The Golden City

companion’s voice. Over a fine lunch, Father Barros painted a picture of Espinoza as a man obsessed with his art, but not evil at heart.

It seemed that Espinoza was as much a victim in this as Miss Paredes.

After paying for the meal, Duilio took his leave of the priest. “You’ve been very helpful, Father. Be cautious whom you tell about this. It would be better to say nothing.”

The priest rose and shook his hand. “I understand. I hope you find the truth, Mr. Ferreira. And keep an eye out for the fellow I saw earlier.”

Duilio hadn’t forgotten the man in the dark suit. “I will, Father.”

When he got out to the street, the sky had cleared considerably. People hurried by on the cobbles, and he fell in behind a group of fisherwomen, their embroidered aprons bright splashes of color over their floral-print skirts. By the time he’d turned onto Serpa Pinto Street, Duilio’s gift warned him he was being followed again. It didn’t feel like a warning of imminent danger, but a reminder he should be aware.

He ducked down Godinho Street. It was narrower and led only to the harbor’s construction yards and the southern breakwater, but would afford him a chance to see if anyone was behind him. There was little there beyond a few factory offices, which should minimize the number of bystanders who might be hurt should Mata appear and take a shot at him.

As Duilio expected, the man in the dark suit—the one who’d followed him from the tram—appeared at the end of the street behind him. It wasn’t Mata, but there was no telling how many people were working with him.

Duilio reached inside his jacket, unsnapped his holster, and searched the area about him. There was no traffic in sight; too close to lunchtime. Ahead of him waited the abandoned construction yard with its neat rows of giant granite blocks. He could only hope he got there before anything happened . . . and that Inspector Gaspar and Joaquim were keeping an eye on him, as planned.

The granite blocks would supply excellent cover. The ocean beyond the yard presented an escape route as well; he could outswim most men. He would need to reach the water first, though. Duilio jumped the gate into the construction yard, edged between two rows of stone blocks, and headed toward the giant crane on its rails at the end of the unfinished breakwater.

His gift abruptly warned him, a spasm down his spine.

His mind raced, taking in everything about him. Shadows moved on the far left of his vision. From that direction his nose picked up the tang of perspiration. The man in the dark suit was behind him, still on the road, which meant someone else was in the construction yard already. Mata? Weighing the distance between himself and the iron base of the Titan, Duilio bolted that way.

He’d almost reached it when a shot rang out. Duilio crouched but kept moving. That shot went high, pinging off the body of the crane with a metallic whine.

Reprieved, he threw himself the final few feet toward the Titan’s base.

He stumbled over the rail on which the crane ran but managed to get behind the iron wheels. His heart was racing, pulse thudding in his ears. He glanced up at the base of the crane that shielded him—terrifyingly huge now that he was under its bulk. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he quickly looked down, noting for the first time the revolver in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing the thing.

There was movement in the yard. He could hear the scuffling of feet on gravel. One man called to another, confirming there was more than one person about. Duilio huffed out a breath, pressed the side of his face against the cool iron, and made himself breathe slower so he could listen. What was going on out there?

Another shot sounded. This one ricocheted off the ground near his left hand, sending a shower of rock chips spraying about. He jerked back, but not before a chip caught the side of his cheek. He hissed and pressed the back of his right hand against the cut. It came away bloody.

Damnation. He needed to get behind his attackers, however many there were. Out here on the end of the breakwater, they couldn’t miss him if he made a run for it. They had him pinned down behind the Titan’s wheels. He glanced toward the edge of the breakwater more than a dozen feet away. His mind spun, trying to weigh the odds.

He didn’t want to kill anyone today, but he might not have any choice. He could swim back to the quay and get behind the man. The revolver would probably still fire, which gave him six shots, but he couldn’t trust the old derringer once it got wet.

A third shot hit the iron wheel near him. Duilio jerked back and pressed himself against the wheel again. Two more shots followed. They sounded like they’d come from different spots, farther away, but he couldn’t be sure. Duilio held his breath.

Above the wind and the clinking of the chains hanging from the Titan’s boom, he heard moaning. He dared a glimpse in that direction and saw Mata slumped against the stones, clutching his belly.

“He’s down, Mr. Ferreira,” a man with a Brazilian accent shouted. “Come on out.”

Duilio didn’t think the Brazilian was in league with Mata. Surely he wouldn’t announce himself that way if he were. That didn’t necessarily mean he could trust the Brazilian, and his gift supplied nothing. But he needed the answer enough to risk going out there.

Mata lay next to the first row of giant granite blocks, with the man in the dark suit standing over him, his pistol trained loosely on Mata. Inspector Gaspar approached, jumping over the gate at the entrance of the construction yard. Once he reached them, Gaspar knelt down and began to check Mata’s injuries.

Duilio walked cautiously along the rails toward them. His heart was still thumping erratically, but at least his breathing sounded normal. When he’d gotten within a dozen feet, he paused. “Who are you?”

The man in the dark suit came toward him, giving Duilio a better look than he’d gotten on the tram. He had slender features and a lean build, suggesting athleticism, but he seemed tired, worn. His dark gray suit was of a modest Portuguese cut, and his composure after a shoot-out suggested he’d seen the like before. “Anjos,” he said in his Brazilian accent. “Inspector Gabriel Anjos.”

Gaspar nodded curtly to Duilio, confirming that, and turned his attention back to the assassin. He’d opened Mata’s waistcoat and shirt and was surveying a seeping injury that looked to be near the man’s liver. A police- issue pistol lay a few feet away, ignored.

“Would have been nice to know who you were sooner,” Duilio said to Anjos.

“There wasn’t time,” Anjos replied. “You’ve got a nick on your cheek.”

Duilio tugged out a handkerchief and dabbed his cheek. It had nearly stopped bleeding. Still keeping his distance, he gazed at the assassin. A youngish man with a stocky build and regular features, there was little to distinguish him from thousands of other men in the Golden City—save that Duilio had been attacked by him in a tavern earlier in the week. “This is Mata, isn’t it? The same man who killed my brother?”

Anjos regarded Duilio with narrowed eyes. “Yes. Don’t get ideas. He’s our prisoner.”

Did the man think he was going to attack Mata? Duilio turned his eyes back to the assassin. Gaspar was attempting to staunch the wound with a handkerchief, but Duilio suspected it was already too late for a hospital. An internal injury like that was almost always a death sentence.

I should feel . . . more, Duilio thought.

“He’s not going to make it until she can get here,” Gaspar said, looking up at Anjos.

Anjos nodded grimly. “You ask him, then.”

Gaspar grasped the wounded man’s chin with a bloody hand. “Who ordered you to kill Alessio Ferreira?”

The assassin laughed wetly. “I don’t know.”

Gaspar shot a glance up at Anjos, who nodded. He turned back to Mata. “How did you get the order, then? Who gave it to you?”

Mata coughed, and blood speckled his lips. “No one.”

“That’s true,” Anjos inserted quickly.

Duilio glanced at the Brazilian. How did he know that?

“How did you get the order?” Gaspar asked again.

The assassin laughed. “They’re left on my desk in my home. Don’t you get it? I can’t tell you anything. You might as well shoot me now.”

Duilio frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard such a story before—a note left on a desk.