The Bookseller (33 page)

“Fucking right you did,” Tom said, arriving breathless. “Dead as a doornail.”

“I'm not sure that translates,” Hugo grimaced. He turned to Garcia. “Was he the only one?”

“
Oui
,” Garcia said. “I shot from the gate. I thought I'd knocked him down, but he disappeared into some bushes. As I was leaving the alleyway to look, he shot me in the back. I managed to get here, to the car, but I couldn't lift my gun.” Pale lips gave Claudia a smile, the best praise he could muster. “I thought he would kill us both, but my friend here can shoot.”

That explained the shell casings from different guns; they'd both fired from the same spot. Hugo looked at the wound, which had bled a lot but seemed to be superficial. It was either a deep graze or the bullet had passed through the flesh and kept going without hitting any arteries or bones.

“He got your shoulder,” Hugo said. “You'll live.” He turned to Claudia. “I had no idea.”

She smiled weakly. “I'm just full of surprises.”

“Tell me about it later. But nice work.”

He took Claudia's scarf and folded it up, then put it into her hand and showed her where, and how hard, to press it on Garcia's wound.

Hugo stood and looked back toward the house on Rue Véron. The street was still empty, but he didn't want anyone popping up from behind to give them a last-second surprise. He saw Tom doing the same. As the sirens grew louder, the realization hit him. There was no legal justification whatsoever for his friend being there, especially with a gun.

“Tom.” His voice was urgent. “You need to get out of here.”

Tom looked at him for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, I was wondering how you were going to explain me,” he said. He tucked his gun back inside his jacket and patted Garcia once on the head, winked at Hugo, then started down Rue Véron. They watched as he rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight.

“
Bon
,” said Garcia. “It was just us.
Merci
. He would have been too much paperwork. And maybe my job.”

Two police cars screeched around the corner from Rue Gemain Pilon, at the western end of the street, their lights flashing. They stopped beside each other thirty yards away, and four policemen piled out, guns drawn.

“Take out my badge, show it to them,” Garcia said.

Hugo pulled Garcia's badge from his inside pocket and held it up. He'd already thrown his and Garcia's guns onto the sidewalk, visibly out of reach. Claudia also had her hands up. One of the officers appeared to recognize Garcia and holstered his weapon, then reached into his car and grabbed his radio. In the quiet that had fallen over the street, Hugo heard him order an ambulance to approach. It must have been waiting around the corner out of the line of fire, because five seconds later it turned into Rue Véron and lurched to a halt behind the police cars. The four officers and two paramedics ran toward them, two of the cops gesturing for them to lower their hands.

As the medics tended to Garcia, Hugo moved across the street with one of the policemen, a gray-haired detective who gave his name as Duguey. He told him what had happened, what to find in the house. As he talked, his mind flipped back over events, making sure there was nothing left at the scene that would point to a third person, to Tom. They should have thought of that before, he knew, but he was pretty sure Tom was invisible now. His main contribution had been quieting the man Hugo had shot in the foot. And he wouldn't be a problem because, even assuming that he'd seen who'd hit him, he could say what he liked and the police would call him a liar if Hugo and Garcia disagreed.

Hugo and the detective looked over as the medics loaded Garcia onto a gurney and began wheeling him toward the ambulance. They walked over to him and Claudia joined them.

“I'll be fine.” Garcia's smile was thin, but genuine. “But let's not do this again, eh?”

“Fair enough,” Hugo said. “You take care, capitaine. We'll send flowers.”

“
Non
,” Garcia said. “They make me sneeze, and that would hurt.”

Claudia put a hand on his good arm and squeezed. “
Merci
.”

“
De rien
.” Garcia shook his head. “Just doing my job. And anyway, I should be thanking you.”

They moved out of the way and the medics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance. They watched as it backed out of the narrow street and then took off, sirens and lights blaring, toward the Boulevard de Clichy and the hospital.

“Monsieur Marston?” It was Duguey. “My superior, Commissaire Delacroix, will be here in five minutes, would you mind waiting?”

“Not at all,” Hugo said. He sat beside Claudia on the curb and put an arm around her.

“You going to tell me what this was about?” she asked.

