The Golden City (28 page)

While at the house Duilio had changed into a more casual suit—one that Marcellin found plebian. But it would be better for running should he find that necessary. He’d changed into less-formal shoes and picked up a spare gun, ju
st
in case. If this man intended to chase him down, he’d make it difficult.

When the tram reached the end of the line, Duilio got off and began ambling toward the ships that bobbed on the river. He’d been to the area a few times in the pa
st
year, but wasn’t nearly as familiar with it as he would have liked. The man in the dark suit followed in a desultory manner, confirming Duilio’s suspicions.

The Church of Bom Jesus rose maje
st
ically in the mid
st
of a public park. Duilio walked up the
st
eps,
st
opped at the threshold of the church, and crossed himself. He’d been especially lax in his devotions since his brother’s death, one of those things he occasionally resolved to change, usually following one of Joaquim’s le
ct
ures. He waited a moment, allowing his eyes to adju
st
to the darkness and wondering if someone would come to renounce him. The lack of any divine rebuke reassured him.

He
st
epped forward into the gold-encru
st
ed nave and spotted a fair-haired prie
st
speaking to an elderly black-garbed woman. The prie
st
nodded toward Duilio as if asking him to wait, so Duilio settled on one of the pews, determined to be patient. The young man eventually left the woman’s side and came to lend his prie
st
ly ear to Duilio.

“Are you Father Barros?” Duilio asked without preamble.

“I’m Father Crespo. How can I help you today, my son?”

Duilio hoped his expression didn’t show his amusement at being called
my son
by a man who mu
st
be younger than himself. The prie
st
couldn’t be much older than Cri
st
iano. “I need to speak to Father Barros. Where might I find him?”

The young man’s brows drew together. “I believe he’s closeted with the books, but I’ll inform him he’s needed here.” He scurried off toward the sacri
st
y, much to Duilio’s relief.

Not long after that, another prie
st
emerged from the sacri
st
y, an older man with graying hair and a
st
ern visage. He presented himself to Duilio. “How can I help you today, son?”

This time
son
made more sense. “I’ve come to make some inquiries,” he admitted. “Inspe
ct
or Joaquim Tavares sugge
st
ed you might be able to help me.”

The prie
st
’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”

Well, he couldn’t fault the man’s caution. “I am his cousin, Duilio Ferreira.”

“Hmmm . . . you certainly resemble him,” Father Barros said. “Tell me, then, why did he not enter the prie
st
hood after seminary?”

If that que
st
ion was meant as a te
st
, he was about to fail miserably. Joaquim turned
st
ubborn at times, refusing to discuss certain issues, even with family. He had an overdeveloped desire for privacy. “I hone
st
ly don’t know, Father,” Duilio admitted. “He’s never told me.”

“He’s never told anyone, so far as I know. I thought perhaps . . .” The prie
st
shrugged. “Here, Mr. Ferreira, come with me. I’ve not had luncheon yet. Let’s walk into town.”

Duilio followed the man back through the nave and along a path that led to the back side of the church, away from its chapels and
st
atues. They headed toward the town’s center, walking along the narrow cobbled
st
reets among the noontime press of carts and pede
st
rians. Much like the
st
reets around the Ribeira back in the Golden City, these buildings were old and packed together, with painted walls and iron-railed balconies. The prie
st
led him to the front of one building, its pink facade decorated with only a sign marking it the Re
st
aurant Lindo. “My cousin owns the place, so we can sit in the back as long as you need. Is that man in the dark suit following you?”

“I believe so,” Duilio said without turning to look. “Not being terribly discreet, if you noticed him as well, though.”

Father Barros laughed and pointed out a table in a dark corner of the room. “I wasn’t always a prie
st
, son.”

There had to be a
st
ory behind that short
st
atement. If he weren’t pressed for time, he would have liked to get to know the prie
st
better. Duilio headed back toward the corner and picked a chair situated so that he could see out into the
st
reet. The man in the dark suit passed the front of the re
st
aurant as Duilio settled at the table. He moved on without pausing. Duilio felt gooseflesh prickle along his arms, but his gift seemed unconcerned at the moment, so he shook off the odd feeling. He could deal with that problem later.

