by Mark Pryor
“Like what?”
“Like she and Rubén had struck up a relationship just before he died.”
“That’s kind of a big deal.”
“I told her that, and I’m not sure why she’d withheld it.”
“People always lie about sex. Thing is, we know there was only one person in there, and we know neither she nor Barsetti had cuts. That list is getting shorter.”
Grace Silva stuck her head out of the doorway. “Are you coming to help? I’m not sure what we’re looking for.”
Hugo nodded and spoke into the phone. “Gotta go. I’ll call if we find anything.” He followed Silva inside and, once the door had closed behind them, Hugo locked it. “Last time you searched here,” he said, “where did you look?”
“Just Castañeda’s area. That was all we were allowed to do.”
“And you found basically nothing, right?”
“Right. What are we looking for this time?”
“Any tie between Leo and Delia Treviño. Between anyone and Delia Treviño.” Hugo shook his head. “Shoot, anything out of the ordinary, anything at all.”
Silva gave him a tight smile. “Whatever that may be.”
“Yeah, sorry. But that’s the best we can do right now. Why don’t you go over Castañeda’s work area again, see if anything’s different. I’ll start with Barsetti’s office.”
They spent two hours poking through desk drawers and digging through files. An hour into their work, a technology expert showed up to access the Estruch computers to scan them for evidence. The man joined Hugo in Barsetti’s office, but the sharp tapping on the keyboard somehow irritated Hugo, making it hard for him to concentrate. He was looking at a folder containing shipping documents from Gregor Freed, the same bright-green papers he’d seen at the man’s store. He couldn’t help himself but look over the names of the pieces of furniture listed, looking for styles he recognized or even book titles he might know. But it looked like a couple of armoires and storage chests, no books or smaller pieces at all. Curious, he looked to see where the various shipments were sent to, and how often. He pulled out a pen and notepad and scratched down the dates and destinations.
He sat back to think but was interrupted when his cell phone rang. Camille Lerens’s name popped onto the screen.
“Salut, Camille, how’re you?”
“Bien, mon ami. And you?”
“Not good, still can’t find my friend’s daughter, but turned up a couple of bodies in the search.”
“Merde, I’m sorry. I’m not having much more luck here. You know I’m working on the case of that girl you found.”
“You are? Good, I hope you figure out what happened.”
“Well, it wasn’t suicide. We have an eyewitness, saw a man punch her and throw her off a bridge a few miles upstream from where you found her. Haven’t been able to find out who he is yet, or why he wanted her dead.”
“Husband? Boyfriend?”
“Not that we can discover. In fact, she’s from Bulgaria, only been here a couple of weeks, so unless she came here with someone, probably didn’t have either one of those. Although . . .”
“Although what?”
“Well, looks like she was a cocotte.”
“A prostitute? How do you know?”
“We did a rape kit on her body. Multiple profiles.”
“Sounds like you’re probably right.” That poor girl.
“We’re rounding up the usual pimps. That’s our best guess for the guy on the bridge, but so far no luck.”
“You’ll get him. Anything you need from me?”
“Not really, I was just checking in to see how you were doing. We will need a statement when you get back into Paris, but you didn’t see anything the other witnesses didn’t, so there’s no hurry. Although I might also use your help if I don’t have the salaud in handcuffs by the time you get back.”
“Happy to lend a hand, though it’s looking like I’ve lost my touch.”
Lerens paused, then spoke gently but firmly. “You’re the best in the business, Hugo. You’ll find your friend, I know you will.”
They rang off, and Hugo looked down at the shipping folder, a thought drifting through his mind, more like a whisper he couldn’t quite hear. He put the folder back and went into Bhandari’s office and started searching through the filing cabinets. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he pulled out his phone and dialed Tom.
“Hey, it’s Hugo.”
“I knew you’d need me sooner or later. Unless you’re calling for a fucking sandwich, in which case, fuck you.”
