by Mark Pryor
“You’re very observant for a man who can sleep on a stone wall,” Silva said.
“Oh, so you agree with me?” Tom said.
“No, that’s not what I was . . . Never mind.” Silva huffed and followed Garcia, angling off toward the house.
“I always wondered why they didn’t make you a diplomat,” Hugo said. “Such a way with people.”
“I know, right?” Tom grinned. “Not to worry, though, it’s never too late for a career change.”
Hugo shook his head and they walked over to where Garcia stood by his open car door, listening intently to his phone. After a few seconds, he said something in Spanish and ended the call.
“We’re in luck,” he said. “We can go to Estruch now.”
“They’re all there?” Hugo asked.
“Three of them are.” Garcia paused. “And, apparently, Señor Rubén Castañeda has not been seen for a couple of days.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hugo’s phone rang as Chief Inspector Garcia was turning the car around in the tight courtyard. Hugo checked the screen, and Tom leaned over and did, too.
“Oh, look who it is,” Tom said. “Answer it.”
“No. I’ll call back.”
“Answer it.”
“We’re busy.”
Tom sighed and relaxed into his seat, but his hand whipped up and grabbed the phone. He held it to his ear.
“Hey, Claudia, it’s your future boyfriend here. You current one is sitting beside me, hang on.” He grinned and passed the phone back to Hugo, who shot him a black look.
“Claudia,” Hugo said. “How’re you?”
“Good. You busy?”
“On our way to interview some folks.”
“Good folks or bad ones?”
“Yet to be determined. What are you doing?”
“I’m actually at a loose end right now,” she said. Her voice was tentative, as if she were afraid to ask a question. “And it’s been ten years or more since I’ve been to Spain, so I was wondering if there was any way I could be of use to you. Since, you know, our dates keep getting canceled.”
“Yes, they do,” Hugo said. “Well, I don’t know if there’d be much for you to do.”
“Is your friend definitely missing? Do you know anything?”
“It looks like it. The guy she’d met, we went to his place and found . . . well, we’re not sure who yet. But he was dead.”
“Oh, Hugo! That’s terrible.”
Tom leaned in, obviously listening to their conversation. “Worse for him than us,” he said loudly.
“Quiet.” Hugo elbowed him. “Sorry, we’re in a car, there’s no way to escape him. I guess I could shove him out.”
Claudia laughed. “That’s the other reason I was calling. Tom.” She lowered her voice. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s fine. Annoying. Disrespectful.”
“Sober, then.”
“For now.”
Tom grabbed at the phone, but Hugo held on to it. Tom shouted: “I know you’re talking about me, have some fucking decency.”
In the driver’s seat, Garcia turned his head. “What are you doing back there? It’s like having children in my car.”
“Sorry,” said Hugo, then he spoke into the phone. “I think we’re almost there, Claudia, I should go.”
“Sure, no problem,” she said. “But about me coming over. I’d like to help if I can, I do have newspaper and television contacts over there in case you want to go that route, use publicity to help find her.” She paused. “I want to see you, too, of course.”
“We could certainly use your help, and I’d like to see you,” Hugo said. “Let me talk to Tom. Only because it’s . . . his company’s property and I’m not sure who’s allowed in and who isn’t.”
“I can afford a hotel room nearby,” she said, with a light dusting of sarcasm. Claudia could afford to buy the hotel nearby. Several of them.
“Good point. Why don’t you make a reservation at one in the Old Town, near the harbor.” He couldn’t think of the one that the taxi driver had dropped them at. “Come on over, and we can take things from there.”
When they’d hung up, Tom grumbled. “So much for the boys’ trip.”
“We’re here to find Amy, not go to strip clubs and drink. And Claudia’s smart, an investigative reporter. She said she can hook us up with TV or the newspapers, if necessary.”
