by Mark Pryor
Hugo let him finish his mouthful and helped himself to a lump of Manchego cheese and a slice of apple. He’d lost some of his appetite, though not because of the discussion or even the gruesome scene this morning. He could feel the excitement rising, the thrill of the chase that he always experienced when on the hunt for a killer. The sensation came with guilt, of course—there was no reason he should be enjoying any aspect of a man’s demise—but he knew, too, that it was unavoidable, innate. Hugo liked chasing bad guys, and he liked even more when he caught them.
“‘Problem,’” Tom prompted when Garcia finished his bite and took a sip of wine. “You were saying?”
“Ah, yes,” Garcia nodded. “Castañeda’s sister. When we notify family of a death, we send an officer and a grief counselor. We did that this time—they just finished—and ran into a bit of an issue at the convent.”
“And that was?” Tom asked.
“It’s not one of those open places where tourists wander around, admiring the manicured lawns and stained-glass windows. It’s a closed convent. The nuns don’t come out, and no one else goes in. The police officer was a man, and she refused to see him, would only talk to the female counselor. And even then, the mother superior or whoever she was sat in and basically ran the discussion.”
“So no return visits?” Hugo guessed.
“Apparently not. The news was delivered, and our presence is no longer appreciated there.” Garcia leaned over the table and offered a plate of small fish to Hugo. “Try these sardines. I don’t know how he does it, but you won’t taste better anywhere.”
Hugo picked up a strip of the fish meat with his fingertips and popped it into his mouth. A little smoky, a hint of garlic, and maybe lemon? Garcia was right, though, it was fantastic. Hugo helped himself to another sardine strip and sat back, savoring the flavors and thinking about Rubén Castañeda’s tucked-away sister.
“Do those nuns come out of the convent to do charity work?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” Garcia said. “The only time they venture out is to go to the market to buy fresh meat and vegetables. Apparently that’s Lizeth Castañeda’s job.”
“How do you know?”
“My officer and the counselor arrived at the convent just as they were getting back. That was part of the problem: they tried talking to her without permission.”
“That’s how we talk to her, then,” Tom said.
Hugo nodded in agreement.
“Did you not hear what I just said?” Garcia looked back and forth between the Americans. “She’s not allowed to talk to you, we’re not allowed to talk to her, and she’ll have someone with her at all times.”
“You give up too easily, Chief Inspector,” Hugo said with a smile.
“No, but I can’t see why we’d want to antagonize a convent when we have no reason to think the woman knows anything. I mean, if she’s closeted away from the world, she’s probably not even seen her brother for years.”
“You might be right, but we need to find out, don’t we?” Hugo said.
“I don’t know,” Garcia frowned. “Look, I’m a policeman first and foremost, which means I want to solve this murder as much as you do. But part of this job is observing the rights of innocents caught up in crime, respecting their wishes. Especially the victims, which she is.”
“I’ve never met the relative of a victim who didn’t want their loved one’s murderer brought to justice. Unless they did it, of course.”
“Hey,” Tom laughed, “anything’s possible.”
“That’s true,” Hugo said. “But unlikely in this case. My point is that we need to talk to her, and she’d probably like to help us.”
“Those nuns wouldn’t give you the time of day, assuming you knew how to ask for it in Spanish,” Garcia said.
“Yes, not speaking Spanish adds a layer of difficulty over and above us being men,” Hugo conceded. A thought struck him, and he pulled out his phone. He called up his list of contacts and pressed one.
“Who are you calling?” Tom asked.
“Yes, who?” Garcia echoed. “Before you take an action, we should talk about this.”
Hugo held up a quieting finger as his call went to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I think we found a way you can help, so give me a call as soon as you get into Barcelona.” He put his phone away. “Some outside help is on the way.”
“Who?” Garcia asked.
“His girlfriend,” Tom said. “Rich Parisian chick who speaks about fifteen languages and is very good at interviewing people. She’s way out of his league and I have no idea what she sees in him, but there you have it. Some people are just lucky.”