“Yep,” Hugo said. “But I'm not sure that it's over yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“We got a couple of the bad guys, but there are more out there. One of them very bad.” Hugo looked up as a white car pulled into the street. A uniformed gendarme waved it through, then saluted as it passed him.

Had he been a foot taller, Commissaire Delacroix would have resembled a bear. Round, with thick arms and legs, his face was half hidden by a dark brown beard. Intelligent eyes, thought Hugo, intelligent and curious. They shook hands, and Commissaire Delacroix led him away from Claudia.

“How is she? A shock for a civilian.”

Some civilian
, Hugo thought. “Not as bad as being shot, and she survived that.”

“I recommend brandy. Now, you understand this is a serious matter. I have been supervising Capitaine Garcia on this case and didn't know about this raid. For that he will face some difficult questions.”

Hugo went on the defensive, explaining the possibility of a leak and Garcia's reticence at abandoning protocol. The raid had been his own idea, Hugo said, and Garcia had come along to ensure the safety of French citizens and make sure Hugo didn't go too far. To Hugo's surprise, Commissaire Delacroix nodded and smiled.

“I trust Capitaine Garcia, and I'm glad you are able to speak on his behalf.” He turned and looked at the house. “Now, we need to find this Gravois. He is our first priority,” he said.

“Agreed,” Hugo nodded, “and even if you do have a leak, we'll have to move fast.”

“‘We'?”

Hugo smiled. “You, with as much help from me as you require.”

The commissaire nodded and called over one of the policemen. Hugo gave the man a detailed description of Gravois.

“
Bien
,” said Delacroix, “I will send someone to his offices and his home. We'll have the train stations and airports watched, too, as best we can. You said he is crippled. Do you suppose he drives?”

“He might,” said Hugo. “But I don't know what kind of car, and he'd probably need a driver.”

“We'll notify the border authorities, flag his passport, not that that's much use these days. But on the off chance that he's stopped, we'll be notified. I'll call the US Embassy to let you know if that happens.” They shook hands again. “If you would come to the prefecture tomorrow for a full statement, I would be grateful. For now, we will take Capitaine Garcia's car. One of my men can give you a ride to the embassy.”

“No, thanks.” Hugo wanted to walk to clear his mind and figure out his next step. Place Pigalle was a couple of blocks away, he could get the metro from there. “Claudia, do you want to walk with me or go with the police?”

“Go where?” she smiled thinly. “I'm fine, Hugo. Plus, if any more bad guys appear I may need to save your ass next.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Delacroix said. “I'll need your weapon.”

Hugo hesitated. “May I ask why?”

“It's evidence for our investigation. Our ballistics people will need to make sure it matches with any bullets fired at the house. A formality, I'll have it back to you as soon as possible.”

Reluctantly, Hugo handed it over.
The joys of international cooperation
, he thought. Ambassador Taylor would be proud.

 

 

It was a downhill walk from Rue Véron toward Pigalle, and Hugo felt the adrenaline slowly drain from his limbs, his body loosening and his mind clearing as they got further away from the house.

Claudia was quiet, her hands dug deep into her pockets and her head down. He knew she was processing what she'd seen and done, trying to equate the violence and fear of the afternoon with all the previous experiences of her life. And he knew that no one, reporter, policeman, or even soldier, escaped their first armed and bloody confrontation intact, especially after what she'd been through just hours before. She was tougher than he'd imagined, so he'd let her deal with it on her own, for now.

She shivered as they turned into Rue Cousteau, a cobbled and narrow one-way street. Hugo put his arm around her, and she leaned into him as they walked. As they reached the end of the street, the sound of the traffic from Boulevard Clichy grew louder and seemed to disturb Claudia. On the corner was a small café, Le Chat Blanc, and he took her inside. Hugo nodded to the bartender and chose a table near the back of the café. He helped Claudia to sit, then went to the bar and ordered.

“
Deux cafés, et deux whiskies, s'il vous plait
.” As he waited, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tom. On the fifth ring, his friend answered. “Where are you?” Hugo asked.

The phone clicked dead and Hugo felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Right behind you, buddy,” Tom grinned.

“Jesus, what are you doing here?”

“Same as you.” Tom held up a whisky glass. “Except you're two behind.”

