by Len Melvin
Neb broke into a wide grin. “Señor,” he said somewhat embarrassed.
“So, what does he want?”
Neb’s grin vanished. “He is a,” Neb paused as he tried to summon a word. “What is the word in English?” he said more to himself than Simon. He knelt and murmured in Simon’s ear. “He is a policeman who try to find out things.”
“A detective?”
“Yes, Señor. That is the word.” Neb looked relieved.
“Is it about the backpack?”
Neb shook his head. “Something else.”
“What then?”
“Well, Señor.” Neb looked back at the detective who stood, his arms crossed at his wrists, a hat held with both hands. “This is, how you say in English, a long shot.”
Simon straightened. The girls watched, expressions of confusion on their faces. “Okay.”
“The de-tect-ive,” Neb said the word in a deliberate manner, as if he was trying to remember exactly how to say it, “wants to know if we have people who come here every day.”
Simon studied the unsmiling detective. “What?”
“I told him you.” Neb pointed a finger at Simon. “I told him you come here every day.”
Simon leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Neb, tell me what this is about.”
Neb moved closer. “There were two people the other day in the cafe.”
“What is he talking about?” Christina asked.
“Señor, those two people are now dead.”
“Dead?”
“Si, muerto. Dead. When the bodies were found, there was a matchbook and napkins with the name of this cafe. The detective wants to see if anyone remembers them being here and who they were with.”
“What day were they here?”
Neb shrugged. “I don’t know. I told the detective that it was crazy that in the city of Barcelona someone would remember someone who sat at a cafe one day and doesn’t even know the day.”
“Does the detective have pictures?”
“Yes. It is not a nice picture.” Neb lowered his head. “There is blood on it.”
“Did you recognize them from the picture?”
“They look some familiar but,” Neb waved an arm over the cafe, “there are so many people who come in here every day.”
“That’s crazy,” Christina said loudly. She leaned back in her chair, her long legs crossed in front of her. “How could anyone remember that?”
“Let me see the picture.” Neb stepped back and turned to the detective. They spoke for a moment and then the detective followed him to the table.
“This is Señor Diaz.”
“Simon.” Simon rose halfway out of his chair and took the detective’s outstretched hand and then sat back in his chair. The detective reached into his pocket and produced a photograph that had a large crack that ran diagonally across the picture as if someone had at some point folded it. He handed it to Simon.
Simon laid the photo on the table, pulling it tightly at both ends so as to better see the crinkled image. A young girl sat in the lap of a boy who raised a small glass of wine toward the camera as they both smiled. A faded, red tint marred one corner of the picture, obscuring part of the girl’s body.
Simon studied the photo and then whirled in his chair and pointed to a table in the corner of the cafe. “They were sitting there. Last Tuesday. A guy was with them. I think he was half Spanish, maybe a Madrileno and maybe either half Irish or Scottish.”
“What?” asked Madeleine.
“He spoke Spanish but then he would switch to English. But I didn’t know the accent. He had a white Real Madrid shirt on.”
Neb blinked and was silent. He turned to the detective who was leaning forward in anticipation, but he turned back to Simon before translating, his eyes, hesitant and eyebrows raised. Simon nodded.
The detective took a step forward, grabbed Neb by the elbow and asked him a question. Neb turned back to the detective and spoke rapidly in Spanish.
Christina leaned over the table and shoved one of the jars of beer to the side. “Are you making that up?”
Simon smiled. “No.”
“I don’t believe you. How could you remember that?”
“How could you remember the day?” Madeleine asked
Neb turned back to Simon. “He wants to know whether you can describe the boy in the Real Madrid shirt.”
“I can.”
Neb hesitated again, doubt in his manner, then addressed the detective again in another volley of Spanish. He spun and began to speak Spanish to Simon. “Dice que…” Neb smiled and tapped his head with a finger. “Sorry, I haven’t translated in a while. He wants to know whether you can come to the police station and describe this man for an artist?”
“When?”
“I think he wants you to come now.”
“I’m an artist. I do some portraits.” Christina interjected. “That’s why I was so upset about the laptop. It had all this work I’ve been doing, and it wasn’t backed up.”
“She’s a great artist,” Madeleine said. “You should see her stuff.”
“If I describe him, you can draw him?” Simon asked.
Christina nodded. She pulled the laptop from her backpack and set it on the table. The detective tugged on Neb’s sleeve and mumbled up at the tall Nigerian. Neb listened and then replied, a dueling whirl of words as they spoke back and forth.
“What are they saying?” Christine leaned across the table toward Simon.
“No idea. It’s too fast.”
“Señor,” Neb tapped Simon on the shoulder. “How long will this take?”
Simon and Christina gave each other an inquiring look. “Thirty minutes?” she asked.
Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
Neb gestured to their table. “Can the detective sit here until you are finished?”
“Sure,” Simon said. “But it might be a better use of his time to be taking control of the video in the plaza. That might really help.”
Neb smiled and waved an arm around the plaza. “There is no video cameras here, Señor.”
