Mosaic Mayhem (Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery) (2 page)

With the gun jabbing me in the ribs, he wrapped his other arm tightly around my shoulders and forced me back down the path and across the courtyard filled with oblivious tourists who ignored me as I tried to make eye contact and silently mouthed, “Help me.”

As he led me through the main gates onto the street, several self-defense options came to mind—stamping my heel into his instep, twisting my body to knee him in the groin, screaming at the top of my lungs. Preferably all three at once. The gun barrel poking my midsection forced me to discount all of them, even after he marched me down a deserted alley, zip-tied my hands behind my back, placed a sack over my head, and shoved me into the back of a mud-spattered black panel truck.

Better alive and kidnapped than bleeding out on the street, I figured. But why me? I had no money, no political connections that might figure into the Catalan separatist movement. Had he wanted to rape or murder me, he could have pulled me into the woods back at the park. No one would have seen or heard anything. I don’t know whether it was intuition or past experience, but something told me I didn’t need to fear for my life.

After a bruise-inducing ride around sharp turns, the truck finally came to a stop a few minutes later. My abductor hauled me out and dragged me up a flight of steps into a building. When he yanked the sack off my head, I found myself standing in front of an ornately carved massive desk in a room reminiscent of a nineteenth century American robber baron’s library. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows filled the one wall not covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

Behind the desk sat a man with a full head of silver hair and a matching goatee. Dressed in a charcoal gray three-piece pinstripe suit, he exuded a cultured, sophisticated air that reminded me of certain James Bond villains—until he smiled, showing off a mouthful of nicotine stained teeth. “Welcome, Señora.”

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Who I am is not important. What I want is the ransom your husband will pay to get you back unharmed.”

“You obviously have me confused with someone else. I don’t have a husband.”

He made a tsking sound with his tongue and shook his head in a gesture of disappointment. “There’s no sense lying to me, Señora Naiman. I know very well who you are. And I know your husband will pay handsomely to have you returned safely.”

“Would that be the no-good deadbeat who died last winter? Because that’s the only husband I’ve ever had, and his name wasn’t Naiman.”

Anger settled over his face. “Enough games!” He slammed his hand on the desk. “We will call your husband.”

“Good luck with that. Unless, of course, you have a direct line to hell.”

He reached for his phone, punched in a number, and pushed the speaker phone button.

“Hello?”

In a calm, controlled voice my captor said, “Señor Naiman, listen carefully. I am holding your wife. You will deposit one hundred million Euros into the Swiss bank account I’m texting to your phone to secure her safe return.”

“I don’t know who you are or what kind of scam you’re running, bub, but my wife is standing right beside me.” He then disconnected the call.

“Your husband has little regard for you welfare,” he said to me. “That is troubling. For you, especially.”

“That wasn’t my husband.”

“Señora Naiman, Elaine—”

“My name is not Elaine Naiman!”

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the bag my kidnapper still held.

      When his goon deposited my handbag on the desk, he upended it to retrieve my passport. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the information. He slammed the passport onto his desk and launched into a rapid-fire Spanish tirade directed at the goon.

Goon Guy whipped out his phone, pointed to the screen, then pointed to me while he argued his case. His boss wasn’t buying it. He grabbed the phone and hurled it across the room, shattering a large porcelain urn—Renaissance era if I remembered my art history lessons. I cringed at the senseless destruction of such a valuable artifact. Then he pointed to the door and screamed something that I didn’t need translated. Goon Guy beat a hasty retreat.

My silver-haired captor placed the items spilled across his desk back into my handbag. “I am sorry for the misunderstanding, Señora Pollack. Juan will bring you back to Parc Güell.”

He rounded his desk and tucked my bag between my torso and my still bound arm, then exited the room. Juan the Goon reentered, placed the sack back over my head, and dragged me out the building, down the steps, and back into the van.

A few minutes later I once again walked through the entryway of Parc Güell, the red welts on my wrists the only evidence of my short but harrowing ordeal. I’ve lived through far worse. I parked myself outside the entrance of Torre Rosa and waited for Zack to finish his meeting.

In my experience, most guys are less than observant, but Zack zeroed in on my sore wrists the moment he stepped from the building. I should have kept my hands behind my back.

“What happened?” he asked.

Before I’d uttered more than two sentences, he whisked me into the museum office, quickly explained the situation to the director, then placed a call to the police. While we awaited their arrival, the director accessed an article from the
London Times
. “Take a look at this,” he said, pointing to a photo on his computer screen. “Definitely a striking resemblance.”

With a few major exceptions. Elaine Naiman looked like I might look if I could afford a live-in trainer, daily spa treatments, and the occasional nip/tuck. I could be her frumpy cousin—maybe—definitely not her twin. Anyone who mistook me for her needed an eye exam.

I scanned the article which detailed a charity auction held a week earlier. Mr. and Mrs. Michael Naiman had donated a Brancusi to an auction to raise funds for the removal of landmines in Somalia.

“If they have that kind of money, it certainly explains why someone is trying to kidnap her for ransom. Who are these people?”

“Michael Naiman owns Global Armament,” said Zack.

Why was I not surprised he knew of the man?
“Is that as frightening as it sounds?”

“GA manufactures missiles and bombs.”

“Holy irony.”

“More so than you realize,” said the museum director. He turned to Zack. “That opening I invited you to this evening at the Museu Picasso?”

“What about it?”

“The paintings are from the Naimans’ private collection.”

“How much money does this guy have?” I asked.

