by Mark Pryor
“Oh, come now,” Barsetti interrupted, “You Americans just love to moralize and tell others what they can and can’t do. But how many American strippers have I found jobs for? More American girls than English, French, and German combined.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” Hugo said. He softened his tone, wanting to get information from these people, not antagonize them. “And my friend Tom here thanks you for providing the city with English-speaking strippers.”
“Darn tootin’,” said Tom. “Prostitution legal here?”
“Yes and no,” said Garcia. “It was decriminalized in nineteen ninety-five. The criminal code does not address it now, but it does make pimping illegal.”
“Brothels?” Tom pressed.
“That’s where the ‘yes and no’ comes in. It’s not illegal to own a property where prostitution takes place, but one may not hire prostitutes to work there, nor may you gain financially from one who does.”
“Murky waters, eh?” Tom said, then he turned to Barsetti. “So, did you or Mr. Castañeda place any Americans in strip clubs lately?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Barsetti said. “Not for several months. Although, I assume because you’re here, you’re thinking of someone specific. If you tell us who, maybe we can help.”
Hugo showed them the photograph of Amy. Barsetti studied it first, then he passed it to Bhandari. Hugo studied their faces, hoping for some sign, some flash of recognition in their eyes, a tightening of the jaw that might give away a connection between them. He thought maybe there was something with Barsetti, a narrowing of the eyes, but it could just have been that the man was thinking. Bhandari’s expression never changed, nor did Finch’s.
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her. What is this about?”
“She’s missing,” Hugo said. “We know she came to Spain, and we think she was with your colleague in Paris. So you can see why we’re here.”
“Of course,” Barsetti said. “But we don’t get to meet each other’s clients all the time; we’re too busy for that. Perhaps if I could have her name, I can take a look in our database. If Rubén was working with her, she should be in there.”
“Thank you,” Hugo said. When Barsetti stood, Hugo did, too. “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.”
“As you like.”
The two men went to the reception area, and Barsetti squeezed himself behind the desk. He tapped at the keyboard with pudgy forefingers, his brow wrinkled in concentration.
“You can’t do this from your office?” Hugo asked mildly.
“I could, but this is where Rubén sits. Sometimes he leaves things on his desktop instead of uploading them to the database. I can check both from here.” He looked up at Hugo. “You don’t trust me, Señor Marston?”
“I have a curious mind,” Hugo said, with his most innocent smile. “The young lady in the photo is a friend of mine, so I’m a little more curious than I otherwise might be.”
“I see. I’m sorry she’s missing. She was a . . . dancer?”
“Not really. She wanted to be a model. She was in Paris for that reason.”
Barsetti sucked in his cheeks. “I would think that would be very hard, finding model work in Paris. I’m no expert of course but . . . yes, I imagine that would be difficult.”
“I think that’s why she came here, after getting promises of work from your Mr. Castañeda. Do you have any modeling agencies as clients?”
“We do not.” Barsetti leaned into the screen. “Let me see. What is your young lady’s name?”
“Amy Dreiss.”
Barsetti was quiet for a moment as he typed, then he shook his head. “Nothing in the database nor anything on his desktop. I’ll run a search on the hard drive here but . . .” He shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
“Try Amy Denum.”
Barsetti ran the search but shook his head again. “No, sorry.”
Hugo thought for a moment. “Tell me about Rubén Castañeda. Everything you know, please.”
“Yes, of course,” Barsetti said. “Although he and I did not get along, I should tell you that right now. My information may be colored by my personal opinion of him, which is not high.”
“Why didn’t you like him?”
“In my opinion, he was more interested in advancing his own interests, rather than those of our business.”
“In what way?”
“His focus was too much on the sordid side of the business. I admit, it brought in more money than arranging tours of the Gaudi buildings, but even so.” He frowned. “I just thought maybe he was doing it for his own ends, not financial but because he liked being around that stuff.”
“You mean sex.”
