The Elite Club

By Esteban Navarro Soriano

A group of powerful men —a mayor, a president of the Provincial Council, a prosecutor, a judge, a commissioner of the National Police and a lieutenant colonel of the Civil Guard— meet once a month in the chalet that the alderman owns in Guadalajara. municipal. The reason? Something apparently as innocent as a reading club: chatting about a crime novel that they agree to read... However, days after the first meeting, the author of the book dies in a traffic accident. The writer's widow mistrusts the "official version" and hires a private detective, who also dies strangely. The friendship of Sonia Ruiz and Pau with her research colleague will push them to investigate the case. Who are these men who gather together? Why did the author of the novel die? How did the detective's accident occur? His investigations begin by finding out who chooses each book that this "elite club" reads.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667457642

Book preview

Chapter 1

Pau couldn't take his eyes off the screen of his mobile. And while with his left hand he held the steering wheel of the Nissan Micra, with his right he expertly held the phone. On a ramp in the Salamanca neighborhood, on Jorge Juan street, he had to change speed with great difficulty, without letting go of the mobile phone. With the swing he dropped his phone on the passenger seat and, as he bent down to pick it up, his eyes fell on the sign that indicated the name of the street.

Claudio Coello Street, he read aloud.

At that moment it seemed like a bad omen to pass by there, on that street. Although he was young enough, he was only eighteen years old, not to have lived through dark times in Spain, he did know that the then vice president of Franco's government was murdered on that street: Admiral Carrero Blanco.

When he reached Calle Príncipe de Vergara, he turned, keeping close to the left lane. As soon as possible, he would stop the car so he could call Luis Miguel. Or Luismi, as all his friends knew him. I had to contact him. I had to contact him. It was an imperative need for his friend to pick up. Luismi had been sending him numerous WhatsApp messages throughout that morning and he had not responded because he was busy installing the operating system on an acquaintance's computer. That's what being a Computer Engineering and Informatics student had: all your friends want you to fix the bugs on their computer.

Tenfgo quue habar contigho urgentementemente, le habia escrito.

There was no doubt that those messages had been written down by Luismi, in a troubled way, probably while driving. Pau stopped the Nissan in a hole he found in a loading and unloading zone in front of a supermarket. He stoically endured the horn of the taxi driver who was following him. Those days the taxi drivers were at odds with those of Uber and the discomfort between the two groups was palpable in the environment. He tightly gripped the mobile phone with his left hand and with a finger of his right hand he searched for Luismi in the calendar. He didn't have time to let Siri do it for him. On the screen he saw the photograph of his friend. Smiling, as she always knew him. His hair fell lank around his ears. His agitated complexion, reminiscent of a Joaquín Cortés in his younger years, darkened the mobile screen and Pau thought about what would worry his friend so that he had sent him so many messages. A green phone logo flashed on and off, indicating that the call was in progress.

Come on, come on, he yelled. Pick up the phone for once.

A beggar approached the window of the Nissan. He was the proud possessor of a huge mustache that spread out across the glass like a jellyfish in a fish tank. The man showed a package of tissues, while his eyes wandered over the tattoos on Pau's arms.

The will, he said.

Pau took a handful of coins from the tray next to the handbrake and, without counting them, handed them over to the beggar through the tiny hole left by rolling down the window. A slap of the July heat passed inside the Micra, as if the lid of hell had been opened at that moment. The man, in dirty and ragged clothes, but with a smooth complexion and clear eyes, took the coins with a gloved hand.

Thank you, sir, he said with an indeterminate accent, which could have been either Romanian or Russian.

The call made to Luismi was cut off when enough time passed without the caller picking up. Pau didn't think it was necessary to call again. When Luismi saw the call, he would return it, without a doubt.

He continued driving down Príncipe de Vergara street until he found a space next to some garbage containers. He edged the car. There he could think without being disturbed, he told himself. It all started when Luismi told him that he was working on the investigation of a very elitist reading club. Luis Miguel Artapalo, like Sonia, was a private detective who worked without an office. He was a local police officer for the Madrid city council for ten years, but he had been fired two years ago, he never knew why. He didn't ask her either, but she knew that you have to make her very fat to get fired from the police. Since then he had dedicated himself to research with mixed success. The detectives' range of possibilities was very limited and the profit margin zero. It was difficult, if not impossible, for a detective working on his own to become rich. Luismi had been hired by the wife of a writer to investigate a strange book club. They were a group of notables who met in a chalet in the Caraquiz urbanization, in Uceda, a small municipality in the province of Guadalajara. Luismi had told him that, once a month, various personalities from the region would gather at the house of a wellknown mayor of Mataseña. Bilderberg Club?" Pau had asked him. His friend strongly denied it. Those meetings had nothing to do with the Bilderberg club. Those gathered were: a mayor, a president of a Provincial Council, a prosecutor, a judge, a commissioner of the National Police and a command of the Civil Guard.