“There’s a video camera at the South exit of the plaza. It’s above a pizzeria.” Neb stared at Simon blank-faced, uncomprehending. “That’s the way they exited the plaza.”
Neb turned to the detective and began speaking rapidly in Spanish. The detective’s voice rose in excitement and then he started toward the South exit. He stopped abruptly, turned around, and said something else to Neb, motioning to Simon as he spoke.
“The detective wants to know why, Señor, your shirt is bloody,” Neb said.
“My backpack was stolen,” Christina said, “and he took it back from the guy who stole it.”
“The guy he took it back from cut him with a knife,” Madeleine added.
Neb translated and the detective responded.
“And the black eye?” Neb asked.
“A big fight last night at Bar Marsella between some Germans and English.”
Neb again translated and the detective smiled for the first time. “Señor, the detective wants to know why an American was in a fight between Ingleses and Alemannians?”
Simon grinned. “Sometimes, you just have to pick a side.”
Neb translated to the detective who smiled. He stared at Simon for a moment, shook his head in a slow manner from side to side with a look that a father might have when chiding a son for a fight while being inwardly proud. He said something to Neb before turning in the direction of the pizzeria.
“How did you remember all that?” Christina had her laptop open and fingers poised over the key. “No one can remember all that”
“You come here every day?” Madeleine asked.
“Lately,” Simon said. “I’ve just always been able to remember things well. Are you ready?”
She stared at him, unblinking for a few seconds without speaking, doubt in her manner. “Okay,” she seemed to shake off her doubt, “tell me everything you can
remember.”
“Alright, he was about mid thirties…”
“Color?” Christina asked.
“Sorry. White guy, mid-thirties, dark, close cut hair. Like you would have trouble grabbing the hair with your fingers it was cut so close. Strong jawline, a six-day growth of beard. Like a heavy stubble.”
“Eyes?”
“Small, brown, dead eyes. I really noticed the eyes. It’s one of the reasons I remember him. It was a feature that really stood out. They stood out for their…” Simon searched for a word. “Just their deadness. Like there was nothing there. Like looking into the eyes of a doll or a shark. He caught me looking at him. His eyes really caught my attention.”
Christina clicked keys on the laptop. “Body?”
“Five ten or eleven and used to be fit, but it was like he had kind of let go lately. He had those kind of sloped shoulders that an athlete has. Not a body builder or anything. But the muscles in his arms had a loose definition. I had a feeling he used to lift a lot of weights but didn’t much anymore.”
“And he was wearing?”
“A white t-…”
“I’ve got that. What else?”
“Jeans, boots.”
“What, you don’t remember the brands?” Madeleine asked, her voice laced in equal parts sarcasm and doubt.
“I really couldn’t see them,” Simon replied.
“Was his face thin or wide or…” Christina never looked up from the computer screen as she asked the question.
“Thin. Sorry, he also wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that seemed more like they were for fashion than need.”
“Okay, give me a moment.” Christina lapsed into silence as she concentrated.
“How long have you been in Barcelona?” Madeleine asked.
“Close to a month.”
“A month? You on vacation or working?”
“Neither really. Just hanging out.”
Madeleine picked up the jar of beer and took a sip, never taking her eyes from him. “So, you used to live in D.C.? Where do you live now?”
Simon hesitated, fiddling with the nearly empty jar of beer in front of him. “Not really anywhere, right now.” Christina looked up from the keyboard. Madeleine was quiet, staring at Simon, waiting for him to say something more. Simon took a sip of beer and then held the jar in front of him, semi-cradled in his lap.
“So, what’s your plan?” Madeleine asked.
“Not sure.”
“Where were you before here?” Madeleine’s voice oozed frustration as if trying to coax something from a child.
“London.” Madeleine began to ask another question but Simon held up a hand. He lowered it and put it to his brow. He didn’t look at either of them when he spoke. “I was living and working in London when my girlfriend was killed in a car accident. After the funeral, I quit my job, cleaned out the place where we lived, and went to Heathrow. Barcelona was the first flight out. I got a cheap pension and have just kinda been hanging out.”
Madeleine drank from her beer and was silent. “I’m sorry,”she said finally.
Christina put a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”
He set his beer back on the table. “Yeah.”
Christina hesitated, looked at Madeleine and then back at Simon. She turned the screen of the laptop toward Simon. “How’s this?”
Simon moved his face closer to the screen. He studied the image carefully. “It’s close. Can you make his face a little longer and wider? Not much though. And his mouth is off. His lips were thinner. And he had a full set of white large teeth that had grown over each other. There’s like,” and Simon pointed at a spot on the screen, “an overgrown tooth there and,” he moved a finger to the other side of the mouth, “here. I remember it was the only feature of his that didn’t match. He could have been a good-looking guy except for the teeth and the lips.”
Christina clicked some more. Neb came over from the bar and gazed over her shoulder. “I remember this man, Señor.” Neb leaned over, placing himself close to the screen. “I remember because he was not very nice. I remember this man.” he said again, almost to himself.
Christina turned the laptop around to Simon. He nodded slowly. “That’s it. You nailed him. You’re really good, you know?”
