by Mark Pryor
Hugo’s phone buzzed, but Barsetti didn’t seem to notice. Hugo checked the screen. Wife not home. Unable to locate. Another blank to infuriate Hugo, so he decided to change tactics. “That’s very poetic, Leo, but I don’t have time for poetry. Nor do you, especially if you’ve done something to your wife.”
“It’s not poetry, it’s life. And death.” He turned and looked at Hugo. “I hope you find your missing girl, Señor Marston. If you believe anything about me, believe that.”
“I need your help to do that, Leo. Come down from there and help me.”
“I’m done with helping people. Except myself.” He shifted forward a few inches. “You may think you’re the good guy here, but I know what would happen. You’d use me and then send me to prison.”
“No, Leo, that’s not true, we just—”
“It is true, and you’re not using me and then throwing me away, I won’t let you.” Barsetti blinked and then sighed. “And they won’t be able to use me, either, ever again.” He put his hands on the ledge beside him and, before Hugo could take a step toward him, the solid figure of Leonardo Barsetti slid forward over the ledge and dropped from view. Hugo felt a rip of horror as he leaned over the edge to see the Italian’s body fall silently to the plaza below. Police and paramedics ran toward the motionless form, but Hugo knew that their efforts would be in vain, that Leo Barsetti had put himself beyond the reach of those who wanted him alive, and even those who wanted him dead.
The police officers on the roof raced toward the ledge, leaning over and staring down at the motionless form of Leo Barsetti, and the commotion unfolding below. Hugo took one more look and moved away, his jaw clenched with frustration and anger—both directed at himself for failing to save a man’s life. Grace Silva beckoned to him, so he angled toward where she stood with her phone in her hand.
“Has something happened?” He grimaced. “Something else, I mean.”
“What he did, that wasn’t your fault, Hugo.”
“I’m trying to tell myself that.”
“Well, it’s true. And yes, something else happened—we got some DNA results back.”
“The blood from the window?”
“A positive hit.”
Hugo’s mind went to Leo Barsetti. Was his fall from the ledge a final, grand exit, knowing he was caught? He looked back to where the Italian had jumped. “Was it him?” Hugo asked.
“Actually, no.”
Hugo looked back at Silva. “It wasn’t? Someone else from Estruch?”
“No. We have a new player, one who has a criminal record, so we’re looking for him now.” She checked her watch. “Chief Inspector Garcia doesn’t think we’ll do anything tonight, either way. He wants you there for the interview tomorrow morning, though. He’s setting up an interpreter for you. How about I give you a ride home now and pick you up at eight tomorrow morning?”
A wave of tiredness swept over Hugo and, although he didn’t try too hard, he couldn’t think of much else he could do tonight. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine, thanks. So tell me about the DNA match.”
“I don’t know a lot right now,” she said. “But I do know that he works at a hospital in the city, as a nurse.” She paused to let that sink in. “So as well as a criminal record, he probably has the medical knowledge we’re looking for.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Chief Inspector Garcia and Grace Silva sat on one side of the table, across from a stocky man who looked to be in his early forties. He was handsome in a rugged way and had the look of a working man, not a nurse, with features that were heavy and dark. The man ran his fingers through his thick black hair every minute or so, as if it gave him comfort.
Hugo settled into a chair behind the one-way glass and put on headphones proffered by the interpreter, Cristina Sanchez. She was a chirpy, smiling lady in her early fifties, with blue eyes that sparkled at Hugo, as if they were about to embark on an adventure together. She put on her own headphones, winked, and held a microphone close to her mouth, waiting.
Through the window, Hugo watched Garcia flip pages in his notebook, then pick up a pen. The policeman stared at the man across from him and then started speaking.
“Esta entrevista está siendo videograbada y necesito que empiece usted por decirme su nombre.” Sanchez murmured her translation in a voice that was low, but clear: This interview is being videotaped, and I need you to start by telling me your name.
“Mi nombre es José Paniagua. Y no entiendo por qué estoy aquí.” My name is José Paniagua. And I don’t understand why I’m here.
“Para allá vamos en un momento. La manera en que esto funciona es que usted me contesta todas las preguntas que yo le haga antes de que usted pueda hacerme cualquier pregunta a mí, ¿está claro?” We’ll get to that in a moment. And the way this works, you answer all my questions before you get to ask yours. Clear?
The man nodded, and his eyes flicked up to the big window. Hugo leaned forward, listening intently to Garcia’s questions and Paniagua’s answers as they came through Cristina Sanchez, his eyes looking for any telltale giveaways on the man’s face.
“Where do you work?” Garcia asked.
“The Hospital Clínic de Barcelona.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Eight years.”
“And what exactly do you do there?”
“I’m a nurse. I have worked in different departments; right now I’m in the intensive-care unit.”
“And previously?”
The man shrugged. “In eight years, you get to work everywhere.”
“Give me some examples.”
“The emergency department, that’s where I started. I’ve been in the children’s wards, oncology, general surgery, post-op.”
“How old are you, Señor Paniagua?”
“Forty-one.”
