Burke recognized a couple of dozen faces from previous Vuelta events. He nodded at some of the race organizers he’d chatted with before and shared a quick smile with Tim Fritz who was engaged in conversation with a half dozen unfamiliar people. Fritz, as usual, was nattily dressed in black slacks and an orange linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Burke looked around but couldn’t spot Fritz’s wife Wendy Klassen.
Then Burke saw Nico Menard among a small group of journalists. They were obviously engaged in a spirited debate because there was lots of finger pointing and head wagging.
“What a beautiful car!” Tessier said, nodding at the vehicle that dominated the area and which was being photographed by a score of guests.
Burke had seen it before. “It’s a Cadillac. Al Capone, the old-time gangster, gave it to Dalí. They were friends.”
“Capone? That’s incredible!”
Burke nodded and thought the world had always been filled with surprises, some wondrous, some appalling.
Tessier pointed to the huge bronze statue of a woman atop the front of the car. “Who’s that?”
“Queen Something-or-other,” Burke said.
From behind the two men came a voice. “Queen Esther, to be precise. A gift to Dalí from the surrealist Ernst Fuchs.”
Burke turned and saw José López, looking as debonair as always in white linen trousers, a baby-blue linen shirt and a dark blue linen jacket.
The older man stuck out his hand and they shook. Burke tried to look relaxed, but could feel his heart beating at an increased clip. He hoped his anxiety didn’t transfer to his hand.
López shook hands with Tessier. Burke saw a quick raising of Tessier’s eyebrows before the young man resumed his normal placid expression. Burke had told Tessier what was supposed to happen during the evening.
“It’s nice to see you, Seῇor,” Burke said in Spanish.
“And it’s good to see you looking so much healthier than even a few hours ago,” López replied in French, an obvious gesture to involve Tessier.
If nothing else, López was always polite, Burke thought.
“I’m healing quickly,” Burke said. “But they were just minor injuries anyway.”
“I believe they were more than ‘minor.’”
“I’ve had worse and, besides, I was in and out of the hospital very quickly.”
López smiled but looked unconvinced. He waved a hand at their surroundings. “So, Paul, is this your first time inside Dalí’s quirky masterpiece?”
“I’ve been here before, but this is the first time for Jules,” Burke said. “And so far, he’s been impressed, at least I think so.”
“Very much so,” Tessier added.
López scanned the museum interior. “It’s truly an extraordinary place. I’ve been here at least 50 times over the years and I always find something new to fascinate me.”
“I heard about one section that features a group of photographic portraits of Dalí displaying his moustache,” Tessier said, surprising Burke by jumping into the conversation.
“It’s indeed an usual exhibit, young man,” López said. “I doubt any other major artist would consider featuring himself – or herself – in such a way. But that was Dalí, always ready for a sly joke.”
He looked around, spotted a museum staffer and went over for a quick chat. As Burke watched the Spaniard, he sensed López was not his usual energetic self. Besides his slower-than-usual movements, it was the sound of his voice and the look on his face. He was either unusually tired or something was bothering him.
López returned moments later and said, “I’m on the board of directors for the museum and we have permission to go upstairs to that moustache exhibit, just as long as we don’t go wandering beyond that.”
Burke looked at Tessier who seemed genuinely interested – and grateful. Had the statistician forgotten what they were there for?
As López turned to lead them upstairs, Tessier winked at Burke.
Burke hoped his young colleague wasn’t getting too cocky. They were involved in matters that were beyond their experience, especially Tessier’s. One miscue could prove costly – or worse. Beyond that, did Tessier really want to see the moustache exhibit? It was intriguing, but Burke didn’t think it was worth a special visit.
As López led them up the stairs, Burke glanced back at the action in the courtyard. People continued to stream inside. And among the newcomers, Burke saw Suzanne Godard and Felipe Garrido who immediately walked to a corner and turned around, almost like he wanted to watch everything that was happening in the courtyard.
He doubted he’d catch sight of Torres and Martἱn; they couldn’t risk being seen by anyone who knew who they were.
When they arrived at the moustache display, López launched into a brief lecture about Dalí’s fondness for his unique facial hair. And to his surprise, Burke found himself interested as López provided one fact and anecdote after another. Burke saw the elderly Spaniard was a superb storyteller and wondered how far his talents went with controlling people’s attention.
“As Dalí felt his imagination expand, so did he let his moustache grow,” López said. “When he was a young man, he called his moustache the ‘smallest in the world’, but it didn’t stay that way, growing to the amazing proportions you see here. And then when he was elderly, he trimmed it back, made it small again, almost like he was preparing for the hereafter which, if you give it some thought, is not a bad way to think.”
López turned and fixed his gaze on Burke. The Spaniard’s dark eyes were penetrating and Burke felt uncomfortable, like López was sending him a message but he wasn’t getting it.
Then the Spaniard looked away and returned to his role as unofficial tour guide.
“I never met Seῇor Dalí, but I wished I had,” Lopez said at the final photograph. “I think he would have been a remarkable person to talk to over one of his famous Casanova cocktails. I truly believe he lived the life he wanted to although ill health at the very end compromised him as it does all of us.”
