“Gravois? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“But why? Did he have any reason?”
“He might.” Hugo told him, sparingly and quickly, about Roussillon's father the collaborator, the book, and his desire to confront Gravois over Max's death. “If he did, and if he threatened Gravois, then maybe.” Hugo shrugged, and Garcia said what he was thinking.
“But we have no proof, right?”
“Right.”
Garcia looked around the library. “I'll get my crime scene people in here, see if they can find anything at all. And Claudia can help us figure out if anything was taken.”
“There should be surveillance cameras,” Claudia said from the doorway. Tom hovered behind her. “He had some high-tech ones installed a couple of years ago after some kids started throwing rocks at the houses on this street. He was afraid they'd escalate to burgling. They never did, but he kept the cameras.”
“We'll check it out, thanks,” said Garcia. He turned to Hugo. “You want to stay?”
“I can, of course.” But he didn't want to; he wanted some time and some space to think this insanity through. He looked at Claudia, who smiled thinly and shook her head.
“I have a friend on the way,” she said. “You don't have to.” She walked to him, her eyes holding his, not looking down at her father. “As long as you come back.”
“Deal,” said Hugo. “Tom and I will go somewhere and figure this out, talk it through.”
“Talk what through, exactly?” asked Garcia. “Do you know what's going on?”
“Fuck no,” said Tom. “He's got no idea what's going on. That's why he wants to talk.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Just before two o'clock, Hugo and Tom trotted down the stone steps that led from the Quai de Conti to the walkway by the river. The wind had dropped but so had the temperature, again, and Tom cursed as a band of cold air rose from the water to greet them. Frigid weather usually killed the fetid aromas that came up from the Seine, but not today. Somewhere nearby a fish had died, caught in a piece of stray netting perhaps, out of reach of the river rats that scoured the walkway sniffing for such delights.
“Hors d'oeuvres?” Tom asked, wrinkling his nose.
Hugo smiled but didn't respond. He'd stuck to his original plan for the day, and he'd been right that the only way Tom would agree to go on a boat was if lunch was included. And if Hugo paid.
Down on the walkway, Hugo swapped Euros for tickets to the only lunch cruise he'd been on, departing from the Left Bank in front of the Institut de France. A rosy-cheeked waiter showed them to a table on the starboard side of the boat, protected from the icy air by a glass wall. Ventilation ducts let warm air from the engine compartment drift around their feet and a blanket had been laid on each seat. Tom tucked one around his legs and asked for another.
“Why don't you have heating lamps like the cafés?” he grumbled to the waiter.
“It's not allowed, monsieur. Fire on board boats is a bad idea.”
A coffee laced with brandy improved things a little, but Hugo couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Tom's mood than the hangover and Roussillon's death.
“What's up with you, are you sick?” Hugo asked as the boat chugged away from the dock.
“Something like that.”
“Come on, spill it.”
“Oh, Jesus, the usual shit. Lonely old man who drinks too much because he's bored and then sees his best friend banging the hottest chick on the block.”
“Really? I didn't think self-pity was your style.”
“It's not, but I ran out of other people to pity.”
“Are you really that bored back home? If so, I can give you a job here, working with me. Seriously.”
Tom smirked. “Work for you? I don't know, I'm a pretty disrespectful employee.”
“I said with me, not for me. And you're a pretty disrespectful human being. I wouldn't expect you to be any different in the workplace.”
“Fucking right.”
The waiter reappeared and took their order. The hottest food on the menu for them both: onion soup, followed by risotto, and then bananas flambé. Tom tore a piece of bread and tossed half over the glass wall and into the water. They watched as two screeching gulls dove for the morsel.
“So what are we doing, Hugo? Are we gonna catch a killer or just fuck around?”
“Good question.” Hugo shook his head. “I don't know, I feel like I've hit a wall.”
“Tell me.”
This is what Hugo wanted. A sounding board — Tom's suspicious, aggressive, and determined mind working on the problem. Perspective too, though he knew Tom would suggest a few options he wouldn't be able to follow up on.
“OK. Let's start with Gravois…”
“Slimy fucker.”
“Yes. Definitely up to something…”
“Or maybe he just hates cops.”
“Or maybe you should shut up and listen,” Hugo said, grinning. “Whether he's naturally slimy or hates cops, he's hiding something. Wouldn't talk to me as a journalist or when I went with Garcia. You just have to look at him to know something is going on. But what? That's the impasse. I can't make him talk, and he knows we don't know enough to force the issue.” Hugo sat back. “So what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“No hard connection to any of the corpses?”
“Nothing more than being their union leader.”
“And any link to shooting Claudia?”
“No idea. As far as I know, they haven't caught anyone for that.”
“And no connection to the clowns that busted into your apartment?”
“Nope. Well, maybe. It's possible that the one you castrated is one of Gravois's capitaines.”
“Capitaines? What the fuck is that?”
“He has guys who go around and check up on the bouquinistes. It's really just harassment, to get them to leave. Anyway, it's possible I saw that guy picking on Francois Benoit but I can't be sure they are one and the same, I wasn't paying that much attention.”
“I see.” Tom nodded. “Well, I can see the impasse thing. You need to find another way to get to him.”
“Such as?”
“Such as real evidence.”
“I don't have any, Tom, that's what I'm telling you.”
“Then why the fuck do you think this guy is guilty of anything? Jesus, Hugo, you're an FBI agent, not Miss-fucking-Marple. You don't assume people are guilty because they make your tea curdle.”
“Tea doesn't curdle.”
“Shut up, you know what I mean.”
“Fine, we'll do it your way,” Hugo said. “Why would he want those bouquinistes dead?”
“So he can replace them with his men.”
“And women.”
“Fuck off. Question is, why does he want to do that?”
“Because he's taking a cut from them? He denied it when I asked him.”
“Oh, well, that's that then,” Tom said, waving a hand. “If he said he wasn't, then I'm sure he wouldn't lie.”
They sat quietly as the soup arrived, still bubbling. Hugo picked up his spoon. “Those guys don't make enough to kick much back to him, do they?” he said.
“No idea. What's your point?”
“My point is this: would he really pay off Cecilia Roget and a bunch of others, and commit three murders, just to get a few extra Euros each week?”
“Yeah,” Tom slurped his soup. “Does seem like a hell of an investment for not such a great return. And don't forget, he's a cripple.”
“Cripples don't kill people?”
“Sure they do. But they don't push them into rivers. They shoot them, maybe stab them.”
“OK, so we can agree he didn't kill all three himself.” Hugo spooned the steaming soup into his mouth, savoring the rich flavor and the warmth.
“Which means he's got people working for him,” said Tom. “We know that already, seems likely we met two at your place the other night.”