Garcia bumped the car onto the sidewalk and the three men piled out. “This way,” Hugo said, recognizing the café from the night of the burglary. They approached the front of Estruch Entertainment, but before getting there, Garcia paused. “You’ve read the file on these guys?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Hugo. “You?”
“I glanced over it, but that’s all. You’d better take the lead.”
“They all speak English?”
“Ah, yes.” Garcia gave a wry smile. “You take the lead if they speak English.”
“But they know the police are coming?”
Garcia nodded. “I told them that we were looking into something related to Castañeda. Silva texted me a photo of the victim’s face, for an ID.”
The sign on the door let them know the business was open, so they let themselves in, a bell tinkling over their heads. The small reception desk inside was unmanned, but soon a friendly face poked out of the first office on the left. The woman who stepped into the hallway looked Indian, Hugo thought, with coffee skin and very white teeth, which she seemed happy to show off. She wore a tank top and jeans, her only jewelry a diamond stud in her right nostril, a small but unmissable, expensive stone.
“Hola. Un momento, por favor.” She disappeared from view, but only for a second or two, then came out to greet them, closing her office door behind her. She spoke quickly in Spanish, focusing her attention on the man in uniform. Hugo’s college-level Spanish left him mostly in the dark.
Garcia said something in reply, and Hugo caught the word “American.”
“Yes, absolutely,” the woman said. She turned to Hugo and Tom. “I wasn’t expecting American police, I’m sorry. I am Nisha Bhandari.”
Hugo and Tom introduced themselves and shook hands. Her grip was dainty, just the fingertips.
“Are the others here?” Garcia asked. The doors to the other offices were closed, so Bhandari went to each one, tapped, and stuck her head in. Having seen the relative difference in office size, Hugo was interested to see who belonged where.
“Hello, I am Leonardo Barsetti.” A man had come from the larger office on the right. His navy blazer, designer jeans, and Ferragamo shoes combined with a portly build and rosy cheeks to hint at that pleasant combination of money and self-indulgence. His hair was dark brown and thick, and there was a lot of life in his eyes. As he pumped Hugo’s hand, the American put him at maybe fifty years old. “Please, call me Leo.”
Behind him appeared another man, whose singular distinguishing feature was his height. Bespectacled and clutching a handful of files, Hugo thought the man looked like an accountant, tall and slightly stooped, older than his years. He stood meekly to one side, not making eye contact, and gave a half wave when Barsetti introduced him as Todd Finch.
“So you all speak English?” Hugo asked.
“Yes, of course,” Barsetti said. “We are in the tourism business, we speak many languages between us.”
“Nine,” Bhandari smiled. “I speak more, but theirs are more useful. We’re very curious why you’re here—I hope no one’s in trouble.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” said Hugo. “Is there somewhere we can talk uninterrupted?”
“Come,” said Leo. “My office has more room, let’s go in there.”
Hugo lingered as everyone filed into the hallway and Barsetti’s office. He was watching for signs of injury, a limp or a wince. As a practical matter, he didn’t think Barsetti would have chosen a window as a method of ingress or egress, but as a matter of urgency it wasn’t impossible. As far as he could tell, though
, everyone was moving fine.
Tom had held back too. “The beanpole,” he whispered. “Down the chimney, then out the window. It’d be perfect, if they had chimneys.”
Hugo rolled his eyes and moved into the large office, taking one of the four leather chairs around the coffee table. Barsetti opened his arms expansively. “How can we help you, gentlemen?”
Hugo took out a notepad. “First, do you know where Rubén Castañeda is?”
Three heads shook No, and Barsetti spoke. “He went to France on company business and none of us have seen him since he left.”
“When was he due back?” Hugo asked.
“The weekend.” Barsetti shrugged. “But he was in Paris and we sometimes extend our business trips, it’s a benefit of living in Europe. I don’t think any of us expected to see him, so . . .” He shrugged again.
“Why was he in Paris?” Tom asked. “Maybe you could explain what part of the tourism industry you guys are in.”
