Burke ignored the comment and stared out the window. He began reviewing all his conversations with José López and concluded if the Spaniard was involved in a massive food fraud, he was good at hiding it. During their time together, López had been polite, pleasant and interesting, and Burke had enjoyed the time he’d spent with the older man.
And that prompted Burke to think Torres was wrong about López and that the entire investigation might be going in the wrong direction. His head swimming with theories, Burke gave up and looked out the window to see a sign indicating Figueres was 25 km away on the AP-7. They’d be arriving in Dalí’s town in 15 minutes.
He shuddered.
“Let’s review once more what you need to talk to Seῇor López about tonight,” Torres said.
And then she spent five minutes going over the questions she wanted Burke to pursue.
“Will you be listening?” Burke asked.
Torres reached into her black shoulder bag and brought out a small grey box. She opened it and pulled out an orange-and-white lapel pin. She handed it to Burke.
“You need to wear this for the rest of the day, wherever you are,” Torres said. “The pin is actually a high-tech microphone and we’ll use it to record any conversation you have.”
“What’s the pin represent?”
“A campaign promoting bicycle safety.”
Burke picked up the lapel pin and held it close to his eyes. Then he looked at Torres. “A miniature microphone? What am I now, a spy?”
“Without that microphone, we get nothing we can use in a courtroom. If you’re concerned about someone figuring out it’s a mic, I wouldn’t worry. We’re going to have other people wearing the same lapel pins although not with any high-tech equipment. In fact, we have someone giving away the pins in Figueres right now. You’ll be just one of hundreds wearing them. But you’ll be the only one whose pin is a miniature mic.”
“Were you anticipating that you’d need them? And how did you get them made so fast?”
Torres shrugged. “We thought it was a possibility. And when you work with the resources of Interpol, you can get things done quickly.”
Burke attached it over his left shirt pocket. The next task was to ignore it. He didn’t want to talk to López and be looking down at it on a regular basis, wondering if it was working.
“Now here’s something for your ear,” Torres said, pulled out another small box from her shoulder bag.
She opened it and inside was a tiny, grey oval device, half the size of her baby fingernail.
“It’s a receiver. Put it in your ear nice and snug. Once it’s in, twist it slightly to ensure it doesn’t pop out.”
Burke followed her instructions. It took two times before he got it properly lodged in his ear and out of sight. Torres whispered into her mic and Burke could hear her clearly. He wondered if the devices belonged to the Girona police or to Interpol.
Torres’ phone buzzed and she studied it for a few moments. Then she looked at Burke. “It seems the truck driver who died in that accident on the Ebro Delta was originally from Valencia. The first information we received was that he was from Barcelona, but I had my people dig a little deeper.”
“And did he grow up in the same neighbourhood as Chef Andres?”
“Funny you should ask that, Seῇor Burke – and the answer is yes. They were friends back in the day.”
“And did they get into trouble together as well?”
“They did,” Torres said. “And I can see that this is a topic you’ve done some research on.”
Burke shrugged, thinking Chef Andres had called on his old gang to help him solve a few potential problems. For the truck driver, it hadn’t ended well.
“And it appears the trucker’s death wasn’t an accident,” Torres said.
“Really?” said Burke, not surprised.
“When the local police arrived, it seemed it was just an unfortunate accident. A forensics team from Tarragona showed up and confirmed it. End of story. Just another road fatality.”
“But you had doubts when you heard,” Burke suggested.
“I did and so did Officer Ochoa. We did some pushing and got a more in-depth forensics examination.” Torres held up her phone. “And it’s just been confirmed the driver was killed but not in an accident.”
“How did he die?”
Torres shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that’s confidential information and you’re only a civilian.”
“A civilian who’s helping you out,” Burke said, an edge to his voice.
“That’s true, but I still can’t divulge that information to you.”
“And I guess you can’t tell me if you have any idea who killed him.”
“Correct.”
However, Burke had the sense Torres was going to give him enough hints that he could guess. It was a game he’d gone through before with different police. They couldn’t tell him outright, but if he guessed correctly, they were fine with that.
“Did you know he died from a broken neck?” Torres said. “I believe that information might have been reported by the media.”
A broken neck was definitely something that could happen in a truck accident. However, since Torres was saying the death wasn’t accidental, someone had broken the man’s neck.
“Did he have any other injuries?” Burke asked.
“A broken right femur and several broken ribs,” Torres said. “I believe that information might also have been made public.”
“So, if we take away the broken neck, he could have moved but with difficulty,” Burke said. “That would have made it easy for someone to show up, pin him down and snap his neck.”
“An interesting theory, Seῇor Burke. However, as I said before, you’re a civilian and we can’t tell you what occurred.”
“But how could the killer know the truck driver would take that route when the main highway was faster and safer? And why kill the driver?”
“You’re full of questions, Seῇor.”
“Yes, but I’m lacking answers.”
“Maybe you’ll find them later on.”
Burke knew Torres was done, but as the van approached the outskirts of Figueres he kept thinking about the truck incident back on the Ebro Delta.
