Free The Matador's Crown by Alex Archer Page A

hugging the building. Turning right she spied a dark figure racing away from the scene, toward the music and glow of colored lights.
    Annja had a revelation. If that was the shooter, he—or she—was dressed in the least likely attire.
    Garin veered around the other side of the building, and she signaled with a slashing gesture the way the shooter had run.
    “You get a look?” he called.
    Dare she admit what she’d seen? It couldn’t have been the shooter.
    They converged in an alleyway littered with graffiti and headed toward the street where the live music was coming from. Arriving at the end of the street, Annja’s heart sank. The crowd was thick, dressed in bright skirts and colors. When the bullfights were in town there was always a party.
    “The shooter was wearing a skirt,” she said as they paused in the passageway before entering the fray.
    Garin quirked an eyebrow at her. She sensed he was holding off a snort of laughter.
    “The shooter was female,” she reiterated, confident in what she had seen.
    “Let’s hope so, because I’d hate to think it was a man. You sure? Maybe you saw a dancer from the crowd?”
    “I saw what I saw. No rifle, but running like she had a reason to run. I think the skirt was red with polka dots, though with the shadows that’s only a guess.”
    “Polka dots? A common fabric choice for the locals. Which will make finding the shooter virtually impossible.”
    They walked into the center of the festival. The street was packed wall to wall with tourists, children and dancers whirling near guitarists and singers.
    “Let’s scout the area,” Annja said.
    As they insinuated themselves into the crowd loitering beneath colorful swags of bright paper flags and lamps, skirts of many colors swirled about them. Everywhere flashes of red and white polka dots caught Annja’s eye.
    “They all have polka dots,” she grumbled.
    “Not all of them, just a healthy number of them,” Garin assured her. “You want to refine your description? Any particular facial attributes that stood out?”
    “I didn’t see her face. She had dark hair.” Annja winced. Dark hair was de rigueur here in Spain. “Probably best to circle back and take a look up on the roof, see if a weapon was left behind.”
    “That’s best left to the authorities, Annja. You don’t want to overstep the line here.”
    He was right about that. But she hadn’t seen a patrolman on duty outside the stadium.
    “I’m heading back to the stadium to check on Manuel. Come along, Annja.”
    “Why would someone want to kill a matador?” she wondered, dodging a spinning flamenco dancer’s fringed shawl and ducking under low-hanging pendants that advertised Summertime Sangria.
    “I don’t know. But that’s two murders and one attempted murder for you in one day. I think that’s a record, eh?”
    If he didn’t count her run-ins with murderous pirates, ambushing guerrillas or Irish gunrunners. “I attract adventure.”
    “More like chaos.”
    They veered toward the stadium, but Annja paused and looked toward the celebration. Her instincts weren’t ready to let this one go.
    “Can I meet you back at the stadium? Or even at El Bravo’s? I want to wander through the crowd a little longer.”
    “Call me on my cell for directions,” Garin said and stalked off, his tall, bulky figure sticking out like the proverbial bull in the china shop as he navigated the festivities.
    Annja swung around and eyed the alleyways and streets that turned off from the main road. The best place for a sniper to hide would be away from the crowd. Unless she was dressed as a dancer…
    She passed a group of three dancers in polka-dot skirts in varying shades of red. They were all gray-haired and too well-rounded to have given Annja such good chase. A boy and girl she guessed were about ten danced with each other in a circle of clapping tourists.
    Coming upon a dancer in a red-and-white polka-dot dress, Annja joined the crowd that stood around