Hugo Marston 04 - The Reluctant Matador

by Mark Pryor

  “What’s going on?”

  “Looks like we’re going to go to the media for some help.”

  “Does that mean things aren’t going well?”

  “Correct. And I may have irritated a few people just now.”

  “You? I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m just frustrated,” Hugo said. “Not much progress, not any at all really, and all the news we get seems to be bad. Amy’s out there on her own, Bart’s not helping himself, and we were just sitting there eating croissants and drinking coffee.”

  “Everyone needs to eat, including cops. And you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “What did Bart do?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I’m assuming you heard about the girl we found?”

  “Tom told me,” she said. “So awful.”

  “We’re all relieved it’s not Amy but you’re right, it was pretty horrific. Anyway, I’m calling about the media thing but also to see if you can get away for lunch. Like you said, I need to eat. Just a quick sandwich, I don’t really care where or what, it’d just be nice to see you.”

  “It would,” Claudia said. “Come to the hotel, we can get a bite in the restaurant here, and in the meantime I’ll polish up that press release.”

  “Great. I have one thing I need to do first.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten thirty; I’ll be there around noon.”

  Inside the store, a burly man stood over a large, walnut table, a rag in one hand and a spray can of polish in the other. He smiled and said, “A sus ordenes.”

  Hugo gave an apologetic smile. “Habla Ingles?”

  “Yes, I speak English, of course. You’re on vacation here?”

  “I wish.” Hugo said with a smile. “This is your store?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I am Gregor Freed.”

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Hugo Marston. Tell me, do you sell books?”

  “No, I used to, but they turned out to be too much of a distraction.”

  “How so?”

  “They are heavy, dusty, easy to damage. And, to be honest, I like people to use what I sell them. I found that when people buy old books, it’s to put them on a shelf, or to impress their neighbors, so I’m not so interested in dealing with them.”

  “I suppose that can be true.”

  Freed chuckled. “You are a collector? I hope I didn’t insult you. Sometimes I can be a little blunt. If you like, I can refer you to some good stores not far from here.”

  “You didn’t insult me at all,” Hugo said. “And I’m not really a collector. I mean, in a very amateur way, perhaps, for my own satisfaction and pleasure.”

  “That’s the best reason of all.”

  “And I read every book I buy.”

  Freed clapped his big hands together. “Now that I approve of. And a great way to broaden your horizons.”

  “You’re right about that.” Hugo thought about the Arthur Rimbaud book he bought a couple of years previously, a nine-part poem soaked with the author’s absinthe and opium use, and fueled in part by Rimbaud’s affair with a married man. Not the regular reading fare for a former FBI profiler.

  Freed gestured to his shop floor. “No books, but maybe I can sell you a chair instead.”

  “Tough to get into my carry-on luggage.”

  Freed smiled. “Maybe I can find you a letter-opener, I believe we have some carved in Namibia.”

  “No, thanks. Actually, Nisha Bhandari gave me your name.”

  “Nisha?” Freed’s eyes opened wide with surprise. Hugo thought he saw in them a moment of calculation, too, one impossible to decipher so soon. A business opportunity, a shared secret, even a flash of jealousy over a beautiful woman. Eyes could be the window to the soul, Hugo knew, but people weren’t above dressing their windows in a way to fool the outside world. “Oh, well then,” Freed said, “tell me how I can help.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Of course, my office. Follow me.”

  Freed led Hugo toward the back of the store, a winding route between tables, book cases, and glass cabinets full of medals and other rusty-looking trinkets. In a clear space in front of the wall that separated the office from the shop floor, lay a pile of lumber and what looked like foam padding. The German paused at the doorway and bade Hugo enter.

  “We’re planning to remodel a little,” Freed said. “Unfortunately, my office isn’t as big as it looks. Partly because I do a poor job of keeping it organized, and for that my apologies.”