“Of course. The company was founded by Nisha’s brother, Rohit, about four years ago.”
“Where is he now?”
“He went to northern Africa to work with some economic-development groups there,” Bhandari said. “He started in Tunisia and is now in Libya, the general idea is to achieve social reform by nurturing capitalism and fostering business development.”
“Sounds interesting, if a little dangerous,” Hugo said. “So you took over when he left?”
“Yes, sort of. I came here for treatment; I had a form of leukemia. The idea was that I would come over here for medical treatment and then, if all went well, to stay and take over.” She smiled. “Before you ask, things actually worked out as planned, and now I’m totally healthy.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hugo said.
“So you guys are from India?” Tom asked.
“Mumbai, yes,” she said. “My brother always loved to travel, and my parents gave us each some money to do with as we please. He loved Barcelona, wanted to live and work here. His idea was that we have several eggs in our basket as far as services. So, one thing we do is put together tours for our clients. Not just for Barcelona, but for all of Spain. All of Europe if they want, but of course we specialize here.”
“What kind of tours?” Hugo asked.
“Museums, churches, restaurants, sports,” Bhandari said. “It depends entirely on what they want, what their interests are. For example, Leo and I have an interest in antique furniture. We have a lot of tourists who come for that, and we go bargain hunting with them.”
“You buy anything for yourselves?”
“Sometimes, but not to keep.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s half hobby, half business. We buy and resell, sometimes at auction but usually abroad. We have a guy who ships a lot of furniture, old and new, to eastern Europe and Asia.”
“There’s a market for European antiques there?”
“Oh my goodness, yes,” Bhandari said. “It’s a little sad, the poverty those places are enduring, but part of the reason is the incredible wealth of the top echelons of society. And those people, well, they have more money than they know what to do with. They just love antique European furniture, especially the Baroque period. Anyway, that’s more of a sideline for me and Leo, Rubén doesn’t get involved in that side of the business. Actually, I’ve been doing a lot more than Leo, lately.”
“What else?” Hugo pressed.
“Books,” Barsetti said. “Last week I had three people from Japan come in hunting for antique books. People think that Paris is the place to go for those, but there are some incredible bargains to be had here. And it works well because the same guy we use for furniture also helps us crate and ship books.”
“Is he a dealer in them or . . . ?”
Bhandari laughed. “We joke with Gregor all the time, he tells people he’s in the import-export business. I make fun of him because that’s the same cover James Bond uses when he’s spying.”
Hugo smiled. “Suspicious character, is he?”
“Hardly.” Bhandari reached up with one hand over her head, went up on her tiptoes. “He’s this tall and just as round. Like a big bear. You couldn’t imagine anyone less like a spy.”
Hugo thought for a moment. “What’s his name? I have a certain interest in antique books, I might pay him a visit.”
“Gregor Freed, he’s German. Here,” Bhandari dug into her purse. “Take his card, it has his name and address on it. He has a pretty nice store close to the Carrer del Foc, toward the docks.”
Hugo took the card. “You said Rubén Castañeda doesn’t have anything to do with him, or his business?”
“No, I’m not sure Rubén has ever met him, but maybe he did,” Bhandari said. “Not that I can remember, anyway.”
“OK,” Hugo said. “Anything else we need to know about this Gregor Freed?”
“Well, he’s in the flying business,” Barsetti said with a shrug.
“Flying?”
“He’s got one of those terrifyingly small planes, we’re thinking about using him to give air tours of the coast,” the Italian said. “I went up with him once, Nisha did too.”
“How was it?”
Barsetti laughed. “Nisha liked it enough to start taking lessons from him. I liked it so much I threw up in my lap. Amazing that people would pay to do that. Me, I’ll stick to ground level, thank you very much.” He paused for a moment. “What’s all this about?”
“I’m afraid we have bad news,” Hugo said. “A body was discovered at Rubén Castañeda’s apartment today. Murdered. We don’t have a positive identification yet, but we think it’s him. We’re hoping you might be able to help with that.”
