The Antiquarian (8 page)

True to form, Bety was right on time: she was downstairs, parked in front of the building, at three thirty on the dot. Two quick honks of the horn let Enrique know she was there. He gestured from the window to acknowledge that he'd heard. Seconds later, he appeared in the lobby with a large duffel bag. Bety opened the passenger door, and Enrique plopped his bag into the backseat and sat down next to her.

“How are you?” Bety wanted to know.

“Not good. I lay down in bed for a while and tried to get some sleep, but I couldn't. I'm too tired and my muscles are all stiff.”

“Put your seat belt on,” Bety instructed.

“You know I don't like wearing them.”

“I know you don't, but this is my car, so don't argue. Come on Enrique, are you really going to spend your whole life objecting to everything I say and do? You know how important it is to me for everyone in the car to have their seat belts on when I'm driving, yet you still argue with me! Is it so hard for you to give in on something so trivial?”

“No, it's not hard,” Enrique admitted, aware of how awkward it was to be arguing just then. “You're right.” He immediately put the seat belt on and adjusted it. “Bety, I'm sorry. It's not the best time for me right now. I had just finished my new book, and then I went out for three days of good, hard sailing. I felt so at peace with myself, I never
could've expected anything like this. All I wanted was to crash out and sleep for twenty-four hours straight.”

“It's fine, really. We don't have much time, so let's take the expressway.”

They said little to each other during the drive. In an attempt to get Enrique's mind off things, Bety tried to get him to talk about his novel, but he wasn't up to it. She drove in silence. Enrique opened the glove compartment looking for CDs. Among them he found a mix of boleros that he'd recorded for her a while back, shortly before they separated. He slipped it into the player and turned it on. Lost in thought, he scarcely remembered that they'd shared their first kiss with these very songs playing in the background. In fact, he wasn't surprised Bety had kept it. He would never have been able to, but she was pragmatic enough to ignore such incidentals.

Bety parked right in front of the airport terminal. She had the gift of always finding a parking space as close as possible to her destination. Together they went to the Iberia Airlines ticket counter and confirmed a different passenger would be traveling on Bety's ticket. They went to the cafeteria and ordered coffee, waiting for the boarding call to be announced.

“Captain Fornells said he needed to talk to you as soon as he could. Here's his number at the station,” she said as she slid him a slip of paper with the number written on it. “Where will you stay? I have to know where you are, Enrique. I don't want to miss the funeral, but I'm afraid it's going to be hard to leave my chair at the university right now.”

“I don't know yet. I'd like to go to the house in Vallvidrera, but I don't know if I'll be able to handle it. I'll see when I get there.”

“I want you to call me—on my cell phone or at home—and let me know everything that's going on.”

“I will, don't worry. I hope Fornells has a theory, some clues he can investigate. I'll let you know.”

The announcement that Enrique's flight was boarding sounded over the PA. They finished their coffees and headed to the first of the only two boarding gates at the modest Hondarribia Airport.

“Okay, I hope it goes well,” Bety said in parting. “Call me, no matter what.”

“Thanks for the ride. I will.”

They looked each other in the eyes. Bety, in a spontaneous move, kissed his cheek. Enrique couldn't remember how long it had been since he felt her full lips against his skin, and he couldn't help but think back to happier times. Bety waved good-bye as Enrique made his way toward the airplane.

The flight to Barcelona was without incident: the weather was good, and just forty-five minutes later the plane landed at El Prat Airport. Enrique stopped long enough to rent a car; it would be essential if he wanted to move freely around a big city like Barcelona. Before he picked it up, he decided to call the Raval police station to talk to Fornells. He was told that Fornells was out, but that he would be back soon. He left a message: Fornells should be informed that he was in Barcelona and would be at the station shortly. He then got into his tiny, rented hatchback and headed toward the city.

Every time he returned to his city—because he did feel that it was still his, despite his years away—a feeling sprang inside him that was hard to define. It was a combination of homesickness, a desire to return, and relief at no longer belonging to the place. This feeling had accompanied him for years, no matter how much time he spent away, and it was just as strong and intense as it was the first day he left. After all, Barcelona had been his home for twenty-seven years, and of those, he had lived in the hills with the city at his feet for sixteen. And today he was returning with an emptiness in his heart. Whenever he had come back from his travels he had followed the same ritual, disciplined as a worshipper with the trappings of their religion: a mandatory visit to the man who had first been his godfather and later, for sixteen years, had stepped in for Enrique's deceased parents. Now his ever-present yearning was accompanied by the bitter pain of his loss.

He drove calmly. It was not because of the radar cameras now nested regularly along the highway, but because of the uneasy knowledge that something would be missing when he got home, something very important, a definite absence that he did not
want to face, that he would try in vain to put off. He entered the city on the Ronda Litoral coastal loop, which took him to a point on the landward side of the port with ready access to the lower stretch of the Ramblas. It didn't take him long to reach the station, where he parked in front of the door.

The Raval Precinct police station occupied three spacious floors of what had been, at the turn of the twentieth century, one of the most prominent homes in Barcelona's finest district. It had a noble entryway with ten-foot ceilings and pockmarks of peeling plaster. A nearby private university, as well as a handful of public colleges, shored up the neighborhood, and helped curb the sense of laissez faire inherent to old streets near Mediterranean ports. Even so, a few former seamen still stuck around; perhaps out of nostalgia, perhaps out of stubbornness, or perhaps because they were simply too old and too tired to find new a harbor to dock their dilapidated bodies. In the midst of the languor, the station no longer hummed with activity as it had in times past. Still, all of the detectives worked at desks piled with cases enough for several months of hard work. Enrique asked the first one he came across where Fornells's office was. In response, the detective pointed to a room at the inner end of a corridor. Just before Enrique rapped on the door, a baritone voice made him stop.