The prie
st
settled across from him. “So, how does Inspe
ct
or Tavares think I can help you, Mr. Ferreira?”

Duilio looked about for a waiter. He’d only had time to grab one of Mrs. Cardoza’s meat pies at the house. He was
st
ill hungry. “We have a case that we’re working on, and I’m gathering background information.”

The prie
st
set his chin atop laced fingers. “About what?”

“
The City Under the Sea
,” Duilio said.

Barros sat back, shaking his head. “Ah. Gabriel Espinoza’s creation.”

A chubby man with a white apron tied over his garb finally bu
st
led over and offered to tell them the specials. “Thank you, Eusebio,” Barros said. “We’ll need some privacy, if you please. Ju
st
bring us whatever the cook has prepared, and . . . tea.”

The waiter ca
st
a curious look at Duilio but took himself away promptly.

“So what about a bunch of floating houses could catch your intere
st
?”

Duilio pressed his lips together, trying to decide where to
st
art. “We know for certain a young woman was trapped inside the house that went into the river recently.”

“Inside?” The prie
st
leaned forward, sounding incredulous.

“Yes, tied to a chair. She was grabbed off the
st
reet, drugged, and placed inside the house while
st
ill unconscious. She had no chance of escaping alive once the house went into the water.”

“You think Gabriel Espinoza did this?” Barros shook his head firmly. “No. He may be rather single-minded in the pursuit of his lofty arti
st
ic goals, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

Duilio
st
ared at the prie
st
, weighing the convi
ct
ion in his tone. The man
believed
Espinoza’s innocence, so any mention of necromancy would get a similar appalled rea
ct
ion. But given what Miss Paredes had said about Espinoza’s calculations not accounting for the vi
ct
ims, it seemed that aspe
ct
of the artwork wasn’t his doing at all. Duilio tried another tack. “When was the la
st
time you spoke to Espinoza?”

“January, right after Epiphany.” Barros frowned. “He came back to his parents’ home after some disagreement with his patron, and he came to see me. I’m not his confessor. It was ju
st
talk, but he was quite upset.”

That had promise, and if it wasn’t a confession, Barros was at liberty to discuss their conversation. “Upset?”

“Something about the artwork. He didn’t want to tell me. And that his patron wanted to move him somewhere out of the city, away from prying eyes and . . .
nosy writers
, I believe he said. They had an argument that got out of hand. Espinoza even showed me a cut on his forehead where they’d fought over it.”

Duilio recalled that dark spot on the floor in the apartment’s dressing room. “He had a fight with his patron?”

“Well, not the patron himself. The man the patron sent to check up on him. I haven’t seen him since he told me that, so he mu
st
have given in and moved out of the city.”

That would put Espinoza’s disappearance in early January, about the time the fifth house had gone into the water. About when he’d
st
opped giving interviews. So something had changed abruptly then. Perhaps Espinoza had learned about the vi
ct
ims and obje
ct
ed. “Father, did Espinoza tell you who his patron was?”

The prie
st
mulled that over, his lips pursed. “He said the work was being funded by the government, the Mini
st
ry of Culture.”

“I thought there was a single patron,” Duilio said.

“I believe the Marquis of Maraval was personally overseeing the artwork. Espinoza considered him the primary patron.”

The Marquis of Maraval? The Mini
st
ry of Culture performed fun
ct
ions like the in
st
allation of sculptures in the Treasury Building and the re
st
oration of tile facades in older parts of the city. They kept a finger on what newspapers published. But they had no control over the Special Police. Duilio didn’t see how the mini
st
er could be involved. “I see. Have you ever heard of a group called the Open Hand?”

Barros sat back. “Espinoza mentioned them once, although I wasn’t clear who they were.”

“In what context?” Duilio asked.