“Sí.” He flapped a hand. “Maybe I’m wrong about that. Nisha and I were not the ones who really had those connections, so perhaps it just made sense for Rubén to handle those clients.”
“Maybe. Does he have family in the city?”
“I think his parents are both dead, but I’m not sure. He has a sister, but she’s . . . She’s in a convent.”
“A nun?”
“Correct. At a convent where they’re not very fond of outsiders.”
“That’s OK,” said Hugo. “She may not tell me much, but I’m guessing it’ll be the truth.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They left Garcia’s car parked outside the Estruch building and walked in silence, following the chief inspector, who’d promised them an early, very early by Barcelona standards, meal of tapas. They wound their way through the Old Town, heading west, and Hugo continued to admire the architecture, the tight streets that were wide enough to carry cars but narrow enough to deter them, encouraging bicycle and moped traffic, which in turn seemed to defer to the ambling pedestrians without impatience.
Eventually they reached the avenue called La Rambla, and Hugo was curious to see the city’s most famous boulevard, the one street featured in every brochure and book about the city. He wasn’t disappointed. Tourists and locals jostled with and sidestepped each other as they made their way to the shops and booths that lined the street. At various intervals, performance artists came to life in an instant, dancing to the rattle of coins in their copper pots, costumed and painted to represent any and every creature that the imagination could conjure, aliens and angels, monsters and maidens.
“Hang on to your wallets,” Garcia warned. “We’re at ground zero for pickpockets.”
“I’m not worried,” said Tom.
“You should be,” Garcia bridled. “You may be CIA, but the devils around here will still steal you blind.”
Hugo smiled and shook his head. “I think he’s not worried because he doesn’t carry a wallet. I’m his personal banker.”
“Really?” Garcia looked back and forth between them to see if Hugo was joking. “You don’t mind that?”
“He didn’t say that at all,” Tom said. “It’s just that we have this father-son thing going on.”
“If we did,” Hugo said, “you’d be grounded for life.”
They dodged their way across La Rambla and onto a smaller, darker side street. “This is the part of town foreigners probably don’t want to wander alone at night,” Garcia said. “The thieves here use force rather than stealth. It’s not as bad as it used to be, much better in fact, but even so.”
Again, Hugo noticed how clean the streets were, and even the graffiti reflected the city’s creative reputation. Stick figures in black paint and bold strokes of color flashed on garage doors and pebble-dashed walls, mimicking and celebrating the country’s great artists.
They turned a corner and went up two stone steps into a dingy tapas bar, one of about fifty they’d passed since leaving Estruch. Garcia went straight to the bar and shook hands with the proprietor, a tall, skinny man of about sixty, who nodded his mane of white hair as he pumped Garcia’s hand.
The man said something in Spanish, and Garcia laughed and spoke in English. “Gentlemen, this is Diego Marquez Medina, and he serve
s the finest ham in the city. And he used to teach in Florida, so his English is almost as good.”
“The best ham in the world!” Medina corrected with a laugh. He wiped his hands on a cloth and then leaned over the bar and shook hands with Hugo and Tom.
They took a table at the back, wooden chairs scraping on the stone floor, and Hugo wondered how many meals had been taken on this worn and scratched-up table. Garcia let them sit and said, “Do you mind if I select some dishes? I don’t want you to play it too safe—you should try some of our specialties.”
“Sounds great,” said Hugo.
“Go for it,” said Tom. “What’s the local wine like?”
“No,” Hugo began, “no wine—”
Garcia waved him off. “We’re drinking Rioja tonight, it’s on the way.”
Hugo knew when he was out-maneuvered, and, despite Tom’s jabs at his paternal nature, he also knew it was Tom’s responsibility to save himself from the bottle. Hugo could help, and he would, but Tom had to want it.
As if reading his mind, Tom gave Hugo a serious look. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Just enough to loosen the little grey cells.”