“Calm down, Tom, I do need you. I’m afraid we’re going to have to pull a little extrajudicial move here, but we can’t get busted, OK?”
“Sure. Who’s the target?”
“I’ll tell you, but one other thing.” Hugo grinned down the phone. “I’m working with the cops closely enough that if things do go sideways and we’re caught, any evidence will be inadmissible. I’m basically an agent of the Barcelona police, so assuming they have the same kinds of evidence rules we do, that’s not good.”
“Call a lawyer and ask. And then tell me what you’re talking about.”
“No time, we need to do this today, now.”
Silence for a second, then Tom caught on. “Ah, I get it. What you’re telling me, unless I’m much mistaken, is that when you say ‘we’ are about to do something illegal, you actually mean ‘me.’ As in, not you at all.”
“Smart man, Tom.”
“Which means this conversation never happened either.”
“What conversation?” Hugo asked.
“That’s cool, no worries. You’re the one who got us busted last time, anyway. And by a fucking teddy bear. What do you need?”
Hugo took a taxi to Gregor Freed’s shop down near the docks, the sky just starting to dim. The traffic made the journey slow and frustrating, but it gave Hugo time to think. He checked his watch and hoped that Nisha would have had time to get out there and break the news about Leo. Hugo didn’t like to play with people’s emotions, but sometimes people were at their most talkative when they’d had a shock. Not that the guy wasn’t talkative last time, he just didn’t say a whole lot.
Hugo had the money ready to go when the cab pulled up in front of the store. A light burned orange in the window, a relief that the place was still open. Hugo pushed the front door and went into an empty showroom. It smelled of wood polish and dust, like a library for furniture. He wandered between the pieces, his fingers trailing on the smooth, old wood of desks and tables, feeling the cracked leather on the top of an old couch.
“Hello?” he called out. He listened but heard no reply. Maybe talking to Nisha in the office?
He kept walking, a gentle meander through the large room, his eye resting on the old clocks and statuettes that adorned the plainer pieces of furniture. One in particular seemed familiar. It was bronze and had the head of a lion, its lithe body in a crouch, a goat’s head protruding from the beast’s back and with a writhing serpent for a tale. He’d seen it in . . . Florence? He searched his memory for the name of the piece and it came to him quickly, the Chimera of Arezzo, one of the best-known examples of Estruscan art. This was a copy, of course, but a good one and it carried some of the emotion he’d seen in the original. The open mouth of the lion seemed to roar in anguish, not anger, the beast’s sleek body crouching as if to pounce while its own tail writhed and snapped, and the goat’s head stretched and contorted itself as it tried to escape its own bizarre body.
He stopped when his phone rang. It was Tom.
“Mission aborted,” Tom said.
“How come?”
“She’s here.”
That’s what I was afraid of, Hugo thought. “Anyone with her? What’s she doing?”
“I have no idea. I showed up, peeked through a window, and saw her. Want me to knock on the door and ask to borrow some sugar?”
“Probably not.”
“What are you doing?”
“Try
ing to find this Freed guy, at his store. Hoped Nisha Bhandari would be here, too. It’s where she said she was headed.”
“So who’s there?”
“Not sure yet, but the place is unlocked, like it’s open for business.”
“Likely in the crapper. Or getting a sandwich. Oh, hold on. Your little lady is leaving. Want me poke around inside?”
“If you can get in.”
“The Pope’s still Catholic, right?”
“As far as I know. But don’t get caught, and call me when you’re done.”
“Ten-four, little buddy.”
Hugo rang off and moved toward the back of the large store but stopped when he heard a noise. He kept moving toward the sound, which he thought must be coming from the office. It sounded like someone crumpling paper, breaking wood, but as he got closer, Hugo picked up the distinctive smell of smoke. He moved quicker as the noises became louder, the sound of paper and wood burning. He reached the closed door to the office, smoke streaming under and over it, gray tendrils seeping into the main area of the store.
