Chapter 56

 

Burke couldn’t identify anything he could do for Ochoa and he noticed Tessier looking equally puzzled.

“A favour? From us?” Burke said.

Ochoa shrugged and smiled. “You both work in the media although in different capacities,” he said.

Burke grew more wary. He hoped Ochoa wouldn’t waste time getting to the point, but he wasn’t optimistic.

“I’ve noticed both of you haven’t spent much time recently discussing what happened during the Vuelta or the events that involved you and Monsieur López,” Ochoa said. “I’m surprised at that. I thought you’d manage some in-depth coverage, especially in your case, Monsieur Burke.”

Burke had produced a couple of blogs discussing in general terms what had happened during his time covering the Spanish race. His editor, without knowing the full Vuelta story and how Burke had almost been killed, had been fine when Burke had turned to other topics.

“It’s a Spanish story,” Burke replied.

“No, it isn’t and you know that as well as I do, Monsieur,” Ochoa said. “It’s an international story and you were right there in the front row to see it all begin. Yet you’ve done little. And, Monsieur Tessier, your network has moved onto other stories even though this one is still playing out.”

“I cover cycling and some other sports, not international news,” Burke replied.

“And I’m not in control of what gets put on air,” Tessier protested.

“Well, here’s my favour,” Ochoa said. “I want you to tell your audiences more about what happened. Do blogs, a TV report, anything that discusses López’s suicide, the connections to food fraud, the arrests. Write what you know, Monsieur Burke. And, Monsieur Tessier, push your bosses for more coverage. Use the information you have, do more research.”

“Why do you care?” Burke asked, still trying to establish why Ochoa was making such a request.

“I don’t care what you produce as long as you get people to think about López, Bothwick, the truck driver, the whole food-fraud investigation.”

Burke remembered some quote about a mystery wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in an enigma or something like that. It certainly applied here. He had no idea what Ochoa was trying to accomplish. And it was equally strange that Ochoa hadn’t made his request during their earlier interview. Or even before that.

Ochoa leaned forward, no longer smiling. “And if you need a little extra hook for any future stories, you can say the Spanish police know a government employee helped orchestrate the food fraud in the Oropesa-Peῇíscola area.”

“Who?”

“I will tell you both if I have your promise not to use the name.”

Burke hated it when someone told him not to use a name and recognized his editor disliked it even more because anonymous sources didn’t add credibility to a story. But he was hooked. He wanted to know. So he nodded.

Tessier took a few extra seconds and then agreed.

Ochoa looked at both men and Burke thought he was trying to put some drama into the moment although the identity of some faceless bureaucrat wasn’t guaranteed to thrill many.

“The name of the government employee is Inspector Alejandro Chávez, my former boss.”

Burke felt like he’d been slapped. If he’d been given a hundred guesses, he’d never have produced Alejandro Chávez.

“And here’s a little extra just for you, Monsieur Burke. You know how you thought someone was shooting at you in the hills above Peῇíscola? It was Chávez although his intent wasn’t to kill you.”

Burke felt his jaw drop involuntarily.

“Chávez could have killed you if he’d wanted to,” Ochoa said. “He’s a highly skilled marksman. In fact, he’s competed in international shooting events. No, he just wanted you to be so scared that you’d talk to the police once, say little and then leave the country as fast as possible.”

“I was definitely ready to,” muttered Burke, still shocked by Ochoa’s naming Chávez.

“But you didn’t run away scared. You kept doing what you’ve apparently done for the last few years with some degree of success – you tried to figure out what was happening.”

“OK, but how do you know Chávez was involved and he’s the one who shot at me?”

“Simple. He told us.”

Burke felt overwhelmed by Ochoa’s string of pronouncements and when he glanced at Tessier, he saw a stunned look on the young man’s face. Time was standing still. All that mattered was what was coming out of Ochoa’s mouth.

The server re-appeared and Ochoa ordered another coffee, giving her his biggest smile yet. When she was gone, the smile disappeared and Ochoa turned to Burke.

“You mentioned during one of our interviews how it seemed a lot of organizing had to occur for the food-fraud scheme to run so successfully,” Ochoa said. “I didn’t say it at the time, but I agreed. If there were boats secretly coming and going with specialized food products, someone in authority had to be involved to safeguard the operation – or maybe more than just one person. So I started digging around.”

“And you came up with Chávez?”

