The Bookseller (22 page)

 

 

Into his second cup of coffee and gathering the energy to walk to the embassy, Hugo tried Ceci's number. It rang and rang.
Maybe out walking Sydney
, he thought. He called Emma and was at least able to leave a message. He told her the basics, said he was fine, and asked her to warn the ambassador that he would be in to talk to him. Ten minutes later he was about to try Ceci again when his cell phone rang.

“Capitaine Garcia here, Monsieur Marston.”

“Good morning, capitaine. Any news?”

“A little. Your ugly friend didn't want to talk to us, and he has that right. But we found out who he is. Or, more precisely, what he is. A small time drug dealer. He has spent some time in our jails, and will be going back there, of course.”

“Do you know who he works for?”

“Not exactly. We know who his associates are, who he's done work for in the past, but we have no idea who he's working for at the moment. If anyone, of course.”

“You think it might have been just a burglary?”

“Not really, no. I assume you don't either.”

“No.”

“That poetry book you told me about, do you think they might have been looking for it?”

“It's possible,” said Hugo. If so, Roussillon hadn't sent them: he already had it. But maybe it wasn't that simple. There was still some question in his mind about the Clausewitz book. He'd already told himself that whoever took Max had taken the book, either from his person or from his flat. But maybe not.

“By the way, the only thing he would tell us was that your friend had a gun. I've checked the manifests kept by the airlines and I see no record of him declaring a gun on the way in. Care to comment?”

“Capitaine, that would be a very serious matter.”

“Precisely. And, of course, I place very little stock in what a violent drug dealer tells me. I just thought I'd mention it.”

“I'll speak to my friend, make sure we're all on the same page.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Hugo remembered Ceci's call. “I may have another missing person for you, capitaine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a call late last night, a message left on my phone from Cecilia Roget, the former head of the SBP. Apparently another bouquiniste is missing.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Just a first name. I'll find out more and get it to you as soon as I can.”

“
Merci
. Tell me again, the name of the lady who gave you this information?”

“Cecilia Roget.”

“I see. Please, no offense Monsieur Marston, but tell her to call me next time she has something important to report.”

“Of course.”
Let the turf wars begin
, Hugo thought. “As soon as I get hold of her, I'll tell her. Are you planning to talk to Monsieur Gravois, capitaine?”

“
Non
, I don't think so. We have no reason to believe he's involved, no obvious connection between the deaths or to your burglary.”

“Two bouquinistes in one week isn't a connection?”

“Maybe they both used Microsoft computers, monsieur—should I go interview Bill Gates?”

“That's your analogy? Come on, capitaine.”

“Until you or someone else can show me how their deaths are related, I have no reason to think they are anything but very unfortunate coincidences.”

“Coincidences?” Hugo bit his tongue. He knew they were more
than that, and he knew that sooner or later he'd find something to convince this cop. “Fine, you're in charge, capitaine.”

“Thank you. I need to make an appointment for you to come to the station with your friend to look at photos, to try and recognize the intruder. When are you available?”

“How does this afternoon sound?”

“Fine. The sooner the better, of course. If I'm not here, just tell them who you are. Everything will be ready.”

Hugo tried Ceci one more time, the specter of worry moving across his mind when she didn't answer. Nothing he could do from Paris, though, so he set off for the embassy, keeping his head down despite the beauty of the day. He didn't want to see Chabot or whoever had taken Francoise Benoit's place. He paused only briefly on the narrow pedestrian bridge, Pont des Arts. The heavy roll of the murky water beneath his feet carried a new and unwelcome menace.

“Hugo, come in,” Ambassador Taylor said. “I got your message, are you OK?”

“I'm fine, thank you ambassador.”

“So what the hell happened?”

Hugo told him, leaving out any reference to Tom's gun. The ambassador sat there shaking his head.

“You think it has to do with this Max Koche?”

“I do. Even the capitaine doesn't think it was a random burglary, though he doesn't seem inclined to bother Bruno Gravois.”

“Why not? I don't want you bugging him, but I sure as hell don't care if the cops do.”

“I think it's for the same reason your friend Roussillon didn't want him bothered. Political reasons.”

The ambassador stroked his chin. “This still isn't our jurisdiction, you know. I wish I could help, Hugo, suggest something to get you involved formally, but I just don't see how.”

“There is one way,” Hugo said. “Most homicides in the United States are local matters, right? For the state or county police to deal with.”

“Go on.”

“But these days, when they need help they often call in the FBI.”

Understanding dawned on the ambassador's face. “You mean when they have a serial killer and think a profile might help.”