Whatever had been done to the driver had to be difficult to detect. That made it a professional hit. But why kill the driver? Because the driver had something the killer or killers wanted. And then Burke had a better idea of what had happened.
The driver had detoured to a dark country road to collect smuggled goods brought by boat along the nearby river. He’d got the shipment and then been ambushed by a rival gang who’d somehow found out about the delivery. Or something like that. Goodbye goods, goodbye driver. And when he considered the scenario, Burke wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. It wasn’t that complex. The pieces fit. Sort of.
Promising himself he’d review the theory later, Burke looked out the window as they drove by a small strip mall that looked new. And when the fake taxi started to slow as it approached the Old Town, Burke saw the finish line to the Vuelta stage. It was just a few blocks from Dalἱ’s museum along a wide road and with lots of sidewalk space for spectators, many of whom were already milling about.
Garrido turned onto a side street, took another turn and made it to an entrance limited to Vuelta workers. Burke looked out the front window and saw two tall, husky men staring at the approaching vehicle. They were both dressed in blue jeans and a red polo shirt, the uniform of a Vuelta worker.
“They’re with us,” Torres told Burke. “Police out of Girona.”
Burke thought they looked formidable.
“We’ll leave you here, Seῇor Burke,” Torres said. “Your broadcast booth is just over to the left there.” She pointed and Burke could see the TV network’s large blue-and-white logo on a second-level stage.
As Burke opened the door and put a leg out, Torres grabbed his arm. “Be
natural. Just go about your business as you would normally. We’ll talk again before the evening event, but you might hear from me now and then in your ear.”
“But not during the telecast, Inspector,” Burke said. “That would really screw me up.”
Torres nodded and released Burke’s arm. She left from the other side of the van and started walking away.
Burke got out of the vehicle with Sgt. Martín. Then Garrido backed the van up and drove away.
“Let’s go to your booth,” said Martἱn. “By the way, I’m also able to talk to you in your earpiece. And you can talk to me.”
Burke followed Martín. And so, too, did the two Girona musclemen disguised as Vuelta staffers. When he glanced back, Burke saw two other security staff take over control of the entrance. They didn’t look nearly as dangerous as Martἱn’s pair of flics.
When they reached the broadcast booth, Martἱn and the two burly flics walked away without a word.
Burke went inside the booth and saw Suzanne Godard chatting with Monique Chan while Nico Menard talked on his headphone set with someone, probably the director. Tessier was farther back in the booth, working on his laptop. When he saw Burke, he smiled and gave a thumbs-up.
Just another day in the Vuelta.
Except it wasn’t, Burke thought. Not for him.
Chapter 42
The day’s race wasn’t the most exciting. A breakaway group of six riders escaped early and stayed free, building up a 15-minute advantage at one time. The peloton closed the gap to six minutes and then took it easy. In the end, a Belgian beat the others in a sprint to win.
The crowd at the finish erupted into cheers despite a Spaniard contesting the final 200 metres in vain. To Burke, the atmosphere was like a giant party. Lots of noise, banners, flags, food and beer.
When Nico Menard signed off to end the telecast, Burke sat back. The first part of his day’s work was done. He rated his performance as adequate and was a little surprised he hadn’t lost his focus during the commentary, given the pressure of the evening’s upcoming event.
“So, Paul, what’s next for you?” Nico asked. “Are you coming to the soirée tonight?”
Burke looked at the veteran broadcaster and then at Jules Tessier. Both men were watching him carefully.
“I am. It’ll be my final Vuelta event. Then it’s back to Girona and back home tomorrow,” Burke said. “At least that’s the plan.”
He could see Menard and Tessier suspected he wasn’t telling the entire truth. But neither asked another question and he was grateful for that.
“By the way, do either of you know why the party is tonight and not last night?” Burke asked. “The other events I attended took place on the night before the stage race.”
“I asked that question several days ago and a spokesperson for the Vuelta said the Dalí museum had been booked for last night for more than a year,” Menard said. “The organizers wanted to use the museum because of its fame and unique look, and so they moved it to tonight.”
The door to the booth opened and Godard popped in. Not surprisingly, Monique Chan was behind her.
“Good job today, gentlemen,” said Godard, looking at Burke then Menard and even at Tessier. “It wasn’t the most exciting stage, but you kept the commentary at a high level. And, Jules, your stats were especially helpful today.”
Burke had never heard Godard praise Tessier. Most of the time, she ignored him completely. Now she was looking at him with respect. For his part, Tessier looked surprised, but managed to nod and smile.
“So, we’ll reconvene this evening at the museum,” Godard said. Then she looked at Menard. “Nico, I need to go over a few things for tomorrow so if you’ll hang around here, we can talk.”
Burke and Tessier took that as the signal to leave. Godard, Chan and Menard remained in the booth.
Outside on the street which was still closed to traffic, Tessier turned to Burke. “How are you doing, Paul?”
Burke shrugged as they started to walk toward the gate separating the media from the masses. “I’m a little tired, but I’m feeling better than I expected.”
“And are you really done with everything after tonight?”
“Tonight is the end for me.”
