The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (22 page)

Hugo nodded and climbed behind the wheel of his own car. He’d fought for months to get Tom to stop drinking, but it had taken a bullet from a serial killer to make him quit. As distraught as he was about Garcia’s death, Hugo couldn’t help but detect the specter of Tom’s nemesis and he hoped against hope that the bullet that almost killed Tom, but saved him from alcohol, wouldn’t be undone by the ones fired by their friend’s killer. Hugo had always been strong and capable, untouched in some ways, amid the violence and sorrow that was an inevitable shadow to his career. But Raul Garcia’s death had shaken him to his core and as he started his car and looked at Tom in his rearview mirror, Hugo wondered, truly wondered, how he himself might cope if today’s horror sent his best friend ricocheting back to the bottle.

Hugo woke in a panic, a dream-weight that had been pressing down on his chest taking moments of wakefulness to evaporate. As his head cleared, the relief that came with a disappearing nightmare was replaced by the memory of the previous day’s tragedy. He rolled out of bed and padded in to the kitchen, where Tom was sitting at the breakfast bar, his hand curled around a mug of coffee and the morning’s newspaper in front of him.

“You’ve been out already?” Hugo asked.

“Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk and picked up the paper. Made coffee, too, but it tastes like shit.”

“I’ll take some anyway.” Hugo went into the kitchen and poured a cup, stirring in a spoonful of brown sugar. “They write much about it?”

“Front page. Light on the details, as you’d imagine.” Tom sipped his coffee. “What kind of a moron do you have to be to kill a cop?”

“A desperate one,” Hugo said. He walked to a nearby armchair and sank down. “I’ve been thinking about that, because every criminal in the world knows you don’t kill a policeman. Ever. For one thing there’s always one more to fill his shoes but, more importantly if you’re the criminal, you bring every kind of heat imaginable to the case.”

“Like you said, she must have been desperate.”

“Yeah. Or not a criminal.”

Tom glanced over. “I’m not following.”

“That’s OK, I’m not making sense. No word from any of your people?”

“Nothing to get the juices flowing. They have a couple of addresses for her that the cops have already visited. No sign. She may have left the country, of course, but that takes time to verify, even assuming she did it through somewhere that has border control.” He put his hand on the newspaper, almost a caress. “No word about a funeral, either.”

“He was Catholic,” Hugo said. “Shit, Tom, this . . .”

“Yeah, it does. And not being able to do anything about it also sucks.”

Hugo drained his coffee and dropped his cup in the kitchen sink before heading to his room to dress. “I’m going for a walk. Join me?”

Tom looked up. “I may not be a drunk any more, but let’s not go crazy here.”

“You used to run ten miles without breaking a sweat.”

“Sweaty crotch, actually, but I managed to hide it pretty well.”

“Thank heavens for that.”

“Damn right. Actually, I have plans later that involve walking and I don’t want to wear my delicate self out.”

Hugo cocked his head. “Plans?”

“Yep. A date of sorts. I would describe it, if we’re being technical, as none of your business.”

“OK. Be mysterious, see if I care.” But Hugo couldn’t help but wonder, and if memory served this was the third week in a row Tom had gone out on a weekend evening. He’d been back by eleven o’clock each time, and stone cold sober as best Hugo could tell, but until now Tom hadn’t made any mention of going out, he’d just put on his coat and left. At first Hugo had wondered if maybe he was attending some kind of meeting related to his drinking, but Tom didn’t believe in twelve-step programs, and since he’d been gone about six hours each time an AA meeting didn’t fit anyway.

Hugo dressed, opening his bedroom window to check the air temperature, and decided that he’d do what he’d done the previous two weeks, and as Tom had suggested: mind his own business.

Hugo and Tom talked some more before Hugo went out. They both wanted to make sure there was nothing to be done, no angle they’d missed. They talked, too, about Senator Lake and together called the ambassador to make sure he knew the latest and to get an update on the senator.

“That’s all on hold,” Ambassador Taylor said. “I’ve not told him about the Russian woman being involved but he’s no dummy, he knows something is up.”

“He’s not heading back to the States?” Hugo asked.

“Wishful thinking? No, but he’s taken to walking every morning and afternoon, says he’s enjoying Paris now. I don’t know, maybe he is, but he’s sure as hell antsy. I’m not having to hold his hand, which is a relief, and he’s not wandered off again, which I’m also grateful for.”

Hugo detected a note in the ambassador’s voice, a thought unsaid. “Spit it out, boss, what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. It crossed my mind that he’s got himself a girlfriend. I know we talked about that before, but he’s got to be going somewhere. His security detail aren’t saying anything.”

Tom chuckled. “Off with their own pieces of tail, if I know the Secret Service.”

“Yeah, well, maybe they’re being discreet but I’m pretty sure they’d have said something if he was tasting the local delights, so to speak. Ah well, like I say, everything’s on hold and he’s not bugging me too badly so I’m fine with it.” He paused. “And I’m so sorry about Capitaine Garcia, I know you guys had gotten to know him well, and I know how much you appreciated him as a colleague and a friend. Let me know when the funeral is, I want to be there.”

