The Matador's Crown

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.

The museums, along with dealers and collectors, often inadvertently supported the illegal antiquities trade, and sometimes made the unconvincing argument that looters put history into the hands of the people. History yanked from its origins and placed without provenance or context before the unaware but appreciative public. Right. She was glad James Harlow was one museum employee not on that list. Much as he’d wanted to get his hands on the bull statue, he was as concerned about the illegal buying and selling of antiquities as was she.

Archaeologists and the source nations would continue to fight the underground trade, but it was getting more difficult every day as war, and pillaging of the spoils, saw major museums looted and priceless artifacts damaged or lost.

Sipping the passable coffee, she paced before the open seaside window, breathing in the ocean breeze.

Professor Crockett’s suggestion the Cádiz police were accomplices in the looting still didn’t place a name to Diego’s murderer. If the police were involved they would cover it up. Had likely already marked the file Unsolved.

She hated knowing Diego’s death would be swept under the carpet like so much trash. She didn’t know the guitarist, but everyone deserved justice.

Flipping open her cell phone, she dialed James Harlow, who answered on the first ring.

“I’ve just returned from Crockett’s dig site.”

“So what have you learned?”

“I spoke to Jonathan Crockett while he held an AK-47 on me.”