“It didn’t make sense.” Barros sighed. “Espinoza saw
something
. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it made him think they were subverting his work.”

That was an odd choice of word. “Subverting?”

“Yes. It sounded insane, but he truly believed it. Somehow they intended to use his work of art to make the prince into the king of all Portugal.”

T
he re
st
aurant had filled with all manner of folk from the town, fishermen and laborers and tradesmen. The noise within the narrow room grew chaotic, but ne
st
led where they were in the back, Duilio could
st
ill hear his companion’s voice. Over a fine lunch, Father Barros painted a pi
ct
ure of Espinoza as a man obsessed with his art, but not evil at heart.

It seemed that Espinoza was as much a vi
ct
im in this as Miss Paredes.

After paying for the meal, Duilio took his leave of the prie
st
. “You’ve been very helpful, Father. Be cautious whom you tell about this. It would be better to say nothing.”

The prie
st
rose and shook his hand. “I under
st
and. I hope you find the truth, Mr. Ferreira. And keep an eye out for the fellow I saw earlier.”

Duilio hadn’t forgotten the man in the dark suit. “I will, Father.”

When he got out to the
st
reet, the sky had cleared considerably. People hurried by on the cobbles, and he fell in behind a group of fisherwomen, their embroidered aprons bright splashes of color over their floral-print skirts. By the time he’d turned onto Serpa Pinto Street, Duilio’s gift warned him he was being followed again. It didn’t feel like a warning of imminent danger, but a reminder he should be
aware
.

He ducked down Godinho Street. It was narrower and led only to the harbor’s con
st
ru
ct
ion yards and the southern breakwater, but would afford him a chance to see if anyone was behind him. There was little there beyond a few fa
ct
ory offices, which should minimize the number of by
st
anders who might be hurt should Mata appear and take a shot at him.

As Duilio expe
ct
ed, the man in the dark suit—the one who’d followed him from the tram—appeared at the end of the
st
reet behind him. It wasn’t Mata, but there was no telling how many people were working with him.

Duilio reached inside his jacket, unsnapped his hol
st
er, and searched the area about him. There was no traffic in sight; too close to lunchtime. Ahead of him waited the abandoned con
st
ru
ct
ion yard with its neat rows of giant granite blocks. He could only hope he got there before anything happened . . . and that Inspe
ct
or Gaspar and Joaquim were keeping an eye on him, as planned.

The granite blocks would supply excellent cover. The ocean beyond the yard presented an escape route as well; he could outswim mo
st
men. He would need to reach the water fir
st
, though. Duilio jumped the gate into the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard, edged between two rows of
st
one blocks, and headed toward the giant crane on its rails at the end of the unfinished breakwater.

His gift abruptly warned him, a spasm down his spine.

His mind raced, taking in everything about him. Shadows moved on the far left of his vision. From that dire
ct
ion his nose picked up the tang of perspiration. The man in the dark suit was behind him,
st
ill on the road, which meant someone else was in the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard already. Mata? Weighing the di
st
ance between himself and the iron base of the Titan, Duilio bolted that way.

He’d almo
st
reached it when a shot rang out. Duilio crouched but kept moving. That shot went high, pinging off the body of the crane with a metallic whine.

Reprieved, he threw himself the final few feet toward the Titan’s base.

He
st
umbled over the rail on which the crane ran but managed to get behind the iron wheels. His heart was racing, pulse thudding in his ears. He glanced up at the base of the crane that shielded him—terrifyingly huge now that he was under its bulk. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he quickly looked down, noting for the fir
st
time the revolver in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing the thing.

There was movement in the yard. He could hear the scuffling of feet on gravel. One man called to another, confirming there was more than one person about. Duilio huffed out a breath, pressed the side of his face again
st
the cool iron, and made himself breathe slower so he could li
st
en. What was going on out there?

Another shot sounded. This one ricocheted off the ground near his left hand, sending a shower of rock chips spraying about. He jerked back, but not before a chip caught the side of his cheek. He hissed and pressed the back of his right hand again
st
the cut. It came away bloody.