“Alejandro Chávez never impressed me much when I got the job in Peῇíscola. He was ambitious and fairly clever, but mostly he was lazy. But I was new and didn’t want to create any troubles, and so I kept my mouth shut and just did the village cop thing, handing out tickets, dealing with vehicle accidents, breaking up late-night brawls and dealing with the occasional domestic dispute. And then, Monsieur Burke, your friend Colin Bothwick was found dead. I saw immediately you didn’t think it was an accident and your arguments made sense, enough that I thought we needed to dig into his case with greater energy. But Chávez remained unconvinced and told his boss we were wasting our time and our resources on a tragic hit-and-run.”

Burke’s brain was bubbling with questions but he didn’t want to interrupt. Ochoa was on a roll.

“And then, thanks to some of your suggestions, it started to look like Bothwick was the victim of a deliberate hit-and-run. Yet that still didn’t get Chávez excited which struck me as strange. You see, gentlemen, until Bothwick’s death, there hadn’t been a murder in the Peῇíscola-Oropesa region for six years. Since it was such a rare occurrence, Chávez with his ambition should have pushed for an investigation and to be in charge. Instead, he kept arguing Bothwick’s death was an accident until our superintendent finally ordered Chávez to lead the investigation. Chávez accepted the job, but he didn’t do so happily.”

“And that intrigued you,” Burke said.

Ochoa nodded. “I started digging into Chávez and learned some interesting things.”

“Such as?” Tessier said.

“That for a policeman with a small-town salary, Bothwick had some nice toys, not enough to draw much attention, but a couple that couldn’t be explained by being a good investor or thrifty enough to save up.”

“What about any family wealth?” Burke asked.

Ochoa waved away the suggestion. “Very working class. No, there had to be another source.”

“What were the toys?” Tessier asked.

“He had a Salvador Dalí etching.”

“A real one?” Burke asked.

“Very real although he told everyone it was just a good knockoff. And unless an expert showed up, who was to disagree?”

“How much would a Dalí etching be worth?” Tessier said.

“Hundreds of thousands of euros.”

Burke whistled under his breath. “But how did you discover that?”

“Patience, Monsieur Burke, patience.”

Burke shrugged. Ochoa always went at his own pace.

“Chávez hid the Dalí etching in plain sight – right in his house. And whenever someone looked at it and was impressed, he’d give them his story about getting a good deal on a superior copy. Who could argue?”

“Was the etching stolen?”

“Not at all. He got it in a private deal with an individual trying to get some quick cash to handle an ugly divorce settlement. Chávez, through his various connections in other areas, heard about the Dalí and made the deal, buying it while he was on vacation down in Marbella. I just dug around into the art scene and discovered the sale. It wasn’t particularly hard to find out about the deal, especially if you’ve got a background as a detective. But Chávez made it relatively easy for me because he never believed anyone would be interested enough to look into the origins of the Dalí work. After all, he was a police officer. That arrogance helped me.”

“And the other toy or toys?” Tessier said.

“Also clever purchases. He got himself a portion of a second-level football team in the north. He’s a big football fan.”

Burke figured he wouldn’t ask how Ochoa had discovered that information.

“And his final toy was an apartment he leased in Biarritz in France. He had a French girlfriend there.”

“OK+, you found out he had all these expensive things, but so what?” Burke asked. “How did you get from there to his involvement in Bothwick’s murder and the food-fraud scheme – and to shooting at me?”

“Like I said, it all goes back to Chávez not pursuing the Bothwick case. I thought he was dirty when I found out about the Dalí etching, the football team and the Biarritz apartment. But where did he get all that money? Not from shaking down local petty criminals. He had to be involved in something else, something much bigger. And then I learned he had a sideline job as a minor official for the area. In small communities, it’s not uncommon for a police officer to do that. In this case, Chávez signed off on applications for boats seeking moorage and no one ever questioned him or paid much attention. Unlike the French, we Spanish aren’t the most bureaucratic people in Europe and operating in a rural area just made it easier for him.”

Burke got it then. Chávez had used his secondary job to help disguise boats coming in with fraudulent food products, especially ones destined for a high-class audience. Clever, Burke thought, but not smart enough to fool Ochoa.

“So Chávez was ambitious, not professionally but for personal gain,” Burke said.

“Correct.”

“And because he was also lazy, he took some shortcuts and left a few markers around that you noticed.”

“Correct again.”

The server returned with Ochoa’s coffee. Burke and Tessier ordered two more beers, figuring they wouldn’t be leaving the table for a while.