“Yes, some certainly are.” Garcia smiled and put his hand on Hugo’s shoulder. “However, some are not. She may seem a little distant, but I can assure you that Señorita Silva will be most disappointed to hear you have a lady friend.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The plan was simple, if a little crude.
Tom had suggested it, his adaptation of a criminal’s scheme he’d learned at the international airport in Cali, Colombia. Learned, he explained sheepishly, because he’d been on the receiving end.
On Tuesday morning, Hugo followed Lizeth Castañeda from the convent, the long walk down to La Rambla via minor streets, two women in habits with their heads down and, it seemed to Hugo, not even talking to each other.
Garcia had briefed Hugo, Tom, and Claudia, but only about the building. He continued to insist that the Barcelona police should not get involved in harassing a nun, when that nun had already made it clear that she did not want to be bothered. Especially when the nun in question was the closest living relative to the murder victim. Bad press every which way, he’d explained, and he was high enough in the food chain to worry about that sort of thing.
Hugo moved closer to the shrouded figures as they neared the Mercat de Sant Josep de la Bosqueria, referred to by most as La Bosqueria. First mentioned in 1217, but officially open and operating on the west edge of La Rambla since the mid-1800s, this market had long been one of the city’s major tourist attractions. And its proximity to the always-packed La Rambla meant that Hugo needed to stay close, or risk losing them.
He took out his cell phone while he was still well out of earshot and called Claudia. “Are you in position?”
“This is very exciting, Hugo,” she said. “I feel like I’m a spy on a secret operation.”
Hugo couldn’t help but smile. “If you were a spy on a secret operation, you wouldn’t have said that. Can I assume you’re where you’re supposed to be?”
“In the restroom, yes. And Tom’s ready with his hot dog when you are.”
“I’ll let the phrasing of that statement pass this time,” Hugo said. “And a hot dog, really? Why would he choose a hot dog? We’re in Spain. They have food here, better food.”
“Oh, Hugo, you guys are adorable together.”
“Hush. OK, I better disappear, we’re headed into the market and I’ll need to get close. See you on the other side.”
“Ten-four, roger and out.” A pause. “Isn’t that what spies say?”
“I very much doubt it, my dear.”
She laughed and it made his heart skip a beat. “Bien, mon cheri. See you soon.”
He disconnected and dialed Tom. “Ready?”
“Always, my friend. You here?”
“Yes. A hot dog?”
“That girl’s a snitch.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Hey, I could be using wine for this. Be glad it’s a fucking hot dog.”
“Fine,” said Hugo. “It’s alcohol-free, right?”
“Funny. Where are you?”
“Passing a row of octopuses.” The smell rolled up to him like a bank of fog, not entirely unpleasant but not an odor you’d want seeping into your clothes. Movement caught his eye, and he looked at the merchandise on display. “Damn, they’re so fresh, some of them are still moving.”
“Try a sample.”
“Yeah, I would,” Hugo said as he hurried past the end of the stall, “but I’m working. OK, now I’m getting close behind them, so I’ll hang up. We’ll be with you soon.”
Hugo kept the nuns directly in front of him, one stall ahead. It was both a great and terrible place to follow someone. As long as they had no idea, it was perfect. The bustle of people, the shouts of the stall owners, the rising flavors of the cheese and smoked-meat vendors, and the bright colors of the food and other wares all combined to assault the senses, create so many distractions that a man strolling casually through the market would never draw anyone’s notice. In that way, perfect. If they got suspicious, though, a quick jaunt to the left or right, and they’d be gone. Nuns, Hugo hoped, wouldn’t operate under the assumption that they were being tailed. Even so, when they paused, he did too, and when they stopped, he stopped. Every time they moved on, he scanned the crowd over their shoulders looking for Tom, and the rest rooms.