“Rumors estimate his net worth as greater than that of Trump, Soros, and Buffet combined,” said Zack. “But they’re only rumors. No one knows for sure because the company isn’t publicly traded.”

“How come I’ve never heard of him?”

“People who make their money dealing in the tools of warfare usually keep a low profile.”

I rubbed my sore wrists. “Apparently, not low enough.”

When the police arrived, they confirmed that Mr. Naiman had received a phone call from a would-be kidnapper. With Zack acting as translator—who knew he spoke fluent Catalan?—the police asked if I’d be able to pick out my kidnappers from mug shots.

“Definitely.”

After the police escorted us to the station, I spent the next half hour flipping through mug shots until I found both men. As a trained artist, I’m used to noticing details. Each man had enough distinct facial features that I had no trouble identifying them. Juan Balaguer, AKA Goon Guy and Esteve Laporta AKA the older guy with the silver hair, goatee, and brown teeth.

“These men are part of a local crime syndicate run by Carlos Perella,” said another officer who joined us. He introduced himself as Captain De la Riva. Tall and thin with a high forehead, receding hairline, and a jet black pencil-thin mustache, he spoke in flawless English. “Balaguer is a low-level enforcer; Laporta is higher up the organization’s chain of command. Señor Perella has never gotten involved in kidnapping for profit before—at least not that we know of—he’s mostly into smuggling and money laundering, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

“What happens now?” I asked.

“That’s up to you, Señora Pollack. We can pick up Balaguer and Laporta and charge them with kidnapping, but you’d have to be available to testify in court.”

“We’re only here for two more days.”

“Even so,” De La Riva continued, “given Perella’s resources, the charges probably wouldn’t stick. He’s like your Teflon Don back in the States.”

“Hardly. John Gotti died in prison. Perella is very much alive and walking free.”

“We can offer you police protection while you’re here.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. They won’t make the same mistake twice. But what about Elaine Naiman? She’s their real target.”

“Her husband declined our offer. He has his own private security force to protect them both.”

“Then our business here is done,” I said.

“That blew a sizable chunk of our first day in Barcelona,” I said as Zack and I left the police station.

He squeezed my hand. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“I know.” An involuntary shudder ran through me at the thought of the gruesome alternatives. I’d been damn lucky.

TWO

Since Zack’s real work began tomorrow when
Parc Güell would open two hours late in order to give him time to photograph the premises without tourists getting in the way of his shots, we had the rest of the day to ourselves.
After a lunch of tapas and sangria, he took me on a whirlwind tour of Barcelona that included Gaudi’s masterpiece, La Sagrada Família, a one-hundred-thirty-year-old, still-under construction basilica that looked like Gaudi had created it by dripping wet sand.

At any other time I would have marveled at the art and architecture, but I found myself too distracted, filled with a sense that someone was following me. I held tight to Zack’s hand and continually darted glances over my shoulder. He kept up a lively banter, trying to put me at ease. Although he didn’t succeed, I forced myself to take part in the conversation.

“Makes you wonder if he worked under the influence of hallucinogens,” I said, half an hour later as I stared up at the mosaic embellished wavy facade of Casa Batlló, a building, like so much of Gaudi’s other work, completely devoid of straight lines. I’d never seen such fantastical architecture outside of DisneyWorld.

“He certainly wouldn’t be the first artist to do so,” said Zack.

“A painting created under the influence is one thing, but buildings that have stood for over a hundred years?” I shook my head, stealing another glance around the street as I did so. “Doubtful.”

~*~

The Museu Picasso, a series of five adjacent Gothic-baroque mansions, showcased the artist’s pre-cubist work. The Naiman collection filled three connecting rooms off an inner courtyard. Under normal circumstances, I would have been excited to attend the opening of a museum exhibit. However, tonight I was far more interested in the two guests of honor than any of the Picassos. I figured Elaine Naiman would be easy to spot. I simply had to look for a better-looking, better-dressed version of me.

I spied her the moment we entered the gallery. She wore a ruby red strapless taffeta cocktail dress that skimmed the top of her knees. A thick diamond choker wrapped around her long Audrey Hepburn neck, catching the lights and sparkling from across the room. Additional diamonds dripped from her earlobes, adorned her upswept hairdo, and clad both her wrists and multiple fingers. Most hip-hop tycoons wore less bling. Any one of Elaine’s baubles would pay off my entire Karl-induced debt and then some.

She and her husband held court in the center of the main room displaying their collection. Michael Naiman, a balding middle-aged man carrying too much weight for his less-than-average height, kept a chubby arm wrapped firmly around his wife’s waspish waist as they spoke with other guests. Men in black stood off to the side, continually scanning the room.

As Zack and I inched our way toward them, Elaine and I made eye contact. She wriggled out from her husband’s grasp and headed in our direction, surprise filling her face. Two of the security detail followed her. “We must be related,” she said, scanning me from head to toe. She held out her hand. “Elaine Naiman.”

“Anastasia Pollack,” I said, shaking her hand. “And this is Zachary Barnes.”

Elaine nodded at Zack. “Mr. Barnes.”

Zack returned the gesture. “Mrs. Naiman.”

“I don’t know if we’re related,” I said, “but we definitely have something in common.”

“And what is that?”

“I’m the person who was kidnapped earlier today by someone who mistook me for you.”

Elaine’s eyes grew wide as she gasped. Her hand flew to her décolletage. “Kidnapped? Are you kidding?”

“You don’t know?”

“No one said a word to me about any kidnapping. I hope you weren’t harmed.”

Odd since her husband claimed she was standing right beside him when Laporta called. “No, they let me go when they realized they had the wrong person.”