Mosaic Mayhem (Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

very private collections. But who said anything about selling L’Ascète ?”
    Was this less about the painting and more about a power play between two alpha males? I wondered if Perella and Naiman had history between them. Both dealt in death and destruction in their own ways. Had their paths crossed at one time? How do you get even with a man who has more money than God? You take from him those things that money can’t replace—his wife and his painting.
      “You will release Elaine Naiman, right?”
    He didn’t answer me.
    We cut across Plaça de Catalunya, then continued down La Rambla, a broad pedestrian thoroughfare, at a leisurely pace. To anyone passing by we appeared to be a father and daughter out for a morning stroll.
    “Are you enjoying our glorious city?” he asked after several minutes of silence.
    “Oh, yes, being kidnapped and tear gassed were definite high points of my visit.”
    “For that I am truly sorry.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    “I hope those unfortunate experiences haven’t soured you to Barcelona.”
    “Why ever would you think that?”
    He laughed. “You do have a unique sense of humor, Señora Pollack. I would have enjoyed getting to know you better.”
    Did that mean he was going to let me go soon or that my days were numbered? “I have children,” I said.
    “Sí, I know.”
    What else did he know about me?
    We walked for a few more minutes, then he steered me down a narrow alley with shops and apartments on either side. Halfway down the alley we stopped alongside a silver Mercedes. Laporta beeped the locks and opened the trunk.
    “Please, no,” I inched away from him, but instead of reaching for me, he deposited the portfolio inside the trunk, then slammed the lid shut.
    Laporta walked around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. “Come. We will now go to Mrs. Naiman.”
    I slid onto the black leather seat and fastened my seatbelt, grateful for the comfort of traveling upright and minus a sack over my head or zip ties binding my wrists.
    Laporta drove a circuitous route around the city, often winding back to roads we’d already traversed. Eventually, he took us to the outskirts of town and up into the hills. We drove for over an hour before he pulled down a long winding road flanked by date palms.
    I glanced at the dashboard clock. By now Zack would have returned from Parc Güell and found me missing. He wouldn’t know about my visit from Michael Naiman. He wouldn’t know that Laporta had taken me outside the city. Being geographically challenged, I had no clue if we were even still in Spain. We may have crossed over into France by now. With my phone turned off, Zack wouldn’t be able to reach me. No one would know my whereabouts. And that’s probably exactly the way Laporta had planned it.
    We continued on for about a mile before we came to an iron gate that blocked the remainder of the road. Laporta pressed a series of buttons on a keypad attached to his dashboard. The gates swung open. After he pulled forward, the gates automatically closed behind us.
    We drove another mile before arriving at the entrance to an enormous pink Mediterranean villa. I assumed the home belonged to Carlos Perella.
    Laporta parked the Mercedes under the massive porte-cochère, retrieved the portfolio from the trunk, then took my arm and escorted me into the villa to a pink marble-tiled foyer larger than my entire house. A white marble fountain adorned with water-spouting cherubs stood in the center of the foyer with a double-winding pink marble staircase branching out from either side. Columned archways leading to other rooms stood to the left and right of the foyer.
    Laporta led me through the archway on the left, then down a hallway that opened up into an enormous garden courtyard enclosed on all four sides by the house. Elaine Naiman sat at a glass-topped wrought iron patio table at the far end of the courtyard.

 
     
     
     
    FIVE
     
    Elaine rose as we approached. For