Hugo reached for his phone, intending to cancel his lunch, but it rang before he could pull it from his pocket. Emma. “Hey,” he said, “you're not ditching me, are you?”
“Yes and no. Lunch is off, but blame Ambassador Taylor.”
“Why?” Hugo started walking again, his eyes still on the man ahead. “Doesn't he know I'm on vacation?”
“He knows you're not in America, if that's what you mean.”
“It's not. And you're supposed to run interference for me on this stuff.”
“I did,” she said. “And I'm very good at it, but it turns out that I'm just a secretary and he's some sort of ambassador.”
“Ah, for a moment I thought missing lunch meant missing out on your sarcasm.”
A gentle peal of laughter. “I wonder where I get it from?”
“Fine. Look, I'm in the middle of something, so what's going on?”
“He didn't say. Remember the whole secretary-versus-ambassador thing? But he wants to see you right away.”
“Right away?”
“His words.”
If it were anyone else, Hugo would make him wait. Especially under these circumstances. But Ambassador Taylor wasn't just his boss, he was a man Hugo respected. If he was calling Hugo in from his vacation there was a good reason, and Hugo wasn't going to ignore it. Even if he chose to, what would his explanation sound like? Sorry, ambassador, I was following a man who I think had been following me for some unknown reason but possibly related to the bouquiniste whose apartment I broke into, the one you told me to stop investigating.
“OK,” he said, “it'll take me thirty minutes or so to get in, but tell him I'll be there.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” Hugo slowed and watched the man in the hat trot down the steps to the Duroc metro station, allowing himself some satisfaction from an accurate deduction. He was about to hang up when a thought struck him. “Oh, Emma, did you manage to find Ceci for me?”
“Sure did. I'll print out everything I have, which isn't much, so stop by here first. And Hugo? Seeing as you're bailing on me for lunch, you can pick me up a pastry. Something nice for dessert.”
She hung up before he could respond, and Hugo smiled. He turned around and started walking back the way he had come, dialing Tom to let him know where he was and keeping his eyes peeled for a patisserie.
Chapter Sixteen
Most of the murder scenes that Hugo had worked as an FBI agent involved children or people from the lower economic classes. Children, he'd realized, were easier targets and more fragile and, in Hugo's experience, rich people simply didn't kill each other in ways that attracted the attention of the FBI.
Once, though, while he was attending a conference in Philadelphia, he'd been asked to drive out to a grand house tucked away in the Pennsylvania countryside where the wealthy male owner had been killed in his study. On the way there, Hugo and a colleague had joked quietly about the butler using the lead piping, but when they walked into the room all humor fled.
The victim sat upright in his chair, and would have been staring at them if his head had still been attached to his shoulders. A crime scene tech had found it in a hollow globe normally used for storing drinks. It had been carefully positioned so when the lid was lifted, the elderly man's look of surprise would mirror the look on the face of the person who found him. Rather clever, Hugo had thought. His other thought was that the man's ornate study was forever ruined: blood had squirted from the dead man's neck, drenching the walls and ceiling. From the mess, Hugo estimated that the killer had tilted the body back and forth, spraying as much as he could. A waste of a life and a beautiful room.
Hugo thought of this case every time he met with Ambassador Taylor because the similarities between his office and the murder victim's study were inescapable. Both were lined with bookcases, a rolling staircase giving access to the higher tomes, both had stone fireplaces behind impressive mahogany desks, both had matching leather couches sitting face-en-face, and both sported heavy oil paintings of men on horseback carrying weapons as they chased down hares, foxes, and other men. Hugo had meant to find out whether, by chance, the same interior designer had constructed both but he'd never cared quite enough to ask, the similarities only seeming important when he was in the room.
Hugo arrived at the embassy an hour after talking to Emma, having stopped by her office to deliver her pastry and collect two sheets of paper. One contained the address and a description of Cecilia Josephine Roget and the other was a brief history of her tenure in charge of the SBP. As curious as he was, he could only glance over it as he hurried back down the hall to the elevator. He'd breezed past the ambassador's secretary with a wave and pushed the door open to the grand office and had started to greet the ambassador but stopped when he saw who else was in the room.
If this was another coincidence, he'd about had his fill.
“Hugo, come on in,” Ambassador Taylor said, “I'm sorry to interrupt your vacation.” He gestured to his guest. “You know Gérard de Roussillon.”
Roussillon stood holding a cup and saucer, and Hugo didn't like the smile that was on his face. He tried not to let his own surprise show, instead shaking hands with the ambassador and then the Frenchman. “Yes, we met last night.”
“So I gather,” Ambassador Taylor said. “Sit down gentlemen, please.” They followed the ambassador to the pair of couches. “Hugo, I know you're out of the office, so to speak, but Gérard had some concerns and I wanted to run them past you directly.”
“Fine,” Hugo said. “What's up?”
“Do you know what the SBP is?” the ambassador asked.
“I do, yes,” said Hugo.
“The organization and the people it represents are kind of an institution in Paris,” the ambassador said. “Gérard here has done a lot of work with them and sometimes acts as liaison between them and the government. You know, disputes about healthcare, working conditions, the limits that the government puts on what they sell.”
“They need a liaison?” Hugo said. “Isn't that what the SBP does?”
“You'd think,” the ambassador said grimly. “But depending on who heads it they sometimes need a tactful voice. Let's just say a mediator can work wonders. Gérard has filled that role for a long time.”
“As you know, I collect books, Monsieur Marston,” Roussillon said. “I get many from the bouquinistes, so if they are happy, I am happy. And I have a lot of contacts in the government, so I help when I can.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” the ambassador continued, “Gérard tells me that someone from our office, one of your agents, has been pestering Bruno Gravois, the head of the SBP, and starting rumors about disappearing bouquinistes.”
“Rumors?” Hugo asked, cursing himself for giving Gravois his real name.
“There are no police reports and no reports from friends or family.” Roussillon spread his hands wide. “No one has reported anyone missing, and these kinds of rumors…” He trailed off and looked at the ambassador for support.
“Just hang on a minute,” Hugo said. “It's not one of my agents, it's me.” He turned to address Taylor. “Mr. Ambassador, I was there when one bouquiniste was kidnapped.”
“As I said,” Roussillon repeated, “there is no police report, and no friends or family have reported him or anyone else missing.”