The Bookseller (29 page)

“Claudia, what's going on?”

She clung to him for a few seconds, her body shaking, the fingers of her good arm working his shoulders and back, getting as close as she could. Then she stiffened, strong Claudia returning, and Hugo felt a squeeze that was more controlled, assertive.

“In the library,” she whispered. “He's in there.” She looked up and her eyes were red rimmed. “I don't know what's happening.”

Hugo looked at Tom and both men moved toward the library. The room was bright, brighter than Hugo had seen it before. And at first it seemed like nothing was amiss, but when they walked toward the glass cabinet at the back, Hugo noticed an open window and, lying on the parquet floor beneath it, the still form of Gérard de Roussillon.

He lay on his back, arms and legs splayed out wide, the way he'd have lain to make a snow angel as a child. He was dressed in dark pants and a velvet jacket that had fallen open to reveal a plain white T-shit. He'd been shot in the forehead, once, a clean, tidy, and instantly fatal shot.

Tom knelt over the body, and Hugo didn't need to tell him not to touch anything.

“Small caliber,” Tom said. “Twenty-two probably, or his brains would be all over the place.”

A noise from the doorway made them both swing around. Claudia hovered there, and Hugo knew she wanted to be with them yet was terrified to see what she'd already seen, what no daughter should ever see. He held up a hand,
I'll be right there
. He looked up at the open window and stood.

“They come through there?” Tom asked.

Hugo stepped over the body and looked out, looked down. “No, I doubt it. There's a pond right beneath the window. No way to avoid getting wet, so not the best way in, and I don't see track marks anywhere.” He moved away from Roussillon, toward Claudia. His voice was gentle but urgent. “Tell me how you found him. Was the front door open?”

“No. I mean, yes,” she said. “It was closed but it wasn't locked. I didn't think anything of it because when Papa and Jean are home they often leave it that way. This area, it's safe.”

“Where is Jean?”

“I…I don't know. It's his day off, I don't think he's here.”

“OK, we'll find him. Tom,” Hugo called, drawing his weapon as Tom left Roussillon and hurried over. “We need to clear the house.”

Tom nodded and they worked in tandem like they used to, eye
contact and nods their way of communicating who would open a door, who would go in first, and when. They moved quickly through the downstairs, Claudia hugging the walls ten feet behind them, Hugo not wanting her out of sight. They left her on the stairs as they moved to the second floor, listening at each door, the sweat beginning to dampen their shirts and loosen the grip on their guns.

But in two minutes they knew that the house was empty.

As they sat on the stairs, Hugo and Claudia side by side, Tom behind them, they heard the sirens. They had left the front door open and the familiar figure of Capitaine Garcia was the first to enter. Behind him, four gendarmes in uniform stood looking around, awaiting orders.

Hugo left Claudia with Tom and took Garcia into the library, telling him about the unlocked door and the small but precise bullet hole in Roussillon's head.

“You think he did this too?” Garcia asked as they looked down on the gray, waxy face of the Comte d'Auvergne.

“Gravois? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“But why? Did he have any reason?”

“He might.” Hugo told him, sparingly and quickly, about Roussillon's father the collaborator, the book, and his desire to confront Gravois over Max's death. “If he did, and if he threatened Gravois, then maybe.” Hugo shrugged, and Garcia said what he was thinking.

“But we have no proof, right?”

“Right.”

Garcia looked around the library. “I'll get my crime scene people in here, see if they can find anything at all. And Claudia can help us figure out if anything was taken.”

“There should be surveillance cameras,” Claudia said from the doorway. Tom hovered behind her. “He had some high-tech ones installed a couple of years ago after some kids started throwing rocks at the houses on this street. He was afraid they'd escalate to burgling. They never did, but he kept the cameras.”

“We'll check it out, thanks,” said Garcia. He turned to Hugo. “You want to stay?”

“I can, of course.” But he didn't want to; he wanted some time and some space to think this insanity through. He looked at Claudia, who smiled thinly and shook her head.