Hugo reached the door and dabbed at the handle to test its heat, pulling away when it burned his fingertips. He moved backward and looked around for a fire extinguisher but didn’t see one, then pulled out his phone. He realized he didn’t know the number for emergency services, so dialed Chief Inspector Garcia, pacing impatiently as he waited for the policeman to pick up.
“Bartoli, it’s Hugo.”
“Hugo, what—”
“I’m at Gregor Freed’s antiques place. It’s going up in flames and I don’t know the number for emergency services.”
“Hold a moment.” The line went quiet, and Hugo stepped away from the office, the heat coming off the door in waves to scorch his forehead and hands, the roar of the flames getting louder by the second. Garcia returned. “Fire trucks on their way—get out of there, Hugo.”
A thought struck him. “The door to the office is closed and the fire just started,” he said.
“So?”
“So there’s a good chance someone is in there, I need to check.”
“Hugo, no! That’s probably an old building, no telling whether it’s structurally sound. The fire might bring it down on top of you, so just get out and let the firemen do their job. They’ll be there in minutes.”
“Thanks.” Hugo slipped off his coat and used the material as a glove between his hand and the door handle. He gave it a turn and shoved it open, stepping back as smoke billowed out over him. He held his breath, covering his mouth and nose anyway, and tried to get into the little office, but the heat was too intense, the smoke too thick. In seconds, his eyes were stinging and he was blinded with his own tears. He backed away, moving quickly into the main showroom, where the smoke was thickening into a choking fog.
He ran to the front door and staggered into the street, coughing his lungs clear and taking deep breaths of fresh, cool air. He wiped a sleeve over his eyes and blinked until he could see straight.
Sirens echoed to him through the streets, and he knew it was a matter of minutes before the whole building would be cordoned off. He broke into a jog, passing the front of the store, looking for a way around to the back. An alley cut to his right, and he headed straight into it. From here, there was no sign that the building was on fire, and Hugo hoped the building wouldn’t go up in flames just yet. His mind worked as he ran, wondering whether the fire was intentional, and if so, who’d started it. And, most important of all, why?
Behind him, the sirens grew louder, and he tried to picture the layout of the store in his mind, figure out where the office might be in relation to where he was. He stepped past a dumpster, narrowly avoiding a puddle of brown water that had pooled over a blocked drain.
He reached a crossroads in the alley, the one he was in split by another that ran left and right. He turned right. Leads right behind the building, my best bet. Thirty yards later, he found the door. He stopped, breathing hard, and held the flat of his hand toward it, recoiling with the heat. The door itself was metal, with no handle or apparent way to open it from the outside. A fire escape, he thought. How ironic.
He moved back the way he’d come, unable to access the building and unsure he wanted to, anyway. The line between bravery and recklessness could be fine, but running into a burning and empty building seemed to be pretty clearly on the reckless side of things.
He made his way to the front of the store at a brisk walk. As he rounded the corner out of the alley, two fire trucks screeched to a halt, their sirens dying as men poured from the flung-open doors, the flashing lights bouncing off the surrounding buildings, where curious faces peered out of windows and half-opened doors. He crossed the street to put some distance between himself and the glass windows in case they splintered, and he kept his eye on the firemen, with their axes and fireproof suits, connecting flat hoses and unhitching equipment like it was a military drill.
He looked down when his phone buzzed. “Hey, Tom, find anything?”
“Nice pad. Ground-floor apartment, chic and modern.”
“Great. Find anything else?”
“Yes and no. Which is to say, she’s gone.”
“I know, you told me she left.”
“I’m not talking about her popping out to the grocery store or getting a manicure. She’s gone.”
“How do you know?” Hugo looked back at the store and saw half a dozen firemen carrying pieces of art from the building, a public service he wasn’t sure firemen would provide everywhere. In his experience, they focused on the fire itself, and if property got damaged in the fighting of it, so be it. He was pleased to see, too, that the contorted lion sculpture, the Chimera of Arezzo, was being cradled to safety. A fireman with an appreciation for art, Hugo thought.
