Hugo Marston 04 - The Reluctant Matador

by Mark Pryor

  “Sure, I was just wondering,” Finch said quickly. “It’s just that someone said you were FBI, and I didn’t understand why the American FBI would be involved in a murder here in Barcelona. You know, if there’s something bigger going on, maybe we should be told about it.”

  “Something bigger?”

  “Yeah, like terrorism. You guys fly abroad and help local police when there’s terrorist attacks, I’ve seen that on the news.”

  “Ah, I see. I can promise you, Mr. Finch, there are no concerns of terrorism here. I’m helping out a local investigation, that’s all there is to it, and like I said, this has nothing to do with terrorism.”

  “You can’t tell me why exactly?”

  “I don’t work for the FBI anymore, Mr. Finch. I work for the State Department in Paris, and all I can say is that a girl missing somewhere in Barcelona should be enjoying her day in Paris right now.”

  Finch nodded. “OK then. Thanks. And good luck.”

  Hugo shook hands with the man and left, heading deeper into the Old Town, toward the yoga studio. He felt a need to hurry, yet he also couldn’t help but take in his surroundings, wander almost randomly in the general direction he was headed. He wanted to explore this place, take in the side streets that twisted like the branches of an old oak tree—worn smooth with time, beautiful and ancient, impractically narrow at the tips only to open up into wide squares that blossomed with shops, cafés, and restaurants.

  Turning the corner out of Carrer d’Avinyo, Hugo paused outside a stone building to make sure he had the right place, checking the small notice on the brick wall. He pushed open the door and walked up the stairs to the second floor, where he found a small waiting room. Half a dozen women and one man stood there, some stretching, others chatting, all with rolled-up mats and towels tucked under their arms.

  A receptionist, willowy and tanned, said something to Hugo in Spanish that he took to mean, “Can I help you?”

  He gave her his best smile. “Hola. Habla Ingles?”

  “Sí,” she said, looking him up and down without subtlety. She smiled, as if she liked what she saw. “I mean, yes. You are American?”

  “That’s right,” said Hugo. “I’m looking for a friend of mine, Nisha Bhandari.”

  The woman pointed toward a closed door. “Finish in two minutes.”

  “Gracias. OK for me to wait here?”

  “Of course.” She pursed her lips. “You practice yoga?”

  Hugo patted his stomach. “Think I should?”

  “Everyone should.” She stepped back from the desk and swung her right leg up to her ear, holding it there with one hand on her ankle. “Two years ago, I cannot touch my toes. Now, this.”

  “Impressive,” Hugo said. “I think it’d take me more than two years to do that, though.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” She dropped her leg and snatched a brochure from the desk in front of her. “Come see us, we find out, yes?”

  “Very tempting, thank you,” Hugo said. He took the brochure and studied the front for a moment just to satisfy her. He folded it carefully into a square, tucked it into his front pocket, and gave her a smile. The door to their left opened, and they both looked over as Bhandari’s class began to file out of the studio. Nisha was the fifth one out, coming through the door while chatting to an older woman with bleached-blond hair. Hugo caught the Indian woman’s eye. “Excuse me, do you have a few minutes?”

  She hesitated for a moment, clearly surprised to see him there, then turned to her companion and said something in Spanish. The older woman smiled at Hugo and moved away.

  “I suppose so,” she said in a low voice. “Let’s talk outside.”

  “Of course.” He followed her down the steps into the street.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Marston, but I do yoga for two reasons. One is to remain fit and limber, which is becoming less and less easy as I age. The other is for my mental and emotional health.”

  “And being bugged the minute you step out of the studio about a grisly murder doesn’t do much for your sense of inner balance?”

  She cocked her head. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Not at all, I’m apologizing. I know I’m bothering you at a bad time, but I don’t really have a choice. The police don’t have a lot to go on here, and a young girl is missing.”

  “Ah, yes, the police. I meant to ask you this when we met, but why exactly are you involved?”

