turned into a monster after screwing Poseidon in the Temple of Athena, would have been the perfect subject for a serial-killer profile. What about the third person?”
“We know a bit more about this one. He was a security guard, but not at the gallery; he worked at the Leoni Antique Center before it burned down.”
“A bit of a stretch, but it’s still a link to the Medusa.”
Jaime smiled. “You believe me now? As you see, anyone who takes an interest in the gorgon can wind up dead. This guy, Alvino Nascimbene, died in a car accident. The body was badly burned. Some Italian magazines actually published photos from the scene.”
“How tasteful.”
“Quite. There were even close-ups of some of the most spectacular burns. This whole business is enough to make your hair stand on end.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I tried to contact the Petrarca Gallery in Rome, but they won’t answer the phone. Yesterday I spoke to Antonio Miguel Galán, an antique dealer who’s a friend of my father’s. He said that about a year ago the Petrarca wanted to buy a couple of illuminated bibles from him, but in the end the gallery backed out. He offered to ask around and see whether he can find out anything about the statue’s history.”
“That’s my Azcárate. But . . .”
“What?”
“I know you won’t listen, but I’ll say it anyway: watch your step.”
“Why?” Jaime rolled his eyes back in his head and stuck his tongue out in imitation of a mummy. “Because of the curse?”
“Don’t be a shithead. I’ll bet you anything there’s no curse, but that some of those deaths still weren’t a coincidence.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
“All right, but be careful.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you actually worried about me?”
“Who wouldn’t worry after seeing the way you shoot?” Roberto drained the last drops of beer from his bottle.
12
Coast of Sardinia
From high in the sky the sun was painting a wide, glowing trail across the calm sea. Though it was well into October, the weather was almost summery, and there was no shortage of the bathers who came to Capo Testa to enjoy a pleasant swim in the Mediterranean. A group of boys and girls were surfing near the harbor, while people of all ages enjoyed the autumn morning beneath the small forest of umbrellas that had sprung up on the beach.
One of the surfers was thrown off his board when a large wave made him lose his balance. When his head reemerged from the water, he saw that the swell had been caused by a motorboat speeding toward a large white catamaran anchored some distance out from the turtle-shaped rock near the beach. The young people waved at the dark-haired woman in sunglasses who was steering, but when they received no response they went back to their surfing.
Skillfully, the woman turned to starboard and guided the motorboat to the stern of the catamaran, cutting the engine as she reached the boarding ladder. The name of the boat was painted on its side in black letters: “PHOENIX.”
A deckhand working at the catamaran’s stern approached and greeted the woman with a smile. “Good morning, Miss Carrera.”
The woman stood. She was tall and her black T-shirt and tight black pants emphasized her athletic figure. “My last name is Mazi,” she said in a cold voice. “Tie up the boat.”
The young man rushed to obey and threw her a rope. Slowly she climbed the ladder leading up to the yacht.
Rosa Carrera had changed her surname almost a year ago, but nobody seemed to have taken it seriously. She was starting to think that her attempt to put her past behind her had been a waste of time, especially since she was still doing the same things she’d done before. No matter what efforts she made to distance herself from her family, her destiny pursued her. She would always be a Carrera. Especially if she couldn’t bring herself to cut ties completely.
She stood on deck for a while, admiring the vessel’s
“We know a bit more about this one. He was a security guard, but not at the gallery; he worked at the Leoni Antique Center before it burned down.”
“A bit of a stretch, but it’s still a link to the Medusa.”
Jaime smiled. “You believe me now? As you see, anyone who takes an interest in the gorgon can wind up dead. This guy, Alvino Nascimbene, died in a car accident. The body was badly burned. Some Italian magazines actually published photos from the scene.”
“How tasteful.”
“Quite. There were even close-ups of some of the most spectacular burns. This whole business is enough to make your hair stand on end.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I tried to contact the Petrarca Gallery in Rome, but they won’t answer the phone. Yesterday I spoke to Antonio Miguel Galán, an antique dealer who’s a friend of my father’s. He said that about a year ago the Petrarca wanted to buy a couple of illuminated bibles from him, but in the end the gallery backed out. He offered to ask around and see whether he can find out anything about the statue’s history.”
“That’s my Azcárate. But . . .”
“What?”
“I know you won’t listen, but I’ll say it anyway: watch your step.”
“Why?” Jaime rolled his eyes back in his head and stuck his tongue out in imitation of a mummy. “Because of the curse?”
“Don’t be a shithead. I’ll bet you anything there’s no curse, but that some of those deaths still weren’t a coincidence.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
“All right, but be careful.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you actually worried about me?”
“Who wouldn’t worry after seeing the way you shoot?” Roberto drained the last drops of beer from his bottle.
12
Coast of Sardinia
From high in the sky the sun was painting a wide, glowing trail across the calm sea. Though it was well into October, the weather was almost summery, and there was no shortage of the bathers who came to Capo Testa to enjoy a pleasant swim in the Mediterranean. A group of boys and girls were surfing near the harbor, while people of all ages enjoyed the autumn morning beneath the small forest of umbrellas that had sprung up on the beach.
One of the surfers was thrown off his board when a large wave made him lose his balance. When his head reemerged from the water, he saw that the swell had been caused by a motorboat speeding toward a large white catamaran anchored some distance out from the turtle-shaped rock near the beach. The young people waved at the dark-haired woman in sunglasses who was steering, but when they received no response they went back to their surfing.
Skillfully, the woman turned to starboard and guided the motorboat to the stern of the catamaran, cutting the engine as she reached the boarding ladder. The name of the boat was painted on its side in black letters: “PHOENIX.”
A deckhand working at the catamaran’s stern approached and greeted the woman with a smile. “Good morning, Miss Carrera.”
The woman stood. She was tall and her black T-shirt and tight black pants emphasized her athletic figure. “My last name is Mazi,” she said in a cold voice. “Tie up the boat.”
The young man rushed to obey and threw her a rope. Slowly she climbed the ladder leading up to the yacht.
Rosa Carrera had changed her surname almost a year ago, but nobody seemed to have taken it seriously. She was starting to think that her attempt to put her past behind her had been a waste of time, especially since she was still doing the same things she’d done before. No matter what efforts she made to distance herself from her family, her destiny pursued her. She would always be a Carrera. Especially if she couldn’t bring herself to cut ties completely.
She stood on deck for a while, admiring the vessel’s
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