toward the back stood an old army-issue cot and dressing table with water canisters, basin and towels, and a hand-crank radio.

Wandering around the south side of the tent, she caught sight of Garin’s bulky figure out of the corner of her eye. He leaned against the Jeep’s hood, ankles crossed, head tilted back to take in the sun.

“Some backup.”

Not that she expected anyone to jump out from behind a rocky outcrop with guns blazing. On the other hand, experience had taught her to never presume any situation was safe.

Where had Crockett gone? He wouldn’t abandon the site without leaving an assistant to watch over the supplies and finds.

Her instincts suddenly flared. Tensing, she slowly tracked along the side of the tent. The smell of dirt-dusted canvas material was like perfume to Annja’s soul, but the buzz of flies nearby made her suspicious. Odd. Crockett kept a tidy site.

A rancid odor grew as she turned the back corner of the tent and stepped into a pool of congealed blood. She quickly took in the blood spatter that had dried to brown across the tent canvas.

“Garin!”

She tracked the path of blood until she came to the edge of the pitoned-off dig square. A body had been rolled into the four-foot-deep area, which measured about sixteen by twenty feet. Earth had been hastily shoveled over it, but the booted feet, hands and the back of a dark-haired head showed.

“That is not good,” Garin said as he sidled up to her and looked over the scene. “You think it’s the dig supervisor you wanted to talk to?”

“Someone looking for me?”

They turned in unison, Garin with pistol extended, to find Jonathan Crockett standing behind them. Holding an AK-47.

4

“I believe my Kalashnikov trumps your Glock,” Crockett said to Garin.

Annja felt Garin’s elbow twitch against her arm. He was the last man Crockett—any man—should issue a challenge like that to.

“You think so?” Garin held the pistol barrel skyward and finger off the trigger.

Crockett gestured with the machine gun for Garin to toss the pistol aside. Annja knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Before Garin could react, Annja reached into the otherwhere, felt the sword’s power tingle in her fingers and clasped the grip. She swung out, sweeping the blade across Crockett’s wrist and taking him by surprise. The man yelped. The machine gun dropped to the dusty ground. In an agile move, Garin bent to claim it.

Crockett clutched his bleeding wrist. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he winced with the pain. He looked to Annja, but she’d released Joan of Arc’s sword back to where she’d found it.

“Nice,” Garin said. He hooked the Kalashnikov under his arm and held both guns on the whimpering professor. “She’s my backup,” he said with a nod toward her. “Who would have thought I’d need her in such an innocuous place? Pothunters shouldn’t play with guns.”

“Pothunter is a derogatory term,” Annja corrected him. Had Crockett turned into a merciless pothunter? Had he killed the man in the pit for his own gain?

James Harlow had intimated he didn’t trust Crockett, yet she’d brushed if off as all-too-common collegiate rivalry.

“I was trying to protect myself.” Crockett sank to his knees, clutching his wrist against his chest. Blood soaked into his white shirt. “They came so quickly. Yesterday evening. Hours after you left, Annja.” He gasped. “Took everything. When I heard the vehicle drive up just now I thought they’d returned to finish me off, so I hid in the gorse.”

“You didn’t kill this man,” Annja stated.

Crockett shook his head. “No, they did. Yesterday.”

And the body was still lying out in the open? Annja winced. Why hadn’t Crockett contacted the authorities? And for that matter, why was he still here?

“Who are they?” Garin demanded. “Did they take your field phone with them, too?”

“Let’s move him inside the tent for some first aid. We need to bandage your wrist before you lose too much blood,” she said to Crockett, then with a glance in the direction they had come from, added, “We should take him to the hospital.”

She met Garin’s fierce stare, leaving her in no doubt that he thought her suggestion a bad one. Cleaning up the mess by taking out the professor with a bullet to his heart would probably be his suggestion. Joan of Arc wasn’t into vigilante justice. Neither was she.

“No hospitals,” Crockett said as Annja led him into the tent.

“Why? You got something against hospitals?”

“My sister died five years ago when she caught an infection following surgery.”

“I’m sorry. But we do need to alert the authorities to the dead man. He’s been lying in the pit since yesterday?”

“No police, either,” Crockett pleaded as she helped him settle onto the cot, and then grabbed the water flask and a towel. She had cut him on the side of his wrist and hadn’t severed an artery, so the injury shouldn’t prove life-threatening. “I think I’ve done a very bad thing.”

“Murder is a bad thing,” Garin commented matter-of-factly, tilting back a swig of whiskey from the bottle on the professor’s bedside table. “But it is sometimes necessary.”

