risking her neck, since her father figured a beautiful young woman looked less suspicious than a guy with an earring.
As a criminal mastermind, Leonardo possessed all the skill and cunning of Lex Luthor. Thanks to him and Rosa, both sides of the family organization were ruled with strength. The problem was that for years, Rosa had been trying to reform herself. After several masterstrokes had sealed the family’s fortune, the youngest Carrera had decided to give up crime and devote herself to the legitimate art business. But she was still attached to her father, and he had persuaded her to take on one last mission, perhaps the most important of their criminal careers.
Rosa and Leonardo finished their champagne and crossed the lounge. A massive oak desk stood on a platform in the room and a portrait of an aristocratic-looking man wearing a proud expression hung above it, presiding over all that happened there. The man was bald and in the portrait he was leaning casually against a table, gazing out at the viewer with the indifference of a baroque monarch. Flanking the portrait, looking out of place, were two loudspeakers mounted at the height of the subject’s shoulders.
Aside from this depiction, and not counting the dozen or so marble and wooden faces represented artistically, there was no one else in the room. Leonardo walked somberly toward the portrait, his sister following close behind. Suddenly, a sharp voice crackled over the loudspeakers. “So here you are.”
They stopped in the center of the room.
“And in one piece, from what I hear,” the voice continued. “How’s Clark? If he keeps injuring himself like this his medical treatment will cost me a fortune. Fortunately, very soon money will no longer be a problem.”
“Like it is now .” Rosa looked around the yacht’s impressive lounge.
“Tell me everything.”
“We encountered some difficulties,” she said loudly. It always made her feel uncomfortable to speak to a painting. “How are you today?”
“I’m tired,” the voice said. “But don’t use that as an excuse not to tell me the search was a failure.”
Rosa felt herself grow pale under the fluorescent lights. “How did you know?”
“From the pitch of your voice. It’s an octave higher than usual.”
She clenched her fists to contain the rage she felt at having to speak to a person she couldn’t see. “We looked everywhere. In drawers, notebooks—there wasn’t even a damn USB drive. I spent the entire return trip searching the CDs I took from her room, but I didn’t find anything. There was no sign of it on her computer. I was just starting a more thorough search when Clark saw her coming down the street with that journalist, Jaime Azcárate.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Clark wanted to stay and settle the score, but I convinced him to escape down the stairs. We didn’t have time to take the computer. One thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that there was nothing in the documents I took even remotely related to Asclepius’s Chronicle . Isn’t it possible we’ve got the wrong person?”
“My dear Rosa, research is the key to all operations. That and luck. A few years ago, when I published my essay on the work of Filippo Baldinucci, Paloma Blasco came to my office with an absurd theory. I gave it a lot of thought, and the more thought I gave it, the less absurd it seemed. So I decided to conduct my own investigation, and that’s how I came across the university piece attributed to her and Jaime Azcárate, who she was besotted with at the time. Maybe she still is.”
“He’s an interesting guy,” Rosa admitted. Leonardo made a snorting sound. “What are you laughing about, jackass?”
“Nothing. ‘An interesting guy.’ So interesting you let him live?”
“Go fuck yourself, shithead.”
“Quiet, both of you. Rosa’s right: it was Paloma’s feelings for Azcárate that made her want to help him and, ultimately, to conduct the study. By
As a criminal mastermind, Leonardo possessed all the skill and cunning of Lex Luthor. Thanks to him and Rosa, both sides of the family organization were ruled with strength. The problem was that for years, Rosa had been trying to reform herself. After several masterstrokes had sealed the family’s fortune, the youngest Carrera had decided to give up crime and devote herself to the legitimate art business. But she was still attached to her father, and he had persuaded her to take on one last mission, perhaps the most important of their criminal careers.
Rosa and Leonardo finished their champagne and crossed the lounge. A massive oak desk stood on a platform in the room and a portrait of an aristocratic-looking man wearing a proud expression hung above it, presiding over all that happened there. The man was bald and in the portrait he was leaning casually against a table, gazing out at the viewer with the indifference of a baroque monarch. Flanking the portrait, looking out of place, were two loudspeakers mounted at the height of the subject’s shoulders.
Aside from this depiction, and not counting the dozen or so marble and wooden faces represented artistically, there was no one else in the room. Leonardo walked somberly toward the portrait, his sister following close behind. Suddenly, a sharp voice crackled over the loudspeakers. “So here you are.”
They stopped in the center of the room.
“And in one piece, from what I hear,” the voice continued. “How’s Clark? If he keeps injuring himself like this his medical treatment will cost me a fortune. Fortunately, very soon money will no longer be a problem.”
“Like it is now .” Rosa looked around the yacht’s impressive lounge.
“Tell me everything.”
“We encountered some difficulties,” she said loudly. It always made her feel uncomfortable to speak to a painting. “How are you today?”
“I’m tired,” the voice said. “But don’t use that as an excuse not to tell me the search was a failure.”
Rosa felt herself grow pale under the fluorescent lights. “How did you know?”
“From the pitch of your voice. It’s an octave higher than usual.”
She clenched her fists to contain the rage she felt at having to speak to a person she couldn’t see. “We looked everywhere. In drawers, notebooks—there wasn’t even a damn USB drive. I spent the entire return trip searching the CDs I took from her room, but I didn’t find anything. There was no sign of it on her computer. I was just starting a more thorough search when Clark saw her coming down the street with that journalist, Jaime Azcárate.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Clark wanted to stay and settle the score, but I convinced him to escape down the stairs. We didn’t have time to take the computer. One thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that there was nothing in the documents I took even remotely related to Asclepius’s Chronicle . Isn’t it possible we’ve got the wrong person?”
“My dear Rosa, research is the key to all operations. That and luck. A few years ago, when I published my essay on the work of Filippo Baldinucci, Paloma Blasco came to my office with an absurd theory. I gave it a lot of thought, and the more thought I gave it, the less absurd it seemed. So I decided to conduct my own investigation, and that’s how I came across the university piece attributed to her and Jaime Azcárate, who she was besotted with at the time. Maybe she still is.”
“He’s an interesting guy,” Rosa admitted. Leonardo made a snorting sound. “What are you laughing about, jackass?”
“Nothing. ‘An interesting guy.’ So interesting you let him live?”
“Go fuck yourself, shithead.”
“Quiet, both of you. Rosa’s right: it was Paloma’s feelings for Azcárate that made her want to help him and, ultimately, to conduct the study. By
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