The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (19 page)

“Necklace?” Bruno looked back and forth between them. “What necklace?”

“Be quiet, boy,” Capron snapped, but the real message was in his eyes, or maybe in the tilt of his head, a message that Bruno picked up a split second before Hugo, a fraction of a moment that gave him a head start to the back door. Bruno took off like he’d been scalded, putting six feet between him and Hugo and getting lucky when his hip thumped a display table, shifting into Hugo’s path and tipping half its contents onto the floor in front of him.

Hugo launched himself after Bruno and managed to turn sideways, avoiding the table that half blocked his way and hurdling the old school bell and the photo frames now littering the floor. He hit a patch of clear floor as he bore down on his quarry, but then Bruno side-stepped right, taking him around his father to the office, swinging himself through the doorway. When Hugo tried the same maneuver Capron kicked out, catching Hugo’s left shin and sending them both crashing to the floor. The old man wailed like he’d been slashed with a knife, a disconcerting noise that combined with Capron’s scissoring legs to hold Hugo back long enough for Bruno to disappear from view. The back door slammed and in desperation Hugo bucked to free himself of Capron, jabbing him in the chest with an elbow. He scrabbled to his feet, clear of the old man, who yelled obscenities at the top of his voice as he squirmed on the floor, but when Hugo finally made it out into the side street Bruno Capron was gone.

Hugo swore. They’d catch up to Bruno if they needed to, sooner or later, but Hugo’s pride had taken a blow and no doubt both Garcia and Tom would have a thing or two to say about this. Although Garcia, at least, would try to be polite.

Hugo headed back into the store, checking his watch. Garcia had been gone for thirty minutes, and was hopefully on his way back. André Capron was lying on his side on the floor and Hugo stood over him, debating leaving him there for the duration. But it wouldn’t look good, he knew, when Garcia and his men showed up to find old Capron writhing around amid his precious antiques, no doubt complaining about police brutality. That was a mess of paperwork Hugo could do without, so he hauled the man to his feet and picked up the chair. He plonked Capron back down onto the hard wooden seat, resisting the urge to wipe the smirk off his face.

“We’ll get him, don’t you worry about that. But you taught him well, scurrying off like a rat leaving a sinking ship.”

“
Nique ta mere
,” Capron muttered.
Fuck your mother
. He opened his mouth to say something else but obviously thought better of it. As he looked away from Hugo, defeated, the phone behind the counter startled them both, a shrill and insistent ring. Hugo let it go to voicemail but a minute later it rang again, then a third time. Hugo’s own curiosity and a worried look in Capron’s eye changed his mind. He reached over and pressed the speakerphone button.

“
‘Allo
?” Hugo said, his eyes on Capron whose Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed. Silence filled the store as the person on the other end said nothing.

Then a voice said, “I’d like to speak to Hugo Marston,
s’il vous plaît
.”

It could have been a man or woman, there was no way to tell. Whoever it was had used some sort of voice-changing device, handheld or, more likely, one of the half-dozen software programs that let you talk through a computer to disguise your voice.

“Who is this?” Hugo asked.

“If you want any information, you’ll let me ask the questions.”

The caller spoke in English, any accent obliterated, and that attempt to assert power over Hugo put a malicious smile on Capron’s face. Hugo picked up the phone, which wiped the smirk away.

“I’m not good at that,” Hugo said, “so I’ll ask you again: Who is this?”

“Tell me something, monsieur, why are you there?”

“If you know I’m here, I suspect you know the answer to that.”

A brief silence. “You are alone?”

“I’m with Monsieur Capron, but otherwise, yes.”

“Capron?” The metallic sound of the voice couldn’t disguise a note of concern.

“André Capron, yes.”

“Ah, of course.”
Was that relief?
“No other police are with you, or know you are there?”

“Just me.” It was a lie, of course, but Hugo didn’t need this person hanging up on him and if whoever it was wanted Hugo to be by himself, so be it.

“I see. Good.”

“Who are you and why are you calling?” Hugo asked again.

“To help you. You want to know where the necklace came from, am I right?”

“I know exactly where it came from. What I want to know is who took it from the house. From a murder scene. You want to help me with that?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I will tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, not like this. I can’t reveal my identity and I don’t plan on being arrested, so I need a promise from you.”

“What kind of promise?”

“If we meet, you will promise to hear me out before trying to arrest me and before getting anyone else involved.”

“You want to meet me?” Hugo didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“Yes. Once I explain how the Caprons came into possession of the necklace I think you will have another avenue to chase down and you’ll be happy to let me go. I want to help you, Monsieur Marston, is what I’m saying, but I cannot place myself into this investigation.”

“Then why not just tell me now, over the phone?”

“My understanding of the law is limited, but I believe that the police may not base a search warrant or other intrusion on the basis of an uncorroborated and anonymous tip. Do I have that right?”

The truth was that Hugo didn’t know. In Texas, yes, the caller would be absolutely right. But here? “Possibly, but if we meet and you want to stay anonymous, how does that change anything?”

“Because I have something to give you, something tangible that will help. I believe I’m right, and I’d think that would be especially true if that information went to the police from an anonymous source and through you, an American.”

“Fine,” he said. “But can we hurry this up?”

“I want that promise from you, that you’ll hear me out before you do anything.”

