“I find your comment about Seῇor López most interesting,” Ochoa said, reverting back to Spanish. “Did Seῇor López ever mention his wife’s death?”
Burke took a long, slow breath and decided he’d co-operate for a while. “Never. He only mentioned his family once, saying it was the most important thing in any person’s life.”
“And did he seem sincere?”
“Very much.”
“OK. A different topic. Did Seῇor López seem like a true fan of professional cycling?”
“He definitely had knowledge,” replied Burke. “He knew some of the great champions and seemed to understand race tactics. But I had the sense he wasn’t at the Vuelta to watch the racing. I think he was there to be seen, to have a presence and probably to promote his business interests.”
“And yet you suggested before you didn’t think he was someone who needed the spotlight on him.”
“That’s true which goes back to why he’d want to get involved in the Vuelta in such a big way,” Burke replied.
Ochoa glanced at Torres who nodded in return and Burke could see the flics shared some of the same curiosity as he did. He also knew if he quizzed them about it, they wouldn’t answer; his experience with the police told them it wasn’t their way, especially since Burke had media links.
“Did López ever talk about retirement?” Torres asked.
Burke reviewed the conversations he’d had with the Spaniard. “He did a couple of times, but I got the idea that while he’d once looked forward to it, events had changed and he could no longer see himself retiring. Work was his focus. But why are you asking me this? I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before to you.”
Ochoa ignored Burke’s question. “Did López ever provide details about his most recent business opportunities?”
Burke could see the three officers weren’t going to be distracted from what they wanted to know.
“No, not at all. He just said the world was changing and you had to change with it or get run over.”
“A philosopher.”
“Or a pragmatist,” Burke said.
“Let’s go back to López’s family. Did he ever give any details like names or where they lived or how they were doing?”
“He made a few comments, but mostly he was private about them, like he didn’t want to share any meaningful information.”
Burke noticed Martín tapping something into her phone and figured it was a note to follow up on something.
“Did López talk much about Tim Fritz?”
“No.”
Then something popped into Burke’s mind and he decided he’d pursue it though the odds weren’t great he’d learn anything. “Inspector Torres, did López send you anything just before he killed himself?”
Burke watched as Torres and Martín deferred to Ochoa, letting him decide how to handle the question.
“You’re trying once more to find out if Seῇor López did indeed provide us with evidence before he committed suicide,” Ochoa said. “If nothing else, you’re persistent.”
Burke remained silent.
Ochoa rubbed his chin and then said, “I doubt it will be of any use to you or your media friends, but he did provide us with some information.”
“Did he give you enough to convict Chef Andres and others? And maybe implicate Tim Fritz?”
Ochoa leaned forward. “You know you’re not going to get an answer to that, Seῇor Burke.”
Burke hadn’t expected one, but it had been worth a try. He was about done, but he was still curious about Tim Fritz. He couldn’t shake the notion the American was involved in the food fraud.
“I’ve got one last question,” Burke said. He watched the flics facing them. No one showed any emotion. “I know Tim Fritz hasn’t been charged with anything, but has he been entirely cleared of suspicion?”
Ochoa shook his head. “I think we’re done here.”
Burke knew he was beaten so he stood and started for the door. He hoped he’d never go through another interview with the police. It was just too exasperating.
And then he wondered why Ochoa or the others hadn’t asked for his rationale for believing Tim Fritz was involved. They’d been curious about his other observations so why not ask about Fritz?
He turned back to the flics, ready to pursue that thought.
“Goodbye, Seῇor Burke,” Ochoa said in a firm voice.
Burke nodded and left. As he walked out of the courthouse a minute later, he saw Jules Tessier coming his way.
“I thought I’d wait and see how it went,” the young Frenchman said.
“Let’s get a drink,” Burke said. “I need one.”
“What did they want to know?”
Burke took a few strides before answering. “You know, Jules, I’m not entirely sure.”
Chapter 55
They found a café a block away and sat outside, each ordering a beer. Burke thought this post-interview drink was becoming a ritual for him and his colleagues.
Burke replayed his interview with the flics for Tessier who seemed to hang on every word. When he was done, Burke waited for his colleague to say something, but Tessier kept quiet, clearly digesting what he’d been told.
“No thoughts?” Burke finally asked.
“I’m curious about where our friend Mateo Ochoa’s involvement ends in this case and when Interpol’s begins. It seems to me they have different goals, maybe even competing goals.”
Burke smiled to himself. Tessier sounded more confident than the last time they’d been together. He wasn’t cocky, just more self-assured and Burke wondered what had triggered the change before deciding Tessier’s involvement in the tumultuous Vuelta had to be the cause.
Then Burke returned to Tessier’s comments, thought for a few moments and said: “Ochoa doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up easily on something. He’s going to push and probe as much as he can.”
And right at that moment, Burke had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. The same places, the same faces, the same questions and topics. The same anxiety and exasperation, too.
It was time to move on.
