“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Go on.”

Outside, in the Ramblas, the sky seemed to have cleared at last. It shone with that electric blue that sometimes bewitches Barcelona winters, persuading the gullible that nothing can go wrong.

“Straight home, OK? No technical stops,” Vargas warned. “I’m getting to know you.”

“Yes, sir. Don’t solve the case without me.”

“Don’t worry.”

She watched him head off toward Plaza de Cataluña and waited a couple of minutes. Years ago she’d discovered that when a woman exaggerated symptoms of pain, adopting the helpless expression of a frail maiden in distress, she could manipulate any man who needed to feel that she required his protection and guidance—and that applied to almost the entire male contingent on the census, excepting Leandro Montalvo, who had taught her most of the tricks in her armory and could also invariably sense the ones she had picked up herself. As soon as Alicia was sure that she’d got rid of Vargas, she changed her route. Going home could wait. She needed time to think and observe from the shadows. And above all, there was something she wanted to do—on her own, and in her own way.

* * *

The Metrobarna offices were located on the top floor of a celebrated modernist block. The massive structure, its facade covered in ocher stone and its roof crowned with pinnacles and domed turrets, was known as Casa Rocamora. It oozed the fastidious craftsmanship and grand melodrama pervading certain examples of architecture only found on the streets of Barcelona. Vargas paused on the corner to look at the spectacle of balconies, galleries, and Byzantine geometry. A street watercolorist had set up his easel on the corner, and was giving the finishing touches to an impressionist take on the building. When he noticed Vargas’s presence, he smiled politely.

“Beautiful image,” Vargas congratulated him.

“We do our best. Policeman?”

“That obvious?”

The artist gave him a bitter smile.

Vargas pointed at the picture. “Is it for sale?”

“It will be in just under half an hour. Interested in the building?”

“Increasingly. Does one have to pay to go in?”

“Don’t give them any ideas.”

* * *

A lift straight out of Jules Verne’s dreams took Vargas up to an office door, on which a weighty golden sign bore these words:

METROBARNA Ltd

Property Investment & Management

He pressed the bell. A sound like the chime of a grandfather clock echoed from within, and a few seconds later the door opened, revealing the delicate figure of a receptionist in oversmart clothes, framed by a sumptuous hallway. In some firms, opulence was communicated with intentional malice.

“Good morning,” Vargas stated in an official tone, showing his badge. “Vargas, Central Police Headquarters. I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

The receptionist looked at him in surprise. Presumably the type of visitor she was used to receiving in that office was somewhat classier.

“Do you mean Señor Sanchís?”

Vargas replied with a nod and stepped into an entrance hall, its walls lined with blue velvet and dotted with delicate watercolors of Barcelona’s emblematic facades and buildings. Vargas suppressed a smile when he recognized the style of the corner painter.