by Mark Pryor
“Right. Principle,” Hugo said. He turned to Claudia. “How did you get on?”
“Very well; I think you’ll be proud of your little spy.”
Hugo laughed, “I told you, it’s not spying when you talk about it like that.”
“Anyway,” Claudia continued. “It worked perfectly and she was willing to talk to me. I mean, she doesn’t seem to know much, but about a week ago her brother went to see her. He gave her an envelope.”
“A letter?” Hugo asked.
“No, she said it had a key card and a regular key in it. She doesn’t know what the keys are for exactly, but he wrote an address on the inside of the envelope.”
“Why would he do that?” Tom asked.
“He told her to go to the address or give it to the police if something happened to him.”
“Then why didn’t she?” Tom pressed.
“Partly because she’s not had much time to do anything, but mostly because she was scared. She seems pretty timid by nature.”
“Where is the envelope now?” Hugo asked.
“At the convent, but she’s bringing it back here this afternoon. I’m meeting her in the restroom at four, and she’ll give it to me then.”
“Why can’t we just swing by the convent and get it?” said Tom. “I mean, it’s potentially evidence in a murder case, and so I’m pretty sure the police can bust their way in there and take it if they want to.”
“She thinks she’ll be in trouble for having it, for accepting it from her brother and then not turning it over immediately.”
“I think we can cut her some slack,” Hugo said. “By the time the Barcelona police get a search warrant and get organized, it won’t be much before four.” He turned to Claudia. “Good job for getting her to tell you about it. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be, it’s what I do for a living.” She gave him a wink. “Natural-born spy is what I am.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hugo looked at his watch and said, “I need to check in with Bartoli; we’re supposed to go through Castañeda’s apartment this morning. Tom, you coming?”
Tom shook his head and mumbled about needing to “check in at the office,” which Hugo took to mean either his friend needed a nap, wanted a drink, or had to account for his use of the CIA’s apartment. He hoped it was the first or third option, and he was uneasy about letting Tom disappear on his own for any length of time. But he had work to do Time was ticking away too fast in the search for Amy, and babysitting Tom couldn’t be a priority right now.
The three of them agreed to meet back at the market at three thirty and, when he took his leave, Hugo bent to kiss Claudia on the cheek. She was staying there to meet a local reporter for lunch because, even though they’d agreed not to go public about Amy’s disappearance yet, they needed to be ready in case that plan changed. He was surprised when Claudia turned her face and met his lips with hers, a kiss that lingered and let him know that she was there to do more than just help him find his missing friend.
Tom, of course, couldn’t let that go unnoticed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “Get a room.”
“I have one,” Claudia said sweetly. “It’s just a matter of using it.”
“Yeah, well,” Tom said. “Be careful, you’re on foreign soil and there’s more competition here.”
She cocked an eyebrow at Hugo. “Competition? You didn’t mention that.”
“A slinky cop called Grace Silva. Keep an eye on her,” Tom said. “Or maybe on him.”
“Is that right?” Claudia asked with a smile.
Hugo shrugged. “I disagree about Officer Silva, I got no sense of anything from her but professionalism.”
“That’s your insensitivity, not her lack of signaling,” Tom said.
“Whatever it is,” Hugo said. “I don’t have time for it. I’ll fill you guys in when we meet later. And Tom. Stay out of trouble in the meantime.”
Chief Inspector Garcia was waiting for Hugo in his police car, the engine running and the radio on. He switched both off and climbed out when he saw Hugo approaching.
“How did it go this morning?” Garcia asked.
“A nun got covered in tomato sauce, just as planned.” Hugo filled him in about the meeting between Claudia and Sister Lizeth. Garcia listened intently, grunting occasionally, and raising both eyebrows when he heard about the envelope.
“She did very well, your friend,” Garcia said when he’d finished.
“Smart woman,” Hugo agreed, letting his mind linger, just for a second, on some of her other talents.
“Bueno, the crime-scene people have given us the go-ahead to go through the place.”
“Who supervised them when they were here?”
“I put my best officer on it.”
Hugo smiled. “Officer Grace Emanuelle Cruz Silva?”
“Precisely. Oh, and she gave me a sketch of the layout—thought we might find it useful.”
He gave Hugo a sheet of paper from a file on the dashboard. Thin black lines showed the rectangular shape of the apartment, the entryway that led into the main living space, and the kitchen at the back. “That space between the kitchen and the bathroom, that’s the pantry?”
“Where our killer escaped, yes.”
“It’s possible he hid in there when Bart came in, cut himself breaking the window and getting out, maybe when Bart was in the bathroom with the body.”
“Your friend doesn’t remember hearing glass break. I think it more likely the killer, assuming not your friend, left a car or motorcycle in the alleyway behind the apartment. He couldn’t risk coming out the front door, covered in blood.”
“How is Bart?”
“Cooperating, amid the angry outbursts. He’s not making this easy, for himself or us.”
“He’s terrified for his daughter, Bartoli, surely you understand that.”