  “No problem.” Hugo picked his way past several cardboard boxes and lowered himself into a collapsible director’s chair, hoping it would bear his weight.

  Freed saw his hesitation and laughed. “Don’t worry, if that thing can hold me, and it can, you’ll be fine.” He sank into a swivel chair behind his desk. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you knew a couple of Nisha’s colleagues. Leo Barsetti?”

  “Yes, of course. I haven’t seen much of him lately, but he helps Nisha and me with the business.”

  “How about Rubén Castañeda?”

  “I know him a little, too,” Freed said. “I think we’ve met once or twice. Maybe three times, I couldn’t be sure. Is he in trouble?”

  “A little worse than that. He’s dead.”

  Freed stiffened. “Dead? What happened?”

  “I’m working with the Barcelona police, just to be clear about my involvement,” Hugo said. “I can’t go into too many details, I’m sure you’ll understand, but it’s an odd situation.”

  “So you are more than just an amateur book collector.”

  “I work at the US Embassy in Paris,” Hugo said. “There may be a connection to something that happened there.”

  “Rubén was murdered?”

  “It sure looks that way.”

  Freed shook his head slowly. “Ach, that’s unbelievable.”

  “Was he involved with your and Nisha’s business in any way?”

  Freed opened his mouth to answer but stopped when the bell at the front door rang. “I should probably . . .”

  “Go ahead,” said Hugo. “Take care of business, I don’t mind waiting.”

  “Thank you, things have been a little slow. We do a lot on the Internet and not in person these days, so it’s nice to see a real customer now and again.”

  Freed squeezed his bulk through the door, and Hugo listened as he greeted the customer, a woman, in Spanish. He listened for a moment to see if he could understand any of what they were saying, but the words flowed too quickly, washing away any meaning he might otherwise have gleaned from picking out the odd word here and there. Instead he focused on the room around him, poking open the cardboard boxes to find what looked like Christmas baubles wrapped in tissue paper. He leaned forward to inspect the desktop, picking up a sheaf of green papers stacked neatly on the corner of the desk nearest him. They looked to be shipping invoices, listing items of furniture to be packed up and delivered abroad. Nothing suspicious, which disappointed him, but his natural curiosity kicked in. International shipping was something he knew nothing about, and he’d always been impressed at the way goods, even perishable ones, could be shuttled around the globe with both haste and precision. The invoices showed that Freed and Bhandari used forty-foot containers, sent by rail within continental Europe and shipped out of the docks for destinations further afield. After a couple of minutes, Hugo looked up as the bell jingled again. He could hear the customer and Freed saying their good-byes, so he put the papers back feeling slightly guilty at his nosiness.

  “Sorry about that,” Freed said, sitting. “She’ll be back with her husband tomorrow, likes a couple of dining tables I have in stock.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Freed’s face fell as he remembered why Hugo was there. “Ah, Rubén. Poor Rubén. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Not really,” Hugo said. “So you and he didn’t really know each other?”

  “Tha
t’s right, only through Nisha and only a little.”

  “And how do you know Nisha?”

  Freed smiled, and Hugo thought he could now interpret the shift in the man’s attitude earlier. Maybe jealousy, maybe protectiveness, but now his eyes glowed with mention of Nisha Bhandari’s name.

  “It was more than a year ago, almost two. It was a meeting of local businesspeople, small businesses run by foreigners. There were a series of presentations about the law, accounting, that kind of thing. Social media was one of them. Anyway, we were the only ones who attended all of the presentations, and we got to talking because of our shared interest in antiques. We’d also both wanted to get into the exporting business, recognizing the opening of markets elsewhere.”

  Hugo watched Freed as he talked. He wasn’t just remembering, he was reminiscing, picturing his early meetings with Nisha Bhandari the way a love-struck boyfriend might. Hugo was tempted to ask outright, but he’d seen no evidence that the feelings were mutual and didn’t want to alienate Freed.

  “And so you went into business together?” Hugo asked.

