The Paris Librarian (21 page)

“Not a fucking thing,” Tom muttered. Both girls shrugged.

“That he is unable to lean directly over his right foot. When he bends his leg, his knee bends fine but goes out to the right and his foot tilts. Hip injury, on the right side.”

“Unbelievable,” Merlyn said. “And his position on his football team.”

“Well, you don't get a hip injury from waiting tables, so it was likely to be playing socc . . . football. I've learned a lot about the game over the years, enough to know that the position requiring the most sprinting is the striker. So, there you have it.”

“Lucky guesswork, all of it,” Tom said.

“Yeah, but he was right, wasn't he?” Merlyn's tone was defensive, which made Hugo smile.

“Tom says that every time,” Hugo said. “And maybe he's right.”

“Maybe,” Merlyn said. “But that shoelace thing was cool.”

“How did you know he speaks English?” Miki asked.

“I can answer that one,” Tom said. “He's a waiter in the most famous and touristy café in Paris. Speaking four languages is more important than being able to carry a tray without dropping it.”

“Precisely,” Hugo agreed. “Good job, Tom, you'll make a decent detective yet.”

Tom raised his whiskey glass and mumbled something into it, and Hugo was pretty sure he knew what.

The two young women laughed, and kept laughing as Merlyn's phone buzzed and she shared a series of funny pictures with her girlfriend. Hugo watched them, as did Tom next to him. Hugo glanced at his friends and for a moment Tom held his eye, then he stood and went to the bar. He returned a moment later with two glasses of scotch. He handed one to Hugo, and they clinked glasses.

“Happy anniversary,” Tom said, his voice low.

“Yes, that.” Hugo raised his glass to eye level. “And to Paul and Sarah.”

“Damn straight. And may that other son of a bitch roast in hell.”

“I'm sure he is.” Hugo checked to make sure the women weren't listening. “But about that stuff.”

“Hey, you're not the bad guy, Hugo, and neither am I. The real bad guy's in prison still, remember that.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. He's up for parole.”

Tom shook his head. “Won't happen. Not a chance.”

“You can't know that.”

“Yes, I can. He'll get out one day, but not now. No way.”

Hugo felt a foot nudging his shin under the table. “What're you boys being so serious about?” Merlyn asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Hugo said. “Just talking about the good old days. The FBI. You know how geezers like us get, reminiscing.”

“In that case, I have a question,” Merlyn said.

“Fire away.”

“Why did you leave the FBI? Seems like such a cool job.”

Miki Harrison perked up. “You didn't tell me he worked for the Bureau, Merlyn.” She turned to Hugo. “What exactly did you do for them?”

“A regular field agent for a few years, then I was with the Behavioral Sciences Unit based out of Quantico, but we zipped all over the country. All over the world, really.”

“You were a profiler?”

“Yes, essentially. They have four units, one for counter-terrorism, one for white-collar stuff, one for crimes against kids, and then mine, Unit Four, which works crimes against adults.”

“Cool,” Miki said. “Like, serial killers?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“You ever catch one?”

“He caught several,” Tom said. “Single-handedly.”

The girls looked at him, wondering whether he was joking.

“Never single-handedly,” Hugo said. “I worked with a team, which included other agents and local law enforcement.”

“And Tom worked for that unit, too?”

“No,” Hugo and Tom said together. Hugo glanced at his friend, who was looking down at his plate.
Enough about that
, he knew they were both thinking.

Merlyn seemed to take the hint. “So why did you leave, Hugo?”

“Oh, there was no one reason.” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the half-truth. “I got tired of all the death, with dealing with the dark side of humanity.”

“And by that he means all the paperwork,” Tom chipped in.

“Actually, the bureaucracy had a lot to do with it,” Hugo agreed. “That and the fact the bad guys we put away kept getting released.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, giving Hugo a meaningful look. “Ain't that the truth.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Toward the end of the meal, Merlyn excused herself to the restroom and, when she tottered, Tom leapt up to go with her. Hugo took the opportunity to talk to Miki.

“How's the book research coming along?” he asked.

