The Bookseller (23 page)

“What do you mean, ‘were'?”

“You're not a cop anymore. Why do you want to be?” She put the spoon down and cupped her hands around her coffee. “It's not a game, you know that. If those Romanians or Bulgarians, or whoever the hell they are, think you're poking around, they won't send a couple of idiots with sticks to your apartment, Hugo.”

“Which reminds me, did I tell you I spoke to Garcia earlier? One of those goons was a drug dealer.”

“All the more reason to leave it alone. Those people mean business, they are vicious and ruthless.”

“I know.” He put a hand on her arm and squeezed. “Your father told me about your husband, what happened. I'm really sorry, Claudia, I wish you'd told me.”

She gave him a weak smile. “I try not to think about it.” The smile faded. “And I don't want it to happen again.”

“Me neither. But why would they think I am poking around in their business?”

“Because that's what Americans do. You want to save the world, to make it look the way you think it should be, so you stick your nose into other people's business. And the drugs business is the best possible example. The underworld exists, Hugo, but it's not like in the movies. You can't be the American action hero, kicking in doors and roughing
up the bad guys. Just asking questions will make you stick out,
non
? Someone from the US Embassy who is a former FBI agent? Of course you will. They will think you are using the bouquiniste thing as an excuse to investigate the drug business.”

Hugo sat back. He hadn't thought about it that way, and some of what she said was true. “People keep telling me to back off, Claudia. The ambassador, your father, Capitaine Garcia. And now you. And I still don't see Max's killer behind bars. I don't care about your drug war. I really don't. But a friend of mine is dead. Dumped in the Seine. And as far as I can tell, the cops are more worried about what I'm doing than who his killer is.”

“That's not true.”

“No? Tell me, what do you know about a detective called Durand?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “David Durand?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you ask?” Her eyes slid over his face as if she were having trouble looking at him.

“Claudia. He was the cop who shut down the initial investigation. And you've been meeting with him.”

“How do you know that?”

“It doesn't matter how I know.”

“Have you been following me?”

“No,” he said. “And stop avoiding the question. I just want to know who he is.”

“And why I'm meeting with him, I'm sure.”

“Can you blame me?” He wasn't happy about the outrage in her voice, but he needed to know.

“I'm a reporter. I talk to a lot of cops. That's all Hugo, nothing to do with,” she waved a hand, “any of this.” Her phone rang and she picked it up to look at the display. “
Excusez moi un moment
, I have to take this.” She stood and walked along the row of tables, talking into the phone. She reached the end of the row and nodded twice, then hung up. She put the phone in her pocket and started back toward him.

Behind her, a motorcycle carrying two people came down the street
toward them. Rider and passenger both wore black leather jackets and chaps and helmets that hid their faces behind mirrored visors. Hugo saw them slow fifty yards away from the café. Hoping for an empty table, he first thought.

“I have to go,” Claudia said as she reached him. “They called a task force meeting and they said I could be there. Duty calls.”

He stood and dipped into his pocket for money to pay for their drinks. As he counted out change on the table the motorcycle drifted closer, out of the center of the road toward them. The passenger had his hand inside his leather coat and seemed to be adjusting his position.

Hugo realized too late what was happening.

Claudia had moved close to the curb to let him out, and was wrestling with the zipper on her bag as she tried to put her phone away. Hugo shouted her name and she looked up, eyes wide, at the sound of his voice.

He sprang forward as the motorcycle passenger pulled a small, dark object from inside his coat. He flung himself at Claudia and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, using the weight of his body to pull her to the pavement. People behind him screamed and he heard the crash of cups and plates as the café's patrons scattered. As he hit the sidewalk, Hugo heard the distinctive crack of a pistol and he felt Claudia's body lurch. He tried to roll on top of her but she cried out, pushing herself up as if trying to run.

Two more shots split the air. Claudia cried out again and fell.

Hugo looked up as the driver twisted the throttle, and he saw the rear wheel smoke as it fought for traction. He reached for his own gun, but with a roar of exhaust and squeal of rubber, the tire gripped the road and the bike leapt away from the curb. The passenger clung on as the machine fish-tailed past two parked cars and into traffic, and Hugo dared not shoot.

He tucked his gun away and crawled toward Claudia. His knees and one elbow throbbed from the fall, but he felt no other surges of pain. Claudia lay face down on the sidewalk, a ribbon of blood spreading from her body to the curb.

He slipped her scarf from around her neck and rolled her gently onto her back to see how badly she was hit. He saw two wounds, a graze to the outside of her left shoulder and a more severe wound to her left forearm. He ran a hand over her scalp and felt a significant bump, which explained her unconsciousness. He pressed the scarf against the gash in her lower arm to stem the flow of blood.

