Ricardo called the cops shortly after realising what he'd stumbled upon; they instructed him to stay there until they arrived. Figuring he could monitor the previously missing sculpture while painting, Rico resumed his work. It wasn't as if the bronze figure was going to spring to its feet and flee the scene. Besides, it kept his ire about the dumped Botero sculpture from boiling over. By the time the caravan of police vehicles arrived in a cloud of red dust, he was putting the finishing touches on his masterpiece.

Officers in dark green uniforms spread out across the barren shoreline like members of a disturbed ant mound. On the causeway, a beautiful Afro-Colombian woman walked towards Rico. She had dark brown skin, a slender yet shapely frame, and her tight black curls were slicked back into a ponytail. The artist dried his hands on a fresh towel, anticipating the encounter.

"Good morning." She extended her arm. "I'm detective Sonia Mendoza, Metropolitan Police of Bogotá. Mr. Torres, I presume."

"Please, call me Rico." He smiled and shook her hand, noting the gun strapped to her hip.

"Forgive me, Mr. Torres, but have we met before? You seem very familiar."

"I don't think so," Ricardo replied. "I'd definitely remember having the pleasure of meeting you."

Sonia adjusted the collar of her grey jacket, brushing off Rico's insinuation. "Right. So let's go over this morning—excuse me, but is that a beer?" She gestured to the can near the easel. "Mr. Torres, have you been drinking and driving?"

"No." He shook his head. "I drove, then drank while painting—it's normal for me."

"How do you plan to get back to the city?"

"By car, of course."

Sonia narrowed her eyes, examining Rico. She was about to ask another question when the young artist spoke up.

"I'm as sober as a lover upon hearing the husband call for his wife. I promise." He grinned.

"Speaking from experience, Mr. Torres?" A small smirk crossed the detective's lips.

"No, no." Rico waved his hands. "Hypothetical example. That's all."

"Very well," Sonia said with an air of doubt. "Walk me through everything that happened this morning. From the drive here to when you found the sculpture."

Sonia scribbled on her notepad as Ricardo went over the details.

"Is that the painting?" Sonia pointed with her pen.

"Yes." Rico glanced over his shoulder.

"May I?"

"Please." He stepped aside and gestured to the easel.

The detective inspected the canvas with a quiet reverence. She looked up at Ricardo and the word handsome slipped out of her mouth.

He grinned. "Thank you."

Sonia cleared her throat. "I meant the art."

"Of course." He nodded, suppressing a smile.

Sonia walked over to the edge of the causeway and looked down at the sculpture. Reaching into the pocket of her grey pants, she retrieved her phone; multiple shutter clicks ensued. With her back turned, Rico couldn't help admiring the view.

Mid-thirties at most, but she obviously ages like fine wine. Damn.

"Did you check anywhere else?" Sonia turned around.

"No." Rico quickly averted his gaze.

"No harm done." She flashed a kind smile. "That is my job, after all. Thank you for your cooperation."

"My pleasure."

"Would you mind coming down to the station, in say, the next couple of days? I'll likely have some more questions for you once we've combed through everything here."

"I'd be honoured."

"Excellent."

Sonia gave Rico her card, and he packed up his things to head back to the city. Shortly after turning onto the highway, he passed a large crane, obviously meant for extracting the sculpture. He shook his head in disgust. That someone would carelessly throw such a work of art into a lake gnawed at Ricardo like a vulture picking at a carcass.

What kind of uncultured malparido (bastard) would do that? Were they dropped on their head as a kid or something? It's a bloody Botero, for crying out loud!

For the rest of the drive, Rico tried to focus on other things. But even music did little to quench the flame of his smouldering mind. And the emergence of greener landscapes near Bogotá only made him jealous on Lake Fúquene's behalf. The drought wasn't a reality here; thus, not caring was the poison of choice.

Out of sight, out of their damn minds.

On the outskirts of the capital, Ricardo read billboards, craving distraction. Some featured candidates for the next election. Crooks. Another displayed an advertisement for an auto shop. I might have to stop in there. Pretty sure I heard something rattling under the hood. And a pale blue billboard promoted opening an account with Banco Prado. The bank's slogan, 'Helping your money work for you,' hovered next to a handsome, smiling man whose last name was undoubtedly Prado. But the only thought that came to Rico's mind was: Pass.

After parking in the lot behind his apartment building, Rico walked the few blocks to his favourite pub, El Shamrock. He hopped up on a stool in front of the wooden bar and asked for some Ron Medellín on the rocks.

"What was that?" asked Beto, the mustached bartender. "One Aguardiente for Señor Rico?"

"Not today, Jefe." Ricardo shook his head. "I need something stronger. Got a lot on my mind."

"What's her name?" The old man deftly slid a glass with ice and rum down the bar; it stopped right in front of Rico.

"It's not a woman." Rico exhaled. "Women, I can somewhat understand. But that thing..." He took a sip. "I can't wrap my head around that."

"Cuéntame (talk to me)." Beto tilted his chin up. "Maybe I can give you an old man's foolish advice."

Rico weighed the offer, breathlessly swallowed the rest of the rum, and slammed the glass down. "Some worthless piece of shit threw a Botero sculpture into Lake Fúquene; I found it this morning. But what's eating at me is: what would possess a man to do something like that? Am I explaining myself?"

Beto raised his eyebrows. "How do you know it was a man? It could have been a woman," he joked.

"No, no." Rico waved his hand. "Women are the fairer sex—they have a natural appreciation for beauty that escapes most men, especially these days. So, it can't be a woman. Some bastard did that; I can feel it. And I want to know who. According to the papers, the sculptures were likely stolen to be sold. So why throw it in the lake?"

Beto poured more rum into Rico's glass. "Damaging the sculpture would make it less valuable, no?"

"Of course." Rico nodded. "There are a million other places they could've hidden the sculpture that wouldn't have damaged it. That's why it's so stupid." He tossed the glass back.

Beto left Ricardo to stew for a while, only passing by to refill his continually depleting rum stores.

"No tiene sentido (it doesn't make sense)," Rico exhaled before finishing another drink.

Beto shook his head before filling the glass again. "Maybe it's not real."

"I saw it, Jefe. And the lovely detective lady took pictures of it."

"No." The old man put his hand on Ricardo's shoulder. "Maybe the sculpture is not real; maybe it's a fake."

A light flicked on in Rico's head, and he slid off the stool. "Jefe, you're a genius!"

He pulled three fifty thousand peso notes out of his wallet, slapped them on the bar, downed the rest of his drink and hurried for the door.

"Muchas gracias!" Beto beamed. "But where are you going?"

"Home!" Rico shouted before stepping outside.

Ricardo looked left and then right. He scratched his head.

Which way's home?