“I have a friend on the way,” she said. “You don't have to.” She walked to him, her eyes holding his, not looking down at her father. “As long as you come back.”

“Deal,” said Hugo. “Tom and I will go somewhere and figure this out, talk it through.”

“Talk what through, exactly?” asked Garcia. “Do you know what's going on?”

“Fuck no,” said Tom. “He's got no idea what's going on. That's why he wants to talk.”

 

 

Just before two o'clock, Hugo and Tom trotted down the stone steps that led from the Quai de Conti to the walkway by the river. The wind had dropped but so had the temperature, again, and Tom cursed as a band of cold air rose from the water to greet them. Frigid weather usually killed the fetid aromas that came up from the Seine, but not today. Somewhere nearby a fish had died, caught in a piece of stray netting perhaps, out of reach of the river rats that scoured the walkway sniffing for such delights.

“Hors d'oeuvres?” Tom asked, wrinkling his nose.

Hugo smiled but didn't respond. He'd stuck to his original plan for the day, and he'd been right that the only way Tom would agree to go on a boat was if lunch was included. And if Hugo paid.

Down on the walkway, Hugo swapped Euros for tickets to the only lunch cruise he'd been on, departing from the Left Bank in front of the Institut de France. A rosy-cheeked waiter showed them to a table on the starboard side of the boat, protected from the icy air by a glass wall. Ventilation ducts let warm air from the engine compartment drift around their feet and a blanket had been laid on each seat. Tom tucked one around his legs and asked for another.

“Why don't you have heating lamps like the cafés?” he grumbled to the waiter.

“It's not allowed, monsieur. Fire on board boats is a bad idea.”

A coffee laced with brandy improved things a little, but Hugo couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Tom's mood than the hangover and Roussillon's death.

“What's up with you, are you sick?” Hugo asked as the boat chugged away from the dock.

“Something like that.”

“Come on, spill it.”

“Oh, Jesus, the usual shit. Lonely old man who drinks too much because he's bored and then sees his best friend banging the hottest chick on the block.”

“Really? I didn't think self-pity was your style.”

“It's not, but I ran out of other people to pity.”

“Are you really that bored back home? If so, I can give you a job here, working with me. Seriously.”

Tom smirked. “Work for you? I don't know, I'm a pretty disrespectful employee.”

“I said with me, not for me. And you're a pretty disrespectful human being. I wouldn't expect you to be any different in the workplace.”

“Fucking right.”

The waiter reappeared and took their order. The hottest food on the menu for them both: onion soup, followed by risotto, and then bananas flambé. Tom tore a piece of bread and tossed half over the glass wall and into the water. They watched as two screeching gulls dove for the morsel.

“So what are we doing, Hugo? Are we gonna catch a killer or just fuck around?”

“Good question.” Hugo shook his head. “I don't know, I feel like I've hit a wall.”

“Tell me.”

This is what Hugo wanted. A sounding board—Tom's suspicious, aggressive, and determined mind working on the problem. Perspective too, though he knew Tom would suggest a few options he wouldn't be able to follow up on.

“OK. Let's start with Gravois…”

“Slimy fucker.”

“Yes. Definitely up to something…”

“Or maybe he just hates cops.”

“Or maybe you should shut up and listen,” Hugo said, grinning. “Whether he's naturally slimy or hates cops, he's hiding something. Wouldn't talk to me as a journalist or when I went with Garcia. You just have to look at him to know something is going on. But what? That's the impasse. I can't make him talk, and he knows we don't know enough to force the issue.” Hugo sat back. “So what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“No hard connection to any of the corpses?”

“Nothing more than being their union leader.”

“And any link to shooting Claudia?”

“No idea. As far as I know, they haven't caught anyone for that.”

“And no connection to the clowns that busted into your apartment?”

“Nope. Well, maybe. It's possible that the one you castrated is one of Gravois's capitaines.”

“Capitaines? What the fuck is that?”