“Claudia, can you hear me?” His voice was urgent.

She groaned and tried to move, her mouth twisting in pain, her voice a whisper. “Hugo…”

“Hang in there, you're going to be fine, OK?” He meant it, the wounds did seem relatively superficial, but inside he was boiling with anger at whoever had done this. He put his head by hers. “I promise, Claudia, you'll be just fine.”

He heard the wail of sirens in the distance, and behind him several people started to edge out of the café, moving fearfully toward them.

A woman pushed her way through and knelt beside Hugo. She said something he couldn't understand and when he just stared, she pointed to herself and said in English, “Doctor.”

Hugo nodded and held still as the woman checked Claudia's vital signs. She took off her own white scarf and pressed it onto the bleeding shoulder, and it turned red almost instantly. Hugo looked at Claudia's face. Where she'd seemed pale to him before, she now looked like a ghost, her skin translucent and her lips gray. The doctor held her pulse at the wrist, and she caught Hugo looking at her. She frowned.

The sirens were louder now and Hugo looked down the street. Car by car, the traffic on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré nosed into the curb to make way for a police car and, right behind it, an ambulance.

The emergency vehicles pulled up where the motorcycle had been just minutes before and a baby-faced medic leapt out of the ambulance and ran to them. Hugo moved out of the way as the medic began to cut Claudia's shirt sleeve off. That done, he swiftly taped a large gauze pad onto her shoulder wound.

The bleeding seemed to have slowed, but Hugo knew that if he was wrong about it being a graze, and the bullet was still in there, an artery
could rupture and kill her in minutes. The young man double-checked her dressings and, satisfied, nodded to his colleague, who had inserted an IV line and was finishing up with a neck brace. Claudia moaned when, on a silent count, they eased her onto a stretcher, raised it up, and rolled her swiftly to the back of their vehicle. Hugo moved to climb in with her but a uniformed gendarme stepped away from a bystander and stopped him.

“You are family, monsieur?”

“No, a friend.”

“And are you hurt?”

“No.”

“I'm sorry, we need you to stay here and tell us what happened.”

Hugo gestured vaguely to the crowd. “Let them tell you, they saw everything.”

“We will take all their statements, monsieur,” the gendarme said.

“And I'll give you mine later.”

“
Non
. That is not how it works.”

Hugo briefly contemplated pulling out his embassy credentials but resisted. Every police contact like this had to be logged and explained, and the ambassador wouldn't want too many more explanations from him. “Look,” said Hugo, pointing to the café. “They know as much as I do.”

“I don't think so, monsieur. From what I have heard so far, you were the intended target.”

 

 

Tom laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, then stooped and put a steaming mug on the low coffee table in front of Hugo. “Here, this always works.”

“Is that tea?”

“I know, the Brits can't cook for shit, but they do know their magic potions. Trust me, tea is a magic potion.” He sat down in the chair beside Hugo and grimaced. “Just promise me we won't be watching any of that cricket crap.”

“You could learn from that game, you know. Politeness, civility, that kind of thing.”

“I do just fine without.” He looked at Hugo for a moment. “You sure you're OK?”

“I am, yes.” Hugo sat back and stared into the fireplace. “I just hope she is.”

“Not every day you get shot at and save someone's life, so you worry about her and I'll worry about you.”

“Thanks.” Hugo smiled. “But don't, I'm fine. What the hell were you doing all day?”

“Souvenir shopping,” Tom said.

“All day?”

“No, not all day,” said Tom. “I'll admit that I did go nose around the offices of the SBP, but I didn't talk to anyone.”

“Or upset anyone?”

“No, nothing like that.” Tom sipped his tea and looked at his friend over the rim. “Unlike you, apparently.”

“Apparently.” Hugo's phone rang. “Ah, Monsieur de Roussillon. How is she?”

“Tired. But doing well.” Roussillon sounded rattled, the first time Hugo had witnessed a dent in the façade. “She's lost some blood but she wasn't too badly hurt. The police told me what happened, that you saved her life.”

“I'm sorry I didn't do a better job. They told me I was the target.”

“I don't understand. Why would someone want to kill you?”

“It's complicated.”

“Well, it makes no sense to me.”

“None of it makes sense, Monsieur de Roussillon. Don't worry about that end of things, just take care of Claudia.”

“I just wanted to thank you for trying to help her. After her husband was killed by those people…” The old man sighed. “And please, you saved my daughter's life, you should call me Gérard.”

