Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  Burke thought Tessier looked tired, not as much as Godard but like he had managed only a few hours of sleep. He guessed that was to be expected, especially since Tessier had been so involved in what had happened to Burke.

  “You must be running on fumes, Jules,” Burke said.

  “It was an active night, but I managed a few good hours on the pullout sofa. It makes for a good bed.”

  Burke sensed Tessier was eager to talk.

  “What’s up, Jules? You look like you have something you want to tell me.”

  Tessier nodded, sat on the chair and opened the tablet he’d been carrying. He worked on the screen for a few seconds and then looked at Burke who sat back on the bed, waiting for the young man to relate his findings.

  “You asked me to keep looking into Chef Andres,” Tessier said.

  Burke nodded, believing the more Tessier researched Chef Andres, the more he’d find out that was intriguing.

  “Well, for a couple of hours, it was the same old story about his roots, his talent, his fame. For example, did you know he’s written best-selling cookbooks and is scheduled to cook for the royal family in Madrid this autumn at some special function?”

  “A real star, like you said, Jules,” said Burke, thinking that Tessier was holding back his best information.

  “So, as I’m going through all these articles, there’s something that keeps popping up. You remember the real-estate consortium I mentioned? Well, they bought up a number of properties, all of them abandoned condo developments that were never finished because of the recession.”

  “So?”

  “Several articles say the consortium paid more than was expected for all the properties.”

  “Did the consortium say why?”

  Tessier shrugged. “A spokesperson said the consortium had big plans for the land and didn’t want to miss out on a great opportunity.”

  “So, what’s the consortium doing with the land?”

  “That’s the really interesting part. So far as I could find, the consortium hasn’t done a single thing with any of their land acquisitions.”

  “Have they announced any plans at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, these parcels of land are just sitting there with abandoned or unfinished condo complexes rotting away, so to speak.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Did any of the developers who sold say anything about the consortium?”

  “Good question and the answer is no. If anything, they were surprisingly quiet.”

  Burke filed that information away for further thought. “Has anyone at all been curious about the consortium’s lack of planning?”

  “One politician in the town of Benicàssim just down the coast said the abandoned condo development there was a blight on the landscape. He made some noise at a couple of meetings and then stopped. The rest of the town council didn’t care because the consortium was paying hefty taxes.”

  Burke had a good idea he and Colin Bothwick had ridden through the area Tessier was discussing.

  “Why did he stop?”

  “I can’t say. He didn’t run for re-election and apparently moved away.”

  Burke wondered where the politician had gone. And if he could be reached.

  “Did you find out who’s in the consortium?” he asked Tessier.

  The young man looked at his screen and read several names, finishing with a numbered American company.

  “Nothing else on the American company?”

  “I tried, but didn’t get anywhere. And it seems there’s no Spanish law requiring public identification of a foreign numbered company.”

  Tessier should have looked frustrated, thought Burke, but he didn’t. In fact, he was sporting a sly smile.

  “You’ve got something else, Jules. Put me out of my misery and tell me.”

  “Once I finished with Chef Andres’ real estate holdings, I checked out his catering company. He has partners, including our friend José López. Guess who else is a partner?”

  Burke was tired and didn’t feel like playing any guessing game, but he went along, saying, “I haven’t any idea.”

  “A certain American numbered company.”

  That caught Burke’s attention.

  “I thought you might find that interesting, Paul,” Tessier said, looking pleased with himself.

  “It is, but I’m not sure what it means.”

  “I can’t figure it out either,” Tessier said with a shrug. “But the part that puzzles me the most about all of this is the consortium. It spent above market value for land it’s done nothing with. I mean, right now all that land is basically useless.”

  Burke agreed it didn’t make sense.

  And then he had a thought.

  Maybe the value lay in the fact it was considered useless.

  Chapter 32

  Burke kept his thoughts about the consortium’s land purchases to himself even though he could see Tessier waiting for him to say something more. He wanted to give further consideration to the consortium’s strategy before he mentioned anything to his colleague.

  “Let’s get some coffee,” said Burke, breaking the silence.

  “Before we go in, did you know Chef Andres came from a dysfunctional home? In fact, he was put into social services when he was just eight.”

  “I don’t think I heard that part although didn’t you mention he’d had a rough upbringing?”

  “I did. He’s never made a big deal of his childhood, but I did come across a couple of stories talking about his rags-to-riches story.”

  “Where did he grow up?” Burke said.

  “Valencia, born and raised. His real name is Andres Calderόn Flores. After he was taken from his parents who were both alcoholics and addicts, he was put into a foster home. Apparently it took a while for him to adjust, but he started to do well in school especially in culinary arts. One of the school’s patrons heard about him and helped Andres not just finish high school, but get into a high-powered cooking school where he excelled. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Who was the person helping him?”

  “The articles never identified the individual and Andres said he wanted to keep it that way although he says he remains indebted to his patron to this day.”

  “And what happened to Andres’ parents?”

