Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “Like I said, it all goes back to Chávez not pursuing the Bothwick case. I thought he was dirty when I found out about the Dalí etching, the football team and the Biarritz apartment. But where did he get all that money? Not from shaking down local petty criminals. He had to be involved in something else, something much bigger. And then I learned he had a sideline job as a minor official for the area. In small communities, it’s not uncommon for a police officer to do that. In this case, Chávez signed off on applications for boats seeking moorage and no one ever questioned him or paid much attention. Unlike the French, we Spanish aren’t the most bureaucratic people in Europe and operating in a rural area just made it easier for him.”

  Burke got it then. Chávez had used his secondary job to help disguise boats coming in with fraudulent food products, especially ones destined for a high-class audience. Clever, Burke thought, but not smart enough to fool Ochoa.

  “So Chávez was ambitious, not professionally but for personal gain,” Burke said.

  “Correct.”

  “And because he was also lazy, he took some shortcuts and left a few markers around that you noticed.”

  “Correct again.”

  The server returned with Ochoa’s coffee. Burke and Tessier ordered two more beers, figuring they wouldn’t be leaving the table for a while.

  “That’s where you come in, Monsieur Burke,” the flic continued. “Once I started to believe Chávez was involved in what happened in Bothwick’s death and maybe with illegal shipments of food coming into the area, I wondered how far his criminal behaviour went. And when he was on an assignment, I got a warrant and searched his house – and found a sharpshooter’s rifle. It had been used recently and that made me think he might be behind the attack on you. When I told my superintendent what I’d found, he said it was time to arrest Chávez and we did. Interestingly, my superintendent had always thought there was something odd about Chávez.”

  “But finding his gun doesn’t mean he shot at me,” Burke said.

  “I took a chance during my first interview with him and said he’d shot at you, suggesting we could prove it. It was a gamble, but I was sure he’d been the one and it paid off. He thought we had somehow found evidence linking him to the shooting incident. When he thought he could work out some deal with us if he told us what he’d done, he gave us the details and that’s when he told us he wasn’t trying to hit you, just scare you into leaving.”

  “So, you agreed to a plea bargain,” Tessier said.

  “That’s what he came to understand. You see, Chávez is also a coward and the idea of being an ex-policeman in prison scared the life out of him and rightfully so. Instead of waiting for a lawyer, he immediately tried to negotiate an arrangement with us. We were interested and, in his nervous state, he began talking. In retrospect, he probably wishes he’d been more patient and waited for his lawyer.”

  “So, no plea bargain,” Burke said.

  “If he gets one, he won’t like it very much. But I won’t lose any sleep over that. A dirty cop is no one’s friend.”

  “And so he started to fill in details and name names,” Burke said.

  Ochoa nodded. “He did so with great enthusiasm.”

  “And so the investigation went from there.”

  “We started to look into what he’d told us, especially the food fraud, and quickly learned other police forces including Interpol were investigating a massive food-fraud scheme. We combined efforts, which normally isn’t easy in Spain because we tend to be territorial, and followed the connection between the food fraud and the strange events happening with the Vuelta. Each day led us closer to who was doing what.”

  “When did Chef Andres become a suspect?” Burke said.

  “Our culinary superstar was on Interpol’s radar before we thought about him. And then when we received some documentation linking him to the entire operation …”

  “From José López?” Burke interrupted.

  “Yes, from him,” Ochoa said. “When we saw the documentation, we arrested Chef Andres and his thugs who’d left enough evidence to get themselves convicted on a half dozen charges. And then a strange thing happened. They all started to name names. I’ve never seen so many people so eager to identify others in order to get a deal.”

  “Did anyone implicate Tim Fritz?” Burke asked, anticipating that being away from the police interview room might produce a different result.

  “You’ve got Fritz on the brain, Monsieur Burke. However, again, I won’t discuss him.”

  Burke could only guess that Ochoa, and maybe others, weren’t finished with the American.

