by Mark Pryor
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. We need to see if either Castañeda or this woman, when we figure out who she is, have anything to do with bullfighting. Whether they’re supporters, fans, or protesters, whatever. Where and how often do they have it here?”
“Here?” Garcia blinked in surprise. “Oh, you didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Bullfighting is popular in Spain, Mexico, and Colombia . . . other places, too.” He shook his head. “But not here. It has been banned in Catalonia since the beginning of two thousand twelve.”
“Really?”
“It’s very popular in the south, and of course Pamplona has the bull running,” Garcia said. “I think most foreigners have no idea it’s banned here unless they try to go to a fight. Then they get a surprise.”
“Interesting,” said Hugo. “But I’m glad to hear that, it always seemed barbaric to me.”
“And to me. Speaking of barbaric, what do you suggest we do next?”
“I think you need to have a team working specifically on the issue of organ trafficking. I don’t know if it’s a distraction, but it seems like a lot of work to go to, and risk, just for that.”
“I have people who can start looking at that, I’ll call now.”
“Great. In the meantime, I have a phone call to make myself, but I think I’ll need your help with it.”
Hugo sat in the front seat of Garcia’s car and dialed the number the chief inspector had given him.
“This is Hugo Marston, do you speak English?”
“Sí, señor,” said the woman’s voice. “Sorry, I mean, yes sir. We were told to expect your call. You wish to speak with Bart Denum?”
“Yes, please.”
“Un momento, I will put him on. It will take a minute or two.”
“I’ll wait.”
Outside, Grace Silva watched him through the car’s windshield. He’d not seen her arrive, and she was looking at him in a way that made Hugo uncomfortable. Perhaps, he thought, because he watched people the same way, although he tried to do it when they wouldn’t notice. Perhaps she’d been here earlier, seen his response to seeing the victim’s face, and wasn’t used to displays of emotion from her colleagues. In truth, Hugo had surprised himself. Not at the relief he’d felt, but that he’d not been able to mask it, keep it to himself. A straight face was as essential in the FBI as a gun and a badge; anything else was a sign of weakness and would be pounced on by colleagues, if not one’s superiors. Maybe he’d been out of the action for a long time, but Hugo knew it wasn’t weakness. It was coming to this place, coming to Barcelona to find a friend. To save a friend. And all the while, the memory of Ellie hovered close to the surface. A horror story of its own, and one he’d shelved and ignored, waiting for the feelings of loss and sadness to melt away when in reality they’d sat there like a virus, all too ready to attack when he least expected it, was least able to fight back.
“Hugo, is that you?” Bart’s voice was frantic. “They said they found a body, a girl, Jesus please tell me—”
“It’s not her,” Hugo interrupted. “Bart, it wasn’t Amy.” A silence on the line. “Did you hear me? It’s someone else, not Amy.”
A sob from Bart. “Oh my God, thank you, thank you.”
Hugo listened to Bart’s ragged breathing, his mumbles of gratitude, let him gather himself. “Are you doing OK?” Hugo asked.
Bart’s voice was quiet. “I’m locked up, Hugo, so no. But they’ll have to let me go now, right?”
“Yeah, it looks like the same thing.”
“Then they know it wasn’t me—I’ve been here, locked up.”
“Look, I know it wasn’t you. They probably do, too. But they don’t have a solid time of death yet, so it’s still theoretically possible that . . . well, you know.”
“No, I don’t fucking know!” Denum exploded. “Hugo, for fuck’s sake, I have to be out there looking for her, I have to be.”
Hugo kept his voice calm. “I know. I really do. But like every police force they have their procedures, stupid and unnecessary delays that hurt innocent people, but we have to be patient. You have to be patient, and know that I’m out here doing everything in my power to find her. You know I am, Bart, I’m doing everything I can, and the cop I’m working with is good. Very good.”
“He better be, Hugo. Because I’m going nuts over here. And if someone hurts my baby while I’m locked up, there’s gonna be hell to pay. I mean that.”