Burke noted it was second time López had made a comment relating to death. Was López ill? Had someone he’d known just passed away?
López led them back downstairs. As they reached the bottom, Burke spotted Chef Andres in a corner talking to a small circle of admirers. The famous chef was smiling and gesturing, clearly enjoying the moment and not worried about much.
“I have to do my rounds, my friends, so maybe I’ll see you later,” López said, interrupting Burke’s thoughts.
Burke wondered how he could keep López with him, but couldn’t identify a way without making the Spaniard suspicious.
So, he nodded, smiled and said he looked forward to catching up later with him.
“That wasn’t productive,” came a voice in Burke’s ear.
Torres. And she didn’t sound pleased. Burke was annoyed, struggling to identify what he could have done differently. If he had tried questioning López about his background, it would have set off all kinds of alarms for the Spaniard. The visit to the Dalí moustache exhibit wasn’t the time to query the older man about his business background.
“Just mingle now, but keep an eye on López and if you see him alone, try talking to him again,” Torres said.
Burke had agreed to help the flics, but at that moment he wanted to remove the earpiece, strip off the miniature microphone and leave, taking a taxi back to the Girona airport where he’d catch the first flight to Nice. The flics could do their own work.
“Any interest in talking with Chef Andres?” came Tessier’s voice.
Burke returned his attention to his colleague and the courtyard. He saw Tessier nodding toward Chef Andres who had a new set of admirers around him including Maggie and Bryan Watson.
“Maybe later,” Burke said.
Torres heard that and said, “Only if he’s alone.”
Burke agreed.
“Cava, Seῇors? Or maybe a Casanova cocktail?�
��
The speaker was a server who had the slim-hipped, long-legged build of a matador. He held out a tray topped with a dozen glasses of cava and a half dozen of the cocktail.
“What’s in the cocktail?” Burke asked.
“Some brandy, Campari, bitters and an orange twist.”
Burke translated for Tessier who reached and took a cocktail. Burke did the same and the young server glided away.
“Just a sip or two,” Torres said in Burke’s earpiece. “Remember, you’re not here to party.”
“I know,” he said.
Tessier crooked an eyebrow, wondering what Burke was talking to Torres about. In a hushed voice, Burke told him.
Tessier nodded. “What now?”
“I think it’s time for us to talk with our culinary star,” Burke said, gesturing toward Chef Andres whose audience, excluding the Watsons, was leaving.
“OK, let’s go,” Tessier said.
Burke was grateful for Tessier’s company. Besides showing a sharp mind and courage, Tessier could provide some real muscle even though he didn’t look capable of it at first glance.
They started walking toward Chef Andres. When they got within three steps, Chef Andres turned and looked right at Burke.
The culinary superstar was smiling, but his eyes were cold.
Burke felt his heart beat faster.
Chapter 44
“Paul, it’s grand to see you again,” said Maggie Watson when she spotted Burke.
“Indeed,” added her husband.
Maggie then introduced Burke to Chef Andres who smiled, but didn’t offer to shake hands. Burke was fine with that. There was something about the man that put Burke on edge.
“Your name is familiar,” Chef Andres said in reasonable English.
Burke wasn’t sure if the man was being honest or feigning ignorance. “I’m just a broadcaster for a French TV network,” Burke said. “And this is my colleague Jules Tessier.”
Chef Andres, paying no attention to Tessier, snapped his fingers. “You’re the one who was caught up in the riot in Girona. You got stabbed or something like that.”
“That was me.”
“You look remarkably healthy right now.”
Burke shrugged.
“When we heard about that, we were appalled,” Maggie Watson said. “But it’s true, you do look like you’ve recovered well, Paul.”
“My injuries weren’t serious.”
“Have there been any arrests made yet?” Chef Andres asked.
Burke sensed there was more than general interest behind the question. If Chef Andres was connected somehow to what had happened, wouldn’t he know if anyone had been arrested? Or was he pretending to be unaware of what was happening?
“I haven’t heard of any, but the police don’t keep me up to date,” Burke replied.
“Are you going to continue to cover the Vuelta?” Maggie Watson said.
“I’m done with the Vuelta. I’m going home tomorrow.”
“And the police are letting you go?” Chef Andres said, sounding somewhat surprised.
“I can’t tell them anything they don’t already know.”
Burke sensed Chef Andres was pleased with the response, enough to look more relaxed.
“Well, if you will all excuse me, I need to get back to making sure tonight’s culinary presentation meets everyone’s expectations,” Chef Andres said.
And then he turned and disappeared around the corner to where the food was obviously being prepared by his staff.
“He’s always on the move,” Bryan Watson said. “We’ve chatted with him a few times, but never for long. But that’s to be expected, I guess.”
That prompted a sharp response in Burke’s earpiece. “Quit the useless chatter and get back to López and make him talk.”
But it didn’t belong to Inspector Torres.
It was Sgt. Martἱn.
Burke excused himself from the Watsons, went a few paces and then looked around, but he couldn’t see López.