Thanks,” Christina smiled. She turned to Neb. “You have a printer?”
“Si, Chica.” Christina scrolled down the list of available printers on her computer. Neb pointed to one. “That one.”
“Am I in range of the printer?”
“I think so.” Christina hit ‘Print’ and Neb nodded and began walking to the bar.
“Looks like he might have found something.” Madeleine motioned to the detective who was walking toward them in small, quick steps as he crossed the plaza. He dodged a soccer ball and the small boys who chased after it, then waved a sheet of paper at them when he saw them looking in his direction.
He made his way to their table, placed the sheet of paper on the table and took several deep breaths as if he was out of breath, even though his stride had been at most a strong walk.
Simon turned the paper around and saw that it was a photo of a screenshot. Three people were in the photo, a boy and girl walking, arms interlocked and another boy who stood apart and a little behind them. The boy was glancing up, directly at the camera.
“That’s him.” Simon tapped the image of the lone figure. The detective stared at him, not understanding, his eyebrows raised in expectation.
“Esta el. Seguro,” he told the detective. Madeleine leaned forward to see, and Christina stood over him, studying the photo over his shoulder. “It’s him, for sure.”
Neb came from the door of the bar, almost running as he crossed the short distance to the table. He laid a copy of Christina’s drawing next to the image captured by the video camera.
“Dios mio.” The detective picked up the drawing, then compared it to the image on the table. “Dios mio,” he said again, softly under his breath.
“They are almost identical, Señor.” Neb said slowly, his eyes open wide.
Simon nodded to Christina. “She’s the one who put it on paper.” Christina raised her arms in a celebratory manner, waving them back and forth and smiled.
The detective picked the image up with one hand and the photo with the other. He held them at eye level. His eyes went from one to the other and back. “Dios, mio,” he said again, more to himself.
Madeleine rose from her chair and stood on tiptoe as she gazed over the shoulder of the detective at the photo and the drawing. She turned after a moment and stared at Simon. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
Simon shrugged and took a sip of beer.
“Tuesday was three days ago.” She held her gaze on Simon for a long moment and then turned to Christina. “Look at this place.” Madeleine waved an arm out over the cafe, every chair at every table filled. A thin line of people stood in the plaza waiting for someone to pay their check and leave. “This place is packed. Is it like this a lot?” she asked Neb.
“From the time we open until the time we close.”
She turned back to Simon. “How did you do that?”
Simon sat across from them, bloodied shirt and black eye, drank his beer and said nothing.
Chapter Fourteen
Miguel Mahoney sat in a small Basque tapas bar in Sitges, a beach town not thirty miles from Barcelona. He kept his head down and tried to avoid eye contact. He wanted to be farther from Barcelona but was scared to travel by any public transit. The cab ride from Barcelona had been expensive but worth it. Pictures of him were everywhere and he dared not go into any kind of transportation hub that might have Spanish police.
He sat at the end at the bar, half in the shadows, a wary glance cast from under a white hoodie at the door whenever it opened. A heavy set man approached from behind the bar and Miguel pointed to his empty glass. The man grunted and headed for the bottle of Rioja.
Goddammit, how could this have happened? He had always
been so careful. Two or three bodies a month littered the streets of different European cities. But it had not been difficult to escape detection. There were no controls at the European borders anymore. Communication among the different police agencies was slow and when you traveled between so many different countries practicing your craft, the authorities just couldn’t keep up. Especially now, with the situation in the streets and the lack of trust among the governments in Europe. All of the resources of the authorities were spent on quelling unrest and trying to maintain order. Eventually, some detective somewhere might begin connecting the murders, but he had already begun salivating about South America.
At every job he would move with efficiency upon gaining access to their living quarters. The better to not leave evidence. He would then excuse himself to the bathroom, put on a condom and gloves and then move upon his prey. If there was a couple, which he preferred, he would deliver a blow to the man’s head, and then move to the woman. He would bind and gag her and then would return to the man. He enjoyed the looks in the eyes of the women and the smell of fear in their sweat as they viewed the abuse and brutalities he would inflict on the men. Over the course of the ‘treatment’ he would let her know in small, terse phrases what she could expect when he was finished. He would cast the used body of the man to the side, grin at the frightened countenance of the woman who sat, eyes dilated in terror, the color drained from her face. He would be kind at first and then up the levels of pain and torture and then mutilation at small, almost indiscernible levels, extending the act as long as was possible. The entire event might take a couple of hours. He was meticulous in his clean-up, everything disposed of in plastic bags to be deposited in various dumpsters around town.
The funny thing about this particular couple is that he had happened upon a couple of terrorists. A smile creased the end of his lips. The authorities had most probably been done a favor. He had been walking through Plaza Catalunya when he had been summoned by the piercing wail of a distraught female. She had accosted him in hysteria. Her boyfriend hadn’t returned from a trip to get a rental car and his cell phone wasn’t answering. She was concerned that something had happened to him. She had pointed to the large group of bags beneath the large statue of St. Jordi that dominated the square. ‘Could he watch her luggage, just for a moment while she searched for him?’