Hugo didn’t doubt it. “Fair enough. Look, I need to get back to finding her. I’ll talk to Chief Inspector Garcia about your situation, do what I can. And I’m going to find Amy, if you believe anything, believe that.”
“Thanks, Hugo. Please do. And soon.”
Hugo heard voices in the background as someone took the phone from Denum and rang off.
When he climbed out of the car, Grace Silva was waiting for him. “We have an ID on the body.”
“That was quick,” Hugo said.
“Yeah, well, we don’t get many of these, so they tend to be fast-tracked. Anyway, her name is Delia Treviño. Twenty-five years old, from Madrid. Been in Barcelona two years, it looks like. Minor criminal history, a lot of drug-related crimes.”
“Like what?”
“Possessing and selling marijuana and cocaine, prostitution, several theft charges.”
“Nothing violent?”
“No. But when we checked for police involvement, she came up as the victim of several assaults.” Silva frowned. “Always the victim, never the perpetrator.”
“In that line of work, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“It’s sad.”
“Not as sad as the way she ended up. Do you guys have any leads on a black market for human organs in the city? This is the second person whose kidneys were taken.”
“Chief Inspector Garcia is working on that, but I talked to a few people at the station. There are always rumors about this sort of thing, but so far we don’t have anything solid, no ongoing investigations or specific suspicions of it happening here. We’ll canvass all our detectives, tell them to talk to all their informants, but as of right now, nothing. Maybe it’s a new ring here.”
“It could be, but I’m not yet buying it as the motive for these murders.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a tough way to make a living, killing people for their body parts,” Hugo said. “It’s messy at the front end, and unless you’re very practiced at killing people, it’s easy to damage the goods you’re trying to steal. Apart from the fact that, you know, you’re killing a human being. And even if you don’t mind that, there’s a fine line in the way you have to do it. Not damaging the organs is a priority, but if you’re too careful about it, the victim fights back and you wind up dead, injured, or arrested.”
“Not if you catch your victims by surprise or just shoot them in the head.”
“Maybe. We don’t know how our victims died, but they weren’t shot in the head. Anyway, even if you kill them, you then have to remove the organs, which takes skill. You yourself have medical training, from the military. Do you think you could remove someone’s kidneys in a way that would leave them transportable and transplantable?”
“I doubt it.” She shrugged. “Then again, maybe . . . I really don’t know what condition they need to be in.”
“And that’s the other problem. There’s no shortage of people waiting, and presumably willing to pay, but even if you know how to cut them out of someone, you’re going to make a mess, and who’s willing to pay for a kidney sliced out in a storage unit?”
“You’re assuming the recipient knows that. How would they? These people are desperate and I doubt ask too many questions. Even if they knew, I bet most of them would be willing to scrape one off the floor and sew it into themselves if it meant they have a chance to live.”
“I suppose so.”
“And why just the kidneys?” Hugo asked. “Why not the liver as well, or even the heart?”
“You say that like you know how much people are willing to pay.”
“That’s what the Internet is for; I looked it up online. I’m not saying it was a definitive price list, but these figures come from Human Rights Watch, so they won’t be too far off. Anyway, you can sell a liver for around one hundred thousand Euros. Just one kidney sells for twice that.” She smiled. “You have to admit, if someone can collect half a million Euros for a few body parts, ones you can take out in twenty minutes and fit in a sandwich bag, well . . .”
“People have killed for a lot less,” Hugo agreed.
“So it’s still a possibility. But we need to explore that link between Castañeda and Treviño, don’t you think? Find out why he wanted his sister to know about this place. That’s the most important thing.”
“Definitely. And I think I know who we should start with.”
They divided the search. Chief Inspector Garcia went back to Castañeda’s apartment, and Hugo intended to question Leo Barsetti. First, he returned to the CIA pad to look for Tom. The apartment was dark when he got there, and a loud snoring emanated from Tom’s bedroom, giving Hugo mixed feelings of relief that he was safe, and worry that he was drunk. Hugo stepped quietly to the bedroom door, which was half open. He was about to poke his head inside when he heard a voice behind him.