“I know. But there’s something you must understand. Him too. Nobody likes to admit it, but we have to consider the likelihood that we’re now looking for another body, not a missing girl. Whether it’s a serial killer or someone selling human organs, it doesn’t look very hopeful.”
“All the more reason to get on with the search,” Hugo said.
They pulled on surgical gloves, and Bartoli pulled off the police tape that was stretched across the front door and let them in with a key.
They searched methodically, Hugo aware he was going behind Garcia, making sure he’d not missed anything. When he worked with Tom, he didn’t have to, didn’t feel the need; but with any other cop in the world, Hugo had to be sure. He started with a desk that sat opposite the door, looking at each paper and receipt, hoping something would leap out at him. Around him, the apartment smelled musty, the damp that comes with old buildings made of stone and plaster, but light filtered in from the front window, and the place seemed tidy, well-kept. When he got to the fridge, he wrinkled his nose; old milk and something else that had soured.
Hugo paused at the door to the bathroom, the crime scene itself. The door was shut, and he pushed it open gently, as if showing respect to a room that had itself been violated. He stood in the doorway, looking in, with Garcia right behind him.
Two thick swirls of red stretched across the tiled floor, with spatter on the underside of the sink and on one wall but, considering the butchery that had taken place in the room, it was relatively clean. Even so, the smell of dried blood rose up and hit Hugo like a wave, and he almost retched. He felt a tap on his shoulder. Garcia wore a blue, cloth mask over his nose and mouth, and he offered one to Hugo, who nodded gratefully and quickly put it on. The thick cloth was scented with peppermint, a heavenly escape from the stench of decaying matter.
He raised his voice and spoke slowly. “What did the crime-scene people take from here, do you know?”
Garcia pulled out his phone and tapped on it. “We keep our files electronically. I can access the police and forensic reports from anywhere. You have to love technology. Ah, here. Three towels, the shower cu
rtain, razor, nail scissors, open box of condoms, and lots of fingerprints, which I’m sure they’re working on right now.”
“So everything else is untouched, unmoved?”
“Of course. They would take what they thought might be evidence, or lead to evidence, and leave everything else as it was.”
Hugo stepped carefully into the bathroom and looked at the tub, to his left. It, too, looked relatively clean. He stepped in and inspected the shower nozzle, then looked down. “Did your crime-scene people take samples from the drain?” he asked.
“There was nothing like that on the list, no.”
“Then they need to get back here and do that. Whoever killed him may have washed off in the shower. There could be trace evidence in there. Hair, in particular.”
“You mean, the killer showered while standing over a dead, skewered, body?”
“Yes. Have your forensics people check the sink for evidence, too. Otherwise, I think we’re done here.”
Garcia stepped out of the bathroom and pulled off his mask. He dialed a number on his phone and spoke in Spanish. Hugo gleaned that his instructions were being relayed to the crime-scene unit.
“They’ll be here within the hour. Nothing else for them to do?”
“No. Can I look at the list of evidence they collected from the rest of the apartment?”
“Sí, no problem.” Garcia pulled up the list on his phone and handed it to Hugo, who studied it intently.
“Interesting,” Hugo said. “Did he own a car?”
“Yes, it’s been towed to our impound lot. Scroll down, you’ll see what we took from it, which will be everything that was in the vehicle.”
“Why everything?”
“Standard procedure. Not just for evidence but for inventory, to make sure all possessions are catalogued, stored, and returned. The cars we seize sometimes go from place to place, so we like to take everything out to ensure nothing goes missing while it’s in our custody.”
“Ah, yes, here it is.” Hugo read through the list of Castañeda’s possessions, but he didn’t see what he was looking for. “What about his office, at Estruch, did someone go through that?”
“He was working from the little desk in the reception area. He was the new guy and so didn’t get his own office. There should be a document in the file with whatever was taken from there, too.”
“Got it. Basically nothing.”
“Yes? I don’t recall. You used the word ‘interesting,’ a moment ago,” Garcia said. “What were you referring to?”
“Some things that I would have expected us to find, but didn’t. Most notably, a cell phone. It’s not on any of the lists of evidence collected by your people.”
“If they found a phone, they would always collect it. Always. These days there’s all kinds of data on there we can use, people run their lives on them.”
“Yes they do, and that’s why I’d really like to know why no one’s found one.”
“I’ll call Estruch right now and get the number. We can get the phone company to ping it, or triangulate, or whatever they do.”
“Get it and we’ll just try calling it first.” Hugo winked. “Sometimes, the old ways are the quickest.”
Two minutes later, Garcia had the number and was dialing it.
“Should I leave a message?” he asked.
“Just a brief one, saying who you are and to please call back. On the off-chance some innocent has it, we don’t want to scare them away.”
Garcia nodded and put it on speaker so they could both listen in. Hugo kept one ear open for the sound of a phone ringing in the apartment, just in case they’d missed it. But the place remained silent and, wherever it was, Castañeda’s phone rang but went to voicemail. Garcia spoke slowly, in Spanish.
“Habla Bertoli García, inspector en jefe de la policía de Barcelona. Regréseme la llamada en cuanto podáis, por favor.” Then he hung up the phone and looked at Hugo.