“That’s where you come in, Monsieur Burke,” the flic continued. “Once I started to believe Chávez was involved in what happened in Bothwick’s death and maybe with illegal shipments of food coming into the area, I wondered how far his criminal behaviour went. And when he was on an assignment, I got a warrant and searched his house – and found a sharpshooter’s rifle. It had been used recently and that made me think he might be behind the attack on you. When I told my superintendent what I’d found, he said it was time to arrest Chávez and we did. Interestingly, my superintendent had always thought there was something odd about Chávez.”

“But finding his gun doesn’t mean he shot at me,” Burke said.

“I took a chance during my first interview with him and said he’d shot at you, suggesting we could prove it. It was a gamble, but I was sure he’d been the one and it paid off. He thought we had somehow found evidence linking him to the shooting incident. When he thought he could work out some deal with us if he told us what he’d done, he gave us the details and that’s when he told us he wasn’t trying to hit you, just scare you into leaving.”

“So, you agreed to a plea bargain,” Tessier said.

“That’s what he came to understand. You see, Chávez is also a coward and the idea of being an ex-policeman in prison scared the life out of him and rightfully so. Instead of waiting for a lawyer, he immediately tried to negotiate an arrangement with us. We were interested and, in his nervous state, he began talking. In retrospect, he probably wishes he’d been more patient and waited for his lawyer.”

“So, no plea bargain,” Burke said.

“If he gets one, he won’t like it very much. But I won’t lose any sleep over that. A dirty cop is no one’s friend.”

“And so he started to fill in details and name names,” Burke said.

Ochoa nodded. “He did so with great enthusiasm.”

“And so the investigation went from there.”

“We started to look into what he’d told us, especially the food fraud, and quickly learned other police forces including Interpol were investigating a massive food-fraud scheme. We combined efforts, which normally isn’t easy in Spain because we tend to be territorial, and followed the connection between the food fraud and the strange events happening with the Vuelta. Each day led us closer to who was doing what.”

“When did Chef Andres become a suspect?” Burke said.

“Our culinary superstar was on Interpol’s radar before we thought about him. And then when we received some documentation linking him to the entire operation …”

“From José López?” Burke interrupted.

“Yes, from him,” Ochoa said. “When we saw the documentation, we arrested Chef Andres and his thugs who’d left enough evidence to get themselves convicted on a half dozen charges. And then a strange thing happened. They all started to name names. I’ve never seen so many people so eager to identify others in order to get a deal.”

“Did anyone implicate Tim Fritz?” Burke asked, anticipating that being away from the police interview room might produce a different result.

“You’ve got Fritz on the brain, Monsieur Burke. However, again, I won’t discuss him.”

Burke could only guess that Ochoa, and maybe others, weren’t finished with the American.

“Was Chef Andres responsible for Bothwick’s murder?” Burke asked.

“No. Two of Chef Andres’ men spotted Bothwick watching them, panicked and chased him, finally running him over. Chef Andres was in Peῇíscola working with the Vuelta organizers on the menu for the big evening there and had no idea what his men had done until they told him.”

“When Chávez went to the accident scene, did he know what had happened?”

“He didn’t have any idea. But he found out in a few hours when Chef Andres, who was one of his partners in the food fraud, filled him in. That’s when Chávez started pushing for Bothwick’s death to be written off as a tragic hit-and-run accident.”

Burke could feel a headache rapidly coming on from information overload. The beers showed up and he took a long pull, hoping it would help. It didn’t, but it tasted good.

“If Chef Andres has been charged with conspiracy to commit murder, who was the target?” Burke said.

Ochoa smiled. “You, of course.”

Burke had wondered who’d wanted him dead. “But why? I wasn’t any threat. I couldn’t do anything to anybody.”

“Chef Andres thought differently. He knew you were asking questions, poking your nose into matters that involved him. And with your reputation for getting results, he got scared and told his men to get rid of you the first chance they had. The riot in Girona was that opportunity.”

“So it was entirely his decision?”

“That’s a question which we’re still working on.”

“So, who’s really behind all of this and I don’t mean Chef Andres or his goons or Chávez?” Burke said.

Ochoa sipped his coffee. “Another question that I can’t answer. We’re going to have to wait and see.”

Burke groaned.

“Just do what I’ve asked you both to do and, who knows, maybe we’ll get a result,” Ochoa said.

Burke shook his head again and regretted it. His headache was locked in.