“I found the room she uses as an office. She left a fucking note, man.”
“Tell me it’s not a suicide note.”
“I didn’t touch it, but I took a picture. I think you need to get Garcia and his troops over here.”
“What did it say, Tom? For crying out loud.”
“Well, I’m going from memory here, so don’t quote me. She said she was going to disappear, that if she didn’t, they’d find her and kill her the way they found and killed Rubén Castañeda and Delia Treviño.”
“Who’s ‘they,’ did she say?”
“She sure did, not that it means anything to me. She said the people after her, and please excuse my Spanish here, are Los Matadores. Did I say that right?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
As night fell on the city of Barcelona, the city’s lights came on like sprinkles of snow, sharp flecks of white pricking the dark, a growing flurry until the night itself seemed to recede. Hugo watched from the front seat of the police car speeding him toward Nisha Bhandari’s apartment, the young driver swerving them in and out of traffic, mumbling his apologies to Hugo, who just gave him the thumbs-up. The blue light over their heads flashed off the license plates of the cars in front of them, off the home and store windows, and even the road signs as they cut their way into the Old Town.
Chief Inspector Garcia was waiting for him outside the ground-floor apartment, an electronic tablet tucked under his arm.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Garcia said. “We got an anonymous call from a pay phone nearby that there was someone screaming for help in the apartment.”
“Oh yes?” Hugo feigned surprise.
“Sí, the emergency operator thought perhaps the caller was English or Australian.” Garcia held Hugo’s eye. “Or American.”
“I was fifteen miles away, you know that.”
“And your trouble-making friend?”
“Tom?” Hugo looked around, relieved to see that his friend had obviously anticipated this sort of inquiry and made himself scarce. “Haven’t seen him in hours, no idea where he is.”
“Any reason he’d be here?”
“Can’t think of one.” Hugo gave him a weak smile. “When I see him, I’ll ask.”
&nb
sp; “Maybe give him a call. I’ll need him to tell me himself he didn’t break into her apartment.” Garcia sighed. “Hugo, look, I know every police force does things differently, but I try to do things by the book here, I’ve told you that. If I find out either of you were in that house for some reason, this investigation will be seriously compromised.”
“And I appreciate that. My only interest, though, is getting Amy back, I’ve told you that. As for Tom, I’ll have him come by and talk with you.” Hugo looked over at Bhandari’s apartment. “Did you find anything in there?”
“We’re working on it. So far, just the note I told you about on the phone. As for her, I have people watching the train stations and the airport. Bus stations, too, but no sign of her. You really think she’s in danger?”
“Did your people find anything on Los Matadores?”
“It’s strange,” Garcia said. “We have good gang intelligence officers, and they have no file on this group, no people in custody claiming to be gang members. The inspector in that unit said they’re barely active outside the prisons, and when they are, it’s down south. He had no idea why they’d be up here.” He shrugged. “Maybe expanding territory, but he didn’t know anything about it. He even wondered if it was a foreign gang setting up, using a Spanish name.”
“Yeah, that could happen. We had something like that in Paris a couple of years ago, although it was an old gang coming back to life. These open borders help with all kinds of trade, good and bad.”
“Except we’ve not heard about anything like that here. No increase in drug arrests, overdoses, and our confidential informants aren’t reporting anything new. Like I said, it’s bizarre.”
“What about in the house, just the note?”
“As a matter of fact.” He pulled the tablet out and tapped the screen a few times. “Watch this, but it isn’t pretty.”
Hugo leaned forward and squinted at the screen. “That’s Barsetti,” Hugo said.
“In all his glory,” Garcia said with a grimace.
“Not something I need to be seeing,” Hugo agreed.
“Actually it is. Someone else enters the room any min—”