Claudia heard their voices and looked up, surprise at seeing Tom turning to pleasure. Drinks in hand, the men went to the table. Claudia took the whisky glass with a grateful smile and left Hugo to put the coffee on the table in front of her.

“Hot chick with a gun, it's like the movies, eh?” Tom said, a little too gleefully for Hugo's liking.

“Leave her alone.”

“OK, OK.” Tom's tone became serious. “I feel like an ass for letting Chabot get killed.”

“Not our fault,” said Hugo. “But me too.”

“That fucking Gravois or Dominguez—”

“Dobrescu—”

“Whatever the fuck his name is. He's some psycho.”

Claudia roused herself, suddenly alive again. “Wait, are you saying Gravois is Anton Dobrescu? Are you serious?”

“Yes,” said Hugo. “Long story, but the bottom line is that he knows we're on to him.”

“You think?” Tom said. “He may still rely on the fact we think he's dead. Or, he thinks we think he's dead.” He waved a hand. “Fuck it, I'm confusing myself now.”

Hugo smiled. “I know what you mean, but that's a risky assumption for him. He knows we're on to Gravois, and no disguise is perfect. First time he's fingerprinted, it's all over.”

“So you think he'll disappear?” Claudia asked.

“Wouldn't you?” Hugo replied.

“Fucking right,” Tom said. “Once those North Africans find out he's here, he'll be wishing he
was
burned alive.” He emptied his glass. “So what do we do?”

“Nothing.” Hugo shrugged and told Tom about his talk with Commissaire Delacroix.

“You want to leave it to them, then? Yeah, right.” Tom looked around for a waiter, then saw Hugo's face. “Holy shit, you're serious.”

“What can we do? The police are looking for him, they're watching the airports, train stations, and borders—”

“This is new Europe, dummy, they don't have borders anymore.”

“Even so, what can we do that they can't?”

Tom muttered into his glass, but Hugo knew he had no answer.

Hugo looked at Claudia. She was sitting back in her chair, oblivious to them, her eyes half closed and her lips slightly apart. Hugo had an urge to kiss them but knew this wasn't the time or place.
At least she looks relaxed
, he thought. He put his hand on hers and said, “Quick question.”

She opened her eyes and smiled. “Sure.”

“David Durand. He's the dirty cop, and you were helping Garcia keep an eye on him, as he put it to me.”

“That wasn't a question,” she said.

“Am I right?”

“Aren't you always?”

“Sometimes. But always slow to get there.”

“Then you know they were on to him,” she said. “This little incident will be another nail in his coffin.”

“How did you get mixed up in that?”

“A favor, really. The detectives I was interviewing had noticed his name come up every time a bad guy got away with something, or when evidence went missing. They had nothing hard and fast but figured if I spent time with him, flattering him, maybe he'd give me a different story than he was telling his bosses. Sometimes people like to brag when they talk to reporters.” She shrugged. “Turned out he's not a bragger, but he gave me a couple of pieces of information he shouldn't have known.”

“About?”

“Drug shipments. Les Pieds-Noirs. The deal was that I help the cops and they'd give me the first, and inside, scoop when Durand and his drug buddies went down.” She looked up and grinned. “And they said they'd teach me to shoot.”

“Seems they kept that promise.” Hugo squeezed her hand again.

“They looked at you, too, for a couple of minutes, did you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you started showing interest in a nonexistent investigation of Durand's, people started wondering.”

“They made that assumption before figuring out it was a real investigation that he'd shut down.”

“Right.” She smiled. “Cops and their hunches.”

Hugo nodded. “Let's head back to my place. Get a taxi, go home, light a fire, and open a bottle of wine.”

“Am I included in this romantic evening?” Tom asked.

“Sure.” Hugo frowned. “In fact, can you drop me at the embassy and take her home?”

“You reporting in to the boss?”

“Exactly. It'll sound better coming from me than the French police or, God forbid, the French news. I'll walk home afterward; it shouldn't take long.”

After a five minute stroll along the busy Boulevard Clichy, they flagged down a taxi. They rode in silence, shuffling along in the rush-hour traffic as dusk began to close in around them. A few of the earliest Christmas lights flicked on in store windows as they passed. Hugo had forgotten that this was the festive season, when Paris was a place of enchantment, her boulevards and parks festooned with white lights and oversized red and green bows and ribbons, her store windows shimmering with baubles and tinsel. How festive would it be for him? Endless nights drinking with Tom? Polite embassy parties and then home to an empty apartment, most likely. He wondered if maybe Claudia would be around to share it, be willing to.