“So, Jules, how’s life treating you?” he said, eager to discuss anything but the food-fraud case.
Tessier’s face brightened. “I can’t complain. I’ve been promoted to senior researcher which means I’m getting involved in all kinds of challenging projects.”
“Where are you based?”
“Lyon.”
Lyon wasn’t Burke’s favourite city. It was too sprawling and a little too edgy despite the city’s leaders changing Lyon’s look with massive murals decorating downtown buildings. But it definitely represented a career boost for Tessier.
“And what about Monique Chan?”
Tessier smiled widely. “She’s in Lyon, too, but not as an intern. She’s been given a reporter’s job so she’s all over the various media platforms – and she’s doing great.”
Burke saw pride in Tessier’s face. “Do you see her much at work?”
Tessier blushed and Burke knew the answer.
“We’ve started to see each other,” Tessier said.
“That’s great,” Burke said. “Monique is a terrific person.”
Tessier smiled. “And if you’re wondering about Suzanne Godard, she’s been promoted as well.”
Burke was enjoying the good news. The courtroom, the Spanish police and the déjà vu were slipping into the background.
“It’s just a shame that we profited by what happened to Colin Bothwick and Monsieur López,” Tessier said.
A shadow appeared and both men looked up to see Mateo Ochoa standing above them.
“May I join you gentlemen?” the Spaniard asked in French.
Burke and Tessier exchanged a look of surprise. When Tessier didn’t say anything, Burke motioned for the flic to take the spare chair at the table. He couldn’t believe Ochoa was just passing by and wanted to visit. The flic was up
to something and Burke was curious to know what, especially after being dismissed by Ochoa a few minutes before. The Vuelta was back as a topic.
A moment later the server showed up and Ochoa ordered a coffee.
“I see you’re both surprised to see me here,” Ochoa said, glancing at both men and then settling on Burke’s face. “Well, I wanted to have a little chat away from curious eyes.”
Burke thought Ochoa was talking about his police colleagues. Or maybe just a couple of them in particular. But if he was to guess, Burke thought it was the Interpol agent.
“What do you want to talk about?” Burke said.
“About a couple of matters.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I want to start by asking you both to do me a favour.”
Chapter 56
Burke couldn’t identify anything he could do for Ochoa and he noticed Tessier looking equally puzzled.
“A favour? From us?” Burke said.
Ochoa shrugged and smiled. “You both work in the media although in different capacities,” he said.
Burke grew more wary. He hoped Ochoa wouldn’t waste time getting to the point, but he wasn’t optimistic.
“I’ve noticed both of you haven’t spent much time recently discussing what happened during the Vuelta or the events that involved you and Monsieur López,” Ochoa said. “I’m surprised at that. I thought you’d manage some in-depth coverage, especially in your case, Monsieur Burke.”
Burke had produced a couple of blogs discussing in general terms what had happened during his time covering the Spanish race. His editor, without knowing the full Vuelta story and how Burke had almost been killed, had been fine when Burke had turned to other topics.
“It’s a Spanish story,” Burke replied.
“No, it isn’t and you know that as well as I do, Monsieur,” Ochoa said. “It’s an international story and you were right there in the front row to see it all begin. Yet you’ve done little. And, Monsieur Tessier, your network has moved onto other stories even though this one is still playing out.”
“I cover cycling and some other sports, not international news,” Burke replied.
“And I’m not in control of what gets put on air,” Tessier protested.
“Well, here’s my favour,” Ochoa said. “I want you to tell your audiences more about what happened. Do blogs, a TV report, anything that discusses López’s suicide, the connections to food fraud, the arrests. Write what you know, Monsieur Burke. And, Monsieur Tessier, push your bosses for more coverage. Use the information you have, do more research.”
“Why do you care?” Burke asked, still trying to establish why Ochoa was making such a request.
“I don’t care what you produce as long as you get people to think about López, Bothwick, the truck driver, the whole food-fraud investigation.”
Burke remembered some quote about a mystery wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in an enigma or something like that. It certainly applied here. He had no idea what Ochoa was trying to accomplish. And it was equally strange that Ochoa hadn’t made his request during their earlier interview. Or even before that.
Ochoa leaned forward, no longer smiling. “And if you need a little extra hook for any future stories, you can say the Spanish police know a government employee helped orchestrate the food fraud in the Oropesa-Peῇíscola area.”
“Who?”
“I will tell you both if I have your promise not to use the name.”
Burke hated it when someone told him not to use a name and recognized his editor disliked it even more because anonymous sources didn’t add credibility to a story. But he was hooked. He wanted to know. So he nodded.
Tessier took a few extra seconds and then agreed.
Ochoa looked at both men and Burke thought he was trying to put some drama into the moment although the identity of some faceless bureaucrat wasn’t guaranteed to thrill many.
“The name of the government employee is Inspector Alejandro Chávez, my former boss.”
Burke felt like he’d been slapped. If he’d been given a hundred guesses, he’d never have produced Alejandro Chávez.