Crockett screwed up his face in disbelief at that comment, but then he winced again, leaning forward over his arm. “You think I killed that man out there? I didn’t. I swear it to you. Who are you?”

“A friend of mine,” Annja quickly said. “Trustworthy.” For the moment. “Did the man out there attack you?” she asked while inspecting Crockett’s wrist. The battle sword had cut neatly to the bone, but she was able to close the flesh with liquid bandage and figured it shouldn’t get infected thanks to the whiskey. She wrapped a tight bandage around it. It would serve until he could get medical attention.

“Attack me?” Crockett was starting to hyperventilate and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Didn’t you see who that was?”

“His face was covered with dirt. Who dragged him into the pit?”

“I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Call the authorities?”

“I...” The professor tugged away from Annja’s hold. “I didn’t kill Simon.”

Annja stilled. “That’s Simon Klosky out there?”

He’d arrived on the morning of her last day at the dig. Annja had only worked with him half the day before leaving for Cádiz to meet James Harlow. Nice guy. Young. But either the Spanish sun or—her strongest suspicion—extracurricular drugs had made Simon a little loopy and gregarious. He’d had a habit of singing random lines from gospel songs.

“Who did kill him? And why are you still alive, Jonathan? Has this to do with the stolen artifacts?”

Crockett wiped the sweat from his eyes and studied her. “You know about the theft?”

“I saw the very same bronze bull statue I unearthed yesterday in a dead man’s room this morning.”

His jaw dropped. “Dead?”

“Do you know Diego Montera, Jonathan?”

His unwounded hand shook badly, but from the bits and pieces Annja was cobbling together, maybe he had been defending himself against robbers. Maybe. If there had been robbers.

“I haven’t heard the name,” Crockett offered. “He had the bull? I didn’t have a chance to research it, but was beginning to think it was newer than we’d suspected. Maybe medieval or even seventeenth century. Whoever stole our artifacts certainly circulated them quickly. But you took pictures, right?”

“Yes.” Which had all been erased from her camera, except for the ones she had transferred to her laptop. “So you were robbed?”

“Of course! Why else do you think I’d come after you with a bloody machine gun? I thought you were them.”

“Why are you alive?” Garin asked carefully. Pacing the small tent, he still held the Kalashnikov ready to fire. “Makes no sense. Surely the top man in charge of the dig would be considered a target. Criminals don’t generally leave a man behind to tell tales of their notorious escapades.”

Crockett gaped, apparently aghast to have his fate detailed for him so coldly. “I—I hid when they first came to the camp. I was back in the gorse just now, like I said...hiding. Simon was the only other person here. They shot him, then took off with all the artifacts in the tent.”

“Why didn’t you report this to the police, Professor Crockett?”

He caught his forehead in a palm and rubbed roughly along his cheek. “There’s a body outside my tent, rotting, and I just...don’t know. I haven’t been the most upstanding citizen over the past few years. Since leaving the university, my life has taken a decidedly negative turn. I can’t get legit jobs. I suspect someone has it in for me. I want to be on a flight out of the country before the authorities arrive. I’ve already begun to pack up the site, but every time I walk past the body I get physically sick. I know it’s wrong. Simon has a family. I will report this, but not directly to the police. I can’t do that.”

He must have done something pretty awful to be so afraid of contact with the police. Annja couldn’t imagine what. She didn’t want to know.

“They’ll find you for questioning,” she said. “And they’ll be very curious to learn why you felt it necessary to bury a body that you had no hand in killing.”

“Will you vouch for my innocence?”

She couldn’t do that because she hadn’t witnessed the crime.

“Exactly,” Crockett said in response to her silence. “I wouldn’t ask you to, either, Annja. Why are you here?” he posited. Regaining his usually cool exterior, his eyes searched hers, then Garin’s.

“By having worked with you, and being the one who found the stolen statue in a dead man’s possession, I am indirectly involved. If someone is trafficking in antiquities I want it to stop. I wasn’t sure the police would follow this lead so...”

“So, I’m not telling you, or your henchman, anything else. You’ve got no authority. I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Fine. We’ll call in the dead body,” the henchman remarked.

Annja met Garin’s steely gaze. Who was he kidding? The man kept his distance from any form of authority. He’d sooner dig the grave outside this tent than have his name typed in permanent ink on a police report.

“Very well,” Crockett conceded angrily. “But you won’t need to. The authorities already know.”

“How’s that?” Annja asked.