  “We did. It’s strange; it didn’t feel like a business venture, really. It was more us trying something, just giving it a shot.”

  “And how’s it now?”

  “It’s tailed off a little. The economy is not what we’d like, locally and globally. I’d say we’re at about half what we were doing this time last year.” He shrugged. “But it’s OK, I’m sure it’ll pick up again, and neither of us rely on the furniture export as our primary source of income.”

  “Glad to hear that. Are you married, Mr. Freed?”

  “Ach, call me Gregor, please. No, I’m not married but I do, how do you say, hold a candle for a certain lady.” He looked down, as if embarrassed. “I think you know who.”

  Hugo smiled, his impression confirmed. “I’ve been there; it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed, just a little . . . well, a man can only wait so long, don’t you think?”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Hugo pictured Claudia and felt an impatience to see her. “The question is figuring out how long that is.”

  “We have one other shared interest. I’ve managed that at least.”

  Hugo furrowed his brow, then remembered. “Ah yes, flying.”

  “I took her up the first time just to show off, to impress her.” He grinned. “You can imagine how pleased I was that she took to it, wanted lessons. She’s a natural, that one.” He sighed wistfully. “Ah well, I suppose I’m in no hurry.” He gestured toward his store. “It’s not like women are banging down the door to get to me.”

  Hugo put his hands on the arm of the chair and pushed himself up. “Well, if I see any lingering on the sidewalk out there, I’ll send them your way.”

  “Or,” Freed said quietly, “you could put in a good word for me.”

  Hugo put out his hand. “Sure thing.”

  Hugo climbed out of the back of a taxi and went into the lobby of the Hotel Alfonso. A boutique hotel, he thought, looking around. Rich wood paneling made up for the lack of windows, and the plush but miniature rooms would no doubt, and legitimately, be called “cozy.” Where he stood in the lobby, it smelled faintly and pleasantly of polish, and the flowers on the table beside him were real, and fresh. He noted the expensive carpets, too, his boots sinking into the thick pile as he made his way through the lobby toward the sound of clinking dishes and gentle conversation.

  Claudia was already at a table, her fingers tracing patterns on a glass of water. When she saw him, she leapt up, surprising herself as well as Hugo with her display of excitement, and they both laughed. He held her for a moment, breathing in the scent he could never name, but that reminded him of her, no matter where or when he smelled it.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said. “We leave it too long.”

  “Yes,” said Hugo as he sat. “You sure do.”

  “Oh, hush. You’re only a little better.”

  “But the intent is always there.”

  She looked down at her glass, as if acknowledging the distance she’d put between them. “You know, I always think that it’s easier when you’re younger. Finding someone is easier; wanting to be part of a couple is more natural. No, that’s not the right word.”

  “I know what you mean, Claudia, and it’s OK. You have your life the way you want it, you like your life the way it is. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “You think that means there’s no room for you?”

  Hugo smiled. “A little room, occasionally, perhaps.”

  “Oui, c’est vrai.” Yes, that’s been true. “It’s strange, you know, it’s like I’ve hit my stride since papa died, and recently things have gotten so much better. With work, with my friends . . .” Her voice tailed off and she gave him a sad smile. “I sound very selfish, don’t I?”

  “Not at all. Look, I have no intention of upsetting the nice balance you have in your life. I’m not the kind of guy who’d stop you from seeing your friends or complain if you work late. Come on, surely you know that about me.”

  The waiter arrived and Claudia ordered a mixed-grill platter and a double serving of garlic bread, all to share. When they’d first met she’d done that, ordered their food, and it had become part joke, part tradition and, as always, she did it with one eye on Hugo in case he objected to her selection. When the waiter left, she said, “I know, Hugo. It’s hard to explain, I’m just worried about making a commitment I can’t keep.”

  “I’m not asking for any commitment at all.” He smiled. “Just the mixed grill.”

