The Matador's Crown. Alex Archer

      “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.”

      “There are likely many operations in town. This is a seaport.”

      “True. I’ve got to call Jonathan Crockett. Or rather, I think I’m going to head out there after we’ve eaten.”

      “You’ve more work at the museum. You think you have time to do that?”

      Annja tilted her head at the man. “Professor, I’m surprised. This reeks of everything I thought you abhorred. I thought the museum took a hard stance against acquiring items without provenance?”

      “Damn it,” he said softly. Clasping the mug, he stared out the window at passing tourists. After a few moments, he swung a look at her. “Annja, forgive me. I’m being absolutely rude. You must be in a state to have found a body. Are you okay?”

      “Sure. Nothing I haven’t—” She cleared her throat and took a long swig of the cool lemon water. “I’m fine.”

      “I’m sure you’ve seen things,” he said. “But as archaeologists we usually find the bodies long after death, and that involves little blood or gore.” He reached across the table and laid a hand over hers. “If you need to talk, I can take the rest of the afternoon off.”

      She appreciated his kindness. His reputation as being a hardnose had never been apparent to her. “Thank you, James. But I really am fine. And I am going to drive out to Crockett’s site, so I won’t be at the museum this afternoon. Is it all right if I stop in tomorrow to finish my work with the coins?”

      “Of course.” He rubbed a hand along his thigh, the wounded leg, she assumed. He’d mentioned he felt constant pain, yet was able to bypass painkillers by using visual relaxation. “Yes, you’re right. Spain’s cultural heritage is not a renewable resource. If illicit trade is going on in the city, it’s our responsibility to put a stop to it. Now that I think on it...perhaps you’ll want to take a closer look at Jonathan Crockett. He’s a retired college professor who can’t find funding for a big-time dig so he’s taken what he can to keep his fingers in the dirt. A man like that...you never know what he’d do for cash.”

      Annja didn’t know Crockett well, but the few days she had worked alongside him, she hadn’t gotten the murderer vibe from him. Or the I-will-sell-potsherds-for-cash vibe, either. But she wouldn’t assume anything right now.

      “You worked with him?”

      “It’s been over a decade, but we headed a dig together in Egypt along the Nile valley. I had to keep an eye on him. Finds went missing that I couldn’t prove.”

      “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

      The waitress arrived with two steaming-hot plates. Annja dug into the thin omelet stuffed with onions and tiny prawns.

      The professor studied her intense enjoyment for a few moments, smiling before diving in himself. So she was a hearty eater. It was always wise to eat her fill whenever she was around food, because there were long times when she wasn’t able to eat. Either because of her work schedule, travel or, more often, because of mysterious dealings that involved her stowing away in a ship’s hull or battling gunrunners or falling into a pit in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

      After they’d eaten, with a promise to stay in contact with Harlow regarding details of the case, Annja stepped out of the tapas bar into the searing summer sun, courtesy of the god Mot. Glancing to the left, she spied the sea and a beautiful white-sand beach littered with bikini-clad women and children. Out on the water a windsurfer cut through the silver waves.

      And then she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man leaning against a metal street pole pasted with posters for flamenco dance concerts. Arms crossed high over his broad chest, and a smirk softening his square face from its usual steel to the lesser iron, his presence wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should’ve been.

      “Garin Braden,” she muttered, not in an altogether welcoming tone. She’d decide soon enough if she was pleased, indifferent or just plain offended to see the man.

      3

      “Surprised?” Garin asked in Spanish, waiting for her to approach, which Annja did with forced disinterest. He looked abnormally vacationy in his pale cream linen suit and straw fedora. Garin presented her with a different side of himself each time she ran into him.

      Annja replied, using the local dialect, “I’m never surprised that you always seem to know exactly where I am at any given time. It’s your innate Annja radar, right?”

      “Something like that.” His dark eyes, shaded by the hat, held hers. Annja didn’t flinch. “Also not a surprise