Chapter 3
Sol
Need to let you go. The police are here,” Sol mumbled to Divya before hanging up the phone.
After having been interrogated by the police for the case where she and Luke had met, and then having had to deal with a particularly incompetent Los Angeles police detective a mere few weeks before, Sol was starting to dread her interactions with law enforcement—hence the anxiety she was currently experiencing.
Her heart didn’t appear to want to calm down and start beating at a regular pace.
Two uniformed police officers—a tall woman in her thirties and a stocky man of around the same age—had entered Leonardo’s dressing room, followed by a short woman with spiky gray hair and bloodshot eyes.
She was in her fifties and dressed in black from head to toe.
Sol recognized her immediately as Isabel Teixidor, El bano de Edipo’s stage director.
Sol was at a loss for words, and she feared her and Luke’s presence inside of Leonardo’s dressing room wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.
Fortunately, her lover had gotten rid of the blue nitrile gloves he’d been wearing not a second before.
He took one of Sol’s hands in his own, the warmth of his skin calming her almost instantly.
That was when he took the initiative in addressing the situation. He always knew what to do when it came to law enforcement matters.
“Private Detective Luke Contadino,” he said, introducing himself. “And this is my partner Sol Novo. She’s a journalist and was interviewing Leonardo just this afternoon. We called you the moment we realized something was going on.”
The policewoman eyed both of them with suspicion, but Sol had the feeling Luke’s words had been placating enough—for the time being. His hand enveloping hers was the only thing keeping her heartbeat at a tolerable rate.
“I’m Mercè Roig and this is my colleague Manuel Mendoza from the investigative branch of the Mossos d’Esquadra,” the policewoman said in a slightly accented but flawless English.
Sol was relieved at not having to play translator for Luke.
The situation was delicate enough without her having to worry about choosing the right words.
A loud, nose-blowing sound came from somewhere behind the two officers. Isabel Teixidor was clutching a paper tissue and wiping her nose and teary eyes.
“Segur que està mort, pobret. I era tan jove i guapo!” The stage director blew her nose again, even more audibly than before.
“What did she say?” Luke whispered in her ear, behind her.
“She thinks Leonardo is dead.” It appeared that Isabel Teixidor not only was a drama director, but had a penchant for being dramatic herself.
“Okay, okay, people. Let’s not make a melodrama, yes?” Officer Mendoza said in a far more accented English than his colleague. “First the director talk, then the others. What happen?”
Isabel wiped her eyes with her hands and sniffled. “I came to the theater a little bit before six, like usual. I was told Leonardo wasn’t here yet—” She paused to sob. “He was doing an interview.”
“I was interviewing him,” Sol offered, hoping total transparency would render her a semblance of innocence. “We were in the lobby of the W Hotel until six thirty. He told me he was coming straight here when we finished.”
“But he didn't,” Isabel wailed. “No one saw him coming and then the play was about to start and I came running to his camerino and that’s when I saw the bad omen.”
“What bad omen?” Officer Roig asked. She’d taken a notebook from her back pocket and was scribbling. Luke was probably itching to do the same.
“The dreadful note!” Isabel said, and the noise of her blowing her nose almost silenced her words.
“What dreadful note?” Officer Roig’s tone was tight. Sol was willing to bet the policewoman was starting to lose her patience with the overdramatic director, who was crying and seemed unable to say anything else.
“I think the lady probably refers to the note on the mirror,” Luke intervened, pointing to the ominous words You’ll never reach him in time. What do you offer in exchange to get him back?
“So the actor is missing. You see a suspicious note that could indicate something has happened to him. But you don’t call the police?” It appeared Officer Mendoza was also losing his patience with the director.
“The show must go on,” Isabel simply said in between sobs, as if those words alone would be enough to get her out of trouble.
Of one thing Sol was convinced: Isabel Teixidor may be a zealous theater director preoccupied only with the future of her show and the satisfaction of the theatergoers, but to those two police officers she looked guilty as hell.
A faint prickle of relief ran through her. It was so good not to be a suspect for a change.