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Rafael couldn’t help but laugh. “Could that fit Ortiz?”
“It must,” Santos murmured. He handed him his glass. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking Maggie on your honeymoon?”
“No, but there isn’t time to go to the Aragon place in the Seychelles. Have you ever been there?”
“Once, when I was seven or eight. Miguel was between wives and took me along. It’s a spectacular place, all blue sky and sea. Wherever you take Maggie, I want you to call in every day. If there’s an unexpected catastrophe here, you might be needed. I doubt it, though. By the time you come home, I’ll have the whole matter settled.”
Mrs. Lopez came to the door. “Juan Martinez is here to see you.”
“Send him in. Wait, Rafael. I want you to hear what he says.”
The agent entered, carrying a briefcase. He greeted the men, got comfortable on the sofa and removed a large envelope from the leather case. “You asked me to look at your fan mail. Unfortunately, Sylvia has been erasing insulting e-mails and shredding tasteless letters. These were the only ones she hadn’t destroyed. I regret having to bring them to you.”
Santos reached for the envelope, read through the letters and passed them to Rafael. Some were on lined notebook paper and others fine stationery. “The woman who believes my pants ought to be tighter is no threat, but a couple of those worry me.”
“Is this one written in blood?” Rafael held it by the corner.
Juan shrugged. “I imagine it’s supposed to be a heroic bull’s blood. Sylvia says a couple come every week from groups intent on putting an end to bullfighting.”
Rafael stopped on a carefully drawn portrait of Santos. It was a fine likeness, but long, deep scratches had ripped out the eyes. You have your father’s eyes was scrawled at the bottom. Rafael shook his head. “There’s no signature. Does this look like a man’s work or a woman’s?”
Juan shrugged while Santos took the drawing back to study it more intently. “There’s nothing feminine about this, but I don’t understand the message. Are they angry at me or my father?”
“It could be taken either way,” Rafael answered. “If they want to erase memories of Miguel, it would create a whole new category of suspects.”
Santos was silent a long moment before he slid the letters back into the large envelope. “Sylvia didn’t save the envelopes for these?”
“No, I’m sorry. That was a mistake. I told her to save them for you from now on.”
“See that she does. These won’t leave this room, and if there are any more, bring them straight to me and have Sylvia print questionable e-mails. Rafael, pick a book off the shelves. Something up high no one has read in years. Yes, that’s a good one.”
Rafael had chosen the thick book for its size. Not only was the title unfamiliar, it was written in Catalan, which wouldn’t interest any of the guests in the house. He hid the envelope inside and returned it to its place before facing Juan. “Has this type of mail been coming to Santos all along or just recently?”
Juan closed his briefcase and stood. “Apparently it’s nothing new, but Sylvia says there’s more repulsive mail now than she’s ever seen. She didn’t want you to know, Santos, but no warning would have prepared us for last Sunday.”
“I understand her motives. Thank her, please,” Santos asked. “I’ve still no idea how much time I’ll need for my knee. I’ll let you know when I do.”
“I will try to be patient, although it will be very difficult.” Juan nodded to Rafael and hesitated only a second. “You took Santos’s place once and did very well. We should talk.”
“No, I’m through. Someone who’s eager to do so should take Santos’s place.”
Juan shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other. “I know you’re not fond of Quiñonez.”
Santos swore under his breath. “With one leg, I’m better than he’ll ever be. Find someone else.”
“I will do what I can.” He showed himself out, and Rafael closed the den door behind the portly agent.
“Don’t tell Maggie about this,” Santos cautioned.
“I won’t. There’s no need to worry her. What about Libby?”
“She already knows too much.” He adjusted the pillow at his back. “What do you think of her?” His averted glance revealed his true question.
“She’s so pretty it’s easy to miss how bright she is. She doesn’t hide it, though. It may be a good thing she’s leaving Sunday.”
Santos couldn’t bring himself to agree, or ask Rafael for advice, although he feared he needed it. “Will you look in the closet? I left a guitar there a couple of years ago.”
“I didn’t know you played.” He found the guitar and handed it to him.