  “Was Chef Andres responsible for Bothwick’s murder?” Burke asked.

  “No. Two of Chef Andres’ men spotted Bothwick watching them, panicked and chased him, finally running him over. Chef Andres was in Peῇíscola working with the Vuelta organizers on the menu for the big evening there and had no idea what his men had done until they told him.”

  “When Chávez went to the accident scene, did he know what had happened?”

  “He didn’t have any idea. But he found out in a few hours when Chef Andres, who was one of his partners in the food fraud, filled him in. That’s when Chávez started pushing for Bothwick’s death to be written off as a tragic hit-and-run accident.”

  Burke could feel a headache rapidly coming on from information overload. The beers showed up and he took a long pull, hoping it would help. It didn’t, but it tasted good.

  “If Chef Andres has been charged with conspiracy to commit murder, who was the target?” Burke said.

  Ochoa smiled. “You, of course.”

  Burke had wondered who’d wanted him dead. “But why? I wasn’t any threat. I couldn’t do anything to anybody.”

  “Chef Andres thought differently. He knew you were asking questions, poking your nose into matters that involved him. And with your reputation for getting results, he got scared and told his men to get rid of you the first chance they had. The riot in Girona was that opportunity.”

  “So it was entirely his decision?”

  “That’s a question which we’re still working on.”

  “So, who’s really behind all of this and I don’t mean Chef Andres or his goons or Chávez?” Burke said.

  Ochoa sipped his coffee. “Another question that I can’t answer. We’re going to have to wait and see.”

  Burke groaned.

  “Just do what I’ve asked you both to do and, who knows, maybe we’ll get a result,” Ochoa said.

  Burke shook his head again and regretted it. His headache was locked in.

  Chapter 57

  After a moment of silence, Ochoa pushed aside his unfinished coffee, stood and said, “Remember my favour.”

  Then he left, marching back toward the courthouse.

  “What was behind all that?” Tessier said, echoing Burke’s thoughts.

  “I have no idea,” Burke said.

  “And what a strange request. That’s the first time I’ve heard of a police officer encouraging the media to do a story.”

  “And we’re not journalists,” Burke added. “Yes, that was definitely strange.”

  Burke started to replay their conversation with the flic, trying to recall the words Ochoa had used. There had to be something in Ochoa’s language that hinted at what he was trying to do, but Burke struggled to find anything that suggested the flic’s real motive.

  “Are you going to do any blogging about the fallout from all the Vuelta mess?” Tessier said.

  Burke shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I’ll talk to my editor when I get back tomorrow and go from there.”

  “You know, Paul, I don’t think Chief Inspector Ochoa is interested in getting publicity for himself. He talked about how he was the one who discovered Chávez’s involvement, but it didn’t seem to me that he was looking for coverage for himself.”

  “I agree, Jules. I think our friend has a bigger game in mind, b
ut I don’t know what it is.”

  Once more, they reviewed what Ochoa had said, but got no further. When they finished their beers, they paid – Ochoa had left them with his bill – and left, strolling into the square.

  “When do you leave for home?” Burke asked.

  Tessier checked his watch. “In less than three hours. In fact, I have to collect my luggage from my hotel and get to the airport. How about you?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I’ll spend the rest of today strolling around the Old Town and not thinking about food fraud or anything related to it – if I can manage it.”

  They shook hands, wished each other well and said they hoped they’d bump into each other in the future. Burke figured it was possible if he got another TV gig announcing the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia or the Vuelta that he’d work once more with Jules Tessier. He’d like that. Regardless, he made a mental note to follow Tessier’s career because the young man seemed destined for bigger things.

  As they parted, Burke wondered if Tessier would act on Ochoa’s favour. As for himself, he thought he’d write a couple of blogs about the legal aftermath of the Vuelta, making sure his editor, François Lemaire, liked the ideas beforehand.