Finch and Barsetti stared at Hugo in surprise, and Bhandari covered her mouth, her eyes wide. Barsetti was the first to speak. “What happened?”
“We’re not sure,” Hugo said. “Can you tell me if Rubén was bald, if he wore a wig?”
“No,” Barsetti began, “I don’t think—”
“Yes, he was bald,” Bhandari said. “It was a genetic condition. He didn’t want anyone to know. His wigs were good ones, expensive.”
Hugo put out a hand, and Garcia gave him his phone, the photo pulled up for viewing. “I’m sorry to have to show you this, but it’s a photo of the man we found. Is it Rubén Castañeda?”
Barsetti paled as he looked at the picture, but nodded. “That’s Rubén. My god, who would kill him?”
“That’s what we plan to find out,” Hugo said. “I’m sorry, I know this is a shock to you all. Can we ask you a few more questions?”
“Yes, of course,” Bhandari said, her voice wobbling. “Whatever we can do to help.”
“We’ll also need to take DNA samples to match against any found at his apartment, is that OK with you all?”
The three nodded but said nothing.
Tom cleared his throat. “Can you tell me if you do,” Tom paused for a second, “adult-themed tour packages?”
“Ah, I see.” Bhandari looked up and then away, and Hugo thought there was a flush of embarrassment to her cheeks.
“That was Rubén’s idea,” Barsetti said. “And from a business standpoint, a very good one. I don’t know if you’ve looked at our website, but we changed it recently based on his plan.”
“I did. Seemed sparse,” Hugo said.
“Right, and intentionally so,” Barsetti replied. “If a group of old ladies from London wants a tour of Barcelona’s museums, they won’t want to see on our website that we provide also for a tour of the city’s more seedy destinations. So, by making the website attractive and enticing, but none too detailed, we give ourselves some room. You will see that we encourage people to e-mail us, and that way they can express their needs and desires, and we can help them, whichever end of the spectrum they are on.”
“Great customer service,” Tom said.
“It’s not as . . . well, most of our clients prefer churches and antiques to massage parlors.”
“And probably some like both,” Hugo said.
“Actually, you’re right,” Bhandari said. “And one thing that sets us apart from other companies is the range of things we are willing to help with. That helped us develop a unique customer-service philosophy.” She looked back and forth between them, and Hugo got the sense that she was glad to talk about the business, a momentary distraction from the news about her colleague. “I’ve come to think that in every business you have to have a backup ready. Sometimes people come to us and think they want to do something, see something, and then suddenly they are bored. So you make sure you give the clients what they think they want, but you have something special on standby just in case.” She smiled, a little sheepishly, Hugo thought. “Honestly, the backup can be as much for me, for us, as for the client. If they don’t have a good time, they tend to blame us, even if they’re shown what they ask for. But if we’ve gone out of our way to have something else on tap, they are more appreciative, that we went above and beyond, and so they speak well of us.”
“That makes sense,” Hugo said. “You said there’s a second part to your business, other than tourism.”
“That’s true. As with the founder of this firm, a lot of people who come to Barcelona don’t want to leave. Because we have so many contacts in the city, it made sense that we also start a service where we help those people who’ve fallen in love with the city to find work.” Barsetti shrugged. “Or anyone else.”
“What do you mean ‘anyone else’?” Garcia asked.
Bhandari spoke up. “He means you don’t have to have been here to want to work here. People go to London or Paris, they work in a pub, then they want to travel and work here. We help them find jobs.”
“What do you get out of it?” asked Tom.
“A small finder’s fee,” she replied. “Everyone benefits, everyone’s happy.”
“Those jobs,” Hugo said, “do they include massage parlors and strip clubs?”
“On occasion,” Barsetti said, and he smiled. “What, you think we should be the moral guardians of Barcelona? Of our clients?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Hugo. “Just trying to—”