“He has guys who go around and check up on the bouquinistes. It's really just harassment, to get them to leave. Anyway, it's possible I saw that guy picking on Francois Benoit but I can't be sure they are one and the same, I wasn't paying that much attention.”

“I see.” Tom nodded. “Well, I can see the impasse thing. You need to find another way to get to him.”

“Such as?”

“Such as real evidence.”

“I don't have any, Tom, that's what I'm telling you.”

“Then why the fuck do you think this guy is guilty of anything? Jesus, Hugo, you're an FBI agent, not Miss-fucking-Marple. You don't assume people are guilty because they make your tea curdle.”

“Tea doesn't curdle.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“Fine, we'll do it your way,” Hugo said. “Why would he want those bouquinistes dead?”

“So he can replace them with his men.”

“And women.”

“Fuck off. Question is, why does he want to do that?”

“Because he's taking a cut from them? He denied it when I asked him.”

“Oh, well, that's that then,” Tom said, waving a hand. “If he said he wasn't, then I'm sure he wouldn't lie.”

They sat quietly as the soup arrived, still bubbling. Hugo picked up his spoon. “Those guys don't make enough to kick much back to him, do they?” he said.

“No idea. What's your point?”

“My point is this: would he really pay off Cecilia Roget and a bunch of others, and commit three murders, just to get a few extra Euros each week?”

“Yeah,” Tom slurped his soup. “Does seem like a hell of an investment for not such a great return. And don't forget, he's a cripple.”

“Cripples don't kill people?”

“Sure they do. But they don't push them into rivers. They shoot them, maybe stab them.”

“OK, so we can agree he didn't kill all three himself.” Hugo spooned the steaming soup into his mouth, savoring the rich flavor and the warmth.

“Which means he's got people working for him,” said Tom. “We know that already, seems likely we met two at your place the other night.”

“But they weren't there to kill.”

“Why were they there?”

“I'm not sure,” Hugo said slowly. He looked out at the water for a second. “But I assume they were looking for a book.”

“They don't have libraries in Paris?”

“Funny. But listen, I have an interesting story for you. I didn't get a chance to tell you yet.”

He started with Roussillon's past, his family history, and the collaboration. He recited the secret code from
On War
and enjoyed the surprised look on Tom's face. Then he told him about Roussillon's conversation with Max and his attempt to have Gravois buy the book. When he'd finished with every detail he could remember, Tom spoke.

“Roussillon called Gravois, didn't he? He called him and got upset, maybe threatened him. And Gravois put a bullet between his eyes for it.”

“Or one of his men.”

“Right. And of course, still, we have no proof.”

“We can check phone records, see if Roussillon made that call. But even if so, you may be right.”

“Another ghost killing.”

It was Tom's turn to stare out at the water. Hugo watched him, saw his eyes working left to right like a typewriter as his mind churned. “Hang on,” said Tom. “If those thugs were at your apartment for the reason you say, and Roussillon was telling the truth—”

“Then where is the book?”

“You already thought of that.” Tom shook his head then slurped his soup noisily.

“I did.”

“And you know the answer.”

“Actually no, I don't. I have no idea.”

“Jesus, we're going around in circles, Hugo. Although this soup is fucking awesome.” He put his spoon down. “Look, forget Gravois for a moment. Imagine he's our Barney.”

Hugo nodded. A “Barney” was the grim nickname Tom and Hugo had for a distraction, a red herring that could screw up an investigation. They'd worked a case together in LA, two girls stabbed to death in the bedroom of one of them. The killer had covered their heads with towels and left them face down on the bed. When police found them, a Barney toy was nestled between their heads. Hugo had been called in to give a profile, easy enough with the towels and the face-down positioning. But he could never figure out what the placement of Barney meant. The local cops suggested it was a decoy, but Hugo didn't think so. If the perpetrator wanted to avoid being profiled, Hugo told them, he simply would have left the bodies in different positions or not covered them up.