“Well, hello stranger.”
Hugo wheeled around to see Tom grinning at him. “Tom. Then who . . . ?” He jerked a thumb at the bedroom. “That’s a man snoring.”
Tom scooted past Hugo, opened the bedroom door wide, and flicked on the light. He walked over to the bed and picked up his iPod from the side table, poking at the screen and shutting off the snoring.
“You’re a strange man,” Hugo said.
“Not at all. It’s the first place you went when you broke in here.”
“I didn’t break in, I let myself in.”
“Whatever. You and anyone else would’ve headed straight in there and I would’ve snuck up behind them.”
“Expecting intruders, are we?”
“Always.” Tom pushed past him again and started down the hallway to the lounge. “And if you must know, I find the sound of snoring to be quite relaxing.”
“Like I said, you’re a strange man.” They settled into armchairs. “Apart from setting snoring traps and meditating to the sound, what have you been doing? Anything useful?”
“Yes and no. You and your Spanish friends seemed to have everything under control, so I went for a couple glasses of wine, and then did what you suggested: I started following our man Barsetti.” Tom grinned. “Turns out you were right, he is a dirty old man, but it’s not a girlfriend. He has a penchant for strip clubs.”
“That so? Nice work.”
“I’m one helluva cop.”
“Of course you are. And let me guess, once you followed him into one, you couldn’t possibly leave, am I right?”
“Exactly! This undercover gig isn’t as easy as it looks on TV.”
“When did you last see him?”
“About an hour ago, and three blocks away. He was trying to coax a young lady into a private room. Believe it or not, I’d had enough by then. All those boobs and jiggling asses were beginning to lose their glamor.” Tom ran a hand across his face. “Sometimes I think I’m growing up, and it scares me.”
“We live in hope. Address?”
“It’s called Casablanca, walking distance from here.” Tom drew a map on a piece of paper and handed it to Hugo, who stood.
“Not coming with?” Hugo asked.
“Nap time. And like I said before, all those jiggling parts . . . I’m afraid if I overdo it today, I’ll never be able to set foot inside a place like that again.”
“Horror of horrors.”
“No fucking kidding. Next thing you know, I’ll be campaigning to make prostitution illegal.”
“One step at a time, my friend,” Hugo said. “One step at a time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Night had begun to settle over the city when Hugo stepped out of the apartment, into the cobbled alley. He checked the piece of paper Tom had given him, the rough drawing now settled in his mind. He crumpled the paper and dropped it into the next trash can he saw.
A block away, Hugo wrinkled his nose. He’d noticed this several times before, the occasional patches of sewer-smell telling of an ancient system that struggled with modern demands. But he didn’t mind such olfactory intrusions, as they were reminders he was in a place with real history; and for someone born and raised in a more prefab nation, that was just fine. As long as one didn’t linger.
The club sat off a side street of the busy Carrer Nou de la Rambla, a stringy and often shady north-to-south artery leading out of the center of Barcelona. The club itself sat between a juice bar and a store selling anything and everything to do with the Barcelona soccer team, the strip club’s discreet and anonymous entryway watched over by two large gentlemen in black pants, tight white dress shirts, and red bow ties. If it wasn’t for them, Hugo thought, an unsuspecting tourist might just wander under the white-on-black Casablanca sign, looking for a tall glass of champagne and a piano player named Sam, and stagger out traumatized.
Hugo lingered outside, gambling on Barsetti leaving the club soon, if he hadn’t already. Hardly a regular at these places himself, Hugo knew that they got expensive quickly and, from what she’d said before, he was pretty sure the Italian’s wife would be less than happy at him spending her family money on women grinding themselves on his lap. Hugo looked over his shoulder at the two men in the doorway, but they were lost in conversation, paying no mind to anyone, so he stayed there for a moment, watching the exit. After a couple of minutes, he strolled slowly down the narrow street, pausing to look into shop windows like a tourist who had all the time in the world.