Damnation
. He needed to get behind his attackers, however many there were. Out here on the end of the breakwater, they couldn’t miss him if he made a run for it. They had him pinned down behind the Titan’s wheels. He glanced toward the edge of the breakwater more than a dozen feet away. His mind spun, trying to weigh the odds.

He didn’t want to kill anyone today, but he might not have any choice. He could swim back to the quay and get behind the man. The revolver would probably
st
ill fire, which gave him six shots, but he couldn’t tru
st
the old derringer once it got wet.

A third shot hit the iron wheel near him. Duilio jerked back and pressed himself again
st
the wheel again. Two more shots followed. They sounded like they’d come from different spots, farther away, but he couldn’t be sure. Duilio held his breath.

Above the wind and the clinking of the chains hanging from the Titan’s boom, he heard moaning. He dared a glimpse in that dire
ct
ion and saw Mata slumped again
st
the
st
ones, clutching his belly.

“He’s down, Mr. Ferreira,” a man with a Brazilian accent shouted. “Come on out.”

Duilio didn’t think the Brazilian was in league with Mata. Surely he wouldn’t announce himself that way if he were. That didn’t necessarily mean he could tru
st
the Brazilian, and his gift supplied nothing. But he needed the answer enough to risk going out there.

Mata lay next to the fir
st
row of giant granite blocks, with the man in the dark suit
st
anding over him, his pi
st
ol trained loosely on Mata. Inspe
ct
or Gaspar approached, jumping over the gate at the entrance of the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard. Once he reached them, Gaspar knelt down and began to check Mata’s injuries.

Duilio walked cautiously along the rails toward them. His heart was
st
ill thumping erratically, but at lea
st
his breathing sounded normal. When he’d gotten within a dozen feet, he paused. “Who are you?”

The man in the dark suit came toward him, giving Duilio a better look than he’d gotten on the tram. He had slender features and a lean build, sugge
st
ing athleticism, but he seemed tired, worn. His dark gray suit was of a mode
st
Portuguese cut, and his composure after a shoot-out sugge
st
ed he’d seen the like before. “Anjos,” he said in his Brazilian accent. “Inspe
ct
or Gabriel Anjos.”

Gaspar nodded curtly to Duilio, confirming that, and turned his attention back to the assassin. He’d opened Mata’s wai
st
coat and shirt and was surveying a seeping injury that looked to be near the man’s liver. A police-issue pi
st
ol lay a few feet away, ignored.

“Would have been nice to know who you were sooner,” Duilio said to Anjos.

“There wasn’t time,” Anjos replied. “You’ve got a nick on your cheek.”

Duilio tugged out a handkerchief and dabbed his cheek. It had nearly
st
opped bleeding. Still keeping his di
st
ance, he gazed at the assassin. A youngish man with a
st
ocky build and regular features, there was little to di
st
inguish him from thousands of other men in the Golden City—save that Duilio had been attacked by him in a tavern earlier in the week. “This is Mata, isn’t it? The same man who killed my brother?”

Anjos regarded Duilio with narrowed eyes. “Yes. Don’t get ideas. He’s
our
prisoner.”

Did the man think he was going to attack Mata? Duilio turned his eyes back to the assassin. Gaspar was attempting to
st
aunch the wound with a handkerchief, but Duilio suspe
ct
ed it was already too late for a hospital. An internal injury like that was almo
st
always a death sentence.

I should feel . . . more,
Duilio thought.

“He’s not going to make it until she can get here,” Gaspar said, looking up at Anjos.

Anjos nodded grimly. “You ask him, then.”

Gaspar grasped the wounded man’s chin with a bloody hand. “Who ordered you to kill Alessio Ferreira?”

The assassin laughed wetly. “I don’t know.”

Gaspar shot a glance up at Anjos, who nodded. He turned back to Mata. “
How
did you get the order, then? Who gave it to you?”

