Hugo Marston 04 - The Reluctant Matador

by Mark Pryor

  “Did she see the person climb out the window?”

  “No, she said she didn’t. But she also said there’s no door there, so he must have; there was no other way for him to appear like that.”

  “And the description?”

  Garcia shook his head. “That’s where she started apologizing.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Yeah, the person had startled her, so she hid in the shadow of a doorway farther down the alley. The best she can say is that he was about average height and build, maybe a little taller than average.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “She didn’t know, couldn’t say.”

  “Was the person carrying anything?”

  “Oh, I didn’t ask.” He turned to Quintana and spoke in Spanish. The woman hesitated for a moment, then spoke for a full thirty seconds. When she’d finished, Garcia sat back and looked at Hugo. “She says she can’t be sure. The light wasn’t great and there were a lot of shadows, and of course she was trying not to be seen herself. But she is pretty sure the person was carrying something.”

  “Description? Any idea if it was a plastic bag, a handbag, a small cooler?”

  Garcia put the questions to Quintana, who just looked at them both and shrugged. “No se, lo siento.” I don’t know, I’m sorry.

  Hugo had no more questions, so the two men thanked Quintana, and Garcia handed her his card, urging her to call him if she thought of anything else. They let themselves out of the ground-floor apartment, and Hugo gulped in the fresh air, filling his lungs and feeling the breeze wash over his face.

  “I know how you feel,” Garcia said with a smile. “I never liked cabbage much.”

  “I was surviving until she started to smoke,” Hugo said. “Don’t know how she does it.”

  “We all have our vices,” Garcia said. “Don’t you?”

  “Probably. But they don’t involve cabbage or cigarettes, I can promise you that.”

  Garcia chuckled, then became serious. “I have to say, I was hoping for more from her. The best thing we can say is that the person she saw was of average height or maybe a little taller, and was carrying something. You thinking Castañeda’s organs?”

  “Could be. I’m still not sold on that theory, though.”

  “Wasn’t it yours in the first place?”

  “Yes.” Hugo gave him a small smile. “That’s the investigator’s prerogative, though, to come up with ideas and then abandon them. Although I’m not ready to abandon it, either.”

  “Maybe whoever it was stole something else, something we don’t know about. Maybe all this is about a robbery.”

  They started walking toward Garcia’s police car, parked a block away, both men deep in thought. Hugo spoke first. “You know, we forgot to ask whether the person she saw was limping or otherwise seemed injured.”

  “I didn’t think of that, but clearly they were, otherwise there’d be no blood.”

  “True, but if they were limping, it’d be an indication of where they were injured. A leg as opposed to an arm. Might be helpful if we find someone with a recent cut on their leg.”

  “Or arm,” Garcia said with a rueful smile. “Should we go back?”

  “No, we can call her later if we need to. I’m not sure I can face that gas chamber again today.”

  “Then a wasted visit, don’t you think?”

  “Not entirely.” They reached Garcia’s car, and Hugo looked at him across the roof. “We did learn one thing pretty valuable.”

  “What’s that?” Garcia asked, brow furrowed with uncertainty.

  “We know there was only one killer.”

  On the ride back to the police station, Garcia’s phone rang. He answered the call and listened quietly, muttering a few words in Spanish before hanging up.

  “I don’t know what to make of it,” he said. “You remember we sent people back to Castañeda’s apartment to check the drains.”

  “Yeah, they find something?”

  “No, that’s the point. Nothing. Traces of bleach or some bleaching agent. No hair, skin, soap, bubble bath . . . nothing.”

  “Someone cleaned up,” Hugo said. “That’s good to know.”

  “Only if we figure out who cleaned up.”

  “Well, yes, fair point.”

  Garcia’s phone rang again, Grace Silva’s name appearing on the screen. Garcia hit the speaker button. “Hugo is with me, what’s up?”

  “I heard from one of the detectives we’d sent to talk to Delia Treviño’s friends, such as they are.”

  “Bunch of prostitutes and drug users, aren’t they?”

  “Mostly, yes. But a couple of them recognized the photo the detective showed them.”

  “Whose photo?” Garcia asked.

  “Leo Barsetti. Turns out his wife was right about the affair, if you can call having sex with a prostitute an affair.”

  “He was . . . with Delia Treviño?” Garcia repeated.

  “Yes, very much so. For about the last two months, though the two statements from her friends indicate they’d not seen him around her for the last couple of weeks.”

  “Gracias, Grace. Can you leave copies of those statements on my desk? We’re headed back there right now, and I’d like to see them for myself.” He glanced at Hugo and smiled. “And, I guess, I’ll translate them for our guest.”

  “One more thing,” Silva said. “The hospital confirmed that no blood has been stolen or is missing from their supplies. Which means that the blood at Castañeda’s house came out of a vein.”

  When Garcia hung up, Hugo said, “That explains why he turned white as a sheet when I showed him Treviño’s photo,” Hugo said. “He knew her, and intimately. Although . . .”

  “Although what?”

  “His reaction seemed very real to me, he was truly surprised.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means he’s not the one who killed her.”

  Garcia sighed. “Unless we find out who did, we’ll never know.” He slapped the steering wheel. “What a coward’s way out.”