  The question of the day, Hugo thought. “Amy, the girl who’s missing, is a friend of mine. I’m hoping my experience with the FBI will be useful to the police.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you told me that.” Bhandari wiped a towel over her face. “Look, I usually walk to a health-food store, get myself a protein shake. I’m happy to talk to you on the way.”

  “Maybe I’ll get one of those, too,” Hugo said. “Been eating a lot of meat lately, something green sounds good.”

  “Yes, the food does take some getting used to. Most of it is very good, but they tend to go light on the vegetables and fruit.” She started to walk, and Hugo went with her. “Or, they coat the vegetables in oil and garlic.”

  “And mayonnaise.”

  “Right.” She cast a glance sideways. “You seem to stay fit, though. You said you live in Paris?”

  “Thanks, yes. I do a lot of walking there, and occasionally run.”

  “When you have to chase someone?”

  Hugo laughed. “Oh, I don’t do much of that anymore. I call in the reinforcements if that type of running is called for. I meant that I jog once a week or so.”

  “I have to exercise a lot because I have a weakness for food.” She smiled, almost shyly Hugo thought. “Well, for many self-indulgences, really. Hence the yoga, it keeps me focused.”

  “On your work?”

  “Yes, for one thing. But this city is full of distractions, temptations.”

  “Your colleague Leonardo, does he succumb to those?”

  “Oh, I see. Is that why you’re here, to quiz me about my friends?”

  “Maybe that’s a good place to start. Are they friends or colleagues?”

  She seemed to think for a moment. “I suppose they began as colleagues but are now friends. When you work so closely to people, as long as you get on well, you can’t help but become friends.”

  “True. Do you all get on well?”

  Again the pause. “Yes. I think Leo has been under some stress lately, but that’s with his marriage. Work is something of a relief for him, or so it seems to me. He’s very good with clients, charming and knowledgeable.”

  “That reminds me,” Hugo said. “It struck me as odd that a Barcelona tourist business would be operated by four people, only one of whom is from Barcelona. From Spain, even.”

  Bhandari laughed and looked up at Hugo. “It’s stranger than you think, because Rubén was from the south, Cadiz or somewhere. Anyway, I said the same thing when I arrived. And then Leo and Todd challenged me. I spent an entire afternoon quizzing them about the city, its tourist destinations and its restaurants. Everything, really. They were very excited about showing it off to me, too, which I thought was a good sign.” She shrugged. “Plus, Leo is Italian. A lot of foreigners can’t tell the difference when they speak to him or see him. They think he’s Spanish.”

  “And as long as he does a good job, why should they even care?” Hugo added.

  “Precisely. He does have a tendency to exaggerate a little, I will say that. But this job, it is partly advertising, no? So maybe exaggeration is to be expected, maybe it’s a plus not a minus.”

  “And Rubén?”

  “He was more straightforward.” She pointed down a side street, and they turned onto it. “And yes, he had his issues, the ones I told you about before.”

  “The sex trade.”

  “You make it sound very dirty. Here, it is not. And to him it was not. I think he actually had a strong moral sense about him, and I am certain, absolutely certain, he would never have engaged in anyt
hing illegal.”

  “When we in America think of the sex trade, we think of dirty old men going to foreign countries to have sex with underage boys and girls.”

  She bridled. “You know that’s not what we do, what we provide. And, anyway, I get the sense that Americans generally view sex quite differently. More prudish.”

  “I’m not so sure it’s that way as much as it used to be.” Hugo said. “Although we’ll never tolerate adults having sex with children, at least I damn well hope not.”

  “And Rubén felt the same way. His clients were here for the sex clubs, the strip clubs, the gay bars, but not that . . . not children.” She shook her head. “He would not have done that.”