She laughed, her eyes glassy and shining from the champagne. “Actually, quite well. I hooked into a small group of people with some inside knowledge. Helped me out a bit.”

“An online group?” Hugo asked.

“No, some people here in Paris.”

“Inside knowledge, sounds intriguing.” Hugo smiled but said nothing else. Experience had taught him that silence was a powerful force in getting people to talk; it hovered like a black hole needing to be filled. Especially when someone on the other side of the hole could fill it by talking about their passion. Even more especially when they were properly lubricated.

“Nothing too concrete, not yet,” she said. “But there's this one guy who's been chasing the secret Severin papers for the longest time. He had access to some stuff at one point but . . .” She trailed off, as if reminding herself not to say too much.

“So you still think it's true, there's stuff being held back from the collection.”

“I'm sure there is.”

“Who's in charge of it? Who's holding it back?”

Her eyes dropped to the table. “Well, it's hard to say.”

“Michael Harmuth is in charge of all that now, isn't he?”

“He and Michelle Juneau, yes.”

“So either one of them could tell you.”

She snorted. “Could, maybe.”

“What about Isabelle Severin herself? I went out there to talk to her yesterday morning. She's a little forgetful but seems in good health.”

Miki's eyes widened. “You did? You were able to talk to her?”

“Well, I went unannounced, which turns out to be a bad idea. But you can call and make an appointment.”

“She still sees people?”

“Not everyone, but I think so sometimes. It's worth trying.” Hugo smiled. “Imagine that, a cozy visit to the old woman and she spills her guts in person to you over tea.”

Miki nodded. “Now that would be something.”

“A book, I imagine.”

Miki laughed, then hiccupped. “So, what were you doing out there?”

“Same interest as you, to be honest. Trying to figure out if there's anything to the Severin legend.”

“Why do you care? I mean, that sounds harsh, but . . . why?”

“Two people are dead, one of whom was curating her collection of papers. If there is a secret hidden away, maybe it's related somehow.”

“How?”

“No idea.”

“Some detective you are.” She winked exaggeratedly and took a gulp of champagne. “So did you find anything out?”

Hugo pictured the letter opener. “Maybe, hard to say at this point.”

“Ah, can't reveal anything from an ongoing investigation?” She slurred the last word, and Hugo looked up gratefully as Tom and Merlyn returned. Merlyn nipped ahead of him and took his seat, beside Hugo.

Tom plonked down next to Miki and rubbed his hands together with delight as the waiter wheeled up a three-tiered cheese cart.

“So, are you and Tom looking into the deaths of those two people?” Merlyn asked.

Hugo nodded. “We were just talking about that.”

“And?” Merlyn looked back and forth between Hugo and Miki.

“And it's too early to say much. Paul may have committed suicide and it looks likely that Sarah had some help meeting her maker.”

“Delightfully put,” Tom said.

“He didn't have a heart attack?” Merlyn asked.

“He had a drug in his system. One that would have made it look like he'd had a heart attack.” Hugo held up a hand. “And before you ask me which one, I can't say.”

“Wow,” Merlyn said. “Poison in the library. But you said suicide, and who the hell poisons themselves?”

“Ahem.” Tom rattled the remains of his scotch and ice. “I've been trying pretty hard for the past fifteen or so years. Is there anyone on the planet who doesn't put some bad shit in their system?”

Miki Harrison laughed, but added, “Michael Harmuth might qualify. Guy doesn't drink, smoke, and he's into all this alternative medicine.”

Hugo glanced across. “He told you about that?”

“He was proud of it. We were taking about Isabelle Severin living so long, and he said it's probably because she's avoided bad food, drugs, that kind of thing.”

“Does he know her personally?” Hugo asked.

“Oh, no, it sounded like he was speculating. And when I say drugs, I mean pharmaceutical stuff, the ones doctors prescribe.” She popped a square of cheese into her mouth, chewed, and then pointed to her plate. “He doesn't eat animal products, drink caffeine, and he told me he has a little herb garden behind his place where he makes his own medicines.”