  “Killing himself?”

  “Yes, of course. If he’s innocent, why would he? If he’s guilty, he’s a coward.”

  “I think suicide is a little more complicated than that.” Hugo held up a placating hand. “You’re right in that if he was innocent, it seems unnecessary. But it wasn’t like we were about to pin this on him. Something else was going on, and I’m sure it has a lot to do with Delia Treviño and her death.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Maybe, but a man can feel guilty without committing suicide, or murder.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know, Bartoli. Right now, I really don’t know. Let’s go see what those statements say, and maybe we can come up with some new ideas on the way.” He looked at his watch, then stared out of the window. The colorful flashes of the storefronts blurred, and the people on the sidewalks now looked solitary, individuals making their way in the world alone, rather than sharing the city together, neighbors in a community. Hugo knew that this altered image was a fiction of his own making, a reflection of his own sense of inadequacy, but he couldn’t shake it. Still gazing out of the window, he spoke in a quiet voice. “You know, I keep checking the time, looking at my watch as if I can slow it down. Every tick feels like Amy is farther away from us, more in danger. Anything you can think of, Bartoli, I’ll try absolutely anything you can think of, but we have to find that girl. Time is going by too fast, it’s running out. For us and for her. We have to find her, and soon.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  They executed the search warrants that afternoon. Grace Silva took Hugo to Estruch, and Chief Inspector Garcia went with two detectives Hugo didn’t know to Leo Barsetti’s home. The Italian’s wife still hadn’t shown up, and a judge deemed that fact, and Barsetti’s final words to Hugo about her being “gone” as sufficient legal cause to allow a complete search of each premises.

  Silva had picked up her phone to l
et Bhandari and Finch know they were coming, a courtesy call, but Hugo put a hand on her arm and shook his head.

  “No reason to think they’re involved,” he said. “But since we don’t know who is and who isn’t, it’s not good to give people a chance to hide or destroy evidence.”

  “I should have thought of that,” Silva said.

  She parked the police car out of sight of Estruch, and when they entered the front of the business, they caught Finch and Bhandari at the computer where Castañeda used to sit.

  “Hugo, what are you doing here?” Bhandari asked. She wore a light-blue T-shirt and jeans, and smiled up at him, pleased at the surprise. Her eyes, though, were puffy. As if she’d been crying or had not slept.

  Hugo felt a pang of compassion, and also desire, but suppressed both. “Nisha, the police have a search warrant. Since Leo’s wife is still missing and, well, Leo said some things to me before he jumped last night.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. You know where his office is.”

  “Actually Ms. Bhandari,” Silva said, “the warrant is for the entire premises.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Leo had access to every room here, didn’t he?” Hugo asked.

  “Of course, yes.”

  “That’s why,” Hugo said gently. “You guys can stay and watch us if you like, but you can’t interfere or move anything, OK?”

  “Of course.” She glanced at Todd Finch. “We should let them do their thing. Can you work from home this afternoon?”

  “No problem.” Finch had taken the warrant from Silva and was reading it carefully. His face was blank as he handed it back to the policewoman. “I’m no lawyer, but it looks fine. Should we get an attorney to look this over, Nisha?”

  “What for?” she said gently. “We have nothing to hide.” She gave Hugo a tired smile. “Please try not to make a mess.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Hugo promised. “Can you tell me if Leo was working on anything in particular, anything urgent or especially important?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Finch said. “That antiques guy called this morning, wanting to talk to him, but other than that, I can’t think of anything.”

  “Gregor?” Nisha asked. “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “No, he left a message, I didn’t talk to him.”

  “OK, good.” She turned to Hugo. “Gregor and Leo were friends, I should tell him myself.” She stood and gave Hugo and Silva a sad smile. “I was trying to do some work but . . . I can’t believe this has happened. I can’t believe this is all happening. I should go talk to Gregor, tell him.”

  Hugo and Silva waited while Bhandari and Finch collected their coats and bags.

  Bhandari lingered at the door. “Hugo, can I talk to you outside for a moment?”

  “Of course.” Hugo looked at Grace Silva, who gave him a quizzical look. “Be right back.”

  They stood in front of the main window, Hugo conscious that Silva was watching them as much as she was rifling through Castañeda’s work area. Over Bhandari’s shoulder, Todd Finch stalked off toward his home, throwing a glance over his shoulder, a look that made Hugo wonder, not for the first time, whether there was something between him and Nisha Bhandari, or whether the New Zealander perhaps just wished there was.

  “About last night,” Bhandari said. “I’m not sure why I behaved that way. I wanted to apologize and also ask you something.”

  “Please, no need to apologize, we’re both adults here. What did you want to ask me?”

  “You seemed a little . . . hesitant last night. Like you didn’t really want to be there with me.” She looked down. “Usually I’m pretty good at reading people, but you seemed a little torn, unsure or something. I wanted to ask if everything was all right?”

  “Yes,” Hugo assured her. “I just . . . I shouldn’t have been there like that, dinner, fine, but not . . . you know. You’re a potential witness in at least two murders and a disappearance. Not to mention Leo’s demise.”