Finally he saw his friend, loitering at a fishmonger’s stall right beside the toilets. Lizeth and her companion moved toward him, stuffing cabbages into an already-full bag, and then stopped to inspect the catches of the day. Tom turned toward the two women, a hot dog in one hand, a squeeze bottle of ketchup in the other. Hugo recognized a look he’d seen his friend wear before, the broad grin on a guileless, vacuous face. The dumb American tourist.
Nothing like reinforcing stereotypes while on an operation, Hugo thought.
Hugo himself moved closer and put his hand in his pocket. He caught Tom’s eye and nodded. Two things happened at precisely the same moment. First, Hugo stumbled toward the nuns, pulling his hands from his pockets and scattering several hundred Euros on the concrete floor, crying out as he hit the ground to make sure the companion nun, closest to him, couldn’t help but notice and felt compelled to help. The second was that Tom broadened his stupid grin and squirted ketchup the length of his hot dog, but not stopping when he got to the end, aiming a steady stream of the sauce at Lizeth Castañeda’s pristine habit.
Her squeal was lost in the melee of people trying to help Hugo, and for several seconds she stood stock-still, staring at Tom as if by willing it she could undo the slowly-spreading stain on her clothing. Tom didn’t wait; he grabbed a handful of napkins and apologized profusely, pointing straight to the bathrooms behind them.
Sister Lizeth looked toward her companion and gestured over her shoulder before scurrying into the women’s restroom by herself, just as Tom, Hugo, and Claudia had intended.
As soon as Sister Lizeth stepped through the door, Claudia emerged from a stall. She drifted past the main door and locked it as subtly as she could, flinching at the loud clunk. But when she glanced over to the sinks, the nun was frantically scrubbing away at her habit with wet napkins, oblivious to anything but the ketchup.
Claudia took a deep breath and moved closer, rehearsing her lines in Spanish as she had been ever since the plan was devised. She was all but fluent, just as she was in English, German, and, of course, her native French, but she was also an experienced journalist, which meant knowing which questions you needed to ask first. Most interviews weren’t started in order to get answers but to gain trust. And, here, Claudia knew she had about ten seconds to do that.
“Hola,” she said, and she got a quick, shy smile in return. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you some quick questions.”
“Oh, we have a website, I can give you the address.”
“No, Sister Lizeth, it’s about your brother. I’m a friend of his.” A slight stretch, she thought, but true in spirit.
The nun stopped scrubbing at her clothes, and her eyes flicked toward the door, then back to Claudia. “You’re a friend of Rubén?”
“Kind of. I’m working with the people who are trying to solve his murder.”
“The police.”
“Yes. And some Americans.”
“Really? Why Americans?”
“There is a girl missing. The last time she was seen, she was with your brother.”
“I don’t understand. My brother was in America?”
“No,” Claudia said. “She and your brother were in Paris. The men I’m working with are from the embassy there.”
“But Rubén wouldn’t . . . I mean, they don’t think he did anything to her, do they? It’s not possible, not Rubén.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. We need to find the girl and clear his name.”
Sister Lizeth glanced at the door again. “But I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.”
“I may have accidentally locked it,” Claudia said with a smile. “But we only have a few minutes.”
“You give me your word you’re here to help him?”
“I can promise that I’m here to find the truth. If you believe him innocent, you should talk to me.”
Sister Castañeda hesitated for a few seconds. “What do you want to know?”
“When did you last see him?”
“Not for several months. We are allowed to talk on the telephone sometimes, but I haven’t seen him since earlier this year.” She shifted from foot to foot as she spoke, and her eyes slid away from Claudia’s face.
Claudia wished Hugo were here. He would have spotted the attempt at deception, of course, but he would have known how best to handle this woman. His way with people, the honesty he exuded, always put people at ease. Even this timid nun, Claudia was sure, would tell him what she knew in a heartbeat. But he wasn’t here, and instead he’d trusted her with getting at the truth. She felt a sudden rush of affection for the man who’d waited patiently for her, the handsome American she’d kept at arm’s length for . . . too long?
