“Are you going somewhere now?”
“I should check in with my father. He told me about the conversation you had with him yesterday.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And it's funny, I've always known something was up, something kept hidden from me. But I'm glad he told me, he seemed to need that, to talk about it after discussing it with you like that. He seemed very sad about the whole thing. I've never seen him like that.”
“Understandable,” Hugo said. He squeezed her hand. “It's been quite a week for you. Are you OK with everything?”
“Still processing, I think. I keep telling myself that nothing changes who I am, and that nothing should change how I see my father. But this, it's not something I could ever have imagined.”
“He didn't do anything wrong.” Hugo didn't mention Max, unsure whether Roussillon had shared with his daughter the possibility of having played an unwitting role in the bouquiniste's death.
“I know. But his father did, so I want to check on my father, have lunch, and talk it over some more. Maybe see you later?”
“I hope so. You want me to call Jean to come get you?”
She pulled a face. “I'll take a taxi. Jean's sweet, but I don't need his disapproving looks in the mirror. One overprotective father is enough. By the way,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the study. “He's fun.”
“He is that,” Hugo said. “And I expect he'll want to head out for another bender tonight.”
“Really? So what does he do for a living? I'm sure he told me last night but…”
I'm pretty sure he didn't, Hugo thought. “He used to work for the State Department. Shuffled papers on seven continents, is how he puts it.”
“Sounds wonderful. What are you going to do with him while I'm away?”
Hugo pursed his lips. “I had an idea that we'd go boating.”
The phone call came less than an hour later, and as soon as it rang Hugo knew it was her. Claudia's number flashed on the little screen and he flipped it open.
Three seconds of silence followed by her sob made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Claudia, what is it?” He was already moving toward the kitchen counter, looking for his keys.
“Papa, it's Papa.” Her voice caught and he could almost feel a tremble run through her body.
“Claudia, are you OK? Is someone there?”
“No, just me. Oh Hugo…”
Hugo's mind kicked down a gear, slowing time and assessing her words. “If someone is there with you,” he said slowly and clearly, “and if you're not allowed to say so, repeat the words ‘I'm fine.’”
“Hugo, it's not that. It's my father. Oh my God, please come quickly. He's…he's dead.”
“Dead? What happened, Claudia? Where is he?”
“In the library. He's been shot. Please come.”
“I'm on my way, I'll bring Tom. And I'll call the police, please make sure you don't touch anything.”
Five minutes later they were in a taxi, Tom miraculously alert and asking questions Hugo couldn't answer, the driver confused but cooperative after seeing Hugo's badge, gun, and a large wad of cash. Hugo tried calling Claudia from the car but it went straight to voicemail, and he was suddenly afraid for her. He left her a message to call back, and then left one for Capitaine Garcia, telling him what little he knew and asking him to meet them at Roussillon's, if at all possible.
Outside the car's window Paris flashed by, the sluggish river Seine appearing and disappearing beside them, seeming to slow their progress with her magnetic pull, a seductress winking through the plane trees, teasing them with glimpses of her silvery skirts, and with the threat of more death, more bodies hidden within their deadly folds.
He delayed calling the police, worried about Claudia being there alone but knowing enough about crime scenes to be sure she was safe, that if she'd been the intended target she'd never have been able to call him. Knowing enough, too, to be confident that once the French police arrived he wouldn't get a look at the crime scene unless, or until, Garcia showed up. And this was one crime scene he didn't want to wait to see.
When they got to Boulevard D'Argenson Hugo was out of the door before the taxi had stopped. Claudia must have been waiting by the window downstairs because the door opened immediately, her thin silhouette leaning against the wide door jamb. Hugo leapt up the stone steps and held her.
“Claudia, what's going on?”
She clung to him for a few seconds, her body shaking, the fingers of her good arm working his shoulders and back, getting as close as she could. Then she stiffened, strong Claudia returning, and Hugo felt a squeeze that was more controlled, assertive.
“In the library,” she whispered. “He's in there.” She looked up and her eyes were red rimmed. “I don't know what's happening.”
Hugo looked at Tom and both men moved toward the library. The room was bright, brighter than Hugo had seen it before. And at first it seemed like nothing was amiss, but when they walked toward the glass cabinet at the back, Hugo noticed an open window and, lying on the parquet floor beneath it, the still form of Gérard de Roussillon.
He lay on his back, arms and legs splayed out wide, the way he'd have lain to make a snow angel as a child. He was dressed in dark pants and a velvet jacket that had fallen open to reveal a plain white T-shit. He'd been shot in the forehead, once, a clean, tidy, and instantly fatal shot.
Tom knelt over the body, and Hugo didn't need to tell him not to touch anything.
“Small caliber,” Tom said. “Twenty-two probably, or his brains would be all over the place.”
A noise from the doorway made them both swing around. Claudia hovered there, and Hugo knew she wanted to be with them yet was terrified to see what she'd already seen, what no daughter should ever see. He held up a hand, I'll be right there. He looked up at the open window and stood.
“They come through there?” Tom asked.
Hugo stepped over the body and looked out, looked down. “No, I doubt it. There's a pond right beneath the window. No way to avoid getting wet, so not the best way in, and I don't see track marks anywhere.” He moved away from Roussillon, toward Claudia. His voice was gentle but urgent. “Tell me how you found him. Was the front door open?”
“No. I mean, yes,” she said. “It was closed but it wasn't locked. I didn't think anything of it because when Papa and Jean are home they often leave it that way. This area, it's safe.”
“Where is Jean?”
“I…I don't know. It's his day off, I don't think he's here.”
“OK, we'll find him. Tom,” Hugo called, drawing his weapon as Tom left Roussillon and hurried over. “We need to clear the house.”
Tom nodded and they worked in tandem like they used to, eye contact and nods their way of communicating who would open a door, who would go in first, and when. They moved quickly through the downstairs, Claudia hugging the walls ten feet behind them, Hugo not wanting her out of sight. They left her on the stairs as they moved to the second floor, listening at each door, the sweat beginning to dampen their shirts and loosen the grip on their guns.
But in two minutes they knew that the house was empty.
As they sat on the stairs, Hugo and Claudia side by side, Tom behind them, they heard the sirens. They had left the front door open and the familiar figure of Capitaine Garcia was the first to enter. Behind him, four gendarmes in uniform stood looking around, awaiting orders.
Hugo left Claudia with Tom and took Garcia into the library, telling him about the unlocked door and the small but precise bullet hole in Roussillon's head.
“You think he did this too?” Garcia asked as they looked down on the gray, waxy face of the Comte d'Auvergne.