  “Dad went to prison for a variety of crimes while Mom was hooked on heroin and overdosed not long after Andres was removed from the house. There were no other children.”

  “That sounds like a tough childhood.”

  “Maybe it’s why he’s so driven,” Tessier replied.

  Burke nodded. “That’s enough about Chef Andres for the moment. We better get into the living room before they send a rescue party.”

  In the living room, they found Godard, Menard and Chan sitting on the couch, sipping from white cups. Burke sensed they were nervous, probably expecting he might stumble or even collapse. He figured he was probably the first person they knew who’d been stabbed.

  “Thanks for coming and for the support,” Burke said to everyone.

  “We do have some business to discuss, Paul,” Godard said. “You probably don’t know it, but the Vuelta is still coming to Girona despite the riot yesterday. Same route, but with more police presence.”

  Burke wasn’t surprised. The organizers of the other two big tours, the Giro d’Italia and the more famous Tour de France, had encountered unexpected events and rarely changed plans. The only exceptions had occurred when snowstorms struck before a mountain stage and even then organizers had thought long and hard about altering the day’s route.

  “Obviously, you won’t be working in the booth and so Nico will go solo with today’s race,” Godard said, nodding toward Menard.

  Burke took a breath and then said, “I’m pretty sure I can do the race today, Suzanne. I’m sore but that’s about it.”<
br />
  Godard frowned and shook her head. “Paul, someone just tried to kill you and almost succeeded. There’s no way you’re going into that broadcast booth this afternoon. Nico can handle it. He’s done races before on his own.”

  “I’ll miss you beside me, Paul, but I’ll manage,” said Menard with a smile.

  Burke studied the faces watching him. They were all concerned for his well-being. That was evident and he was grateful. But he also felt he could be useful and, besides, sitting on a couch or stretching out in bed didn’t appeal to him, however sore he was.

  “We don’t start the broadcast till one this afternoon, right?” Burke said.

  Godard nodded.

  “I know you don’t want me passing out in the booth, but how about I take it easy for the next few hours and tell you at noon if I feel up to the job? I promise to be truthful.”

  “Not a chance, Paul,” Godard said. “And I’ve told Jules to keep you company.”

  Burke wondered if Hélène might watch the day’s stage back on the French Riviera, expecting to hear his voice and then become worried when Nico said Burke was unavailable. If he wasn’t going to be in the booth, he knew he should call her before the race coverage began so he could explain.

  “OK, you win,” Burke said.

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Tessier opened it and a tall, burly man in his mid-30s entered carrying a medical bag.

  “This is Javier, Paul,” Godard said. “He’s the nurse we’ve hired.”

  Javier nodded at Godard and went straight to Burke. “How are you doing this morning, Monsieur?” he said in slightly accented French.

  “Sore, but otherwise I feel good,” Burke replied.

  “Well, let’s do a check and then we’ll go from there.”

  Javier led Burke back into the bedroom, helped him remove his shirt and began his examination. After 20 minutes of poking, prodding, taking Burke’s blood pressure twice and examining the wounds both on his back and his face, Javier nodded.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard this, Monsieur Burke, but you’re a very lucky man to be where you are right now,” the nurse said. “Those wounds on your back could have been much worse, even fatal, if the knife had gone in a little more.”

  Burke nodded. He believed he’d been fortunate and once again was grateful for Jules Tessier’s rescue.

  “Any signs of infection or anything like that?” Burke asked.

  “Not at all, but I’ll keep an eye on you for the next day or two. Right now, I’d say just take it easy.”

  “Did you hear that, Paul?” came Godard’s voice from the door.

  Burke started putting his shirt back on with Javier’s help. “I did, but you missed the part about me doing well.”

  Javier looked at Godard, anticipating an explanation.

  “Monsieur Burke here wants to work this afternoon in the broadcast booth,” she said. “And I’ve told him there’s no way I’m going to let him do that.”

  “Javier, would it be unwise for me to work this afternoon?” Burke asked the nurse.

  Javier put away the rest of his instruments and then stood. “The wounds are no threat to your long-term health, Monsieur, just painful. So, there’s no real risk of you having any kind of bad reaction. But you’re probably more tired than you think and exerting yourself could easily delay your recovery. You need to rest.”

  “So there, Paul,” Godard said.

  Burke saw Tessier, Menard and Chan standing behind her. They looked like they agreed he should take it easy.

  “Paul, we need to attend to some planning for today’s stage so I’ll leave you with Jules,” Godard said. “Be smart and don’t do anything strenuous. Javier will be back this afternoon to check on you again.”

  She looked at the nurse who nodded.

  “And good luck with the police,” Godard added.

  Then she left with Menard, Chan and Javier in her wake.

  Burke led the way back into the living room and sat on the couch. He was still sore, but he was loosening up.

  “Do you want me to do any more research?” asked Tessier, sitting on a chair opposite Burke.

  “I’d like to know more about Chef Andres. For example, what’s his home life like? Do you know?”

