The Bookseller (30 page)

“Explain,” Tom said, his mouth full.

“Think about it. They make for perfect drug distribution points. Cash and merchandise change hands every hour of every day. Anyone watching would see nothing more than a book or a plastic Eiffel Tower being passed. That's usually a giveaway for drug dealers, they always have loads of cash on them, and in small denominations. But so do bouquinistes, so it's perfect for not only collecting money but laundering it.”

“Fuck me, you're right.” Tom nodded, eyes alive with excitement. “Go on, don't fucking stop now.”

Hugo felt a surge of excitement as the jigsaw pieces floated toward each other in his mind, rotating, lining up. “And what if there is a raid by the cops?” he said. “At the first hint of a siren the dealer who is also a bouquiniste can just drop his gear down to the causeway below, or if he's got a good arm, throw it straight into the Seine.”

Tom banged his fist on the table. “It's like have a huge fucking toilet to flush the junk down, right there.”

“Exactly.” Hugo held his eye, felt his thought process slow as the jigsaw pieces hovered in place, leaving the picture still incomplete. “But of course, that's the tail end of the setup. You have to have everything else in place before you can start selling.”

“Ah, you mean the supply of drugs, the people to ship it, all that
crap. Yeah, how does someone do that under the noses of the unfriendly Pieds-Noirs?”

“Not just how. Who would be able to do that?”

Tom put on his smart-aleck face. “How about someone with an existing drug supply and people working for him?”

“Very funny.” Hugo frowned. “But you're right. And it would have to be someone who is, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the North Africans. And the police.”

“Invisible? What do you mean?”

“Well, back in the 1920s Al Capone couldn't just swagger into Austin, Texas, and start peddling coke. Same thing here. None of the Italian mobsters could slide into town and bring their dope factories and soldiers with them, they'd stick out like sore thumbs. To succeed, someone setting up in Paris would have to develop their routes and supply lines without anyone suspecting what they're doing. Which means that, in some form or other, whoever is doing this has been operating for a while. Right?” Hugo talked faster now, realization dawning. “Tom, who is the only person that organized crime won't go after? The only person the police will leave alone?”

“Shit, I don't know.” He rubbed his chin. “The police can fuck up anything, they'd probably confuse Al Capone with Al Pacino and roll out the red carpet. But organized crime? Hell, the only person they won't try to kill is a dead man.”

“That's exactly right.” A smile spread across Hugo's face. “We called him a ghost before, but he's not. He's a phoenix, rising from the ashes.”

Tom wanted to eat dessert inside at the boat's small bar, where they had access to brandy. For medicinal purposes, he assured Hugo. Tom went in first, to order for them both, while Hugo lingered outside to call Emma.

“Another research project. Quick as you can.”

“Yes
sir
.”

“That's better.” Hugo grinned. “I need to know everything about the identification of the bodies at a crime scene.” He gave her the general date and as many other details as he could, and added, “Try the DCRI, the DGSE, Interpol, Europol. And if you don't get anywhere, call me back, I can get Capitaine Garcia to find out.”

“You sound like a little boy at Christmas, Hugo. What's going on?”

“Can't tell you just yet, I need to make sure I'm right.”

He left her to the task and went into the boat's small cabin. Tom was at the bar, two brandies in front of him. “What am I missing that you figured this out first?” Tom asked.

“For one thing, you never had the pleasure of his company.”

“So help me out.”

“OK. And tell me if you think I'm insane. Really.”

“With pleasure,” Tom said. He swirled his drink and nodded for Hugo to continue.

“Start with the assumption that no one lies unless they have to. Or, put another way, if you lie, you have a reason to do so.”

“Liars have something to hide. You're a genius.”

“Bear with me,” Hugo said. “My experience has always been that the lies about small stuff, why you wear a watch or got a parking ticket,
those are the ones that trip you up. Trouble is, people don't spot them because no one expects you to lie about those things. Now, go back to what Claudia told me.”

“About what?”

“About Paris. The drug problem. She said that before Dobrescu and his crew were killed, they'd started shooting at police, trying to expand their turf.”

“Never a good idea, killing cops.”

“Which the North Africans already knew. And when Dobrescu started, it pissed them off. Which tells us two things. One, the North Africans probably wouldn't try to kill a reporter working with the cops. And two, that even drug dealers and mobsters know better than to target cops.”

“So Dobrescu was a dumbass and got hacked to pieces for it.”