  “Just that?” She returned his smile. “A little more, I hope.”

  “We’ll see.”

  While they waited for their food, Hugo told her about Bart Denum and his ideas for how they should use the media to help find Amy. She nodded along, listening and asking the occasional question, reaching across the table to give Hugo’s arm a squeeze now and again, and he welcomed the support and understanding. He finished updating her just as the waiter returned, pushing a cart with its own griddle. Their food—chicken, lamb, and beef—sizzled and spat, the rich aroma taking over Hugo’s senses as the waiter carefully transferred the meat to a plate that sat in the middle of the table. He also put down the garlic bread and a trio of clay pots, explaining in broken English that they contained mustard, salsa, and a garlic mayonnaise.

  As they ate, Hugo steered the conversation away from the case, even though Amy’s disappearance was an ever-present whisper in his mind, an ache in his heart. He wanted a moment of normalcy, a break from the unrelenting pressure of the investigation and a moment’s respite from the fear that he might not find Amy, not in time. Just a moment’s respite, that was all. And so they talked about everything else, some new restaurants in Paris Claudia had discovered, her chauffeur Jean’s newfound love (a basset hound named Clint, after Clint Eastwood), and the odds that global warming would destroy New York City. Neither of them knew, of course, but it got them imagining and laughing about the art they’d save, and the people they might not. After an hour, Claudia swiped the check from his hand and reminded him, “She who orders, pays.”

  They lingered on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. “You have plans for this afternoon?” Hugo asked.

  “I’m seeing an old friend of my father’s, he used to supply papa with Spanish wine. You?”

  “I need to find Nisha Bhandari and have a chat.”

  “About?”

  “She runs that company. Seems to me that if we’re missing some piece of inside information, she’s the one to share it.”

  “You already talked to them all, though.”

  “In a group setting. I always go back to my main players in an investigation, talk to them a second or third time.”

  She smiled. “One of those psychological things?”

  “Something like that. The first time I talk to someone, usually they’re caught off guard, even if just a little. That element of surprise can result
in one of three things. They forget to tell me something, they intentionally hide information, or they make snap decisions about what they think I need to know.”

  “Makes sense,” Claudia said.

  “Now, if someone’s truly wanting to help, the second time I see them, they try extra hard to come up with new information, which addresses the first and third of those problems.”

  “And if they’re hiding something?”

  “Then I have to hope I’m good enough to spot it.”

  Claudia put a hand on his arm and looked up at him. “I really admire you, Hugo. You’re a good man, and you work so hard to help those people who need it. You are very selfless, and I want you to know how much I admire you for that.”

  He smiled. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

  She let go of his arm and laughed. She stood, looking at him for a moment, still smiling, then she started to walk back into the hotel. On the second step, she looked over her shoulder. “There is one, Señor Marston, most definitely.” She patted her behind. “And I’m free tonight, all night, if you can get away to discuss it.” Not waiting for an answer, she blew him a kiss and disappeared into the hotel.

  “Not exactly what I meant,” Hugo said to himself. “But an answer I can live with.”

  He turned and saw two street sweepers leaning on their brushes, grinning at him. One gave him the thumbs-up and, for the first time in months, Hugo felt a lightness swirling in the center of his chest, a weightlessness that flowed all the way through him and put a bounce in his step as he headed away from the hotel.

  Nisha Bhandari, according to her colleague Todd Finch, was most likely at her yoga class. “She comes to work early and stays late,” Finch said. “And when everyone else takes lunch or a siesta, she has her yoga class.”

  “Every day?” Hugo didn’t want to walk two miles not to find her.

  “Every weekday, maybe even weekends. Has done since she got here, so I’m sure you’ll find her there.” Finch hesitated. “Can I ask why you need to talk to her? Is there some news about Rubén?”

  Curiosity? Hugo wondered, or concern? “No real news,” he said. “Just a few follow-up questions, that’s all. Thanks for your time.”