Mata coughed, and blood speckled his lips. “No one.”

“That’s true,” Anjos inserted quickly.

Duilio glanced at the Brazilian. How did he know that?

“
How
did you get the order?” Gaspar asked again.

The assassin laughed. “They’re left on my desk in my home. Don’t you get it? I can’t tell you anything. You might as well shoot me now.”

Duilio frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard such a
st
ory before—a note left on a desk.

“He means that,” Anjos told his partner. “It’s the truth, as much as he knows.”

Aha!
Duilio glanced back at the Brazilian. Anjos mu
st
be a Truthsayer, able to parse out the truth or lie in another’s words. It wasn’t a common gift, but not nearly as rare as Gaspar’s ability. It explained why Anjos had been doing the que
st
ioning of members of the Special Police. They couldn’t lie to him, not successfully.

Gaspar gripped the assassin’s chin. “Same with Ferreira here?”

But Mata coughed, and blood splattered the back of Gaspar’s hand. Duilio had a feeling they weren’t going to get any more answers. “He’s dying, man.”

“I know.” Gaspar wiped away the blood that now bubbled from Mata’s mouth. Mata slumped to the ground, lacking even the
st
rength to sit up. Gaspar propped him on his side, but Mata’s coughing grew fainter.

Duilio watched Mata as the man’s breathing calmed again. He’d expe
ct
ed to feel more anger, but Mata wasn’t truly Alessio’s killer. He’d simply been the tool that carried out the orders. No, someone else had pulled the man’s
st
rings.

Anjos glanced back toward the quay and waved to a group of uniformed police officers who approached from the town. Workers were beginning to return from their lunch breaks, and a few
st
ood watching curiously at the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard gates. Two of the officers
st
opped at the gates and took up a position there, keeping the civilians out, while another pair entered the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard and approached them.

Anjos drew out a handkerchief and covered his mouth as he coughed. “I would rather have gotten him back to the city,” he said as he folded the handkerchief, “but I don’t think he would have spilled anything useful. The be
st
way to keep an assassin from talking is not to tell them anything in the fir
st
place.”

The two uniformed officers had reached them and knelt to inspe
ct
the body. Gaspar picked up the assassin’s discarded pi
st
ol and came to Anjos’ side. “He’s unconscious.”

Duilio watched as the officers prepared to carry Mata out between them. “I had an inve
st
igator looking for something previously
st
olen from my house,” Duilio said, figuring it was better not to say what was missing in front of the two unfamiliar officers. “
He
was warned off by a note left on his desk, in a locked house.”

Gaspar snorted. “Someone picked his lock—nothing more.”

He’d thought exa
ct
ly the same at the time. “But the same method was used, which
st
ruck me as important. We have reason to suspe
ct
Paolo Silva was behind that theft, but no proof.”

Anjos produced a cigarette case from a coat pocket. “I’m familiar with the case. We don’t have any grounds to que
st
ion Silva, but other recent developments sugge
st
he doesn’t have the missing item.” He withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and put away the case with a fluid ease that spoke of long pra
ct
ice. “We do, however, intend to que
st
ion Silva the fir
st
time he gives us an excuse. I suspe
ct
he knows a lot more than he’s told anyone.”

Duilio held his tongue. With a Truthsayer present, it would settle the matter of the theft permanently. It would be nice to know.

The two uniformed policemen carried a now-unconscious Mata out of the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard, leaving Duilio with the two foreigners. “They’ll take him to the
st
ation,” Anjos said once they’d gone. “They’ll bring a do
ct
or in, but I don’t think he’s going to regain consciousness.”

Duilio had to agree. He touched his cheek again and found that the nick there seemed to have
st
opped bleeding. “Well, I got two things from Father Barros, who, as it turns out, is an old friend of Espinoza and talked with him back in January when he came here. Fir
st
, Espinoza’s work might have been subverted. And second, he thought the Open Hand wanted to use it to make the prince into a king.”