The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (21 page)

Hugo slipped away while Lieutenant Lerens wasn’t watching. Sooner or later, maybe already, she’d have her men at Capron’s store and that’d be the end of Hugo’s investigation. The murder of a police officer, pretty much anywhere in the world, meant a deep, painstaking, and meticulous investigation, one that would shake every corner of Paris until the killer was caught. But meticulous was not fast, and Hugo had no plans to wait for the scrupulous machinery of the Paris police to warm up and start shredding the city for clues.

Hugo backed his vehicle carefully through the rows of police cars that had stacked up, a show of solidarity that Hugo had seen at each of the five officer shootings he’d been unlucky enough to attend, in the United States, England, and now here in France.

As he finished a three-point turn on Rue Gazan, his phone rang and he looked at the display with irritation, ready to ignore Lerens’s order to return to the crime scene. But when he saw who it was, he pulled to the curb and answered.

“Tom, did you hear?”

His friend’s voice was tight, desperation and hope clutching at his throat. “Tell me it’s not true, fucking tell me that it’s not true, Hugo.”

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m really sorry, but it is, it’s true.”

“Bullshit. Fucking bullshit until you see him. I mean it, Hugo, I’m not believing this until you tell me you’ve see him.”

“I did, Tom. I saw him. No mistakes, no miscommunication. Raul’s dead.”

Tom’s breathing was ragged. “Do you know who did this?”

“No. But I’m going to find out, you better believe that.”

“I’m already on my way, you’re on scene?”

“I’m leaving, got somewhere to go right now.”

A flash of a pause as Tom’s mind worked. “You have a lead?”

“Kind of, yeah. I’m going to turn it into one, anyway.”

“I’m close, tell me where and I’ll meet you.”

Despite it all, Hugo smiled. He needed Tom right now, and he knew Tom needed him. They’d pretend it was about the lead—and they did truly work well together—but right now it was more than that. It was the way family and friends gravitate to each other for comfort in the wake of a tragedy, and while both men had seen more blood spilled, more grief and agony, than most, it was rare for death to envelop one of their own, someone so close and dear to both of them.

Hugo gave Tom the address, then hung up and pulled away from the curb with a wheel-spin that turned the heads of several officers drifting around the perimeter of the scene. He drove fast, every car in front an infuriating impediment. The stop light on Avenue Reille was an enemy that he triumphed over with the police lights on his unmarked car and a hand on the horn. He didn’t bother with a surreptitious approach to the jewelry store. Old man Capron would either be there or not, the cops would either have swarmed the place or not, and he thumped the steering wheel with relief when he saw the place was still dark, the
Closed
sign still in place, and no police in sight.

He marched through the door and saw Bruno Capron standing over his father, a hacksaw driving back and forth over the handcuffs. Both men looked up, shocked when they saw Hugo standing there with a gun pointed at their faces.

“No more fucking games,” Hugo said. “This just got serious.”

Bruno’s eyes darted toward the office, his former escape route.

“You run, you die,” Hugo snapped. “The last time you scurried out of here a policeman was shot and killed, which means that every cop in this city will kiss me and buy me drinks for shooting you in the back the moment you take one step toward that door.”

“You wouldn’t . . .” Bruno Capron started, but his voice tailed off because it was evident he believed Hugo would.

“Get on your knees,” Hugo said. “Now.” Bruno complied, kneeling beside his father, the hacksaw forgotten in his hand. Hugo walked up to him and snatched it away. He held the gun to old man Capron’s head and looked into Bruno’s wide eyes. “Now you’re going to tell me what I want to know, because if you don’t your dear papa is going to be very upset with you.”

The two men looked at each other, but André remained defiant. “I don’t believe you would.”

Anger boiled inside Hugo, that this worthless thief would fight to keep hidden the one link to Garcia’s killer, to the killer of Collette Bassin. He bent down and put his face inches from the old man, and tore into him. “Listen to me, you two-bit piece of crap. That cop who was here with me? He’s dead. Murdered. Some
putain
put a gun to the back of his head and blew his brains out and if you think for one fucking minute I’m leaving here without the name of the person who sold you that necklace, you are very, very wrong.”