“You told whoever it is to call you back?”
“Yes.”
“Time to get your people working on tracking it,” Hugo said.
“Agreed.” Garcia called his office and spoke rapidly in Spanish, reading off the phone number. When he hung up, he said, “A few minutes ago, you said there were ‘things’ you expected to find here. What else?”
“If Rubén gave a key and a key card to his sister for safekeeping, in case something happened to him, you’d think he would have kept copies for himself.”
“So someone took his phone and those keys?”
“Looks like it.”
Garcia looked down as his phone buzzed. “A text,” he said.
“The crime-scene people?” Hugo asked.
“No. And I don’t understand what it means.” Garcia looked up. “All I can tell is, it came from Rubén Castañeda’s phone.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Show me.” Hugo took the phone out of Chief Inspector Garcia’s hand and read the words on the screen.
** huevos y bacon unhygienic
“I don’t get it,” Garcia said.
“Nor do I.” Hugo frowned. “Huevos are eggs, right?”
“Yes. But what does it mean—eggs and bacon are dirty, unsafe? Some sort of code?”
“I guess so.” Hugo studied the words, remembering his training from Quantico, the way he’d been taught to look at not only the literal meanings of the words but also the meaning behind them, the way they were strung together, even the punctuation. Something about the words tugged at him, tempting him to guess and get it right, but he couldn’t.
“Kidnappers?”
“I don’t know. It may not even have been meant for us. Dammit, where’s that track or ping, or whatever it is?”
“It’ll take a while, Hugo. We have a process we have to go through, and it’s only quick if the phone company feels like cooperating. If not, we have to get a search warrant, so it will be an hour at the earliest, three or four if we get resistance.”
Hugo shook his head, frustrated. They couldn’t just sit and wait; even if the phone company took a while, they could still be working. “Let’s go visit our friends at Estruch in the meantime.”
“Very well. Any particular reason?”
“I’d rather talk to each one alone. Last time they were in a group, but if any of them knew anything, they might have been unwilling to say so in front of the others.”
“Good. Who do we start with? They closed their office this morning, after my men produced the warrant and searched Castañeda’s desk, but I have their home addresses.”
“Who’s closest?”
“Leonardo Barsetti. Not even ten minutes.”
They set out on foot, and as they walked Garcia talked about the city, as if his secondary role was as a proud tour guide.
“The Old Town where we are, and where most tourists come to see, has four districts: the Ribera, the Gothic Quarter, Barceloneta, and the Raval. We are going to an area known as the Born, which is part of the Ribera. You should see how it’s changed in just the last ten or fifteen years.”
“For the better?”
“Depends on how much money you have. If a lot, then yes. Shops, restaurants, and a lot of rich foreigners have moved in.”
“Meaning our Señor Barsetti has money?”
Garcia smiled. “There are still a few hovels left, we shall have to wait and see where he lives.”
It was no hovel. The two men stood on the steps of a building that looked as if it were made of marble, four stories high and tended by a doorman in a gray suit who watched them as they craned their necks upward toward the penthouse, where, according to Garcia’s notes, Leonardo Barsetti lived.
“Must be one helluva good tour guide,” Hugo said.
“I was thinking the same thing. Let’s ask how he does it.”
Garcia showed his credentials to the doorman, who instantly became less suspicious and more curious. He watched them all the way to the elevator, and Hugo had the impression that as soon as the doo
rs curtained shut, the man would be on the house phone to Barsetti, to let him know and maybe hope for a crumb of information about why the police were in his building.
The elevator opened into a foyer opposite two large wooden doors. Garcia knocked, and a moment later they swung inward, but not all the way open. They were being held by a striking woman who was, Hugo guessed, in her late sixties. She had silver hair and wore a light-blue cardigan over a cream blouse and a slightly formal gray skirt. Barsetti had looked to be around fifty, and Hugo wondered if he lived with his mother.
She spoke in Spanish, and Hugo caught only the word “policía,” which indicated that the doorman had indeed called ahead. Garcia replied, showing his credentials again and gesturing once to Hugo.
“American?” she said in English. “How charming. Come in, please.”
She shook hands with both men and led them into a large sitting room, gesturing for Hugo and Chief Inspector Garcia to share the sofa. As he sat, Hugo admired the apartment, its parquet floor crisscrossed with worn but expensive-looking rugs, the mix of heavy and delicate furnishings. There was something warm, too, about the wood paneling of the walls that kept the place a certain shade of gloomy, and yet this was counterbalanced by the large windows that looked out over the street below, welcoming in the bright Barcelona light. She sat delicately on the edge of a chaise lounge, knees together and hands clasped on her lap, as if she were trained to listen politely to anyone who came in. Hugo noticed now that she was wearing makeup, a touch of lipstick and some rouge on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Rosario Figueroa,” she said. She held Hugo’s eye as if expecting a reaction to her next words. “I am Leonardo’s wife.”
“I’m Hugo Marston, working with the chief inspector on this case,” Hugo said. “Thank you for seeing us.”
She smiled, just a little. “You thought I was his mother, perhaps?”