  The following day, back home in Villeneuve-Loubet’s old village, Burke phoned his boss and proposed his next two blog topics which would discuss his involvement in the Vuelta. It was all straightforward stuff, Burke thought.

  Lemaire erupted.

  The editor was angry about Burke not providing the details much earlier. Lemaire was also displeased Burke hadn’t been forthright about his injuries. Finally, Lemaire went on for five minutes about Burke’s lack of understanding on how to build a blog following.

  “After all this time, Paul, you still don’t get it,” Lemaire said. “You’ve been right in the middle of a big story. In fact, you’re one of the prime pieces of the story and yet you only get around now to telling me what’s really been happening.”

  Burke felt his face turn red, but not from anger. He was embarrassed because Lemaire was right. Burke could have – should have – done much more with the story. Instead, he’d produced boilerplate copy. As a blogger, he had a lot to learn.

  “I’m sorry, François, really,” Burke said. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the phone and then Lemaire said, “Well, I think we can still rescue the opportunity.”

  Then he outlined what he wanted from Burke: A blog relating Burke’s involvement in the entire Vuelta-food fraud case; several paragraphs about the inquest into Lόpez’s death which Lemaire would shape into a news story; and several more paragraphs for a sidebar about what the police were doing beyond giving news conferences.

  “And mention how a government employee connected to the police is co-operating with the authorities in the investigation into the food fraud,” Lemaire added.

  “I told Ochoa I wouldn’t identify the individual,” Burke said.

  “You’re not mentioning names and you’re still vague enough to keep your word. But if he gets pissed off, too bad. I’m sure you can handle any fallout.”

  Burke then told his boss about Mateo Ochoa’s request to him and Tessier.

  “I think your cop friend has something up his sleeve,” Lemaire said. “It would be nice to know what, but we’re still going ahead with our plan.”

  Burke waited for more directions or more criticism.

  “I want you to focus all your efforts on the Vuelta and the food fraud. Got it?” Lemaire said.

  “Got it.”

  “And don’t tell your friends at the TV station anything until your blog and our stories appear.”

  Burke was a panelist on a sport show telecast out of Nice. He would be doing the show in two days.

  “Agreed.”

  “And keep me posted if anything happens,” Lemaire said.

  “I will.”

  “OK, now get to work. I want your first blog by 9 tonight. Same for those paragraphs about the inquest and what the flics are up to. And don’t miss that deadline, Paul.”

  Lemaire didn’t wait for any reaction, ending the call.

  Burke checked his watch. He had planned to go to Hélène’s café and visit with her if it was quiet, but he no longer had the time. He had to get to work.

  At five minutes before 9, Burke sent his blog and stories to Lemaire. He’d provided the basic facts and added what had happened at the inquest. He’d discussed how a government insider was helping piece together how the food-fraud ring worked and mentioned how several people who’d been arrested were co-operating with authorities in exchange for reduced charges. He also provided several paragraphs about how various police forces were co-operating in the food-fraud investigation.

  Burke was unsure if he’d done enough to please his editor. He thought he’d done a decent job, but he’d been wrong on that front before. He was a sports blogger, not a journalist.

  Although he’d sent his blog and news copy, Burke re-read his work one more time.

  And he kept thinking about Tim Fritz. He’d told the Spanish flics he believed Fritz was involved somehow in the food fraud. After all, whenever Chef Andres showed up, Tim Fritz usually wasn’t far away. That had to be more than coincidence.

  But Burke knew the flics weren’t buying it. And they were the ones with the information.

  And then Burke had a strange thought.

  If Fritz wasn’t involved, maybe someone close to him was. And Burke, his mind racing with various images, had an individual in mind.

  He pulled out his phone and searched for Mateo Ochoa’s phone number which the flic had given him earlier in case Burke remembered something that would be helpful.

  After he found it, he texted Mateo Ochoa. His message consisted of two words:

  Wendy Klassen.