“Exactly. Now, the prefecture may have its own profilers, I don't know.”

“They may, but you taught at the FBI academy and have a ton of experience. I like it, nice idea. You want me to pitch it as an offer of help, nothing more?”

“If you would, ambassador, I'd be grateful.”

“I'll do it. No promises, of course, and if they say no then you'll have to stay out of it. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Although if they come after me again, I won't be a passive victim.”

“Understood.” The ambassador's eyes twinkled for a moment. “By the way, my sources tell me that although your robber didn't make any statement, he did ask for medical treatment for his, umm, manhood.”

“It's called the castle doctrine,” Hugo grinned. “Break into my house and my soldiers get to crush yours.”

On his way out, Hugo stopped in to see Emma. The relief in her face was evident, although she tried to mask all signs of worry. “Hugo, can you not stay out of trouble while you're on vacation?”

“Not my fault,” he said. “People keep forgetting that those guys broke into my place, not the other way around.”

“Even so, did you consider backing away and calling the cops?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said truthfully, “the thought never entered my mind.”

“Figures.”

Hugo's cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Claudia,” he said, flipping his phone open. “What's up?”

“Can you meet for a quick cup of coffee?”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“If you're at work, three blocks away. You know Café Bleu? On Saint-Honoré?”

“The new place, sure.”

“Meet me there.”

“Claudia, is everything OK? You sound upset.”

“I'm fine. Just tired.”

“Give me ten minutes, I'll be there.”

The Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Hugo had often thought, would be the only street to get Christine to Paris and, maybe, keep her there. Narrow and nondescript by Paris's architectural standards, it was nevertheless one of the most famous shopping boulevards in the world. All of the famous fashion houses kept stores on the street, as did dozens more designers that Hugo had never heard of. The boutiques sold only the finest art, the jewelry stores were almost too intimidating to enter, and the few hotels on the road were subtle affairs of supreme elegance, small and intimate, with better service than you'd get at some of the more palatial hotels in Paris.

Café Bleu fit right in. With just a single row of tables along the sidewalk, Hugo had walked past often and never seen one remain empty for more than thirty seconds. The waiters here were fast and efficient, they knew they were dealing with exacting customers who wouldn't hesitate to drop large amounts of cash at the boutiques nearby…or make a polite fuss if their coffee was cold or slow to arrive.

Claudia had managed to snag a table and two chairs beside the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek and slid into the vacant seat, momentarily battling the outer limits of a puffy Italian woman who'd overflowed into it.

“Nothing like privacy,” Hugo grimaced.

Claudia smiled, but she looked tired. “Sorry to drag you away like that.”

“No problem. What's up?”

A waiter appeared and Hugo ordered a café crème. Claudia asked for the same.

“I wanted to let you know a little of what is going on, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”

“Tom?”

“No, Hugo, not even him. Not yet.” She held his eye. “Promise?”

“OK. What's going on?”

“You remember we talked about Dobrescu and Les Pieds-Noirs sharing power in the city?”

“I do.”

“We think Les Pieds-Noirs may have a new partnership.”

“We?”

“OK, the cops. They really are trusting me with a lot of this information, which is why you have to keep it quiet.”

“Sure, I get it. You said a partnership—between whom?”

“They are not sure. Not exactly. But possibly another Romanian group. Or Bulgarian, those two seem to work together a lot in Europe. London and Madrid have had problems with criminal alliances with people from those countries.”

“I didn't know that,” Hugo said truthfully.

“And talking of Madrid, there's even speculation that ETA might be behind this.”

“The Spanish separatists? I thought they'd gone away.”

“They're back,” said Claudia. “It's just a question of whether they are back and in Paris.”

“It seems unlikely but then again, it's a model that worked for some terrorist groups, the FARC and ELN in Colombia, selling drugs to make money for their other activities.”

“Precisely. So many to choose from.” She took two coffee cups from the waiter and put one in front of Hugo, then unwrapped a cube of sugar and stirred it into hers. “As I said before, a border-free Europe has done wonders for business, tourism, and criminals. New markets for everyone to enjoy.”

“You think all this has something to do with Max and the other bouquinistes?”

“Actually, no.”

“Then I don't understand why you're telling me this.”

“Hugo, I'm worried about you.” She picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee again. “I have no right to be, but I am. What happened last night…I don't know. I've just seen too much death and destruction lately.”

“I still don't understand, I'm sorry.”

“I'm asking you to let the police find out what happened to Max. Leave it alone, Hugo. I know you are good at what you do, or were, but so are they.”