She put him out of her mind and forged on. “Lizeth, please. You’re not a good liar, which is a good thing, given your chosen way of life. I promise you, if Rubén did nothing wrong, we will clear his name. If that girl is found dead, he’ll be called a murderer. Maybe he is one, I don’t know, but if not we can’t help him unless you tell me whatever it is you’re trying to hide.”
Sister Lizeth’s head dropped. “I saw him a week ago. I could only talk to him for a minute or so. He came to the convent, and they wouldn’t let us be together long. But he gave me an envelope.”
“What was in it?”
“A plastic card and a small key.”
“The card, was it like a credit card?”
“No, I think it’s a key card. Like to get into a hotel room.”
“Do you know which hotel?”
“No.”
“And the key? Do you know what that’s for?”
“I don’t. I’m sorry. But he said he wrote an address on the inside of the envelope.”
“What were you supposed to do with it?”
She shrugged. “He said that if anything happened to him, I should go to the address, or if I couldn’t go myself, I should call the police. That was all he said, all he had time to say. And he passed me the envelope when no one was watching.”
“How was he acting, his demeanor?”
“He seemed fine. The things I’m saying make it sound like he was being sneaky or desperate, but he wasn’t at all. It was like we were kids again and this was our fun little secret.”
“What did he think might happen to him?”
“I don’t know, but the way he said it, it wasn’t like he was in any danger. More like, ‘If I get hit by lightning or kidnapped by aliens.’ Like the idea of something actually happening was silly, but this was just in case. He was smiling, happy.”
“He didn’t say anything about a girl called Amy?”
“Like I told you, we didn’t really get a chance to talk.”
“Did you go to the address in the envelope?”
“No. I mean, I didn’t know anything had happened to him until yesterday, and I got scared, so I didn’t even tell the police. I didn’t know about this missing girl. Do you think it has something to do with that?”
“I don’t know, but I think we should find out.
”
They both turned as the handle to the restroom door rattled. They stayed quiet, but a confident fist knocked on the door.
“I should go,” Sister Lizeth said.
“Wait—the envelope. Do you have it?”
“Not with me, no. It’s in my room at the convent.”
“The police will need it.”
“Of course, but . . . if my people know I had it, I will get in trouble.”
Claudia stepped forward and put a hand on her arm. “When do you come back here?”
A second knock, this time louder.
“I can say I forgot something and come back this afternoon. I won’t be alone, but we could meet here. I could give you the envelope the way Rubén gave it to me.”
“Good idea. Four o’clock right here?”
Sister Lizeth nodded, and Claudia gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Then I better unlock that door and let your watchdog in.”
“Don’t say that.” Sister Lizeth was trying not to smile. “She’s really very nice.”
Claudia went to the door and flicked the lock, then pulled the door open. She smiled at the nun on the other side and said with a smile, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I’d locked it.” She breezed past the anxious woman and headed back into the busy market. She found Tom and Hugo at a juice stand.
“Buy me a drink,” she said to Tom with a wink.
“They say there’s a first time for everything,” Hugo said. “You never know, but it doesn’t seem likely.”
“How is it you’ll pay for a woman but not buy her a drink?” Claudia asked. She loved this about her two American friends, the way she could team up with one to poke fun at the other.
“First of all,” Tom began pompously, “I will point out that I’ve not hired a lady of the night in months. That you can prove. Second, please note that whenever possible, I stick you or Hugo with the bill, so it’s not like I’m thrilled at paying for anything.”
“You do have a talent for sticking me with all manner of bills,” Hugo agreed.
“I’m not finished. Third of all, paying directly for services seems far more honest than paying for drinks when the outcome is uncertain. One is an honest trade, the other a risky gamble.” He gave his friends a grin. “Think of it as a matter of principle, that I don’t like to gamble.”