  Chapter 58

  Burke sat back in his chair, trying to calm down after sending his text. It was his last shot at figuring out what had happened in Spain. He could do no more.

  His phone buzzed, indicating a text.

  He saw it was from Mateo Ochoa. The message contained a single word: Interesting.

  Burke didn’t see it as a single word, though. To him, it meant Ochoa was confirming that Wendy Klassen was on the flic’s radar and maybe that of Interpol.

  Burke tapped a reply into his phone: “Any evidence against her?”

  “A woman of various talents,” Ochoa fired back.

  Burke rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t Ochoa be direct just once? The flic was always cryptic.

  Then Burke recalled a certain scene that might be useful to the policeman.

  “Do you have videos from all the Vuelta’s special evening events?” Burke texted.

  “Yes, why?” replied Ochoa.

  He told Ochoa to check out a specific video, giving the date and general time, and saying it showed the reactions of Tim Fritz and those around him to a terrible Vuelta crash being shown on the big-screen TV’s coverage.

  “Watch Wendy Klassen’s face contrasted to the others,” Burke added.

  Burke expected he wouldn’t get a quick response from Ochoa and so he whistled for his dog Plato to be leashed for a stroll to the café. Plato pranced over, happy to see he’d be going for a walk. Burke hooked his dog to the leash, scratched his ears and then left the apartment, happy to put aside the Vuelta and all its mysteries for a while.

  He and Plato had barely reached the lane by their old apartment when Burke’s phone buzzed. To Burke’s surprise, it was from Ochoa who had texted: “Just watched it. Very instructive. And useful.”

  Burke wasn’t sure what ‘instructive’ or ‘useful’ meant, but he didn’t ask. Ochoa was wearing him down.

  Moments later, Burke received another text from Ochoa: “How are you doing with my favour?”

  Burke wanted to fire back some smartass remark in response to Ochoa’s query, but he didn’t. Instead, he said his blog would likely be po
sted within the hour with two accompanying news stories showing up on the newspaper chain’s website about the same time. There’d be another blog the next day.

  “Good. Keep working the story,” Ochoa responded.

  Burke shook his head. If he got another text from Ochoa that night, he’d ignore it.

  However, as Plato led him down the lane toward the small village green that welcomed visitors to the community, Burke couldn’t help thinking about Ochoa’s desire for Burke and Tessier to tell their Vuelta stories. Ochoa was obviously seeking some kind of reaction, but from whom?

  Plato watered a couple of flowers and then turned toward the path that would take them to Hélène’s Café de Neptune. The closer they got, the more he tugged. Burke, still pondering Ochoa’s motivation for greater news coverage, followed without opposition.

  The café’s terrace was busy, but it didn’t stop Hélène from darting over and hugging Burke when she saw him.

  “I missed you, chéri,” she said. Then she kissed him, lingering in his arms for several seconds.

  When they broke apart, Burke smiled and said, “What will your patrons think of us?”

  “That we’re in love.”

  That suited Burke. Hélène wasn’t his entire world, but she was most of it.

  Hélène bent and rubbed Plato’s ribs, enjoying how the little dog collapsed into her hand as she scratched.

  “I’m done work for tonight,” Burke said. “What time will you be finished?”

  Hélène glanced toward the café terrace and said she probably wouldn’t be home before midnight. Burke said he’d stay up, but he couldn’t vouch for Plato.

  “We can visit then,” Hélène said and then she trotted back to the terrace where a foursome had just shown up looking for a table.

  Burke watched his partner for a few moments. In many ways, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And just when he was about to leave, Hélène turned toward him and blew him a kiss.

  Instead of heading straight home, Burke took Plato on the long route back which led through a series of up-and-down lanes that had existed for several centuries. Passing by ancient homes that had been renovated over the years, Burke couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. This small corner of the French Riviera was his paradise. And he thought it was Hélène’s as well. And Plato’s.