Capron recoiled but Hugo saw the fear in his eyes, fear that served only to heighten Hugo’s anger and his resolve to get answers from one or both of these men.

“I told you, I don’t—”

Hugo cut him off with a hand on his throat. “If either one of you tells me you don’t fucking know,” Hugo hissed, “I swear to God you’ll regret it.”

A sound at the door made Hugo turn, his hand still clutching the thin neck of the gasping Capron.

“What are you doing, man?” Tom asked in English. The words were casual but his tone was like steel and he walked toward them, his eyes taking in everything.

“These assholes bought a necklace from someone. Someone who killed Collette Bassin and then killed Raul.”

“OK then.” Tom nodded and switched to French. “But we don’t do it this way, Hugo. Take your hands off him.”

“What?” Hugo hadn’t expected that. “Tom, we don’t have much time.”

“I’m well aware of that. Please let him go.”

Hugo did, his eyes on his friend who had changed somehow. The funny, irreverent Tom was detached, formal to the point of being almost robotic. The only sign of emotion was a faint and infrequent twitch in his jaw.

Tom looked at Hugo. “Which of these gentlemen bought the necklace? Both?”

Hugo waved his gun at Bruno. “The old man says he did.”

“
Bien
.” Tom looked at Bruno and his voice was soft when he spoke. “I will ask you once and you will tell me the answer. But you need to understand that I don’t work for the police, I work for an agency of the American government that lets me kill people that I don’t like. And because you are together, if I kill you I will then have to kill your father. After that, your bodies will disappear and no one will ever see any sign of you ever again. Do you understand what I just said?”

Bruno nodded, a small whimper escaping his lips. Hugo felt the fear and confusion shimmering from the young man and his father, and when he looked down he saw that they were holding hands.

“Good,” Tom continued in French, his voice almost a whisper. “When I’ve asked my question, you will answer it fully. If you don’t, my friend here will need ten or fifteen seconds to leave the building.” He smiled, a wicked and lascivious smile that made even Hugo shiver. “Now. Give me the name of the person who sold you the necklace.”

Bruno Capron’s throat let out a gurgle as he tried to speak, maybe to plead, but Tom just straightened and pulled a gun from his shoulder holster. He reached over to Hugo with his other hand, never taking his eyes from Bruno, his fingers finding their way to his friend’s shoulder and squeezing softly. “Time’s up. Hugo, can you leave please?”

“
Non, non
, I’ll tell you.” Bruno’s hands were now tented in prayer and the words spilled out. “I don’t know a name, I promise, I would tell you. I didn’t know the necklace was stolen, not . . . not . . . from someone who was murdered, no way I would have bought it then. I’m not, I wouldn’t . . .” His words petered out and turned to tears, a large and soft man on his knees begging for his life.

“I didn’t hear a name. What is his name?” Tom insisted.

Bruno looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes. “His name?
Non
. It was a woman.”

Tom and Hugo exchanged glances. “Describe her,” Hugo said.

“A woman,” Bruno whined. “I don’t know, not someone I know and nothing special about her.”

“My friend said to describe her,” Tom said, menace in his voice. “Please do so.”

“She was . . . average. Average height and build, her hair . . . just normal.” Relief flashed in his eyes as he remembered something. “Pink. She had a streak of pink in her hair.”

“Pink?” Tom looked at Hugo. “Mean anything?”

Hugo nodded. “Natalia Khlapina. Alexandra Tourville’s assistant.” Hugo looked at Bruno. “She have an accent?”

“Foreign. Not heavy but definitely foreign. Maybe from Hungary or Russia or somewhere east.”

“Russian,” Hugo said. “She’s Russian.”

Tom reached down and patted Bruno on the head. “Good boy. The police will be here and you can tell them the same thing.” He tucked his gun away and nodded to Hugo. “Let’s go find our little Russkie.”

“Wait, what about me?” André Capron rattled the cuffs that connected him to the immovable oven. “What about these?”

Hugo unlocked his cuffs and stowed them in a pouch on his belt. Capron held up his wrists, still shackled. “And these?”