“Is he some kind of weirdo?” Tom asked.

“No, he's not,” Hugo said. “Lots of people agree with him, about the food stuff and medicine. I doubt he's too radical, he'd have his appendix surgically removed if need be. But for headaches, upset stomachs, that kind of thing, a lot of people are turning to more natural remedies. I can see the appeal of it, frankly.”
And that explains why he wants the ground-floor apartment, so he'd have access to a garden.

“Goddam hippy,” Tom scoffed.

“No,” said Merlyn, leaping to Hugo's defense again, “it's true. When I had sleep problems, my doctor gave me all kinds of drugs. I hated taking them.”

“Did they work?” Tom asked.

“Yes, they did. But I felt groggy the next day, and I didn't like the idea of being reliant on . . . whatever they were. Anyway, I stopped taking any pills and took melatonin.”

“Those are pills,” Tom said.

Merlyn shot him a look full of daggers. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure, I do,” said Tom, clearly enjoying needling her. “And if he gets cancer, he's gonna make bat-wing soup and drink it with a spoon carved from a virgin's leg bone?”

“Actually,” Miki snapped to Merlyn's defense, “he did know someone with cancer. He said they cured it with, oh shit, I don't remember. ‘Di-menthol sulfate' or something.”

“What the hell's that?” Tom asked.

“No clue. Can't even pronounce it, but he said it was on
60 Minutes
, that American show. That's how they knew to try it.”

“I can't imagine there's a natural cure for cancer,” Hugo said. “It'd be on more than one episode of
60 Minutes
. I'd bet whoever it was also had chemotherapy.” He felt bad undermining Miki and Merlyn, but the words were out before he could stop himself.

Merlyn, on her fourth or fifth glass, wasn't backing down. “Sure, but who knows which one was the main cure? Maybe they helped each other. And how can a natural remedy be bad, even if you're having conventional medicine?”

“Oh, it can't,” Hugo said hurriedly, “I'm sure. I was just saying . . . Never mind.”

They sat in an awkward silence for a moment, then Miki Harrison spoke up. “So where are we going after dinner?”

“Bed,” said Hugo.

She batted her eyelashes. “You think I'm that easy?”

“Oh, please,” Merlyn said. “Hugo goes to bed at nine or he turns into a pumpkin. Plus, he has a rich girlfriend.”

“Oh, yeah? Why isn't she here tonight?” Miki asked. “Which is to point out, she's not here tonight.”

“I was under the impression you'd met someone here,” Hugo countered.

“Not that way.”

“Weren't you with him all day?” Merlyn asked. “And last night?”

Miki shook her head, a big smile on her face. “No. Not like that, anyway.”

“Anyone we know?” Tom asked. Hugo got the distinct impression Tom was both disappointed and hopeful. He clearly had a thing for Miki Harrison.

“I told you, it's not like that. At all.” Now Hugo detected a hint of disappointment in her voice, but she rallied. “I was busy working on the Severin story, last night and all today.”

Hugo looked down as his phone buzzed.
Camille Lerens
showed on the screen. “Excuse me, guys,” he said, “this could be important.” He stood and walked to the café's entrance. “Camille, what's up?”

“How's your weekend off?” she asked, humor ringing in her voice.

“Yeah, good one. Something happened?”

“You could say that. Have you been drinking?”

“Like any good French policeman, of course. One Americano and one scotch.”

“Well, don't drive. Where are you? I'll send a car.”

“If you hurry, I won't have to pay my bill. So where am I going?”

“Paul and Sarah's apartment.”

“Oh, no. What now?”

“Don't worry, no one died,” she said. “But someone broke in and searched the place.”

“Any idea if they took anything?”

“None. That's why I need you here.” She barked an order at someone, then spoke to Hugo. “
Bon
, order yourself a coffee. But quickly, a car will be there in ten minutes.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The driver whom Lerens sent was a uniformed
flic
in his midforties, with a bald head and a friendly smile. He drove an unmarked police car, a black Peugeot, and when Hugo slipped into the front seat he was surprised to hear the man introduce himself in English.