“Not my fault,” he said. “People keep forgetting that those guys broke into my place, not the other way around.”
“Even so, did you consider backing away and calling the cops?”
“As a matter of fact,” he said truthfully, “the thought never entered my mind.”
“Figures.”
Hugo's cell phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Claudia,” he said, flipping his phone open. “What's up?”
“Can you meet for a quick cup of coffee?”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“If you're at work, three blocks away. You know Café Bleu? On Saint-Honoré?”
“The new place, sure.”
“Meet me there.”
“Claudia, is everything OK? You sound upset.”
“I'm fine. Just tired.”
“Give me ten minutes, I'll be there.”
The Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Hugo had often thought, would be the only street to get Christine to Paris and, maybe, keep her there. Narrow and nondescript by Paris's architectural standards, it was nevertheless one of the most famous shopping boulevards in the world. All of the famous fashion houses kept stores on the street, as did dozens more designers that Hugo had never heard of. The boutiques sold only the finest art, the jewelry stores were almost too intimidating to enter, and the few hotels on the road were subtle affairs of supreme elegance, small and intimate, with better service than you'd get at some of the more palatial hotels in Paris.
Café Bleu fit right in. With just a single row of tables along the sidewalk, Hugo had walked past often and never seen one remain empty for more than thirty seconds. The waiters here were fast and efficient, they knew they were dealing with exacting customers who wouldn't hesitate to drop large amounts of cash at the boutiques nearby…or make a polite fuss if their coffee was cold or slow to arrive.
Claudia had managed to snag a table and two chairs beside the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek and slid into the vacant seat, momentarily battling the outer limits of a puffy Italian woman who'd overflowed into it.
“Nothing like privacy,” Hugo grimaced.
Claudia smiled, but she looked tired. “Sorry to drag you away like that.”
“No problem. What's up?”
A waiter appeared and Hugo ordered a café crème. Claudia asked for the same.
“I wanted to let you know a little of what is going on, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”
“Tom?”
“No, Hugo, not even him. Not yet.” She held his eye. “Promise?”
“OK. What's going on?”
“You remember we talked about Dobrescu and Les Pieds-Noirs sharing power in the city?”
“I do.”
“We think Les Pieds-Noirs may have a new partnership.”
“We?”
“OK, the cops. They really are trusting me with a lot of this information, which is why you have to keep it quiet.”
“Sure, I get it. You said a partnership — between whom?”
“They are not sure. Not exactly. But possibly another Romanian group. Or Bulgarian, those two seem to work together a lot in Europe. London and Madrid have had problems with criminal alliances with people from those countries.”
“I didn't know that,” Hugo said truthfully.
“And talking of Madrid, there's even speculation that ETA might be behind this.”
“The Spanish separatists? I thought they'd gone away.”
“They're back,” said Claudia. “It's just a question of whether they are back and in Paris.”
“It seems unlikely but then again, it's a model that worked for some terrorist groups, the FARC and ELN in Colombia, selling drugs to make money for their other activities.”
“Precisely. So many to choose from.” She took two coffee cups from the waiter and put one in front of Hugo, then unwrapped a cube of sugar and stirred it into hers. “As I said before, a border-free Europe has done wonders for business, tourism, and criminals. New markets for everyone to enjoy.”
“You think all this has something to do with Max and the other bouquinistes?”
“Actually, no.”
“Then I don't understand why you're telling me this.”
“Hugo, I'm worried about you.” She picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee again. “I have no right to be, but I am. What happened last night…I don't know. I've just seen too much death and destruction lately.”
“I still don't understand, I'm sorry.”
“I'm asking you to let the police find out what happened to Max. Leave it alone, Hugo. I know you are good at what you do, or were, but so are they.”
“What do you mean, ‘were’?”
“You're not a cop anymore. Why do you want to be?” She put the spoon down and cupped her hands around her coffee. “It's not a game, you know that. If those Romanians or Bulgarians, or whoever the hell they are, think you're poking around, they won't send a couple of idiots with sticks to your apartment, Hugo.”
“Which reminds me, did I tell you I spoke to Garcia earlier? One of those goons was a drug dealer.”
“All the more reason to leave it alone. Those people mean business, they are vicious and ruthless.”
“I know.” He put a hand on her arm and squeezed. “Your father told me about your husband, what happened. I'm really sorry, Claudia, I wish you'd told me.”
She gave him a weak smile. “I try not to think about it.” The smile faded. “And I don't want it to happen again.”
“Me neither. But why would they think I am poking around in their business?”
“Because that's what Americans do. You want to save the world, to make it look the way you think it should be, so you stick your nose into other people's business. And the drugs business is the best possible example. The underworld exists, Hugo, but it's not like in the movies. You can't be the American action hero, kicking in doors and roughing up the bad guys. Just asking questions will make you stick out, non? Someone from the US Embassy who is a former FBI agent? Of course you will. They will think you are using the bouquiniste thing as an excuse to investigate the drug business.”
Hugo sat back. He hadn't thought about it that way, and some of what she said was true. “People keep telling me to back off, Claudia. The ambassador, your father, Capitaine Garcia. And now you. And I still don't see Max's killer behind bars. I don't care about your drug war. I really don't. But a friend of mine is dead. Dumped in the Seine. And as far as I can tell, the cops are more worried about what I'm doing than who his killer is.”
“That's not true.”
“No? Tell me, what do you know about a detective called Durand?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “David Durand?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you ask?” Her eyes slid over his face as if she were having trouble looking at him.
“Claudia. He was the cop who shut down the initial investigation. And you've been meeting with him.”
“How do you know that?”
“It doesn't matter how I know.”
“Have you been following me?”
“No,” he said. “And stop avoiding the question. I just want to know who he is.”
“And why I'm meeting with him, I'm sure.”
“Can you blame me?” He wasn't happy about the outrage in her voice, but he needed to know.
“I'm a reporter. I talk to a lot of cops. That's all Hugo, nothing to do with,” she waved a hand, “any of this.” Her phone rang and she picked it up to look at the display. “Excusez moi un moment, I have to take this.” She stood and walked along the row of tables, talking into the phone. She reached the end of the row and nodded twice, then hung up. She put the phone in her pocket and started back toward him.
Behind her, a motorcycle carrying two people came down the street toward them. Rider and passenger both wore black leather jackets and chaps and helmets that hid their faces behind mirrored visors. Hugo saw them slow fifty yards away from the café. Hoping for an empty table, he first thought.