“Ever worked with the anesthesiology doctors?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “No. Is this about drugs?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Paniagua looked back and forth between Garcia and Silva. “They’re the ones who have access to drugs. I mean, all doctors do but . . .” He shrugged again. “I guess they have a reputation for becoming addicted.”
“Do you know any who are?”
“No, not at all.”
“This isn’t about drugs, Señor Paniagua, it’s about murder.”
Paniagua sat bolt upright in his chair. “Murder? I don’t . . . what do you mean?”
The panic on his face seemed real enough, Hugo thought. But then again, if he was guilty, he’d have known the question was coming and acted accordingly.
“Your DNA was found at the scene of a murder here in Barcelona.”
“That’s . . . that’s not possible.”
“There’s no mistake, señor, so not only is it possible, it’s a fact.”
The man slumped back in his seat. “I don’t understand how . . .”
“Do you know the name Rubén Castañeda?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It’s yes or no,” Grace Silva said. “Either you do or you don’t.”
“I don’t recognize the name, no.”
Silva flipped open a folder and slid a photograph of Castañeda across the table. “You know this man?”
“No.”
She took back the photo and glanced at Garcia, who nodded. She put a second photo in front of Paniagua, the booking photo of Delia Treviño. “How about her?”
“No, I don’t know her, either. Who are they? What did they do?”
“They got murdered,” Silva said. “You’re sure you don’t know them.”
“Yes, I’ve never seen either of them before, I promise.”
“OK,” Silva said. She looked down at the file and read off Rubén Castañeda’s address. “Do you know where that is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s in the Old Town, that help remind you?”
“No.” Paniagua’s voice rose, insistent. “I
don’t know about any of this!”
“You’re seriously telling us that you’ve never been there. You’re sticking to that story.”
“Yes, never!”
Chief Inspector Garcia spoke up, “How about Estruch Enterprises. Ever had dealings with them?”
Paniagua thought for a moment. “The name is familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Tourism company,” Garcia said. “That help?”
“I don’t know. All I can say is, the name’s familiar. I’m not sure why, though.”
“Ever heard of Nisha Bhandari or Todd Finch?” Silva asked.
“No.”
“Leonardo Barsetti?”
“No,” he insisted again. “I don’t know any of these people, these places. This is some kind of mistake, it has to be.”
Garcia put out his hand, and Silva passed him another photo, this one of Amy Dreiss. “You know who that is?”
“Is she dead, too?”
“She better not be,” Garcia growled. “Her name is Amy Dreiss.”
“I don’t know her,” Paniagua insisted, “by face or name. I’m sorry.”
Garcia leaned forward. “What I’m wondering, Señor Paniagua, is how it is that you don’t know a single person involved in this case, and yet your DNA was found at the crime scene. That tells me one of two things. Either the DNA is lying, or you are.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Well then.” Garcia stood, and Silva followed suit. “In that case, I shall have the DNA retested to confirm that we’ve made a mistake. Now, this being a murder inquiry, we’ll need to put you in our own special accommodation for a few days while that happens. Perhaps it’ll give you a chance to reflect on some of the names we’ve given you; maybe time will bring a little clarity to your memory.”
José Paniagua looked up at the two detectives, his face white with fear. “But I haven’t done anything wrong, why are you keeping me here? I don’t know any of those people and I don’t understand how my DNA can be where you said. Look, I’m a nurse, I help people, I don’t hurt them. I bring people food and medicine; I take care of them when they need help. I even donate blood every month. I don’t have any reason to kill anyone.”
Garcia put his hands on the table and leaned over him. “You know how we matched your DNA, right? Why we have your profile in our database?”
Paniagua’s head dropped. “Yes, I think so.”
“Right. So don’t act like you’re some angel of mercy, a pure heart filled with love and affection for your fellow man.”
“You don’t understand, it wasn’t like that. I was just a kid.”
“Twenty. You were twenty.” Garcia straightened. “Wait here.”
Hugo watched as Garcia and Silva left the interview room, and moments later they entered the viewing room. Hugo slipped off his headphones and stood.
“Well,” Garcia said. “What do you think?”
“He’s either innocent or a good actor,” Hugo said. “And trust me, I’ve seen a lot of convincing performances by guilty people, good enough to fool me and everyone else.”
“There’s no arguing with DNA. We can have it retested, but right now it places him at the scene.”
“And no links between him and anyone in the case?”
“Actually, yes,” Garcia said, “but they’re pretty minor and could all be coincidences. I wanted to see if he’d admit to any of them, and then talk to you, see if we should put them in front of him.”
“Tell me.”
Garcia checked off his fingers. “First, Nisha Bhandari received some of her cancer treatment at his hospital. We’ll confirm whether he worked directly with her or not.”
“We should do that right away. If he’s acting innocent, the best way to make the facade crumble is to catch him in a lie. We need something positive to challenge him with, to find an inconsistency in what he’s telling us.”
“I can do that now,” Silva said. “Do you want me to show his picture to Nisha Bhandari, see if she recognizes him?”