“Ah, perfecto, here it is.” Garcia sat back so the proprietor could lean over the table and deposit a large carafe of red wine and three glasses. Garcia poured a generous helping for each of them, then raised his glass. “To finding Amy.”
“Damn right,” said Tom, and they clinked glasses.
Garcia took a sip and then called Medina over, counting off his fingers as he ticked off plates of food that he wanted. That done, he reached for his glass again and looked at his phone when it rang. Reluctantly, he took a sip and put down the glass. “This I need to take, it’s the chief medical examiner.”
Hugo and Tom sat quietly as Garcia listened. When he hung up, he said, “It’s Castañeda all right. The blood by the pantry window, however, wasn’t his, so I think we can consider this our first and best break. We’re running the DNA now, but it’ll take a day or three.”
“That long?” said Tom. “I can probably get it done quicker if you don’t mind the CIA getting their hands on it.”
Garcia smiled. “I don’t mind in the slightest. But I can guarantee my superiors will very much. Even if I could persuade them, it’d take four days for the paperwork to find its way to the right desks. And then, if there’s a trial, one of your people would have to come testify.”
“Ah yes, they wouldn’t like that too much,” Tom admitted.
“All in all, makes sense to stick with the process,” Garcia said. “But I appreciate the offer. I’m sure we’ll find a use for your skills at some point. You know, if I need to break into someone’s house at night.” Garcia winked to show he’d moved past their dispute, to show that the matter was well and truly closed.
“And the autopsy?” Hugo pressed.
“Yes, that’s where things get interesting. One moment.” Again, Garcia made room for Medina, who carried a large, round tray laden with small plates. He balanced the tray with his left hand and slid the plates onto the table with his right, quick and easy like he was dealing cards.
“What do we have?” Garcia asked him.
Medina tucked the tray under his arm and started pointing. “Iberian ham. Three different types, aged differently. Try each one, you will love them all, but one will be your favorite. There are some apple slices, grapes, and dates to freshen your mouths.”
Hugo’s mouth started to water, his stomach rumbling at the smell of the food. Not just the meat, but garlic and onion and other spices he was too hungry to parse.
“Also,” Medina continued, “the quail you will recognize, but it’s stuffed with foie gras. Potatoes fried in garlic, organic tomatoes in olive oil, fresh fish, of course, and several local cheeses.” Medina paused and studied the table. “Am I missing anything, Bartoli?”
“If you are, mi amigo, we will let you know. Thank you.”
Medina nodded in satisfaction and left them alone. The three men spent a minute loading their plates in silence, Hugo licking his fingers when the leathery Iberian ham stained them with grease. “Oh wow, that’s good,” he said. “Perhaps not so healthy, but very good.”
“You can live long, or you can live well,” Garcia said, and they all paused, reminded of the Spaniard’s brother, a man who’d lived well but who they all wished had lived longer.
Hugo raised his glass. “How about a toast to Raul?”
They chinked glass again and drank in silence. Garcia set his glass down, and said, “We should get to work. The autopsy.”
“You used the word ‘interesting,’” Hugo said. “And just out of curiosity, how was he identified?”
“Dental records,” Garcia replied. “We put in a DNA request, but that’s not come back yet. As for the autopsy, and before I tell you the findings, have you heard of Doctor Cecilia Vazquez?”
“Not me,” said Tom.
Hugo furrowed his brow, thinking. The name was familiar, but it took a moment to place it. “She’s your medical examiner?”
“She is,” Garcia nodded.
“How do you know a Spanish ME?” Tom asked.
“She wrote a paper on a few American serial killers, ways to identify times and causes of death in bodies that had been left in the woods or buried in shallow graves. It was partly about maggots, when they eat flesh, how long it takes, that kind of thing. She’s very good at what she does. And very nice, too.”
“Sounds disgusting,” Tom said, feeding a piece stringy ham into his mouth. “And what do you mean, ‘nice’?”