“Where is he?” he said in a whisper, hoping no one would overhear him talking to himself. “Can you spot him on your cameras?”
There was a pause. “No. He went back upstairs a minute ago, but we can’t find him. Garrido, do you see him?”
Burke hadn’t thought about the muscular flic being on the same communication system, but it made sense.
“I saw him a minute ago in the far corner and then he disappeared.”
That was odd, Burke thought. Didn’t the museum have cameras everywhere for protection?
He also wondered why he was now talking to Martἱn. “Where’s Torres?”
“She’s checking into something.”
“Has something happened?”
“Stay calm, Seῇor Burke. You’re fine. You have nothing to be worried about.”
Burke wasn’t so sure. He glanced around and spotted Felipe Garrido staring back at him. The flic looked concerned.
What was going on?
“We’ve got López back on camera,” Martἱn said.
Burke could see relief in Garrido’s face.
“Where is he?” Burke asked.
“In Dalí’s moustache exhibit,” Martἱn replied. “By the ledge overlooking the courtyard, where you were before.”
Burke spotted López staring down. Even from a distance, Burke sensed a change in the man’s emotions, almost like he was ready to collapse.
Then as others started to look up, López pulled out a revolver and put the end of the barrel against his right temple.
A couple of people yelled for security.
López slowly scanned the audience.
Everyone was looking up. A few voices cried out to him to put the gun away. Two security staff were charging up the stairs, urging the elderly Spaniard to remain calm.
Felipe Garrido was on their heels.
López spotted Burke, smiled and lifted his head to look straight ahead.
And then he shot himself.
Chapter 45
The echo of the gunshot filled the museum. Screams followed.
Several people charged toward the nearest exit.
Burke just kept looking up, even though he could no longer see López. He watched the security staff and Garrido approach where the Spaniard obviously lay. Two uniformed police dashed up the stairs to join them.
Burke kept watching.
He’d never seen anyone shot and he was sure he’d never forget how the elegant Spaniard’s head seemed to explode.
“Garrido, is he dead?” shouted Martín over the com system as the courtyard grew noisier with shouting.
“Yes.”
“Secure the scene immediately!”
“Copy!” Garrido replied.
More police ran upstairs and Burke could hear Garrido taking charge.
“Seῇor Burke, meet me in the far corner of the courtyard,” Martín said. “I’m in the Administrator’s office. Bring Tessier.”
Burke spotted Tessier looking at him from a few steps away with a frozen face and he gestured to the young man to follow him. Tessier nodded, but barely moved. Burke hustled over, grabbed Tessier by the arm and said they had to meet with Sgt. Martἱn. Tessier nodded again and this time moved in synch behind Burke.
As they worked their way through the crowd, Burke saw scores of people, including the Watsons, looking stunned, unsure of what to do or where to go, just standing almost motionless. He expected many were in shock. He didn’t blame them. Watching a man shoot himself wasn’t a memory most people would soon forget.
As they moved, Burke spotted Tim Fritz being rushed out of the courtyard by a couple of burly men, probably his minders. Fritz looked stunned and kept glancing back to where López had shot himself. Then Fritz and his protectors were outside.
Burke looked in another direction and saw Chef Andres talking to two of his catering staff. And when he looked closer, Burke knew they were from the c
rew he’d followed outside in Girona.
The three men were all leaning forward as if not wanting anyone to overhear them. Although he was the boss, Chef Andres was listening as much as conversing. That struck Burke as odd. Whenever he’d seen Andres before with others, he had dominated all conversation.
As he watched the three men, Burke noticed how Chef Andres’ eyes darted around the courtyard, almost like he was waiting for something more to happen.
Burke felt someone grab his arm. It was Tessier and the young man said, “What’s wrong, Paul? Are you OK?”
Burke understood he’d stopped walking to watch Chef Andres. He waved away Tessier’s questions and kept studying the scene before him. A moment later, Chef Andres’ two caterers disappeared into the kitchen.
Then Chef Andres scanned the room again.
He spotted Burke.
Burke stared back. They maintained their shared gaze for a few seconds and Burke had the feeling that Chef Andres was genuinely frightened.
Then Chef Andres turned and rushed toward the nearest exit, quickly being swallowed up by audience members who weren’t frozen to the courtyard floor.
Burke nodded to Tessier and they continued. Burke figured he’d tell Tessier later why he’d stopped.
When they reached the office, Burke knocked on the door and a uniformed officer opened it. As soon as they were in, the flic shut it. Mariana Martín was leaning against the desk in the office, holding a phone, an intense look on her face. Behind her, a young uniformed officer was tapping away at the keyboard in the administrator’s office. He didn’t look up as Burke and Tessier approached Martἱn.
“Your microphone equipment, Monsieur Burke,” Martín said in French, holding out her hand.
Burke poked into his ear, awkwardly extricated the earphone and dropped it into Martín’s hand. Then he removed the lapel mic and gave it to her. She put both into her jacket pocket.
“What did you see?” she said.
Burke recounted what he’d witnessed from his viewpoint, knowing it wasn’t much different from what 200 others had seen.
Silenced in Spain Page 21