  But Hugo wondered. Something had gotten Castañeda killed, and if he’d ventured too far from the world of adult sex into the underground world of child sex . . . Hugo knew from experience that the kinds of people who operated in dark alleys and cheap motels, who hid their activities and their profits from the law, those people weren’t always picky about their friends, which meant that if Rubén Castañeda had upset the wrong people, there was always the possibility he’d been served up to the ruthless dealers in human organs. Served up alive maybe, and possibly even made an example of. And if Amy had been there, at the wrong place at the wrong time . . . Speculation for now, Hugo reminded himself, a possibility to keep in the back of his mind but not to obsess over.

  He changed tack. “Do you know someone by the name of Delia Treviño?”

  “Here we are.” She paused with one hand on the door and frowned in thought. “Delia Treviño? I don’t think so. That name doesn’t seem familiar.”

  “Do you mind taking a look at a photo?” Hugo said.

  “Of course not.” She gestured inside with a nod of her head. “Mind if I get my smoothie first?”

  “Sure, let’s go in. Sorry.” Hugo let her go to the counter, and he sat at a small table by the front window. He took out his phone to pull up Delia Treviño’s mugshot, and he noticed that he had a message from Claudia. He looked up to see Nisha Bhandari weaving between the tables toward him, and he left Claudia’s message for later.

  The Indian was, he thought, an attractive woman. Despite her claim to the contrary, she looked very fit, her yoga pants attracting the attention of several customers as her hips sashayed past them. She wore her hair in a ponytail, and that somehow accentuated the wideness, and enormity, of her eyes. She slid into the seat opposite him and offered her drink.

  “Spinach, kale, blueberry, some whey, and a few other things. Try it?”

  “I’ll get my own on the way out, maybe,” Hugo said. He leaned back, smiling but suddenly aware that she smelled good, too.

  “You should.” She took a sip and wrinkled her nose. “But I’d skip the kale, if I were you. A little bitter.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” He turned his phone toward her, displaying the mugshot. “Do you happen to recognize her?”

  “Let me see.” Bhandari leaned forward, her fingertips brushing against Hugo’s as she reached for the phone. She squinted. “I don’t think so. No, I’m pretty sure I don’t. Whoever she is, looks a little pale or sick in this photo.”

  “We think she was a drug user.”

  “Is she a suspect or something?”

  “No. She was killed, in the same way as Rubén Castañeda.”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry to hear that.” She tilted her head. “No one ever told us how he died. I mean, murdered, yes. But not . . . any details.”

  “The police never give details. No point in upsetting his friends, for one thing. And from their perspective, the fewer people outside the investigation who know, the better.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Her phone rang, and she picked it up. “Excuse me, it’s work. Hello? Is Leo not there? Well, leave him another message. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” She rang off and looked at Hugo. “A group of Rubén’s clients from Japan, he was supposed to take them around the city tonight. Leo has been filling in where possible, just because I have no interest in that kind of thing, spending the evening with a bunch of increasingly drunk and horny Japanese businessmen.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Apparently Leo’s missing right now, so I need to head into the office to handle this.”

  “He do that a lot, go missing?”

  “Not really, no. He’s been a rock since Rubén died. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  “Todd Finch, too?”

  She smiled. “Todd’s a little strange, I know. He’s not the best with the clients, but he’s amazing with numbers, is great setting up our technology in the office, and helps us all stay organized.” She stood. “I’m sorry to cut this short, though. Do you have more questions?”

  “Yes. Maybe once you figure this crisis out you can call me?” Something about the way she stood so close to him made Hugo want to squirm. He couldn’t tell if she was doing so on purpose, he couldn’t even tell what she was doing, but he felt like a freshman in high school being approached by the football team’s head cheerleader.

  “It’ll make life easier for me if I can tell these clients that I have dinner plans,” she said.

  “I guess we can do that. Where and when?”

  “Depends on when I get done putting out fires. How about you give me your number, I’ll text you?”