“Right.” Hugo tried to remember Claudia's exact words.
They identified him and several of his top lieutenants through DNA and dental records
. “Except not necessarily.”

“We all know you're smarter than me, so stop being so fucking cryptic.”

“Sorry,” Hugo smiled, “but I have to get there logically, step by step, in my own mind.” His phone rang. “Emma. That was quick.”

“I'm good,” she said, “plus the full report is on all those databases you mentioned. Easy pickings.”

“And the answer?”

Emma read the section of the report he'd asked about as Tom scrutinized his face. When she finished reading, Emma said, “Does that satisfy?”

“Sure does, thanks. Oh, and can you send a car for Claudia, to her place on Boulevard D'Argenson?”

“Right now?” She listened quietly as Hugo told her about Roussillon's murder and how he wanted Claudia close to him, whether she brought a friend with her or not. “Poor thing,” Emma said quietly when he'd finished. “You keep doing what you're doing, catch these people, and I'll call and let her know someone's on the way. I'll take care of her until you get here.”

“Thanks Emma,” Hugo said. He rang off and picked up his brandy.

“Well?” said Tom.

“He's insane. He must be.”

“I will be if you don't tell me what the fuck just happened.”

“Right. So. Now that I think about it, those small things seem so obvious, make sense. I guess I'm just out of practice.” Tom was about to interrupt but Hugo held up a hand. “Gravois rubbed his wrist a lot. He wore gloves and limped. Remember? He walked with a cane.”

“The cancer.”

“Cancer. No, it wasn't that. His whole appearance was off. I just didn't think any of it was connected. But he's had plastic surgery, his whole face is altered. I'm guessing whoever did the surgery also got rid of his hair, sucked fat from him, the whole nine yards. Hence the gaunt appearance. His face has literally been pulled out of shape.”

“Gravois? That's pretty far-fetched. And what about the DNA and fingerprint evidence that says Dobrescu is dead?”

“Good question. That's why I called Emma, to check the reports to see exactly what they found.”

Tom sat bolt upright. “Jesus, Hugo, they only found a hand and a foot, didn't they?”

“Bits of them, yes.”

“And they assumed that bits of a hand and a foot meant the whole man was burned up in there, too.”

“Right. Only I don't think he was. I think the Romanian rescue mission was a success—in part, anyway. Maybe he was burned in the fire, maybe that accounts for his surgery or his injuries, I don't know. But what I do believe is that he escaped, though not before he lost the use of his hand and his foot. Which is why he had to lean across and open a left-sided drawer with his right hand. Why he rubbed his left wrist and not his right one. And, of course, why he wears gloves and walks with a cane.”

“Unbelievable.” Tom drained his glass and signaled for another. “Gravois really is Dobrescu.”

“It makes sense. It's why we couldn't find anything about his past,
why he seemed to come out of nowhere. But he had the men, he knew the city. That guy Nica, he was one of them. I guess he started hiring Italians.”

“Who the fuck is Nica?”

“The bastard who kidnapped Max.”

“Oh? What makes you say he's Italian?”

Hugo cocked his head. “The name, of course.”

“You dumb shit. You think that's short for Nicolas or something, don't you?”

“And you know better, of course.”

“Damn right. Nica isn't Italian or a first name, not in this case. It's an Eastern European surname.” Tom sat back, a smug grin on his face. “Romanian, to be specific.”

“I should have known.” Hugo shook his head. “A man like Dobrescu isn't going to shop abroad for his muscle. Too paranoid.”

“No shit,” Tom said. “A kingpin who's seen his men hacked to death, and maybe had his own hand and foot chopped off, he's gonna be pretty paranoid. And pissed. I bet after all that shit, knocking off bouquinistes is like downing hors d'oeuvres for him and his boys.”

They locked eyes and Hugo smiled. “I know what you're going to say next,” he said.

“You mean about having an awesome theory but no fucking evidence?”

“Something like that.”

“Let's go get some. I'd be happy to go pluck a few hairs off the bastard's head for a DNA match. Oh fuck, he doesn't have any.” Tom rubbed a hand over his face. “You're right, he is a smart guy.”

“I'm afraid so. A great combination, smart and psycho.”

“And if he's willing to come back and fight those who hacked off his foot, I'm guessing even I couldn't persuade him to talk.”

“Fair assumption.”