Hugo checked his watch and turned toward the club. As he got close, one of the security guys tugged the door open, and the Italian appeared, looking slightly startled and none too steady on his feet, his naturally rosy cheeks positively glowing. Hugo approached him.
“Mr. Barsetti, do you have a moment?”
Barsetti squinted, as if having a hard time recognizing Hugo. When he did, suspicion took over. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Why? How did you know I was here?” His words were slow and a little slurred.
“Lucky guess. There’s a café up the street, can I buy you a coffee?”
Barsetti drew himself up. “I don’t have time.” He looked at his wrist but wore no watch, and the moment seemed to deflate him. “Fine. Coffee would be good.”
They walked along the sidewalk in silence, Barsetti a little unsteady on his feet, and then settled into a quiet corner of the café. “You should know that we spoke to your wife earlier today.”
“My wife? What does she have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, we were looking for you.”
“I have been busy today.” His eyes shifted left then right. That was a tell as far as Hugo was concerned, a sure sign that whatever information Barsetti gave about his day would be either a lie or incomplete.
“No problem. We’ve not had a chance to talk about Rubén Castañeda. I’m curious about what you thought of him.”
“I told you yesterday.”
“You told me some stuff yesterday,” Hugo said. “I was hoping there was more, or that you’d forgotten to mention something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He gave Barsetti a friendly smile. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here, I guess.” The Italian didn’t respond, so Hugo changed tack. “Does Estruch keep a storage unit?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
They stopped talking as a waiter arrived at the table. Barsetti ordered an espresso, Hugo the same. When the waiter left, Hugo said, “A storage unit.
Rubén had the keys to one, gave them to his sister for safekeeping.”
“It must have been his, then. What was in it?”
Hugo ignored the question. “How did you come to work for Estruch?”
“I worked in tourism in Italy. Rome and Florence. I met my wife that way, did you know that?”
“I didn’t, no.”
“She was beautiful. She still is,” he added. A little too hurriedly, Hugo thought. “And, I won’t lie, the fact that she was very wealthy was appealing. Not because I wanted her money; I was young and stupid enough to think I was going to make my own fortune.”
“Is that right?”
Barsetti waved a disparaging hand. “That’s true for every young person. You know anyone in their teens or twenties who plans to grow up to be an office worker, bored out of their mind and waiting for the day they can retire?”
“Point taken. There was money in tourism when you started?”
“I thought there was.” The waiter flitted past, dropping off their little cups as he went. Barsetti stirred a cube of sugar into his and took a sip. Hugo could see the man’s mind turning over, ticking backward a decade or two. “Maybe there would have been anyway, but I suppose you could say there was money in tourism for me.”
“Your wife.”
“Yes, my wife. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Smart man.” Barsetti gazed around the café. “People come to places like this to meet people, get to know members of the opposite sex. Fall in love with them. But love doesn’t last.” He looked down at his coffee cup. “I think perhaps Rubén was right about that.”
“About what exactly?”
“He didn’t do . . . He was something of a philosopher, did you know that?”
“No one has said so, but tell me what you mean.”
“Not in an intellectual way, he wasn’t a great mind or anything. Not by a long way. But he had these views that aren’t mainstream, and he lived by them.”
“Like what?”
“Like he didn’t believe in love or marriage. We had our first argument about that. I thought he was looking down on me, judging me. He thought sex was good, clean fun and not something that should be hidden in dark clubs, certainly not be illegal.” Barsetti’s watery eyes studied Hugo’s face. “I’m saying that his work for us in the sex industry, it didn’t seem seedy to him like it probably does to you. He was selling a product to people who wanted to buy, and putting them in touch with people who wanted to sell. From his point of view, it could have been anything, it just happened to be sex. Or companionship.”