“OK,” Garcia nodded slowly. “Anything else?”
“On her, no. But Max Koche, yes.” He went through what he'd found, starting with the bruising. “That must have come right before he died, not after. Possibly boats, I grant you, but probably not. Look how it's just his chest and back, not his legs or his face.”
“You think he was beaten?”
“Sure looks that way to me.”
“Go on.”
Hugo pointed to the drug reports and explained that the high concentration of cocaine meant the substance had been pure, very pure. “And if you look at the rest of the autopsy report, you'll see it's consistent with him not being a drug user. No signs of damage to his nasal cavities or any internal organs, including his brain. And,” he held up a finger, “you'll see that no cocaine was found at his home or at his stall. There's just no reason to think he was a user.”
“After I talked to you last time I looked at his file again,” Garcia said, wiping his mouth. “I also noted that no evidence of prior drug use was found. I did not appreciate those toxicology figures, though. How about Desmarais?”
“Harder to tell with him, but I think these photographs are enough to at least cast doubt on his death being an accident.” He laid three of them on Garcia's desk. “See these bruises?”
“From when he fell in?”
“Well, water doesn't bruise, obviously. So the theory must be that he fell on the ground, then into the water. Right?”
“Oui.”
“But think about how that works, practically.” Hugo stood and moved the two chairs out of his way. He stepped back by the wall and then let himself fall forward, arms extended. He caught himself in the push-up position on the floor. Garcia stood and leaned over the desk to watch. “If I fall on my front, onto something hard, how do I end up in the water? With difficulty. Now, if I'd fallen on my side, then maybe I would roll. Maybe. But not my front.”
“I see. Not definitive, but interesting.”
Hugo jumped up. “And look at the photos again. See how his forehead is bruised, and his chin messed up?”
“Yes, I see that,” Garcia said. He picked up the photos and looked closely at them. “I know what you are thinking. If he'd fallen, he'd have hit either his chin or his forehead. Not both.” As if to convince himself, he put his face on the top of his desk. “You can't do both at the same time.”
“Exactly. And if he'd hit one then the other, which is theoretically possible, then only one would be badly damaged. Here he has a major contusion on his head and I bet the autopsy report will show his jaw was broken, too.”
Capitaine Garcia spread his hands. “I am impressed. And, more importantly, I think you may be right.” He held up a warning finger. “And I mean, you may be right.” He smiled. “I'm guessing it's not a serial killer, though.”
“No,” said Hugo. He returned the smile. “Not in the traditional sense, I don't think so.”
“Then who?”
“The only thing that makes sense to me is Gravois. He is replacing bouquinistes with his own people.”
“For kickbacks?”
“Maybe. But I can't help feel like there's more to it than that. Murder is just too extreme.” Hugo picked up the toxicology report on Max. “And why go to all the trouble of making Max's death look like an overdose?”
“Because three accidental drownings is more suspicious than just two?” Garcia shrugged and looked at Hugo, as if for an answer.
“Three drowned bouquinistes so close in time would be pretty odd, that's true,” said Hugo. “And if it is Gravois, how does he have access to such pure cocaine?”
“I don't know that either, but I intend to find him and ask,” said Garcia. He rounded his desk and reached for his coat, then stopped and looked at Hugo. “Are you coming?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“What do you mean he wasn't there?” Hugo asked. He'd called Tom when Capitaine Garcia stopped at the front desk to speak to one of his junior officers.
His friend had answered from the sidewalk in front of Roussillon's house. “Look,” said Tom, “he told you he's happy for us to look at the book, no big deal. I'll just come back another time.”
“Did he call you?”
“No, man, I showed up at his fucking palace. The beefeater said he'd left earlier and hadn't come back.”
“It's a butler, not a beefeater.”
“Whatever. He wasn't there so I didn't look at the book.”
“OK. I'll call him.”
“Where are you?”
“At the prefecture. I identified our intruder, so it's just a matter of time before they pick him up. Hopefully.”
“Yeah, hopefully. The frog police haven't been too impressive up until now.”
Hugo glanced up as Garcia came down the front steps and reminded himself to keep the two men apart. “They're working with me now. Garcia and I are off to find Gravois.”
“Awesome, where do I meet you?”
“No.”
“Bullshit. Why not?”
“Because I'm going to have to deal with Gravois and Garcia. I don't want you needling one or both of them while I'm doing it.”
“Fuck off, then. Call me when you're done.”
“What are you going to do?”
“More sightseeing. You prefer the Louvre or the Musee d'Orsay?”
“Go to the d'Orsay. I'll take you to the Louvre myself; I haven't been there in a while.”
He hung up and turned to Garcia. “Sorry. How do we get there?”
“I have a car in the garage,” Garcia said, “let's go. But let me say something first.”
“I won't shoot him,” Hugo said, with a half-smile.
“No, it's not that.” Garcia was serious, troubled even. “I owe you an apology, a very sincere one.”
“It's OK, I know what you're going to say.”
“Then let me say it.” He put a hand on Hugo's shoulder. “I wish I had listened to you, believed you. I wish I had acted on what you saw. I think it's possible we could have saved your friend.”
“I appreciate that. But I suppose you had to go with what your detective told you.”
“Ah, yes. Durand. I would like to tell you the full story, but I can say that I've had my eye on him. Believe me when I say that he won't be getting promoted any time soon.”
Hugo waited for more but Garcia looked away, ending the conversation. If it was that confidential, Hugo thought, it must be serious. Was Durand just lazy or incompetent, or was he on the wrong side of the law? He couldn't help but wonder about Claudia and her connection to the man. Was she charming a story out of the detective that he'd later regret? Hugo could only hope she knew what she was doing and exactly who she was dealing with.
The drive to Rue Nollet took fifteen minutes. On the way, Hugo told Garcia about his previous visit, a little embarrassed at his role play as a journalist. Garcia just smiled and nodded that he understood. Hugo told him more about the book he'd bought from Max, its progression from the Pont Neuf to Kendall and into the hands of Roussillon. Garcia's face tightened when he heard Roussillon's name, but he didn't say anything.
At Hugo's suggestion, they parked away from the entrance of the SBP building, wanting to ensure a surprise visit.
The street outside the office was empty and the note about the broken bell was still attached below the SBP sign. They climbed the stairs quickly, and when they reached the top the beehive secretary looked up at them, eyes wide.
“Bonjour,” said Garcia. “Capitaine Garcia for Monsieur Gravois.”
“Capitaine…He is expecting you?” Her eyes rested on Hugo, and he knew she was wondering why a journalist accompanied this policeman.