Chapter 58

 

Burke sat back in his chair, trying to calm down after sending his text. It was his last shot at figuring out what had happened in Spain. He could do no more.

His phone buzzed, indicating a text.

He saw it was from Mateo Ochoa. The message contained a single word: Interesting.

Burke didn’t see it as a single word, though. To him, it meant Ochoa was confirming that Wendy Klassen was on the flic’s radar and maybe that of Interpol.

Burke tapped a reply into his phone: “Any evidence against her?”

“A woman of various talents,” Ochoa fired back.

Burke rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t Ochoa be direct just once? The flic was always cryptic.

Then Burke recalled a certain scene that might be useful to the policeman.

“Do you have videos from all the Vuelta’s special evening events?” Burke texted.

“Yes, why?” replied Ochoa.

He told Ochoa to check out a specific video, giving the date and general time, and saying it showed the reactions of Tim Fritz and those around him to a terrible Vuelta crash being shown on the big-screen TV’s coverage.

“Watch Wendy Klassen’s face contrasted to the others,” Burke added.

Burke expected he wouldn’t get a quick response from Ochoa and so he whistled for his dog Plato to be leashed for a stroll to the café. Plato pranced over, happy to see he’d be going for a walk. Burke hooked his dog to the leash, scratched his ears and then left the apartment, happy to put aside the Vuelta and all its mysteries for a while.

He and Plato had barely reached the lane by their old apartment when Burke’s phone buzzed. To Burke’s surprise, it was from Ochoa who had texted: “Just watched it. Very instructive. And useful.”

Burke wasn’t sure what ‘instructive’ or ‘useful’ meant, but he didn’t ask. Ochoa was wearing him down.

Moments later, Burke received another text from Ochoa: “How are you doing with my favour?”

Burke wanted to fire back some smartass remark in response to Ochoa’s query, but he didn’t. Instead, he said his blog would likely be posted within the hour with two accompanying news stories showing up on the newspaper chain’s website about the same time. There’d be another blog the next day.

“Good. Keep working the story,” Ochoa responded.

Burke shook his head. If he got another text from Ochoa that night, he’d ignore it.

However, as Plato led him down the lane toward the small village green that welcomed visitors to the community, Burke couldn’t help thinking about Ochoa’s desire for Burke and Tessier to tell their Vuelta stories. Ochoa was obviously seeking some kind of reaction, but from whom?

Plato watered a couple of flowers and then turned toward the path that would take them to Hélène’s Café de Neptune. The closer they got, the more he tugged. Burke, still pondering Ochoa’s motivation for greater news coverage, followed without opposition.

The café’s terrace was busy, but it didn’t stop Hélène from darting over and hugging Burke when she saw him.

“I missed you, chéri,” she said. Then she kissed him, lingering in his arms for several seconds.

When they broke apart, Burke smiled and said, “What will your patrons think of us?”

“That we’re in love.”

That suited Burke. Hélène wasn’t his entire world, but she was most of it.

Hélène bent and rubbed Plato’s ribs, enjoying how the little dog collapsed into her hand as she scratched.

“I’m done work for tonight,” Burke said. “What time will you be finished?”

Hélène glanced toward the café terrace and said she probably wouldn’t be home before midnight. Burke said he’d stay up, but he couldn’t vouch for Plato.

“We can visit then,” Hélène said and then she trotted back to the terrace where a foursome had just shown up looking for a table.

Burke watched his partner for a few moments. In many ways, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And just when he was about to leave, Hélène turned toward him and blew him a kiss.

Instead of heading straight home, Burke took Plato on the long route back which led through a series of up-and-down lanes that had existed for several centuries. Passing by ancient homes that had been renovated over the years, Burke couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. This small corner of the French Riviera was his paradise. And he thought it was Hélène’s as well. And Plato’s.

And then he had it. While he had been walking Plato, his mind had drifted back to Ochoa’s request and his use of words – and produced a result. It sometimes happened that way for Burke. Just when he’d be taking it easy, his brain would produce some theory or idea, almost like it had been reviewing the data while the rest of Burke wasn’t doing much.

Burke was convinced Ochoa believed someone involved in the food-fraud organization was using a variety of news sources to monitor how the investigation was going. If the stories pinpointed others as being responsible, this person would know how to react. If it looked safe to do so, he or she could get back to regular business, even if it was illegal. The spotlight would be far away.

A day before, Burke would have guessed Tim Fritz was Ochoa’s target. Now he believed it was Wendy Klassen. She was the brains and she was the ruthless one, the person who could order attacks on potential threats just as easily as she could watch the mangled bodies of colliding cyclists.

If it was Klassen pulling the strings, was Tim Fritz aware of what she was doing? Burke thought her husband, who’d likely not been named by Lόpez in any documents the Spaniard had provided or he’d have been arrested, was probably unaware what his wife had been up to. Wendy Klassen had done her worst in the shadows.

That’s when Burke understood Ochoa was confident that Tessier’s and his media efforts wouldn’t focus on Klassen at all. The flic expected the reports would mention others, including Fritz. And that would provide a sense of security for Klassen if she was scrutinizing media coverage which was likely.

Ochoa wanted the media to get it wrong.

Clever bastard, thought Burke.

And if Klassen, confident she was safe, returned to her criminal activities, she wouldn’t know various police forces would be monitoring her, waiting for her to make one mistake so they could pounce.

It fit, thought Burke. Finally.

For a moment, Burke was angry that Ochoa had manipulated him and Tessier with such ease. Then he recalled how he’d poked his nose into police matters, asked questions and confronted the flics. He’d invited being used. It was his fault he hadn’t seen what was happening.

Burke also realized he wasn’t being used just by Ochoa. The Girona flic was likely the point person for a group of police forces that included Interpol and, because Klassen was American, the FBI in the United States. Ochoa was the first one to encounter Burke and it made sense he’d be selected to manipulate Burke as the investigation gathered momentum.

But would Klassen become complacent and make a mistake? Burke had doubts, but he’d been wrong about a lot of things in recent days. Ochoa, for whatever reasons, had a different sense of the woman and believed she’d make a critical error.

And then Burke found himself at home. He had hardly been aware of his surroundings the last few minutes.

Plato rushed up the stairs, eager for his post-walk treat. Burke gave his dog his reward and watched as Plato gobbled it and then trotted off to his bed.

Hélène wouldn’t show up for at least another two hours, but Burke knew he’d have no trouble keeping awake to greet her. Mateo Ochoa had given him plenty to think about.