He hopped out of the cab by the Hotel Crillon and walked up to the main embassy entrance. He checked his watch: five thirty. Ambassador Taylor should still be there.

As before, the ambassador listened silently while Hugo talked. He again omitted reference to Tom, as much for the ambassador's sake as for his or his friend's. When he'd finished, Ambassador Taylor walked to the cart bearing drinks.

“Hell of a day for you. What would you like?”

“Actually, I'm fine,” Hugo said.

“You know, most police forces put their men on paid administrative leave and send them to a shrink when they've shot someone.” He poured himself a brandy. “I know what you're going to say, Hugo, but if you need time off for any reason, if you feel like it'd help to talk to someone about this, just say the word.”

“Thank you, ambassador, but I'm fine.”

“I'm sure you are. So we leave this to the French now, yes?” Hugo nodded. “I'll talk to some of the people at the prefecture, make sure they are happy, and let them know to take all the credit.”

Hugo smiled. “Ever the diplomat, ambassador.”

“We do what we can.” Ambassador Taylor chuckled. “You shoot 'em, I make them happy about it. Quite a team.” He looked at Hugo for a moment. “So tell me to mind my own business if you want, but I'm curious about something.”

“Fire away.”

“You told me before about a little windfall from the Rimbaud book. What are you planning to do with the money? I ask because I'm hoping you won't say ‘retire.'”

“Oh no, despite the trials of today I like being busy.” Hugo looked past his boss. The issue of the money had nagged at him, and for no particular reason, he now knew what he was going to do. “There are a couple of funerals I want to help pay for, if I'm allowed. And with the rest, well, I think maybe I'll buy myself a little apartment and some books to fill it with.”

“You have one in mind, I assume?”

“Of course. It's on Rue Condorcet.” Hugo smiled, mostly to himself. “I may even get a cat.”

He stopped by his office before heading out into the cold and eyed a stack of mail waiting for his attention. He knew that Emma would get to it and that he could call tomorrow or the next day to see if anything important had come in. Urgent stuff came by e-mail or phone, so this pile could wait.

He sat down at his desk, rereading the instructions from Garcia's lieutenant for checking cell phone records. There was just one thing he
wanted to confirm, an event he needed to be sure had happened. And after he'd clicked through the right steps, when he'd checked every possible data entry and realized that he was wrong, he sat there in silence, utterly bemused. He picked up his phone, hesitant to bother an injured man. But then he called Garcia anyway.

“Much better,
merci
,” the capitaine said. “I'll be out tomorrow. Then they'll probably make me go back to work.”

“Good, they need you. I have a quick question about the Roussillon shooting. I wanted to ask about the surveillance footage, whether you'd had a chance to view it.”

There was silence for a second, then Garcia's voice was serious. “
Oui
, that system is hooked into a law enforcement program, some high-tech stuff I don't understand. Anyway, normally we can play those tapes back almost immediately.”

“Normally?”

“
Oui
. Funny thing, there was nothing on his.”

“Nothing on them? What do you mean?”

“The system had been switched off.”

As Hugo stood to leave, his eye fell on a yellow envelope in the middle of his stack of mail. It was a padded envelope that contained something thick and square, the dimensions of a video cassette.

Or, Hugo thought, a book.

He shoved away the mail that sat on top of it and peered at the writing on the envelope. No return address, just his name and the address of the embassy.
I know where to find you
, Max had said.

Hugo's heart pounded as he ripped open the envelope. He knew all mail was screened before ever reaching his desk, so he didn't bother being gentle—it wasn't going to explode or poison him.

In any case, he already knew what was inside.

The walk home seemed long and cold, the evening breeze blowing up off the Seine, tugging at him as it tried to find a way through his coat. But it was cleansing, too, like a cold shower, blasting away the events of the day. It was rare for Hugo to leave a case unfinished, but he reassured himself that there was nothing more for him to do, that Gravois was the guilty man, and that if he were to be caught the police would do it. He now knew who'd killed Max and the other sellers, and he knew why.