Hugo was already moving toward the door, so Tom looked at the cuffs and shrugged. “French, I believe. Shame I don’t have a key, but you can ask the cops to let you out. I’m sure if you’re nice and helpful they will.” He started to follow Hugo but turned back. “One more thing,
mes amis
.” His voice was hard, and he slowly opened his jacket to remind them what he was carrying. “We weren’t here and you didn’t tell us anything. Understand?”

Hugo could tell that father and son were so desperate to end their ordeal and get rid of the Americans, especially the ice-cold Tom, that they would have agreed to anything. Heads nodded ferociously. “
Oui, d’accord
,” they said in unison.

Outside, they paused to regroup. A wind had picked up, the same one that had brought the rain clouds to Paris an hour ago. The debris that dotted the city streets, even somewhere as well-tended as the Butteaux-Cailles, had started to shift and scuttle from the sidewalks to the street.

They stood by Hugo’s car and Tom spoke first. “You won’t usually hear this from me, but we need to proceed with a little care.”

“What do you mean?”

“We now have a definite link to the Tourville household. Make no mistake, Hugo, that guy is powerful and he’ll do all he can to obstruct an investigation into the woman who works for his sister. He’s always protected her, and this is no different.”

“Meaning we operate under the radar as much as possible.”

“Precisely.” He gave Hugo a tired smile. “And that’s where I come in.”

Hugo rested a hand on his friend’s arm. “You already came in, Tom. And I’m very glad. Raul would be, too.”

In truth, Hugo was relieved that Tom was willing to take the lead. Suddenly tired—of death and of chasing through the streets on this damn case—he welcomed a chance to share the burden with his best friend. It didn’t hurt that Tom was right, this really was what he did best. Several times in recent years Hugo had needed help or information and had no way, no legitimate way, to get it. Every time, he was able to turn to Tom for assistance and get what he needed through Tom’s murky and frighteningly effective CIA contacts.

“So my plan is just to locate her, and if she’s somewhere away from Chateau Tourville then you and I can pay her a visit.”

“That’s good.” Hugo shook his head. “But I want to bring in that police lieutenant, Lerens. Raul talked to me about her this morning, said she’s good.”

“Lerens? I heard she used to be a dude.”

“Yep. That a problem for you?”

“It’s a little weird, but as long as I don’t have to date her, I’m fine with it.”

“Charming.”

“Hugo, I really don’t give a crap. I just want to find the fucker who . . .” He took a breath, unable to say the words just yet. “Raul said she’s good?”

“He did. Very good.”

Tom shrugged. “Then I suppose she is, and if you want to bring her in that’s fine. I’ll find Khlapina and we can let Lerens know. Maybe she’ll bring us along for that chat.”

“Maybe.” But they both doubted it. A meticulousness and painstaking investigation didn’t usually allow for courtesies like that, but if they had to back out, so be it. Pride, a sense of ownership in the case, all of that could go by the wayside, sacrificed for the only goal that mattered: catching Raul Garcia’s killer.

“Jesus,” Hugo said. “I don’t even know what day it is.”

“Saturday.” Tom checked his watch. “OK, I’m making some calls, get the ball rolling. I’ll let you know when we find her and you can tell Lerens. Assuming those two chumps in there talk, then the frogs will be looking for her, too. We’ll have her today or tomorrow, is my bet.”

“Just because she sold the necklace, doesn’t mean she was the shooter,” Hugo said. “That fact and her connection to Tourville may buy her some time.”

“And distance. I need to get to work, she could be on her way out of France already.”

“Love those porous borders,” Hugo said with a grimace. “Chasing fugitives in Europe these days is like catching rats with a lasso.”

“Interpol.” Tom said. “They ain’t perfect, but they have a lot of lassos.”

“Then get to it.” Hugo watched as Tom walked to his car, pulling his phone from his pocket. He was talking by the time he slid behind the wheel and sat there, giving instructions and descriptions, his free hand gesturing like that of a conductor. Once he took a sip from a clear plastic bottle, catching Hugo’s eye through the windshield.
Water
, he mouthed.