As before, the ambassador listened silently while Hugo talked. He again omitted reference to Tom, as much for the ambassador's sake as for his or his friend's. When he'd finished, Ambassador Taylor walked to the cart bearing drinks.
“Hell of a day for you. What would you like?”
“Actually, I'm fine,” Hugo said.
“You know, most police forces put their men on paid administrative leave and send them to a shrink when they've shot someone.” He poured himself a brandy. “I know what you're going to say, Hugo, but if you need time off for any reason, if you feel like it'd help to talk to someone about this, just say the word.”
“Thank you, ambassador, but I'm fine.”
“I'm sure you are. So we leave this to the French now, yes?” Hugo nodded. “I'll talk to some of the people at the prefecture, make sure they are happy, and let them know to take all the credit.”
Hugo smiled. “Ever the diplomat, ambassador.”
“We do what we can.” Ambassador Taylor chuckled. “You shoot 'em, I make them happy about it. Quite a team.” He looked at Hugo for a moment. “So tell me to mind my own business if you want, but I'm curious about something.”
“Fire away.”
“You told me before about a little windfall from the Rimbaud book. What are you planning to do with the money? I ask because I'm hoping you won't say ‘retire.’”
“Oh no, despite the trials of today I like being busy.” Hugo looked past his boss. The issue of the money had nagged at him, and for no particular reason, he now knew what he was going to do. “There are a couple of funerals I want to help pay for, if I'm allowed. And with the rest, well, I think maybe I'll buy myself a little apartment and some books to fill it with.”
“You have one in mind, I assume?”
“Of course. It's on Rue Condorcet.” Hugo smiled, mostly to himself. “I may even get a cat.”
He stopped by his office before heading out into the cold and eyed a stack of mail waiting for his attention. He knew that Emma would get to it and that he could call tomorrow or the next day to see if anything important had come in. Urgent stuff came by e-mail or phone, so this pile could wait.
He sat down at his desk, rereading the instructions from Garcia's lieutenant for checking cell phone records. There was just one thing he wanted to confirm, an event he needed to be sure had happened. And after he'd clicked through the right steps, when he'd checked every possible data entry and realized that he was wrong, he sat there in silence, utterly bemused. He picked up his phone, hesitant to bother an injured man. But then he called Garcia anyway.
“Much better, merci,” the capitaine said. “I'll be out tomorrow. Then they'll probably make me go back to work.”
“Good, they need you. I have a quick question about the Roussillon shooting. I wanted to ask about the surveillance footage, whether you'd had a chance to view it.”
There was silence for a second, then Garcia's voice was serious. “Oui, that system is hooked into a law enforcement program, some high-tech stuff I don't understand. Anyway, normally we can play those tapes back almost immediately.”
“Normally?”
“Oui. Funny thing, there was nothing on his.”
“Nothing on them? What do you mean?”
“The system had been switched off.”
As Hugo stood to leave, his eye fell on a yellow envelope in the middle of his stack of mail. It was a padded envelope that contained something thick and square, the dimensions of a video cassette.
Or, Hugo thought, a book.
He shoved away the mail that sat on top of it and peered at the writing on the envelope. No return address, just his name and the address of the embassy. I know where to find you, Max had said.
Hugo's heart pounded as he ripped open the envelope. He knew all mail was screened before ever reaching his desk, so he didn't bother being gentle — it wasn't going to explode or poison him.
In any case, he already knew what was inside.
The walk home seemed long and cold, the evening breeze blowing up off the Seine, tugging at him as it tried to find a way through his coat. But it was cleansing, too, like a cold shower, blasting away the events of the day. It was rare for Hugo to leave a case unfinished, but he reassured himself that there was nothing more for him to do, that Gravois was the guilty man, and that if he were to be caught the police would do it. He now knew who'd killed Max and the other sellers, and he knew why.
The only remaining question was about Roussillon's death, and those pieces were falling into place, though the picture wasn't ideal.
On the plus side, though, he had two friends, one very pretty, waiting for him at home.
At the end of the Tuileries, he turned right and crossed the river on Pont Royal. He paused at the end of the bridge, eager to get away from the cold but curious to see Max's stall. It was past six o'clock, so he didn't expect anyone to be there, but somehow he wanted to go by and let his old friend know that justice was being done, that the man responsible would soon be caught or, at least, would likely never return to Paris.
Ten minutes later Hugo was within sight of the stall, the four metal boxes visible in a patch of light falling from a nearby streetlamp. He paused for a moment, then squinted, sure he'd seen movement. He had. Someone was there. He moved closer, and the man walked into the light.
Hugo didn't recognize him, his body shrouded by the long, dark coat that swept the ground every time the man stooped, his head covered for warmth. The man bent over a box, packing up, and Hugo stared. Had Gravois sent someone to close Chabot's stall, fearing an open one might look suspicious? But why would he care anymore? More likely, Hugo thought, a fellow bouquiniste had taken pity on Chabot, not wanting to leave the stall open all night. Come morning, there would have been nothing left.
As Hugo approached, the man bent over a box, trying to fill it with the stack of books in his hands. He lost his balance, just for a second, but long enough for the books to spill to the sidewalk. As the man grabbed at them his hat slipped from his head, revealing a shock of brown hair. He straightened and kicked the box in frustration, then started picking the books up. When he stood, the yellow light from a nearby lamp washed over the man's flat, comic-book face.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty yards away, Hugo's world closed in around him. The cold disappeared, the traffic blurred, and the only place in the whole of Paris with any light was the patch of sidewalk containing a thug who carried an ice pick and a silver pistol.
“Nica,” Hugo whispered. He felt a rush of anger toward the man who'd all but committed murder in front of him, the man who'd rendered him impotent and who would have happily killed him, too. He started forward and then stopped. Ambassador Taylor's admonition rang in his head. “Leave it to the French,” he'd said.
Hugo turned his back on the man as he dialed the emergency number for the police. He spoke quickly and quietly, giving the dispatcher enough information to propel her into high gear. He put the phone away, then crept forward.
As he got within twenty yards, a boat's horn sounded from the river, a long, low moan that was repeated twice more. Nica stopped what he was doing and looked over the low parapet toward the sound. Hugo did the same. A barge had changed course, plowing its way from the center of the river toward the bank, its wake a silver curve in the black water below. Nica looked away from the boat and started to work faster, and Hugo saw that he was loading something along with the books, plastic-wrapped bricks that had to be drugs.
Hugo clenched his teeth. This was Nica's escape route, the river. The same way his boss had planned to bring the drugs in to his bouquinistes. The damn river. Hugo shook his head in disgust. On their anonymous barge, Gravois, Nica, and whoever else remained could glide into central France among the industrial barges and pleasure boats and then go wherever the hell they liked. Hugo guessed that the books Nica was loading were expensive first editions, a currency as valuable as, and easier to trade than, the bricks of dope. All of them had been stashed at Chabot's stall, held in trust for just such an eventuality.