Souvenir shopping. I'll bring you back something.—T.
Something.
Looking at the scribbled note, Hugo had the sense that what he wanted most of all was a stronger connection with his mercurial friend. He thought back to their days at Quantico and then in LA. They'd had no secrets back then, Hugo was sure of that. It was Tom's tour with the CIA that had closed him off, not just from Hugo but from everyone else. From the carefree Tom of old. The way he was now, the jokes, the drinking, the attempts at womanizing, they felt forced, as if Tom was looking for his former self, hunting around for the personality that used to be as natural and fitting as his own skin. He was like a man whose memory had been wiped, a man who had to try on different coats to find the one that fits, the one that's his.
Hugo had no idea if his friend needed help or if he needed space. Hugo's expertise with the human mind lay in diagnosing the behaviors of strangers, not friends, and he felt guilty for that. He wanted to be there for Tom but, in truth, he wasn't sure where it was he needed to be. Right now, for example, Hugo had no idea whether Tom was working on finding Max's killer, doing something unspeakable for the CIA, or maybe, just perhaps, really and truly shopping in Paris for souvenirs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Into his second cup of coffee and gathering the energy to walk to the embassy, Hugo tried Ceci's number. It rang and rang. Maybe out walking Sydney, he thought. He called Emma and was at least able to leave a message. He told her the basics, said he was fine, and asked her to warn the ambassador that he would be in to talk to him. Ten minutes later he was about to try Ceci again when his cell phone rang.
“Capitaine Garcia here, Monsieur Marston.”
“Good morning, capitaine. Any news?”
“A little. Your ugly friend didn't want to talk to us, and he has that right. But we found out who he is. Or, more precisely, what he is. A small time drug dealer. He has spent some time in our jails, and will be going back there, of course.”
“Do you know who he works for?”
“Not exactly. We know who his associates are, who he's done work for in the past, but we have no idea who he's working for at the moment. If anyone, of course.”
“You think it might have been just a burglary?”
“Not really, no. I assume you don't either.”
“No.”
“That poetry book you told me about, do you think they might have been looking for it?”
“It's possible,” said Hugo. If so, Roussillon hadn't sent them: he already had it. But maybe it wasn't that simple. There was still some question in his mind about the Clausewitz book. He'd already told himself that whoever took Max had taken the book, either from his person or from his flat. But maybe not.
“By the way, the only thing he would tell us was that your friend had a gun. I've checked the manifests kept by the airlines and I see no record of him declaring a gun on the way in. Care to comment?”
“Capitaine, that would be a very serious matter.”
“Precisely. And, of course, I place very little stock in what a violent drug dealer tells me. I just thought I'd mention it.”
“I'll speak to my friend, make sure we're all on the same page.”
“I'd appreciate that.”
Hugo remembered Ceci's call. “I may have another missing person for you, capitaine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got a call late last night, a message left on my phone from Cecilia Roget, the former head of the SBP. Apparently another bouquiniste is missing.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Just a first name. I'll find out more and get it to you as soon as I can.”
“Merci. Tell me again, the name of the lady who gave you this information?”
“Cecilia Roget.”
“I see. Please, no offense Monsieur Marston, but tell her to call me next time she has something important to report.”
“Of course.” Let the turf wars begin, Hugo thought. “As soon as I get hold of her, I'll tell her. Are you planning to talk to Monsieur Gravois, capitaine?”
“Non, I don't think so. We have no reason to believe he's involved, no obvious connection between the deaths or to your burglary.”
“Two bouquinistes in one week isn't a connection?”
“Maybe they both used Microsoft computers, monsieur — should I go interview Bill Gates?”
“That's your analogy? Come on, capitaine.”
“Until you or someone else can show me how their deaths are related, I have no reason to think they are anything but very unfortunate coincidences.”
“Coincidences?” Hugo bit his tongue. He knew they were more than that, and he knew that sooner or later he'd find something to convince this cop. “Fine, you're in charge, capitaine.”
“Thank you. I need to make an appointment for you to come to the station with your friend to look at photos, to try and recognize the intruder. When are you available?”
“How does this afternoon sound?”
“Fine. The sooner the better, of course. If I'm not here, just tell them who you are. Everything will be ready.”
Hugo tried Ceci one more time, the specter of worry moving across his mind when she didn't answer. Nothing he could do from Paris, though, so he set off for the embassy, keeping his head down despite the beauty of the day. He didn't want to see Chabot or whoever had taken Francoise Benoit's place. He paused only briefly on the narrow pedestrian bridge, Pont des Arts. The heavy roll of the murky water beneath his feet carried a new and unwelcome menace.
“Hugo, come in,” Ambassador Taylor said. “I got your message, are you OK?”
“I'm fine, thank you ambassador.”
“So what the hell happened?”
Hugo told him, leaving out any reference to Tom's gun. The ambassador sat there shaking his head.
“You think it has to do with this Max Koche?”
“I do. Even the capitaine doesn't think it was a random burglary, though he doesn't seem inclined to bother Bruno Gravois.”
“Why not? I don't want you bugging him, but I sure as hell don't care if the cops do.”
“I think it's for the same reason your friend Roussillon didn't want him bothered. Political reasons.”
The ambassador stroked his chin. “This still isn't our jurisdiction, you know. I wish I could help, Hugo, suggest something to get you involved formally, but I just don't see how.”
“There is one way,” Hugo said. “Most homicides in the United States are local matters, right? For the state or county police to deal with.”
“Go on.”
“But these days, when they need help they often call in the FBI.”
Understanding dawned on the ambassador's face. “You mean when they have a serial killer and think a profile might help.”
“Exactly. Now, the prefecture may have its own profilers, I don't know.”
“They may, but you taught at the FBI academy and have a ton of experience. I like it, nice idea. You want me to pitch it as an offer of help, nothing more?”
“If you would, ambassador, I'd be grateful.”
“I'll do it. No promises, of course, and if they say no then you'll have to stay out of it. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Although if they come after me again, I won't be a passive victim.”
“Understood.” The ambassador's eyes twinkled for a moment. “By the way, my sources tell me that although your robber didn't make any statement, he did ask for medical treatment for his, umm, manhood.”
“It's called the castle doctrine,” Hugo grinned. “Break into my house and my soldiers get to crush yours.”
On his way out, Hugo stopped in to see Emma. The relief in her face was evident, although she tried to mask all signs of worry. “Hugo, can you not stay out of trouble while you're on vacation?”