“Very well.” Hugo looked up and saw Tom scribbling a note. It read:
the book
. “Can I ask a favor of you, Gérard? Two of them, actually.”

“
Mais oui
. Anything.”

“First, call the hospital and tell them I can visit Claudia. I tried and they wouldn't let me in, I guess she's under police guard.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thanks. Also, you recently bought a copy of
Une Saison En Enfer
.”

Silence. Then, “How did you know that?”

“I can't tell you right now. But I need to see the book.” Hugo decided to take a chance. “I'm the one who sold it.”

“
Non
, you are mistaken. I bought it from an English dealer.”

“Yes, I know. I bought it from a bouquiniste and took it to a dealer to sell it for me. Peter Kendall.”

“Yes, that's him. But if you sold it, why do you need to see it?”

“I wish I knew exactly. Look, there's a chance that the book has something to do with your daughter's shooting.”

“What? How?”

“Again, I'm not sure. That's why I want to see the book.” He looked at Tom. “To be more specific, I want a friend of mine to look at it.”

“As you know, the book cost a lot of money,” de Roussillon said,
“but as long as it stays here, your friend is welcome. It's the least I can do. I'm here tomorrow morning, if that suits your friend.”

Hugo thanked him and rang off.

“How is Claudia?” Tom asked.

“Resting. She lost some blood but I don't think any major harm was done.”

“Well that's good news.” But Tom was biting his bottom lip and staring intently at Hugo.

“What?”

“So you randomly decided Roussillon is on the side of right and justice?”

“You told me to ask him about the book.”

“Yeah, that's all I said, you fucking dolt. You didn't need to open your heart and confess everything.”

“Come on, Tom, I can't imagine he had anything to do with that shooting.”

“Bullshit. Yesterday men with clubs and a cow poker do a shitty job, so today he sends someone with a gun. He doesn't know you're meeting with his daughter at the café, so yeah, he's upset when she gets shot.” He stood and went to the drinks cabinet. “If he is behind this, I wouldn't want to be the clown on the bike who pulled the trigger.”

“If he is behind this, maybe you shouldn't go look at the book.”

“No shit. But now you've opened the door, I'd be an idiot not to go take a look around, wouldn't I?”

“I don't know, Tom.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Now you've got me second guessing myself.”

“Maybe a drink will help. Tea is only good for holding you together until five o'clock. Whisky is better for you after a shock like that.”

“If people keep trying to kill me, I'm going to turn into an alcoholic.”

“Way ahead of you,” said Tom. “Come join the party.”

“Fine. A small one. And tell me about your visit to the SBP.”

“Good man.” Tom poured a large scotch and handed it to Hugo. “You know, they were closed for lunch by the time I got there.”

“Nice timing.”

“Very. You've been inside Gravois's office, right? Obsessive-compulsive, if you ask me.”

“I noticed that. But he told me he had cancer, so maybe it's something to do with keeping germs out. Lots of cleaning.” Hugo held up his drink. “Thanks for this, but if you keep me in suspense much longer, I'm going to fall asleep.”

“Then go ahead and fall asleep. The only interesting thing about him is that he has no personal mementos or information stored anywhere on that premises.”

“That's interesting?”

“Of course. Think about it, Hugo. You go to anyone's office in the world and you'll find a pic of their wife, kid, dog, or favorite centerfold.”

“That's not allowed anymore.”

“It just seemed too sterile, and I don't mean in the medical sense.”

“You think he's hiding something?”

Tom frowned. “You know, it could be the opposite.”

“Tom, for crying out loud.” Hugo pointed to his glass and then himself. “Large whisky. Shot at. Tired. Now, stop being cryptic.”

“Fine. Maybe it's nothing, maybe he's a friendless, petless, family-free freak. But it reminds me of something I saw once before. This guy, it wasn't that he was hiding anything, it's that he didn't exist. Not as the person he made himself out to be. What I'm saying is, if this is the same kind of thing, Bruno Gravois isn't real. He's an invention, a character created for a reason. Did you check into his background?”

“Yes. On the DCRI database. Nothing.”

“At all?”

“At all. Shit, you may be right.” Hugo swallowed the rest of his scotch. “No criminal history, no driver's license, no applications for government permits. Just a birth certificate and nothing since.”

“Everyone has a history, Hugo. Everyone leaves a footprint for the government to follow.”

“Except people who don't exist,” nodded Hugo. “And CIA operatives.”

“Well he ain't one of them, I can tell you that.”

“Interesting. Our Bruno Gravois appears to be a ghost
.”