  She typed his name and number into her phone, then picked up her mat and towel and walked out of the juice shop, leaving Hugo to watch her bobbing pony tail, and try very hard not to lower his gaze to the tightness of her yoga pants. As he stood to leave, he felt the brochure in his pocket poking at him. He pulled it out and looked around for a recycling or trash can. He took one last look at the folded paper, letting it fall open, and his eye caught on one face in a crowded photograph of the studio’s instructors. He looked again and, sure he was right, his heart quickened.

  He strode out of the juice bar, but Bhandari was nowhere in sight. He thought for a moment, then headed the short distance back to the yoga studio, taking the stairs two at a time. He was out of breath when he reached the reception desk, where the same young lady looked at him with surprise.

  “That was quick,” she said. “Nisha tell you to come back so soon?”

  “No.” Hugo laid the open brochure on the desk, his mind working. He could go with the truth but didn’t want to alert this girl, or anyone else, to what he was asking about, or why. He pointed to the face. “Who is that?”

  “Oh, she worked here, but not for a few months. That picture is old.”

  “I’m asking because she looks familiar. What’s her name?”

  “That’s Delia. Delia Treviño.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Hugo called Chief Inspector Garcia the moment his boots hit the sidewalk.

  “We have our first connection,” Hugo said. “Delia Treviño was an instructor at Nisha Bhandari’s yoga studio.”

  “Is that so? Interesting, because it’s not just her studio.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Leo Barsetti’s wife, Rosario Figueroa. She goes there, too. Grace Silva went back for a second interview with her this morning, showed her Treviño’s mugshot. She didn’t say anything about Nisha Bhandari going there, but she recognized Treviño.”

  “Interesting, because Bhandari didn’t. Or said she didn’t.”

  “Well, it might depend on how long each had been going, whether she was actually their instructor or not. I’ll send Silva over there now to talk to the management, get as much of that information as possible.”

  “Good idea.”

  A pause on the phone, and when Garcia spoke, Hugo heard a smile in the man’s voice. “You should wait there, take my young colleague to dinner after. To discuss the case, of course.”

  “Of course.” Hugo didn’t feel like revealing that he already had two women lined up for the evening. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had that problem, let alone adding another into the mix. “I plan to he
ad back to Estruch. I had a quick chat with Todd Finch earlier but I cut it short to find Bhandari. Couple of things I want to ask him.”

  “Help yourself. I tried before, and he’s not been evasive, exactly, but a little hard to find or pin down. I’d meet you there but we’re working on this media thing.”

  “No problem, I can handle it.” Hugo rang off and checked his phone to see how far away he was from Estruch, then set off at a brisk walk. According to Garcia’s files, Finch was from New Zealand. Hugo had been there twice, both times to help out local law enforcement in murder cases, and he hoped to use those visits as a bridge to Finch’s trust. When he got to the building, he let himself in. The place was quiet.

  “Hello?” he called, stepping into the reception area. He looked down the hallway. The door to the front office, to his left, was cracked, and he thought he saw movement. The quiet had put Hugo on edge, and the lack of response didn’t help. He touched his hip where his gun would normally lie but noticed the lack of weight even before his hand felt the gun’s absence.

  “Anyone home?” he called out. Movement in the office again, but still no response. Hugo set his feet so that he could either lunge forward or head back out the door, trying to control his breathing.

  The door to the office swung open, and Hugo froze. He found himself staring at an equally startled Todd Finch, who put both hands up when he saw Hugo.

  “Bloody hell, mate, you scared the living crap out of me!”

  “Sorry,” Hugo said. “I called out a couple of times when I came in but . . .”

  “Ah, right.” Finch opened his left hand, where a set of head phones nestled. “Sorry. Don’t get much peace and quiet around here, so when I need to concentrate I put these in.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Find Nisha?”

  “Yes, thanks. I had more questions for you, too, if you don’t mind, probably should have chatted when I was here earlier, but I did need to catch Nisha first.”

  Finch shifted from foot to foot. “Err, OK, what do you want to know?”