“Sure. I can promise that.”

“I also want you to promise that you will come alone and not tell anyone. No one at all.”

“Seems like that wouldn’t be too smart on my part. Cops do that in books and movies, real police don’t do that. It’s stupid and dangerous.”

“Not for a man who carries a gun.”

“Not possible. This isn’t my investigation, and I don’t get to charge off by myself making secret meetings to get evidence. Or leads. Whatever the hell you say you’re offering.”

“That’s a shame. I really want to help, but your promise to listen before acting doesn’t mean much if ten policemen are waiting with their guns drawn and handcuffs at the ready. I need to believe that once you get this information, if you are satisfied with it, that I will be free to go.” Another pause. “I also have a certain reputation to uphold, and the fewer people who know that I’ve come across details of a crime, the better. These are things you will understand when we talk.”

“I already told you, I can’t—”

“Enough.” The ephemeral voice cut him off. “You have no choice. I will give you an address and you will meet me there in thirty minutes. If you are not there I will wait for five more, then your lead disappears. And if I see anyone else but you, I will disappear even quicker.”

Hugo grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled the address down. “How will I recognize you?” he asked.

“That’s easy, just find the pavilion and I will be right there,” the caller said. “Not to mention, of course, we had dinner just a few days ago.”

Hugo had meant what he said, real cops didn’t do this sort of thing alone and he’d been so intent on catching every word from the caller that he’d forgotten about Capron. If nothing else, Garcia would have to send someone to babysit him until the warrant arrived.

“You are leaving?” Capron asked, hope shining in his eyes.

“Yep. But not planning to take the cuffs off, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You have to, you can’t just leave me like this.”

“I know.” Hugo smiled and pulled Capron to his feet. He paused when he realized he didn’t have Garcia’s key for the cuffs, but he could spare his own for an hour or two. He dragged the grumbling Frenchman to a back corner where he’d seen an Aga for sale, an old coal-burning stove with two hot plates on top and a sturdy metal rail for hanging tea towels, or even clothes, for drying. “Don’t make this stuff like they used to,” Hugo said. “Solid, dependable.”

“
Non
, monsieur, just let me be, this isn’t right.”

“Right? It’s perfect.” Hugo hooked one cuff to the chain connecting Capron’s wrists and secured the other cuff to the Aga’s rail. “You can stand, sit, hell if you can find some coal you can make a cup of tea while you wait.” He patted Capron’s cheek. “See? Cooperation is always much more convenient for everyone. Think about that for next time.”

Hugo turned and walked out of the store, ignoring Capron’s outraged protestations. Outside, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. “Raul, where are you?”

“Sorry, my first choice of judge wasn’t available. I should be there in twenty minutes.”

“Change of plan.” Hugo was striding and knew his breathing must sound ragged.

“Everything OK?”

“Yes. The phone rang while I was waiting, someone claiming to have information about the necklace.”

“
Vraiment?
Who?”

“Someone I know, apparently. He used a voice-changer, I couldn’t tell.”

“Or she, then.”

“Right. Anyway, he or she wants to meet me to hand over some evidence in person.”

“I’ll meet you there, give me the address.”

“That might be a problem. Whoever it was insisted I come alone. Thinks I’m the only one who knows about Capron, is my guess, and wants to stay out of the investigation.”

“Alone isn’t good, Hugo. Alone is never good. Or smart.”

“I know.” Hugo grinned. “I wasn’t planning on it. But just you, OK? If a horde of uniforms show up we may well lose this lead, and unless you can shake something loose from Capron, I think I’m right in saying this about our only one right now.”

“Very true. I’ll have another detective serve and execute the warrant, she knows a little about the case.”

“OK.” Hugo hesitated. “She’s good? The Caprons are old school, she needs to be prepared for that.”

Garcia’s chuckle came through loud and clear. “She’s tough, all right. Came up from Bordeaux about a year ago after shutting down their gang problem almost single-handedly. One or two stragglers came after her,
mon ami
, at her home while she was planting roses. The word in the office is that she disarmed and beat them both with a pair of shears and a rake.” He lowered his voice and Hugo could detect both humor and truth in his next words. “Even I am a little intimidated by her.”

“You,
mon ami
?”

“Yes. She’s not just physically tough. I don’t know how to put this, except to say her journey from patrol officer to detective has been far from easy.”

“It’s easy for anyone?”

“
Non
. But Lieutenant Camille Lerens began her career with the Bordeaux police as Officer Christophe Lerens.”

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me. Christophe became Camille, and the street cop became a damn good investigator. Just imagine what she had to put up with on the way up.”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say about that.” Hugo knew little about transgender issues, just what he’d read in the news or seen on television. He knew a great deal, however, about the male-centric nature, often misogynistic, attitudes that lived deep inside law enforcement agencies, especially in days gone by. And that meant he could well imagine the veiled hostility and likely outright prejudice a man would encounter during his transition to womanhood. That Lerens had not only made that transition but been promoted to lieutenant may have spoken to the open-mindedness of her superiors, but unquestionably reinforced Garcia’s opinion of her as a tough and capable police officer.

“You know what, Raul, she sounds perfect,” Hugo said, rounding the corner onto on Rue Samson. “And tell her to bring those shears along. If she waves them around just right, she might get those boys to spill everything.”