“No,” Hugo said. “If you agree, Bartoli, I think that’s a bad idea. If she’s involved somehow, this would tip her off.”
“You really think she might be?”
“I don’t like to rule anyone out until I have to,” Hugo said. An image of her played in his mind, clothed and then naked, the softness of her skin and the brightness of her eyes. “I thought maybe initially, but now I don’t see how.”
“But you’re keeping an open mind?” Garcia asked. There was something in his eye, as if he had a question for Hugo he didn’t want to ask right there and then.
“Of course. Everyone’s in until they are conclusively out.”
“Bueno,” Garcia nodded.
“You were telling me about some other connections?”
Garcia smiled and glanced at Silva, who was hovering by the door. “Ah, yes. Grace here let me know she’s also a monthly blood donor at the hospital.”
“Oh, OK,” Hugo said. “But I wasn’t aware she was a suspect.”
“Just making sure everything’s out in the open,” Silva said. “As for donating, I feel like I have to. After seeing so many people die in Afghanistan, some of them bleeding out because we didn’t have the supplies.” She shook her head sadly, then looked at Hugo with a gentle smile. “Something you should consider, Señor Marston. Painless, selfless, and they give you cookies afterward.”
“I should,” Hugo said. “You’re absolutely right. And let us know what the hospital tells you about our friend’s work schedule. You know, while you’re on the phone with them check to make sure no one’s stolen from or misplaced any of their blood supply.”
“Will do. Shouldn’t be more than a quick phone call.” Silva nodded to them and left the room.
Hugo turned to Garcia. “So, how did you have this guy’s DNA profile?”
“When he was twenty, he got caught peeping into a few windows. I haven’t read all the reports, but it seems like he was originally charged with a sexual offense but was convicted of something much more minor. As part of the plea deal, though, he agreed to give his DNA.”
“When was this?”
“In nineteen ninety-three. We were a few years behind you Americans in collecting and testing DNA, but just in time for Señor Paniagua.”
“Lucky for us.”
“Right. Two more connections, before I forget, and they’re about as weak as the first ones. Leo Barsetti and his wife are on the board of the hospital, do a lot of work with getting healthcare there for poor children.”
“Anything Paniagua was involved with?”
“Not that we know. I’ll have Silva check into that, as well.”
“The last connection?”
“The weakest of them all, and it’s to do with our Mr. Finch. Not a connection at all, it’s just that he lives two streets from the hospital, so it’s possible they’ve crossed paths in the neighborhood.”
“Bit of a stretch,” Hugo said. “But worth looking into. We should also get the medical records of everyone involved, see if Paniagua’s name comes up on their charts or treatment papers.”
“We’ll need their permission. I don’t think we could persuade a judge to order those.”
“Then let’s ask,” said Hugo. “Be interesting to see who doesn’t mind and who does.”
Both men looked as the door flew open and Silva stepped back in. “I was on my way to my office to call the hospital, but I got interrupted. One of the guys manning the phones after the press conference said it might be something.”
“Something good, I hope.” Hugo said.
“Well, we get a lot of weirdos whenever we make public appeals, but sounds like this one should be checked out. If she’s telling the truth, the woman who called actually laid eyes on our killer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They sat in her cramped living room, Hugo and the chief inspector perched on the edge of a worn couch, their knees pressed against a battered coffee table that had been cleared
off, except for Garcia’s tape recorder. In a small kitchen to their right, Esmeralda Quintana bustled about, making herself coffee. The two men had declined a cup for themselves, eager to hear what she had to say. A little eager to leave, too, because the smell of boiled cabbage filled the small apartment, such that Hugo was relieved when the competing aroma of coffee drifted through to them. When Quintana finally collapsed into her armchair opposite them, Garcia leaned forward and switched on the recorder. He spoke in Spanish, repeating her name, giving his own and Hugo’s. He asked her a couple of questions, and when she shook her head, he turned to Hugo.
“She doesn’t speak any English, I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright, I didn’t expect her to. If you don’t mind, translate as we go along, as best you can.”
Garcia nodded and turned back to their witness. He spoke in a gentle voice, coaxing the story out of her, and it came in short, worried sentences. Unable to understand what she was saying, Hugo concentrated on her body language. Her clipped manner and the way she looked at them told Hugo that she was worried for her own safety, worried that by seeing a killer she might have put herself in harm’s way. Garcia reassured her, though, and she spoke more calmly, though he could tell she was apologizing a great deal. After a few minutes, the chief inspector thanked her and turned to Hugo. Esmeralda Quintana twisted her hands in her lap, then opened a drawer in the table beside her and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.
“She works for the city as a street cleaner,” Garcia said. “She’s in a crew of three responsible for part of the neighborhood where Castañeda’s apartment is. That night, she’d finished her shift and was walking back home. She took the alley behind his building as a shortcut and had just entered it when she heard breaking glass. She looked up and saw someone appear in the street suddenly.”
“What does that mean, ‘appear in the street’?”
“I asked pretty much the same thing. But that’s what she said, this person suddenly appeared. No one there one moment, then a dark figure.”