“But they weren't there to kill.”
“Why were they there?”
“I'm not sure,” Hugo said slowly. He looked out at the water for a second. “But I assume they were looking for a book.”
“They don't have libraries in Paris?”
“Funny. But listen, I have an interesting story for you. I didn't get a chance to tell you yet.”
He started with Roussillon's past, his family history, and the collaboration. He recited the secret code from On War and enjoyed the surprised look on Tom's face. Then he told him about Roussillon's conversation with Max and his attempt to have Gravois buy the book. When he'd finished with every detail he could remember, Tom spoke.
“Roussillon called Gravois, didn't he? He called him and got upset, maybe threatened him. And Gravois put a bullet between his eyes for it.”
“Or one of his men.”
“Right. And of course, still, we have no proof.”
“We can check phone records, see if Roussillon made that call. But even if so, you may be right.”
“Another ghost killing.”
It was Tom's turn to stare out at the water. Hugo watched him, saw his eyes working left to right like a typewriter as his mind churned. “Hang on,” said Tom. “If those thugs were at your apartment for the reason you say, and Roussillon was telling the truth—”
“Then where is the book?”
“You already thought of that.” Tom shook his head then slurped his soup noisily.
“I did.”
“And you know the answer.”
“Actually no, I don't. I have no idea.”
“Jesus, we're going around in circles, Hugo. Although this soup is fucking awesome.” He put his spoon down. “Look, forget Gravois for a moment. Imagine he's our Barney.”
Hugo nodded. A “Barney” was the grim nickname Tom and Hugo had for a distraction, a red herring that could screw up an investigation. They'd worked a case together in LA, two girls stabbed to death in the bedroom of one of them. The killer had covered their heads with towels and left them face down on the bed. When police found them, a Barney toy was nestled between their heads. Hugo had been called in to give a profile, easy enough with the towels and the face-down positioning. But he could never figure out what the placement of Barney meant. The local cops suggested it was a decoy, but Hugo didn't think so. If the perpetrator wanted to avoid being profiled, Hugo told them, he simply would have left the bodies in different positions or not covered them up.
Eight months later, the man struck again. James L. Wright was a neighbor to the two girls who'd died in February of that year. In October, Wright broke into another neighbor's home and stabbed a little girl in her room, but didn't realize that her teenage brother was in the house. The boy ran for his father's gun, shot Wright, and saved his sister from bleeding to death. Wright survived and together Hugo and Tom got him to talk. One of their first questions was about the Barney toy. At first, Wright just stared back, a blank look on his face. But as Hugo took him step by step through the crime scene, Wright remembered. As he'd left the bedroom, the toy had been on the floor, in his way. He'd turned to kick it back into the room and by pure chance it had landed between the girls. It was a decoy, alright, but entirely unintentional. Since then, Hugo and Tom had been vigilant for such distractions.
“OK,” Hugo said, “I don't think Gravois is another Barney, but I'll pretend he is. What then?”
“Right, just leave him out for now. So then let's talk about the other important things. What about the Rimbaud?”
“Let's rule that out, too. No connection to anyone but Max, and it had left his hands by the time he died. And no reason to think Roussillon lied about his buying it being purely a personal matter.”
“OK.” Tom flipped another scrap of bread over the glass partition and more gulls joined the diving chorus. They'd passed the Grande Bibliotheque and were executing a slow U-turn, preparing to head west along the Right Bank, back past Notre Dame and toward the Eiffel Tower. “Which leaves us with what?”
“A missing copy of On War.”
“Right. What else?”
“Three dead bouquinistes.”
“One of whom was Max. But didn't you tell me he was willing to give up his stall?”
“That's what he said to me, yes. I believed him, too.”
Tom went back to his soup, his head low over his bowl as he spoke. “Which destroys our theory that Gravois killed him to get his stall. Maybe he killed him to get the book.”
“No,” Hugo said. “I don't think he has it.”
“Gravois? Why not?”
“Because if he did, he wouldn't kill the one man who'd pay a shit load of money for it. A man he could either sell it to, or a man he could blackmail.”
“Assuming Gravois is the killer again.”
“All roads lead in his direction, don't they?”
“No shit.” Tom ran a piece of bread around the inside of his bowl. “So what else?”
“The attack on me and Claudia and the raid on my apartment.”
“Maybe we should be looking for a link between Claudia and those bouquinistes.” Tom sat back. “Did you ask her about Durand?”
“Yes. She didn't like that I was snooping.”
Tom grinned. “You weren't.”
“Yeah, that helps. Anyway, she just pointed out that she's a police reporter and he's a cop.” Hugo shrugged. “She has a point. I know that she's currently covering a new antidrug task force, maybe he has something to do with that. And she's not writing about the bouquiniste murders, she's writing about drugs.”
“See, that's good information right there.” Tom scratched his head. “I'm just not sure what. Let's talk about a drugs connection.”
The men looked up and sat quietly as the waiter arrived with their risotto. “Wine, messieurs?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Hugo said quickly. Tom frowned.
“So drugs, eh? Nasty work sometimes. I did a spell in Colombia. Did I ever tell you about that?”
“No.”
“Ah well, I don't suppose it's the same as in Paris. What exactly was she writing about?”
“She told me that there used to be two organized crime groups who'd split the city and were sharing power.” Hugo told Tom about Paris's recent drugs history, about the way the police had changed tactics, targeting distribution points instead of the channels into Paris. He told him about Dobrescu and the North Africans, and about Claudia's suspicions that the African monopoly was now being challenged.
“Which is why,” Tom mused, “Garcia was afraid of a war after the restaurant shooting. But shootings in restaurants, killing cops. That's pretty drastic.”
“It is.” Hugo toyed with his fork for a moment. That was the one constant with criminals: they knew better than to shoot cops or take out innocent civilians. Not out of respect, of course, but because there was no surer way of raining hell on you and your accomplices than to spill the blood of a man with a badge or, God forbid, a small child. Those who ignored that rule were few and far between, and in their own minds such renegades always had very good reason to do so. “What if it's not just the police who are changing tactics? I don't mean the shootings, I mean the dead bouquinistes.”
“Explain,” Tom said, his mouth full.
“Think about it. They make for perfect drug distribution points. Cash and merchandise change hands every hour of every day. Anyone watching would see nothing more than a book or a plastic Eiffel Tower being passed. That's usually a giveaway for drug dealers, they always have loads of cash on them, and in small denominations. But so do bouquinistes, so it's perfect for not only collecting money but laundering it.”
“Fuck me, you're right.” Tom nodded, eyes alive with excitement. “Go on, don't fucking stop now.”