“And here’s a little extra just for you, Monsieur Burke. You know how you thought someone was shooting at you in the hills above Peῇíscola? It was Chávez although his intent wasn’t to kill you.”
Burke felt his jaw drop involuntarily.
“Chávez could have killed you if he’d wanted to,” Ochoa said. “He’s a highly skilled marksman. In fact, he’s competed in international shooting events. No, he just wanted you to be so scared that you’d talk to the police once, say little and then leave the country as fast as possible.”
“I was definitely ready to,” muttered Burke, still shocked by Ochoa’s naming Chávez.
“But you didn’t run away scared. You kept doing what you’ve apparently done for the last few years with some degree of success – you tried to figure out what was happening.”
“OK, but how do you know Chávez was involved and he’s the one who shot at me?”
“Simple. He told us.”
Burke felt overwhelmed by Ochoa’s string of pronouncements and when he glanced at Tessier, he saw a stunned look on the young man’s face. Time was standing still. All that mattered was what was coming out of Ochoa’s mouth.
The server re-appeared and Ochoa ordered another coffee, giving her his biggest smile yet. When she was gone, the smile disappeared and Ochoa turned to Burke.
“You mentioned during one of our interviews how it seemed a lot of organizing had to occur for the food-fraud scheme to run so successfully,” Ochoa said. “I didn’t say it at the time, but I agreed. If there were boats secretly coming and going with specialized food products, someone in authority had to be involved to safeguard the operation – or maybe more than just one person. So I started digging around.”
“And you came up with Chávez?”
“Alejandro Chávez never impressed me much when I got the job in Peῇíscola. He was ambitious and fairly clever, but mostly he was lazy. But I was new and didn’t want to create any troubles, and so I kept my mouth shut and just did the village cop thing, handing out tickets, dealing with vehicle accidents, breaking up late-night brawls and dealing with the occasional domestic dispute. And then, Monsieur Burke, your friend Colin Bothwick was found dead. I saw immediately you didn’t think it was an accident and your arguments made sense, enough that I thought we needed to dig into his case with greater energy. But Chávez remained unconvinced and told his boss we were wasting our time and our resources on a tragic hit-and-run.”
Burke’s brain was bubbling with questions but he didn’t want to interrupt. Ochoa was on a roll.
“And then, thanks to some of your suggestions, it started to look like Bothwick was the victim of a deliberate hit-and-run. Yet that still didn’t get Chávez excited which struck me as strange. You see, gentlemen, until Bothwick’s death, there hadn’t been a murder in the Peῇíscola-Oropesa region for six years. Since it was such a rare occurrence, Chávez with his ambition should have pushed for an investigation and to be in charge. Instead, he kept arguing Bothwick’s death was an accident until our superintendent finally ordered Chávez to lead the investigation. Chávez accepted the job, but he didn’t do so happily.”
“And that intrigued you,” Burke said.
Ochoa nodded. “I started digging into Chávez and learned some interesting things.”
“Such as?” Tessier said.
“That for a policeman with a small-town salary, Bothwick had some nice toys, not enough to draw much attention, but a couple that couldn’t be explained by being a good investor or thrifty enough to save up.”
“What about any family wealth?” Burke asked.
Ochoa waved away the suggestion. “Very working class. No, there had to be another source.”
“What were the toys?” Tessier asked.
“He had a Salvador Dalí etching.”
“A real one?” Burke asked.
“Very real although he told everyone it was just a good knockoff. And unless an expert showed up, who was to disagree?”
“How much would a Dalí etching be worth?” Tessier said.
“Hundreds of thousands of euros.”
Burke whistled under his breath. “But how did you discover that?”
“Patience, Monsieur Burke, patience.”
Burke shrugged. Ochoa always went at his own pace.
“Chávez hid the Dalí etching in plain sight – right in his house. And whenever someone looked at it and was impressed, he’d give them his story about getting a good deal on a superior copy. Who could argue?”
“Was the etching stolen?”
“Not at all. He got it in a private deal with an individual trying to get some quick cash to handle an ugly divorce settlement. Chávez, through his various connections in other areas, heard about the Dalí and made the deal, buying it while he was on vacation down in Marbella. I just dug around into the art scene and discovered the sale. It wasn’t particularly hard to find out about the deal, especially if you’ve got a background as a detective. But Chávez made it relatively easy for me because he never believed anyone would be interested enough to look into the origins of the Dalí work. After all, he was a police officer. That arrogance helped me.”
“And the other toy or toys?” Tessier said.
“Also clever purchases. He got himself a portion of a second-level football team in the north. He’s a big football fan.”
Burke figured he wouldn’t ask how Ochoa had discovered that information.
“And his final toy was an apartment he leased in Biarritz in France. He had a French girlfriend there.”
“OK+, you found out he had all these expensive things, but so what?” Burke asked. “How did you get from there to his involvement in Bothwick’s murder and the food-fraud scheme – and to shooting at me?”
Silenced in Spain Page 25
