“So do you think I should talk to him, to Gravois? Confront him?”
“I don't think that would be a good idea, no.”
Roussillon grimaced. “I am not scared of him. Not now, not anymore.” He looked at Hugo. “Now I am just angry.”
“I know,” Hugo said. “I feel the same way. But if I'm right, then he's dangerous and you are not equipped to tangle with him. And if I'm wrong, you certainly don't want to be accusing him of murder.”
“Perhaps. Mon dieu, I don't understand all this. I couldn't bear it if I thought I'd caused your friend's death.”
“Even if I'm right, this isn't your fault. It isn't.”
“I hear what you say, but mark my words. If he is responsible for this, and I believe you when you say he is, I will see that he does not escape justice. Whatever it costs me.”
They both looked up as, from the other end of the library, someone knocked twice. The door opened and Jean stepped in.
“Monsieur, the ambulance is here. Your daughter is home.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hugo spent a few minutes with Claudia before leaving her in the care of her father. The Frenchman seemed suddenly old and frail, perhaps rattled by their discussion, or maybe distressed at seeing his daughter in bandages. As Hugo bade them farewell, Roussillon was fussing around her like an overprotective hen, fetching water and cushions, brushing her hair and forehead with his fingers as if to reassure himself she was really there. Every now and then he would turn sad eyes on Hugo, who felt like he'd said too much, burdening Roussillon more than he should have.
Jean drove him back to Rue Jacob, and Hugo spent the afternoon wandering around his apartment completing small but meaningless tasks. Tom was missing in action again but this time had left no note. Real sightseeing, Hugo hoped. He tried calling and bit back his impatience, wanting to share what he knew with his best friend, with the mind that was considerably sharper than its owner ever let on. But he got no answer. At five o'clock his phone rang and he snatched it up without checking to see who was calling. He smiled when he heard the voice on the other end.
“I'm downstairs,” Claudia said. “I need a drink and some company, but I'm not walking up four flights of steps. You busy?”
He found her sitting on the bottom step, her handbag resting beside her. As he helped her up Tom walked through the door, whistling softly and clapping his hands in delight when he saw them. Claudia put her good arm around Tom's shoulders and laughed, “So this must be Tom. Bien, now I have two men to buy me drinks.”
They headed to a café nearby where Tom shooed away the wine list and started ordering vodka. This pleased Claudia who, Hugo guessed, had some pain and a few bad memories to chase away. He didn't feel like keeping pace with them, but he was glad to have his old friend there to keep Claudia company amid the shot glasses.
For much of the evening, in fact, Hugo stared out of the café at the bundled up passersby and tried to pick through the confusing mass of coincidences and dead-end facts that he'd turned up in the hunt for Max's killer. The wraiths of cigarette smoke and rising aromas of alcohol and garlic filled the air around him, closing in and heightening the already strong sensation of being trapped in a maze. He knew full well there was a way out, an answer, and he was certain Gravois was it. But he had no idea which way to go, how to get to him. And, while he sat there scratching his head like a dumb cartoon detective, it seemed like someone was out there trying to kill him. Garcia had suggested that it was Claudia they were after, perhaps because of her growing connection to the police, or maybe because of unfinished business from her husband's death — and maybe that was right. Either way, Hugo was under no illusions that the shooter was finished.
As the laughter and chatter went on around him, Hugo sipped his watered-down scotch, aiming for the peaceful patch of consciousness that lay between relaxation and intoxication. If he made it there, he hoped, some of the loose ends would tie themselves together and give him a rope to hang Gravois.
But for what? Being creepy? Hugo was sure the SBP leader was at, or close to, the center of the mystery, but the man had insulated himself from questions, from answers.
Hugo looked at Tom, red-eyed and laughing so hard his belly shook. A washed-up CIA spook and an out-of-practice FBI agent. Even they should be able to do better than this.
In the end, Hugo decided that the one decision he'd got right was spending the evening at a neighborhood café. By the end of the night, Tom was too drunk to walk by himself and Claudia, who'd sensibly swapped her vodka for Perrier an hour before they headed home, was too tipsy, talkative, and wounded to be of any help dragging Tom home. After Hugo had hauled them both to the top of the stairs and into the study, he propped Tom in a corner. Hugo opened up the sofa bed and then put an arm around his friend's shoulders, making sure he fell in the right direction.
“Should you undress him?” Claudia said. “Cover him up?”
“Probably,” Hugo said, heading for the door.
They went to the bedroom, and the light from his bedside lamp guided them as they undressed each other — she insisted on doing her share. Hugo was tender, afraid to hurt her, but saw fire in her eyes and gave in to an urge to run his hands through her hair.
“Pull it and see what happens,” she whispered.
He tightened his grip and tugged her head back, exposing her pale throat to his kiss. Claudia gasped and her breath quickened. She cupped the back of Hugo's head with her good hand, then trailed her fingers to his chest and tore off the last of his shirt buttons.
They awoke just before nine, the room stuffy and tainted with the sweet smell of sex, stale alcohol, and sweat. Hugo slipped out of bed, promising coffee to a mumbling and bedraggled Claudia. He pulled on pants and a T-shirt and walked into the living room. Even from there he could hear Tom snoring. He set about the coffee maker, erring on the side of stronger rather than weaker, for Claudia's sake and his own.
He walked through the living room, straightening and picking up as he made his way to the window overlooking Rue Jacob. The blast of fresh air made him shiver, but he left the window wide open as he went back to the kitchen. He heard the shuffle of feet behind him and Claudia appeared, her healthy arm held high, covering her eyes, shielding them from the morning light. He looked at her other arm and was relieved not to see any red stains on the bandages. She wore a blue T-shirt of his and, he saw when she leaned on the counter, nothing else except a few goose bumps on her bottom. Her whole body suddenly shivered.
“I was going to bring it to you in bed,” Hugo said.
“I needed to pee.” Her voice was hoarse and cracked. “If I go back to bed I won't get up for a week. Mmm, bed for a week sounds good.”
Hugo put a cup of coffee under her nose. “Milk and sugar?”
“Just sugar. Lots.”
He dropped in three teaspoonfuls and stirred for her. “Food?”
“Later. Maybe.” She looked at him and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “God, I haven't done that in a while.”
“Which?” Hugo asked with a wink.
“Funny.” She sipped at the coffee then licked her lips. “Mind if I finish this in the bathtub? The shower's out for a while.”
“Help yourself.”
She reappeared thirty minutes later in the jeans and blue cashmere sweater she'd worn the previous night. She was still pale, but she'd brushed her hair and put on some makeup. She went straight to the coffee pot and refilled her cup. Stirring in sugar, she lowered herself gingerly onto the couch beside him then nodded to the window. Hugo had closed it in anticipation of more nakedness. “Looks like a pretty day. Can I see you later?”