Eight months later, the man struck again. James L. Wright was a neighbor to the two girls who'd died in February of that year. In October,
Wright broke into another neighbor's home and stabbed a little girl in her room, but didn't realize that her teenage brother was in the house. The boy ran for his father's gun, shot Wright, and saved his sister from bleeding to death. Wright survived and together Hugo and Tom got him to talk. One of their first questions was about the Barney toy. At first, Wright just stared back, a blank look on his face. But as Hugo took him step by step through the crime scene, Wright remembered. As he'd left the bedroom, the toy had been on the floor, in his way. He'd turned to kick it back into the room and by pure chance it had landed between the girls. It was a decoy, alright, but entirely unintentional. Since then, Hugo and Tom had been vigilant for such distractions.

“OK,” Hugo said, “I don't think Gravois is another Barney, but I'll pretend he is. What then?”

“Right, just leave him out for now. So then let's talk about the other important things. What about the Rimbaud?”

“Let's rule that out, too. No connection to anyone but Max, and it had left his hands by the time he died. And no reason to think Roussillon lied about his buying it being purely a personal matter.”

“OK.” Tom flipped another scrap of bread over the glass partition and more gulls joined the diving chorus. They'd passed the Grande Bibliotheque and were executing a slow U-turn, preparing to head west along the Right Bank, back past Notre Dame and toward the Eiffel Tower. “Which leaves us with what?”

“A missing copy of
On War
.”

“Right. What else?”

“Three dead bouquinistes.”

“One of whom was Max. But didn't you tell me he was willing to give up his stall?”

“That's what he said to me, yes. I believed him, too.”

Tom went back to his soup, his head low over his bowl as he spoke. “Which destroys our theory that Gravois killed him to get his stall. Maybe he killed him to get the book.”

“No,” Hugo said. “I don't think he has it.”

“Gravois? Why not?”

“Because if he did, he wouldn't kill the one man who'd pay a shit load of money for it. A man he could either sell it to, or a man he could blackmail.”

“Assuming Gravois is the killer again.”

“All roads lead in his direction, don't they?”

“No shit.” Tom ran a piece of bread around the inside of his bowl. “So what else?”

“The attack on me and Claudia and the raid on my apartment.”

“Maybe we should be looking for a link between Claudia and those bouquinistes.” Tom sat back. “Did you ask her about Durand?”

“Yes. She didn't like that I was snooping.”

Tom grinned. “You weren't.”

“Yeah, that helps. Anyway, she just pointed out that she's a police reporter and he's a cop.” Hugo shrugged. “She has a point. I know that she's currently covering a new antidrug task force, maybe he has something to do with that. And she's not writing about the bouquiniste murders, she's writing about drugs.”

“See, that's good information right there.” Tom scratched his head. “I'm just not sure what. Let's talk about a drugs connection.”

The men looked up and sat quietly as the waiter arrived with their risotto. “Wine,
messieurs
?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” Hugo said quickly. Tom frowned.

“So drugs, eh? Nasty work sometimes. I did a spell in Colombia. Did I ever tell you about that?”

“No.”

“Ah well, I don't suppose it's the same as in Paris. What exactly was she writing about?”

“She told me that there used to be two organized crime groups who'd split the city and were sharing power.” Hugo told Tom about Paris's recent drugs history, about the way the police had changed tactics, targeting distribution points instead of the channels into Paris. He told him about Dobrescu and the North Africans, and about Claudia's suspicions that the African monopoly was now being challenged.

“Which is why,” Tom mused, “Garcia was afraid of a war after the restaurant shooting. But shootings in restaurants, killing cops. That's pretty drastic.”

“It is.” Hugo toyed with his fork for a moment. That was the one constant with criminals: they knew better than to shoot cops or take out innocent civilians. Not out of respect, of course, but because there was no surer way of raining hell on you and your accomplices than to spill the blood of a man with a badge or, God forbid, a small child. Those who ignored that rule were few and far between, and in their own minds such renegades always had very good reason to do so. “What if it's not just the police who are changing tactics? I don't mean the shootings, I mean the dead bouquinistes.”