“We met when she was in the US. She wanted a tour of Quantico, and I wanted to meet her. I was working a case I thought she could help with.”
“Fair enough,” Tom said. “So she did the autopsy.”
“Yes,” Garcia said. “And Hugo’s right, she is very good. With Señor Castañeda, however, she was not entirely sure how he died.”
“What do you mean?” Tom took a swig of wine, his eyes shifting to Hugo, as if guilty.
“Let’s start with the weapon. Turns out it was a banderilla. I’m sorry, I don’t think there’s an English word for it, but it’s the short weapon used in bullfighting to weaken the bull and make it angry.”
“Delightful,” said Tom. “He was killed with one of those?”
“That’s where she’s not sure,” Garcia said. “Because of the force needed, the tightness of the space, and some of the damage to the flesh, she suspects he was stabbed with a smaller weapon and then the banderilla was stuck into him.”
“Gets more and more unpleasant,” Hugo said.
“And weird,” Garcia said. He pulled up a photo on his phone. “What do you make of this?”
Hugo and Tom studied the picture, which looked to be of a wall beside a bathroom mirror. “Crime-scene pic?” Hugo asked.
“Yes,” Garcia replied.
It was a drawing in blood. A hasty drawing, for sure, but definitely not a random pattern from blood spatter or smearing. It was a poorly shaped oval with a diagonal line through it. Two more lines, curved like antennae, appeared above the oval.
“Unless it’s a heart with an arrow through it, I can’t tell what it’s supposed to be,” Hugo said.
“Same here,” Tom said. “Not exactly Picasso.”
“A heart was my guess, too,” Garcia agreed. “And believe it or not, that’s not the weirdest thing about the crime scene. You told me before that you thought there was a lot of blood for just a stab wound.” When Hugo nodded, he went on. “You were right. Whoever killed him also helped themselves to his kidneys.”
“Seriously?” Hugo asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a little different,” Hugo said, exchanging glances with Tom. “And complicates the profile of who we’re looking for.”
“Now you’re confusing me,” Garcia said.
“Well, we all assumed this murder had something to do with Amy’s disappearance. And that may well be the case, but this information opens
up a couple of other possibilities. First, and obviously, is organ trafficking. It could also be a more random murder: a serial killer with a kidney fetish. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or it has to do with Amy, and this is misdirection.”
“I see,” Garcia said. “This may be a big city, but we don’t get many serial killers here. At all.”
“I know. And your most famous one was a woman,” Hugo said.
Garcia’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know about her?”
“It’s his specialty,” Tom said. “He seems very normal, but Hugo does have his creepy side, and it happens to be populated with serial killers.”
Hugo smiled. “I’m just interested in the psychology. And catching them, of course.” He turned to Garcia. “What did Cecy say about how the kidneys were removed?”
“Well, obviously it wasn’t done in the best of circumstances, in terms of reusing them. But she said the poor guy was cut in the places he needed to be, with a few attendant vessels taken, too. There’s no way it was someone randomly hacking them out, she’s sure of that, so whoever it was probably had medical training.”
“How long would that take?” Hugo asked.
“She said in surgery, hours. But if you don’t care about the person you’re operating on, twenty minutes would do.”
“That’s not much time,” Hugo said. “The problem is, if this person is prepared to kill and steal organs, it’s entirely possible he or she is self-trained.”
“What do you mean?” asked Garcia.
“Practice. Kill animals and operate on them. Then graduate to humans. Chances are, if this guy’s been practicing on people, you’d know about it; bodies would have been found. Then again, maybe he’s new to Barcelona.”
“I can try and check other jurisdictions, see what comes up,” Garcia said.
“Good. In the meantime, we should go talk to Castañeda’s sister. We need to learn as much about him as we can.”
“That could be a problem,” Garcia said. He reached for a garlic potato and wrapped it in a wafer-thin slice of ham. He put the whole thing in his mouth and chewed slowly, his eyes closing. “My God, that’s good. So good.”
