Turned to Stone Read Free Page A

Historical Research a few days ago, Dr. Isidro Requena confirmed that he and some of his researchers are prepared to cooperate with us. When I explained the case yesterday to your employer . . . sorry, what was her name?”
    “Graciela.”
    “Forgive me, but I thought Arcadia ’s editor was named Laura.”
    “And forgive me , but I had no reason to believe you’d actually met her. Now I do.”
    Jaime popped a slice of boiled egg into his mouth while Amatriaín processed what had just happened. Glancing at him sideways, Jaime thought the white-toothed blond appeared annoyed.
    “You’re quite clever,” said Amatriaín.
    “And you’re beating around the bush. Why don’t you tell me what your problem is and why Laura let you come and find me on my weekend off?”
    “A well-deserved break, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’ve been reading your articles, and the one you wrote a few years ago on the Brotherhood of Saint Fructus and Solomon’s Table was an excellent piece. It’s a shame you had to leave out everything related to the Mossad agents’ involvement in the operation.”
    Jaime’s knife and fork fell onto his plate with a sharp metallic ring. At the table with the silent couple, the girl turned around and looked at him. Jaime gave an awkward smile by way of an apology.
    “How do you know about that?” he asked.
    “That’s not your concern. Anyone who works at the EHU knows these things. And remember that yesterday—”
    “Yes, yes. I imagine Dr. Rodríguez embellished the story.”
    In fact, Jaime knew that Laura Rodríguez never exaggerated; on the contrary, she tended to play down the adventures of her most zealous contributor. That was the only way she could stay out of trouble with her superiors—and with the law. Jaime felt certain that she would not have told this man half of what had happened to them at that accursed finca—an episode he would just as soon forget.
    He made an effort to calm himself as he picked up his cutlery again. Amatriaín reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper that he placed in front of Jaime. “Do you know this work of art?”
    Jaime identified the subject of the pencil drawing the moment he picked it up. It was a bust of Medusa, the creature from Greek mythology best known for being cursed with snakes in place of hair, and for turning to stone anyone who looked her in the eyes. The drawing itself had quick, precise strokes; it showed that the artist had a good command of volume, shade, and perspective.
    “Very nice,” Jaime said after a while.
    “It doesn’t tell you anything?”
    “What’s it going to tell me? It’s a drawing. Did you do it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Congratulations. It’s very good.”
    “Thank you. But you don’t know the piece?”
    “At first glance, no. It looks like a bust of Medusa. The sculpture is baroque—Italian, I’d guess.”
    “I don’t know if I believe you. Are you telling me this particular piece doesn’t ring any bells?”
    “Señor, it’s obvious from the way you’re insisting that you know I’m familiar with it. Why don’t you just hurry up and tell me what you want?”
    “Let’s see,” a voice broke in. “One peppered tenderloin here. And one café solo there.”
    The waiter with the impressive hair had arrived just in time to ease the tension. Amatriaín seemed to realize that he was going about things the wrong way, because when the waiter left he cut straight to the chase. “Two years ago you wrote an article about this statue, attributing to it a curse that has caused many of its owners to die under strange circumstances.”
    “What’s wrong with that? Readers go crazy over wild stories.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with it. But the article’s bibliography included an essay you wrote with someone named Paloma Blasco, published in the Revista Complutense in 1999. In it, you attributed the work to the Italian sculptor Andrea Bolgi.”
    “An essay, you