  “I didn’t think of that, I suppose.”

  “That’s OK, Nisha, it’s my job to think of it, not yours. I’m just glad nothing happened between us.”

  “Saved by the bell, eh?” she laughed.

  “I suppose so. It’s not often my friend Tom saves me, usually the other way around.” He gave a gentle laugh. “Anyway, I should get back to work.”

  “Wait.” She put a hand on his arm. “There’s something else. I should have told you before but,” she looked down, “I was embarrassed. I’m embarrassed to tell you now, but I think I have to.”

  “Embarrassed?” Hugo looked up at the retreating figure of Todd Finch. “Do you mean you and . . .”

  She glanced over her shoulder and then looked back at Hugo. “Todd? Oh good heavens, no. I mean, it’s been obvious for a while that he’s interested and all, but no. I’m not.”

  “Then what did you want to tell me?”

  “About me and Rubén.”

  Hugo blinked in surprise. “That’s kind of a big deal to not tell me until now.”

  “Because of last night?”

  “No, Nisha, because of what happened to him.”

  “Does that make me a suspect now?” She grimaced, knowing that the joke was in poor taste.

  “It means a lot of things.” Hugo ran his fingers through his hair as he thought. “OK, I need to let Chief Inspector Garcia know, and he’ll want another statement from you. A complete one this time—no omissions, OK?”

  “What about last night?”

  “We had dinner last night. If anyone asks, tell them the truth, but really, Nisha, all we did was have dinner.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll wait to hear from your policeman, I’ll tell him about Rubén.”

  “Thanks. How long were you guys seeing each other?”

  “Not long. I don’t usually think it’s a good idea to date colleagues at work, but there was something between us and we both wanted to explore it. Not love or anything like that. As you put it, we were both adults.”

  “Nisha, you should have told us.”

  “I know. But I really didn’t think it could have anything to do with his death.” She looked up at Hugo. “You probably think I’ve been very cold about that, too.”

  “People respond to tragedy in different ways. I know that better than most people.”

  “It’s just so unreal. I mean, we didn’t even know each other that well; it was like we were just starting to. And now, I keep thinking he’s away on vacation or something.”

  “OK. Look, I’m sorry, but I have to ask something else.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “You know what the question is?”

  “Whether I was sleeping with Leo.” She looked away. “God, what must you think of me?”

  “Adults, remember.”

  “Well, I wasn’t, I promise you that.”

  “I believe you, and I’m sorry for asking. How about Rubén? It may have a bearing on the forensics. Was he seeing anyone else?”

  “No. We talked about that, I said I didn’t mind, but he didn’t want to see anyone else. He was sort of insistent I didn’t, either.”

  “When did you guys spend time together?”

  “The Spanish have this wonderful thing called siesta.” She looked down again, this time blushing gently.

  “Your place or his?”

  “Oh, mine, always. I went to his apartment once and, well, let’s just say my standards of cleanliness were a little higher than his.”

  Hugo smiled, thinking about the change in tidiness of his own apartment when Tom was staying there, as opposed to when his friend was away. And the comments Claudia had made to that effect. “I know what you mean, absolutely. Well, thanks for being honest with me. I’ll have Chief Inspector Garcia get those details down in a statement, probably this afternoon.”

  “Still OK for me to go see Gregor Freed?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  They parted with awkward smiles, but there was
something about what she’d said that nagged at Hugo. He couldn’t be sure if it was a personal feeling, though, or something related to the case. He watched her walk away, and once she was out of sight, he called Tom.

  “Interesting development,” Hugo said.

  “Let’s start with last night’s interesting developments.”

  “Funny.”

  “Not like you, Hugo, to play games with someone like that. You get what you needed?”

  “Yeah. You check Barsetti’s body today?”

  “Sure did. Not a scratch on him. Well, lots of crushed and mushy bits, but as far as a three-day-old scar, nothing.”

  Tom was right. The idea that Hugo would essentially seduce a witness for an investigation was as far from his comfort zone as he’d ever been. In other cases, he’d pretended to get angry, got in people’s faces to intimidate them in order to get results. He’d lied and cajoled, even flirted. But the fact that Amy Dreiss was relying on him to save her life, in Hugo’s mind, that changed the rules. Obliterated them. As necessity is the mother of invention, Hugo had told Tom grimly, urgency spawned desperation. As it was, his close but brief encounter with the naked Nisha Bhandari had convinced him that, like Leo Barsetti, she too was unmarked by broken glass. He’d found it surprisingly difficult to focus on the task, to switch off the human emotions and feelings, but as hard as it had been to concentrate, he was confident that if she’d gashed herself on Castañeda’s pantry window, he’d have seen the scar from it. But her body, he’d had to admit, was flawless.

  “Nothing on her, either,” Hugo told Tom.

  “Including clothes?”

  “Stop it, how the hell else was I supposed to do this?”

  “Oh, relax. No one’s judging you, Hugo. I’m certainly not in any place to do so.”

  “True enough.”

  “She’s off the list of suspects then?” Tom asked.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look, my inspection wasn’t exactly done with a magnifying glass under surgical lights, and I just found out she withheld information from us.”