“And you’re feeling safe?”
Burke was surprised by the question, but answered he felt at ease even though it wasn’t true.
“Having a security detail doesn’t worry you?”
Burke saw the young man studying him. “It’s purely precautionary,” he replied.
Tessier nodded, but didn’t say anything.
As they approached the gate, Felipe Garrido appeared. He was sipping some kind of drink and looking like he was just wandering about enjoying the day. Burke thought if anyone was watching, they wouldn’t figure Garrido was anyone’s bodyguard despite his burly build.
Burke looked at Tessier. He thought the statistician might recall Garrido from the drive to Girona, but wouldn’t know what Garrido’s real job was.
“What a race!” Garrido said in French with a grin, clearly playing a role.
“Not bad at all,” Burke lied.
Before Tessier could say anything, Garrido leaned close to him and said, “I’m not really a chauffeur. I’m with the police as Monsieur Burke can tell you. Just play along.”
Tessier nodded.
Burke glanced about. A handful of TV media workers were busy hauling gear and not paying attention to Burke’s conversation with Garrido. Beyond the gate, a dozen people milled about, chatting and looking about. Again, Burke saw no one paying attention to him, Garrido and Tessier. They were invisible. Maybe.
Garrido took a step closer to Burke, “We’ll leave in another minute or so.” He looked at Tessier. “You should come as well, Monsieur.”
Tessier nodded again. He didn’t looked surprised and Burke thought how quickly the young man adapted to different situations. Tessier was impressive.
They stood chatting about the race for another minute and then they strolled through the exit. No one watched them go and no one followed. Or so Burke thought.
Garrido led them to the taxi van and they all got in with Tessier sitting in the back. Then Garrido slowly drove away. As the van picked up speed, Burke heard the flic say, “Copy.”
That’s when Burke knew Garrido was communicating with someone else, probably Inspector Torres.
“We’re going to your hotel, Monsieur Tessier,” Garrido said.
And then Garrido told Tessier what was happening although he left out some of the details involving José López. Tessier didn’t ask any questions, just listened.
Burke believed the police had been monitoring Tessier’s activities as well. And they’d probably done so for a few days. Maybe they’d even hacked into Tessier’s laptop although Burke expected Tessier as a computer whiz would make that difficult for anyone to do. Whatever they’d heard or found, the police trusted Jules Tessier.
When they reached Tessier’s hotel, Inspector Torres and Sgt. Martín met them in the small lobby. A handful of others were checking in, but Burke didn’t recognize them and noticed they didn’t pay any attention to him, Tessier and Garrido.
“You’re checked in, Monsieur Tessier,” said Torres, telling him the room number and handing him the key card to his room. “It’s on the second floor. Let’s go up.”
She led them to the nearby elevator and then to the room which consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom and a small sitting area.
“You can get settled, Monsieur Tessier, while we talk to Monsieur Burke.”
Tessier took the hint and hauled his bag into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Burke sat in a corner chair and waited. All he wanted was to return to Girona and catch a plane for home.
Torres sat on the couch opposite Burke while Martín took a chair by the window. Garrido stood near the front door.
“Besides the questions we reviewed before, I want you to talk to López abo
ut something else,” Torres said in a quiet voice. “I want you to ask him about his relationship with Tim Fritz.”
“Fritz? Is he mixed up in all of this? Did you just find something out?”
Torres ignored Burke’s questions and pointed a finger at him. “I need you to be conversational and ask how long López has known Fritz, what he thinks of him, just general things.”
“You believe Fritz is involved?” Burke said.
“Just do what I’m telling you to do.”
Up to that moment, he’d only thought of the American as a successful magazine publisher who liked Europe and who wanted to use Chef Andres for some guest columns in his lifestyle magazines. Burke couldn’t see Fritz being involved in a large-scale criminal enterprise; he didn’t seem the type. And yet something had happened to put Fritz onto the police’s radar.
Burke noticed Torres exchanging a glance with Martín.
“There are a lot of people connected to the organization behind this food-fraud scheme and we’re looking at several individuals,” Torres finally said. “Tim Fritz is one of them. That is not, however, for public notice.”
Burke could tell Torres had more information about Fritz, but wouldn’t share it. He wasn’t surprised. She was a flic and he was just someone who’d stumbled into the investigation.
“And what about Wendy Klassen?” Burke said. “If he’s involved, wouldn’t she know?”
“Good question. However, it’s often true the spouse has no idea about what’s been happening.”
There was a moment of silence and then Torres said, “So, do you understand what I’m asking you to do, Monsieur?”
Burke nodded. “I just hope I don’t look overly interested or anxious.”
“Just be curious, nothing more.”
Burke’s stomach started to churn. He hadn’t signed up for any of this.
“Remember, Monsieur Burke, we need you to remain calm,” Torres added.
Too late for that, Burke thought.
Chapter 43
Three hours later, Burke and Tessier walked into the courtyard of the cube-like Dalí museum. It was jammed with at least 200 people, most of them dressed casually, holding glasses of cava and chatting with a positive energy that filled the room.
Silenced in Spain Page 20