Crockett sighed and gestured out to where the body lay. “Simon was killed by the Cádiz police.”

5

Garin whistled and stepped outside the tent. “I’m out of here,” he called. His boots tracked the dusty earth toward the Jeep. “Come on, Annja!”

She held Crockett’s gaze, but there was no need for him to repeat what he’d said. According to him, the Cádiz police had murdered Simon Klosky and stolen the artifacts. The cops were dirty? Always a possibility.

On the other hand, it could be a lie from a man who’d never had to face the kind of guilt murder could induce.

“You didn’t hand the bull statue over to one individual? Sell it on the antiquities market?”

He shook his head miserably, but didn’t meet her eyes.

“So it was stolen from here, along with the rest of the worthless potsherds we found.”

“There was the platter and I did unearth a few drachms after you left.”

“Was there anything you’d packed into a wood crate, about this size?” She held her hands out.

The professor shook his head again. “It wasn’t packaged up yet, as you know. I had no intention of sorting through anything until this weekend. You see now why I can’t report this?”

She nodded. If the police were involved that could make things touchy for Crockett. If.

“It would be wise if you left town,” he said. “That is, if you’d prefer to keep a low profile. You’re not involved, but the police are thorough and they have eyes everywhere.”

“I’m already involved. And I’m not about to stand back and allow this kind of blatant robbery and antiquities trade to continue.”

Crockett nodded, clutching his wounded wrist to his chest. “You’re skilled with the dagger. I didn’t even see you move before I felt the pain. I’d heard you were talented before you arrived for the dig. But I thought your talent lay in archaeology, not the martial arts. I have to ask. Why this particular dig? It was nothing remarkable. Nothing newsworthy. And yet, the theft occurred only after you arrived.”

“You’re not seriously accusing me, Crockett.”

He bowed his head and shook his head slowly. “No, that was unkind of me. Sorry. Just...out of sorts, you understand.”

The Jeep’s horn honked. Garin was showing a surprisingly impatient side of himself.

“You should head directly to the airport,” Crockett warned her.

She nodded. “How long do you think it’ll take you to pack up the site?”

“Another few hours.”

Annja nodded a third time, then stood up from the cot. “I’ll hold off calling the authorities until after Garin and I to return to Cádiz. They’re going to love hearing from me again.”

* * *

GARIN DROVE BACK to the city proper, offering little in the way of conversation. He’d wiped the AK-47 clean of his prints before leaving it with Crockett at the camp. It wasn’t a gun he needed, and it was never wise to claim an unidentified weapon from a man he knew next to nothing about. Besides that, he didn’t want to draw police attention to him, especially in Cádiz. He liked it here and didn’t want to give the local authorities any reason to force him to leave.

Leave it to Annja Creed to involve him in a questionable situation.

He chuckled at that thought, and she looked over at him from the passenger seat.

“Just thinking how you always get me in trouble,” he offered.

“Me? You’ve done your share of being a bad influence in my life.”

“That I have done, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Extra sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

“Thanks.” She put on the Armani shades and, sighing heavily, flipped her ponytail around to fall over her shoulder. “I can’t believe he let that body sit out there all day.”

“Puts him on top of the suspicious-persons list, if you ask me.”

“I’m not sure.”

He couldn’t help but frown. “I’ll never figure you out, Annja. That’s probably a good thing.”

“You don’t believe Crockett about the police being involved?”

“It’s possible. In any town, in any country, there are always bad seeds who hold a position of authority. But like I said, I’m taking myself off this list. I like the city too much to lose the privilege of visiting.”

“I understand, and I wouldn’t ask you to participate in anything that challenges your tender moral position.”

“Annja.”

“Couldn’t resist.”

He’d show her what a tender moral position looked like. Just keep it up with the digs at his character.

Annja Creed was a breed of woman like no other, and that made her so appealing he sometimes felt humbled near her. But that feeling only lasted as long as it took to remember she could best him in a fistfight if he let his guard down.

“I appreciate the ride and the backup,” she said.

“So, you up for a little afternoon entertainment?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Bullfight’s in a few hours.”

“Seriously? I...don’t know.”

Her mind was back at the dig site, working all the angles and plotting her next move. But for him this visit was strictly vacation.

“Come, Annja, I can’t be seen at the corrida without a woman by my side.”

“You fresh out of the pretty ones so you’re slumming with me?”

“After a shower and something nicer to wear, you’ll look fine. I’ll drop you at your hotel to change and be back in an hour for you, okay?”

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.