  “He’s single, no kids, no romantic relationships or at least none mentioned in any of the articles I read. He says it would be unfair to have a wife and family when he’s on the road so much.”

  Burke rubbed his chin, thinking he was missing something but having no idea what.

  “Jules, you said he had a bit of a hard time adjusting after he was taken from his parents. Did any of the articles suggest how he struggled?”

  “Not really although one story mentioned he ran with a tough bunch of kids for a while when he was a teenager. But once his cooking skills were discovered, he went down another path.”

  “So, cooking saved him. I wonder why he doesn’t make a big deal about it.”

  Tessier shrugged.

  “And there’s not a single detail about his patron in Valencia?”

  Tessier shook his head.

  “Where does Andres live now?” Burke said.

  “He spends a lot of time on the road, but has homes in Madrid, Valencia and Bordeaux.”

  “Bordeaux? Why there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he likes the wine.”

  There was another knock on the door. Burke figured it had to be the police.

  Chapter 33

  It was.

  Detective Inspector Camila Torres and Detective Sgt. Mariana Martἱn flashed their warrant cards to prove their identities since neither wore a uniform, just jeans and long-sleeved blouses, one red, one grey. Both women looked to be in their early or mid-30s.

  Tessier waved them toward the spare chairs in the living room and they sat.

  “We know you come from France, but we also understand you speak Spanish, Seῇor Burke,” Torres said in an accent Burke didn’t recognize.

  “I do,” he said, wondering how much, if any, Tessier would understand if the conversation was entirely in Spanish.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Burke said he was sore, but feeling fine. “Do you know who attacked me?” he added.

  “Please take us through what happened last night, starting from when you decided to go outside.”

  That suggested to Burke they didn’t know. Or that they wanted to ensure his version with them matched what he’d told the other flics. Either way, Burke was getting tired of telling the same story.

  He took a breath and launched into what had occurred. Torres took no notes, but Martín occasionally punched something into her phone. No old-school notebooks for her, thought Burke.

  Torres interrupted a few times to ask questions which Burke had no trouble answering. After all, it was a fairly straightforward story even if it showed he might not have used the best judgment in going outside during a riot.

  A couple of times during his recounting of events, Burke glanced at Tessier who’d stopped trying to figure out what was being said and was examining his tablet screen. The young man seemed to be of no interest to the two flics.

  Then Torres turned toward Tessier and told him in excellent French to relate what had taken him outside the hall and into the middle of the riot.

  Burke was surprised at Torres speaking French. Why had she wanted to speak Spanish to him and French to Tessier? And then it occurred to Burke that she might be checking to see if the men’s two stories worked together – or if there was a flaw someplace.

  Tessier answered the questions effortlessly, relating how he’d seen Burke go out the back door, not come back for a couple of minutes and how he figured Burke might have found himself in trouble.

  “And how did you manage to rescue Monsieur Burke?”

  Tessier told how he’d spotted Burke in the middle of the chaos and noticed someone approaching him from behind. Then suddenly eve
ryone seemed to merge into one giant pile of bodies and topple over. That’s when Tessier waded in, hauling Burke away.

  “But you didn’t see the face of the person who might have attacked Monsieur Burke?”

  Tessier shook his head. “It was pandemonium. When I saw Paul was hurt, I just wanted to get him out as fast as possible.”

  Burke noticed the two flics sizing up Tessier. He saw they observed what he’d originally overlooked – Tessier was lean, not skinny, with corded forearms, strong shoulders tapering to a flat waist and legs that had an athlete’s natural grace during even the slightest movement.

  “You’re trained in martial arts, correct, Monsieur Tessier?” Torres said.

  “Yes,” Tessier said, his face showing surprise at the question..

  “Tae-kwon-do and Brazilian jiu-jitsu, right?”

  “Yes,” replied Tessier, glancing at Burke who shrugged in response.

  Torres told Tessier to repeat his story with greater detail. And for the next 20 minutes, that’s what Tessier did. When he was done, Torres glanced at Martἱn who nodded back.

  Torres turned to Burke. “Are you a political person, Monsieur Burke?” she asked, keeping to French.

  Burke was surprised by the question. “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you get involved in politics, in demonstrations or behind-the-scenes activities?”

  Burke shook his head. “I don’t. I vote but that’s about it.”

  “So, you weren’t in the middle of the riot as any kind of participant, correct?” Martἱn said.

  “No. As I told you, I was curious about the catering staff.”

  He watched as Martἱn typed in some notes. When he looked back at Torres, she was staring at him.

  “Do you believe the attack on you had anything to do with what happened to your colleague Colin Bothwick?” Torres said.

  Burke was once again surprised. When he’d heard two flics would be visiting him, he had expected they’d ask some basic questions and leave, having crossed off another task, one not likely to produce a result. But as he studied the two women, he could see they were serious about the interview. And that they were talking to colleagues and getting background. They wanted to know what was going on around the Vuelta.