According to rumors in the unit, Ricardo Lomana had been an old disciple of the ill-fated Inspector Fumero in Barcelona’s political branch, and the most sinister of all the creatures Leandro recruited over the years—and there were quite a few. During her years in Leandro’s pay, Alicia had had more than one brush with Lomana. The most recent had taken place a couple of years back when Lomana, fired up with brandy and resentment because Alicia had solved a case in which he’d been stuck hopelessly for months, had followed her one night to her room in the Hispania and sworn that one day, when Leandro wasn’t there to protect her, he’d find the right moment and place to hang her from the ceiling and take his time to work her over, making good use of his toolbox.

You’re not the first or the last classy tart Leandro comes up with, darling, and when he tires of you, I’ll be waiting. And I promise we’re going to have a great time, especially you, with that flesh of yours made for the irons . . .

From that meeting Lomana had obtained a kneeing to his pride that left him on sick leave for two weeks, a double fracture to his arm, and a cut on his cheek that required eighteen stitches. For her part, the encounter cost Alicia a couple of weeks of insomnia, staring at the door of her hotel room in the dark, with the revolver on her bedside table and an ominous foreboding that the worst still lay ahead in the return match.

She decided to banish Lomana from her thoughts and enjoy that first morning in the streets of Barcelona. As she continued her leisurely stroll in the sun, she measured each step, pausing to window-shop at the slightest hint of pressure on her hip. Over the years she had learned to read the signs and avoid, or at least postpone, the inevitable. She and her pain were old rivals, veterans who know one another well, exploring one another mutually and sticking to the rules of the game. Even so, that first walk without the harness clinging to her body was well worth the price she knew she would pay later.

It wasn’t even ten o’clock when she walked up Puerta del Ángel and, as she turned the corner into Calle Santa Ana, saw the shop window of the old bookshop, Sempere & Sons. Across the street from the bookshop was a small café. Alicia decided to go in and take one of the tables by the window. A rest would do her good.

“What will it be, miss?” asked a waiter who looked as if he hadn’t left the premises for at least twenty years.

“An espresso. And a glass of water.”

“House tap water, or bottled mineral water?”

“What would you recommend?”

“That depends on how much calcium is already in your bloodstream.”

“I’ll have bottled water. Room temperature, please.”

“On its way.”

* * *