The floor beneath their feet started to vibrate, and the boat's engine changed pitch as the captain maneuvered toward the dock. Hugo looked out of the window, up toward the Quai de Conti. “I wonder. Maybe we can get someone else to talk.”

“Let me at him, whoever the hell he is.” Tom rubbed his hands together. “You got someone in mind?”

“Actually,” Hugo said, “I do.”

They opted for the subtle approach. Hugo left the dock and headed east along the Port des Saintes-Peres, while Tom trotted up to the Quai de Conti and sidled up to Max's old stall. He'd borrowed Hugo's hat and pulled it low down over his eyes. The plan was simple: a brief note for Jean Chabot to show up at a café in thirty minutes, signed “B. G.” delivered with enough time for Chabot to get his stall closed up but, hopefully, not enough time to figure out whether the note really was from Bruno Gravois.

Hugo walked as far as Rue du Bac and then cut south, heading for the rendezvous point, a bar called Le Sanglier that sat yards from the Place Saint-Thomas d'Aquin. This was a quiet piece of Paris, a peaceful and relatively tourist-free section of narrow streets and old houses that Hugo discovered on one of his many wanderings. The square itself was home to the church of Saint-Thomas d'Aquin, an unremarkable building from the outside, certainly nothing to compare with the grandeur of Notre Dame or the ornate Church of Saint Chappelle. No, the beauty of this church was in its austere lines, its bare interior, and the cloak of tranquility that settled around the shoulders of the few visitors who crossed its ancient threshold.

Hugo looked at the church's entrance, tempted to spend a few minutes inside. He was, unashamedly, one of the many agnostics to appreciate, and sometimes need, the sense of peace and serenity that enveloped visitors to these old monuments. He thought hard for a reason not to go in, and found one: the church was reliant on natural lighting, which meant that
The Transfiguration
on the ceiling above the altar, the church's only original decoration, and also the painting of
Ste. Étienne Preaching to the Angel
, lost much of their luster after the morning light had passed. He would come back.

He turned and went into the bar.

Tom arrived three minutes later and peered into its dark recesses. Hugo sat at a table in the back, tucked into a corner. He had three bottles of beer open in front of him.

“He knows you.” Tom said. “You better make yourself scarce until he sits down. If he sees you when he comes in, he might run.”

“Good thinking. Have him sit where I am, so he has his back to the two walls.” Hugo looked around the bar. “I'll be by the window with my back to the door. And give me my hat, I'll drop my head when I see him.”

Chabot scurried into the bar five minutes later, checking his watch and looking around the dark interior. Hugo watched from under the brim of his hat as Tom waved him over. Chabot licked his lips before looking around once more and moving to the back of the room. As soon as he sat down, Hugo stood and walked quickly to the table, blocking him in.

Chabot's jaw dropped. “You!” He looked at Tom. “And who are you? You said Gravois—”

“Imagine that,” Tom said. “I lied.”

Chabot started to get up but Hugo put his hand against the front of the bouquiniste's knee and forced him back down. “We have some questions for you,” Hugo said.

“I don't care,” Chabot hissed. “You don't know what you are doing. Let me go and maybe I won't tell Gravois about this.”

“We know who he is, Chabot,” Hugo said. “We just want to give you a chance to come clean.”

Chabot visibly paled. He stared at Hugo and then Tom. “Look, if you know who he is, then you know who I am. My background. You know that I am not…that I break the law,
oui
, but I don't kill. I don't.”

“That's good,” said Hugo. “The thing is, someone did kill Max.”

“It wasn't me.” Chabot licked his lips again.

“You were at his apartment,” Hugo said. “Which means you lied to me once already.”

“
Bien
. I was there.” Chabot's eyes widened. “But only because I was
afraid. I was told that Max had agreed to move out, but…” He shook his head.

“You didn't believe that,” Hugo said.

“I didn't. He was one of those who had resisted. Several times.” Chabot started to rise but Hugo pushed him down again. “Please,
messieurs
, I was expecting Gravois at my stall this afternoon, he's supposed to be coming by. That's why I thought I should come here.” He looked at his watch. “
Merde
, you have to understand. If I'm not there when he arrives, if someone tells him I was with you…”

“Come with us to the police,” Hugo said, “they can protect you if you'll let them.”

“Sure.” Chabot's lip curled. “And if I testify against Gravois,” he said.

“Right,” Tom said, “and if you don't, maybe Gravois will hear about our little
tête-a-tête
.”