“Don't bother, he's not back yet.” The voice came from a young, athletic-looking man in his midtwenties who, in comparison with his fellow officers, was impeccably dressed.

“You're Alonso, the writer, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am,”

“Let me introduce myself, I'm Detective Juan Rodríguez. I'm working with Fornells on your father's case.”

“Pleasure.” Enrique mechanically held out his hand, and gave the detective's a halfhearted squeeze.

“Fornells will be back any minute now. He had a coordination meeting with the district chief of the Catalan regional police, you know, the
Mossos d'Esquadra
, but he called five minutes ago and said he was on his way. Let's step into his office,” he said, opening the door.

Enrique went in with the detective and took the opportunity to confirm his first impression: Rodríguez had to belong to one of the latest graduating classes of
mossos
. His appearance and poise made him look more like a fashion model than a policeman. His balanced, harmonious features conveyed a style and attitude that radiated positivity and self-confidence. If Fornells trusted him enough to bring him onto a case like Artur's murder, he must have been competent—a pro—despite his obvious youth. Rodríguez sat down next to him in the other chair in front of the desk.

“I am authorized to answer any questions you may have, but first I wanted to tell you what a big fan I am of your work.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Enrique answered with his automatic good manners and the respect he felt for those who bought his books, a respect in this case tinged by the shattering of his police officer stereotype, and the definitive corroboration of his hypothesis about Rodríguez.

“I really liked
Chronicle of a Nonexistent Love
, but I prefer the fantasy stuff; I loved
Dream World
. I'd like …”

“Sure, I'll be happy to sign them for you,”

“I don't want to bother you. I know this isn't the best time.”

“Don't worry, it's not a problem.”

“That's kind of you. I'll bring them, then. But excuse the literary digression; I'm here to help. If you'd like I could bring you up to speed on your father's case.”

“Well, the truth is I don't know anything at all. My ex-wife happened to find me this morning, and she told me that Artur had been murdered, but not much else.”

“I myself tried to reach you several times, but I never could get you, even though I called at different times.”

“I was at sea, on my sailboat.”

“Now I understand. Well, if it's okay with you, I could give you a rundown of what happened and what we know as of now.”

“Please do,” Enrique entreated.

Rodríguez took a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. After leafing through a few pages, he narrated the events with the steeliness of a veteran cop, in contrast with his rookie image.

“The autopsy confirmed time of death as Sunday night, about half past midnight. Your godfather was in his shop for reasons unknown, but it's likely, according to what we've gathered from some of his colleagues … let's see,” he said, looking at his notes, “Samuel Horowitz, Guillem Cardús, and Enric Torner, with whom he had coffee Friday afternoon, that he was sorting out what they referred to as a ‘lot.'” Rodríguez stopped, as if awaiting confirmation that it was all right to continue after wielding this piece of antiquarian jargon.

“Please, go on.”

“It's not a pretty tale.”

“I imagine it's not. But I'd like to know the specifics.”

“Okay. At that time, someone entered the shop, but we haven't found any signs of forced entry through the door or blinds. That, right off, could tell us that your father
knew his killer, although we can't be sure. If he was working, he may have fallen asleep, and a thief could have made his way in silently. Your father would have woken up when he heard a noise, and then … He struck your father on the head twice using a marble paperweight. One of the blows knocked him back, causing him to fall from his loft onto an altar on the ground floor. Once there, the assailant stabbed him with a letter opener that went through his back all the way to his heart: he died instantly.”

“Unbelievable,” mumbled Enrique, stunned.

“Yes, death is a terrible thing,” mused Rodríguez aloud. “And violent death is even worse. Are you all right?” Rodríguez asked, noting the paleness of Enrique's face.

Enrique hid his face behind his hands. Being told how Artur had died was a bitter shock, and he felt deeply pained. His imagination conjured up the image of Artur's body lying atop the altar in a pool of blood. He felt the color leaving his face. Never in his life had he dealt with anything similar, not even in literary terms. The closest thing he could liken it to were images from television series and thrillers. From here on, what had been his ignorant distance would become a nauseating familiarity.

“Sorry,” he excused himself, “I just haven't gotten my mind around it yet.”

“Don't worry, it's understandable. Can I get you some water? Coffee?” the detective asked, eager to help.

“Coffee, please.”

“I'll be right back with it.” He left the room. It took less than a minute for him to return with a mug of strong, steaming coffee. Enrique took a few shaky sips.

“Who could have done it? And why?”

“We're working on that.”

“Can you tell me anything or is it all confidential?”

“Normally we couldn't, but Fornells knew your father, and he knows you. That's why he insisted on taking the investigation personally, and he told me to tell you the main parts. For now, we're investigating on three fronts. The first is looking into run-of-the-mill hoods and cons of the Raval, and including those from outside the neighborhood as well. It could have been a holdup gone wrong. We don't think that's likely, but we can't rule it out. We brought in a few local small-timers for questioning, but the truth is, they know better than to physically assault anyone. Besides, Artur was, in a manner of speaking, a local. In those cases there's a bond there that keeps them from taking liberties with anyone who's known. It could have been a junkie. When people are doped up, they can lose control and become unpredictable.

“The second possibility is that it's—how should I put this?—a message being sent by an organized crime ring. Your father had sought the captain's help on an investigation, the details of which aren't important now, and his death could be something of a lesson, to discourage anyone else from sticking their nose into these people's business. But, to be realistic, we don't think that's too probable either. If these groups are up to anything dirty, the last thing they would do is call attention to themselves with something like this. But we are working hard on that part of the investigation. Then there's a third front, which is also pretty interesting. We think that—”