The Golden City

to Duilio.

“Are you Father Barros?” Duilio asked without preamble.

“I’m Father Crespo. How can I help you today, my son?”

Duilio hoped his expression didn’t show his amusement at being called my son by a man who must be younger than himself. The priest couldn’t be much older than Cristiano. “I need to speak to Father Barros. Where might I find him?”

The young man’s brows drew together. “I believe he’s closeted with the books, but I’ll inform him he’s needed here.” He scurried off toward the sacristy, much to Duilio’s relief.

Not long after that, another priest emerged from the sacristy, an older man with graying hair and a stern visage. He presented himself to Duilio. “How can I help you today, son?”

This time son made more sense. “I’ve come to make some inquiries,” he admitted. “Inspector Joaquim Tavares suggested you might be able to help me.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”

Well, he couldn’t fault the man’s caution. “I am his cousin, Duilio Ferreira.”

“Hmmm . . . you certainly resemble him,” Father Barros said. “Tell me, then, why did he not enter the priesthood after seminary?”

If that question was meant as a test, he was about to fail miserably. Joaquim turned stubborn at times, refusing to discuss certain issues, even with family. He had an overdeveloped desire for privacy. “I honestly don’t know, Father,” Duilio admitted. “He’s never told me.”

“He’s never told anyone, so far as I know. I thought perhaps . . .” The priest shrugged. “Here, Mr. Ferreira, come with me. I’ve not had luncheon yet. Let’s walk into town.”

Duilio followed the man back through the nave and along a path that led to the back side of the church, away from its chapels and statues. They headed toward the town’s center, walking along the narrow cobbled streets among the noontime press of carts and pedestrians. Much like the streets around the Ribeira back in the Golden City, these buildings were old and packed together, with painted walls and iron-railed balconies. The priest led him to the front of one building, its pink facade decorated with only a sign marking it the Restaurant Lindo. “My cousin owns the place, so we can sit in the back as long as you need. Is that man in the dark suit following you?”

“I believe so,” Duilio said without turning to look. “Not being terribly discreet, if you noticed him as well, though.”

Father Barros laughed and pointed out a table in a dark corner of the room. “I wasn’t always a priest, son.”

There had to be a story behind that short statement. If he weren’t pressed for time, he would have liked to get to know the priest better. Duilio headed back toward the corner and picked a chair situated so that he could see out into the street. The man in the dark suit passed the front of the restaurant as Duilio settled at the table. He moved on without pausing. Duilio felt gooseflesh prickle along his arms, but his gift seemed unconcerned at the moment, so he shook off the odd feeling. He could deal with that problem later.

The priest settled across from him. “So, how does Inspector Tavares think I can help you, Mr. Ferreira?”

Duilio looked about for a waiter. He’d only had time to grab one of Mrs. Cardoza’s meat pies at the house. He was still hungry. “We have a case that we’re working on, and I’m gathering background information.”

The priest set his chin atop laced fingers. “About what?”

“The City Under the Sea,” Duilio said.

Barros sat back, shaking his head. “Ah. Gabriel Espinoza’s creation.”

A chubby man with a white apron tied over his garb finally bustled over and offered to tell them the specials. “Thank you, Eusebio,” Barros said. “We’ll need some privacy, if you please. Just bring us whatever the cook has prepared, and . . . tea.”

The waiter cast a curious look at Duilio but took himself away promptly.

“So what about a bunch of floating houses could catch your interest?”

Duilio pressed his lips together, trying to decide where to start. “We know for certain a young woman was trapped inside the house that went into the river recently.”

“Inside?” The priest leaned forward, sounding incredulous.

“Yes, tied to a chair. She was grabbed off the street, drugged, and placed inside the house while still unconscious. She had no chance of escaping alive once the house went into the water.”

“You think Gabriel Espinoza did this?” Barros shook his head firmly. “No. He may be rather single-minded in the pursuit of his lofty artistic goals, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

Duilio stared at the priest, weighing the conviction in his tone. The man believed Espinoza’s innocence, so any mention of necromancy would get a similar appalled reaction. But given what Miss Paredes had said about Espinoza’s calculations not accounting for the victims, it seemed that aspect of the artwork wasn’t his doing at all. Duilio tried another tack. “When was the last time you spoke to Espinoza?”

“January, right after Epiphany.” Barros frowned. “He came back to his parents’ home after some disagreement with his patron, and he came to see me. I’m not his confessor. It was just talk, but he was quite upset.”

That had promise, and if it wasn’t a confession, Barros was at liberty to discuss their conversation. “Upset?”

“Something about the artwork. He didn’t want to tell me. And that his patron wanted to move him somewhere out of the city, away from prying eyes and . . . nosy writers, I believe he said. They had an argument that got out of hand. Espinoza even showed me a cut on his forehead where they’d fought over it.”

Duilio recalled that dark spot on the floor in the apartment’s dressing room. “He had a fight with his patron?”

“Well, not the patron himself. The man the patron sent to check up on him. I haven’t seen him since he told me that, so he must have given in and moved out of the city.”

That would put Espinoza’s disappearance in early January, about the time the fifth house had gone into the water. About when he’d stopped giving interviews. So something had changed abruptly then. Perhaps Espinoza had learned about the victims and objected. “Father, did Espinoza tell you who his patron was?”

The priest mulled that over, his lips pursed. “He said the work was being funded by the government, the Ministry of Culture.”

“I thought there was a single patron,” Duilio said.

“I believe the Marquis of Maraval was personally overseeing the artwork. Espinoza considered him the primary patron.”

The Marquis of Maraval? The Ministry of Culture performed functions like the installation of sculptures in the Treasury Building and the restoration of tile facades in older parts of the city. They kept a finger on what newspapers published. But they had no control over the Special Police. Duilio didn’t see how the minister could be involved. “I see. Have you ever heard of a group called the Open Hand?”

Barros sat back. “Espinoza mentioned them once, although I wasn’t clear who they were.”

“In what context?” Duilio asked.

“It didn’t make sense.” Barros sighed. “Espinoza saw something. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it made him think they were subverting his work.”

That was an odd choice of word. “Subverting?”

“Yes. It sounded insane, but he truly believed it. Somehow they intended to use his work of art to make the prince into the king of all Portugal.”

CHAPTER 24

The restaurant had filled with all manner of folk from the town, fishermen and laborers and tradesmen. The noise within the narrow room grew chaotic, but nestled where they were in the back, Duilio could still hear his