And why do they meet? Paul was interested.

They say that to talk about literature, replied his friend. They say it's a crime novel reading club," he explained in a cavernous voice. Pau always wanted to know, ever since he met him, the number of black cigarettes he would have smoked to have such a voice. They choose a novel and meet in a private gathering where they discuss what they think of it.

Pau tilted his chin without perceiving anything strange in that club. Luismi, who waved his huge hands in the air as he spoke, insisted on how strange it was that a group of notables meet every month under the pretext of discussing a novel.

"Strange? What's strange? Paul had asked.

Those men meet every month in the chalet in Caraquiz, his friend explained. At the end of the meeting they decide the title and the author of the novel that they have to read for the next meeting. But a month ago, at the first literary meeting since it is known, the one on May 31, something happened for which they hired me. Pau held his breath waiting for Luismi to explain. The author of the novel that was discussed at that meeting died in a traffic accident a week after the notables met, when he was driving his Chrysler 300.

"Casual? asked Paul.

"It's possible. The author was a resident of a town between Pinto and Valdemoro. His name was Cesario Pidal and his novel had a title that was as unsuggestive as it was repellent:all the idiots.

But there's nothing between Pinto and Valdemoro, the young agent objected.

How come there's nothing?! Luismi protested angrily. There is Mataseña. Mataseña is a municipality of just four hundred inhabitants, nestled between the towns of Pinto and Valdemoro . But the coincidence is that the mayor of that municipality is one of the notables of the reading club, as well as the owner of the chalet in Caraquiz where they meet.

It was in that conversation that Pau found out that the wife of the deceased writer had hired Luismi, who was also a personal friend of Pau's and had had an intense relationship with Sonia Ruiz, his partner in adventures and investigations. Mrs. Pidal hired him to investigate the death of her husband, because it was not believed that he had died in an accident. The civil guard, who are the ones who had carried out the investigation, determined that her husband had died in a traffic accident on the section between Pinto and Valdemoro, but she did not believe it. So he had no choice but to hire the services of a private detective to investigate.

Luismi and Pau had met a few days after the investigation began, to have a beer on a terrace in the Retiro. Pau feared that he would ask for help. Private detectives needed the close collaboration of the police to advance their investigations. A private detective without contacts within the police or the CNI is like a gun without ammunition: it is useless. Luismi expressed his concern to delve into that club.

From what you say, it doesn't look good, no, Pau had told him. Be careful with those people.

Yes, don't worry, he told her. Not even know where to start. And more taking into account the type of people they are. In the end I will dedicate myself to pretending that I am doing something to justify my fees. "Pau made the same face as a fish in an aquarium.

From what you tell me, it's weird, he agreed. But you know that life is full of coincidences. Maybe, like you told me, it was just an accident in the end.

"I think so too, but you know what they say friend: he who pays rules.

There is one thing that has not been clear to me, Pau questioned. What are you doing investigating a crime?

Someone has to do it, right?

"Yes, but that's what the police are for.

"The Civil Guard has already said that it was an accident. When Mrs. Pidal told me who these men were, I had the feeling that they were hiding something. Those men are very powerful. They are because of the positions they hold, and I'm sure no one dares to investigate them. Do you have any idea if the CNI does it?

Pau shook his head negatively.

I don't think the CNI is dedicated to investigating a book club, he told her. Do you know what they talk about in those meetings?

That's what I'd like to know. But they are secret meetings. The six meet inside the chalet. They talk during the afternoon. They eat dinner at night. And before dawn each one goes home.

A cover? Paul was interested.

"That's it, friend. I think the book club is a smokescreen to hide their true intentions.

"I don't understand you.

"They've been meeting for a long time. And I don't think it's just to talk about books.

The phone vibrated as he held it in his hand,