When they rang off, Tom went and stood by the window, looking out over Rue Jacob, silent. Anxious to be moving, Hugo let himself out of the apartment and made his way down the stairs and out into the street.

He comforted himself with the familiar, narrow streets of the sixth and seventh arrondissements, wandering aimlessly in the direction of the river that split Paris into north and south, left and right. He’d come to know this part of the city intimately, with its myriad art galleries, furniture shops, and clothing boutiques, most the size of his bedroom and selling quality not quantity, their owners knowledgeable and in business to sell the items they loved, not just to make a buck. Sometimes he’d turn a corner and find a store had disappeared, been emptied of merchandise and filled with something totally different, wedding dresses to watercolors, as if a coup had taken place overnight. He’d feel a touch of sadness because familiarity can itself be comfort, but, as much as he walked, he soon got to know the new shapes and colors on display.

He angled his walk to stay away from the wind, which billowed down the narrower streets and wrapped itself around him, alternately holding him back and pushing him onwards. At one point he sought refuge in a café just off Rue de Grenelle and when he looked at his watch it was two in the afternoon. He ate a slow lunch, an omelet and a basket of bread, and tried not to think about Raul Garcia.

One mental distraction was Tom, the little brother in his life who seemed to have finally turned things around. A master at deception, Tom was hopeless when it came to lying to Hugo—most of the time he didn’t bother. Which meant that if Tom was drinking again, Hugo felt confident he’d know. Confident but not positive, and so these weekly outings, which Tom was being evasive about, were a concern. The normal things people hide from their friends, hookers for example, were not things Tom felt the need to keep to himself. Quite the opposite. On at least one occasion Hugo had found a beautiful and half-naked courtesan wandering around his apartment and, with Claudia’s help, he’d even paid the bill.

Claudia. He looked at his phone and thought about her. He’d called yesterday to break the news about Raul and she’d taken it hard. They’d had a connection, those two. Raul, the wise and dapper man who’d been married for decades, had an unashamed and utterly harmless crush on the beautiful Claudia. For her part, she’d reveled in making the Frenchman feel special, a fondness that was as genuine as Raul’s affection for her.

Hugo had stayed on the phone as she tried not to cry, stayed on longer when she couldn’t hold it back, and talked to her for almost an hour as she regained her composure. He’d wanted to be with her last night, a longing he’d not experienced in years, a desire far more powerful than merely physical. But she’d declined, keeping that distance between them she’d put in place over the previous months. Hugo hadn’t pushed, partly out of pride but mostly because he’d never been one to chase, a belief that if someone was running away or just needed space then coercing them back with pleas and entreaties was shallow and manipulative, and would ultimately ruin any chance for a relationship. They’d both been sad when the call ended, to be left alone with their thoughts of Raul, but Hugo missed her voice for other reasons, too.

He left the café at three, making his way slowly back to the apartment, stopping to arrange for flowers to be sent to Garcia’s wife. Hugo smiled at a memory, one only an FBI agent could dredge up and grace with a smile. They’d been in the village of Castet under the gun of a madman. Hugo had begged for Garcia’s life and in the process invented two children. Raul and his wife didn’t have any—Hugo didn’t know if it was by choice or circumstance—but at that moment, in that remote village, just seconds away from almost certain death, Hugo had made his friend smile. No more than a twitch of his mouth and a brighter glint in his eye, but Garcia had found it funny and for a moment Hugo wondered if he’d told his wife about it. He wished Raul had so Hugo could sign the card to her and their children, maybe provoke another smile at a time when one was so desperately needed.

It was four o’clock when Hugo turned onto his street, Rue Jacob, and saw the police car sitting in front of his apartment building.

Lieutenant Camille Lerens climbed out of the passenger seat and shook his hand. He noticed her cornrows now, delicate black trails across her scalp, and his mind took what he knew about her and gauged her handshake, the size of her hand even. It registered nothing out of the ordinary.

“Everything all right?” Hugo asked. He didn’t like her being there, an instinctual reaction from someone who knew that cops never showed up with good news.

“Yes. I need to talk to you.”

“You want to come upstairs?”

“
Non
, we don’t have time. This investigation . . .” She looked tired, her skin looked gray, and her eyes were bloodshot. Hugo guessed she’d not slept much last night, if at all.

“I understand.”

“Your role in it is what I wanted to discuss.”

Here it comes
, Hugo thought. He’d walked away from the murder scene when she told him to stay, and he’d almost certainly pissed her off by interrogating the Caprons before she did.

“Look, Lieutenant,” he began, “I know what you’re going to say but I’m going to have to disappoint you. The fact is, I know more about this case than anyone and if you want it solved you’re not helping anyone by bumping me aside.” He held up a hand to silence her. “Excuse me, but I’m not done. Maybe ditching me would be by-the-book and maybe your bosses are telling you that I’m a witness as well as an investigator, I get that. But even if all that’s true, and even if this case has pretty feeble links to the senator, it still has links and I intend to do whatever I can to connect them and find out who killed my friend. And I don’t mean to come across like a cocky American jackass, but you’d do well to consider the benefits of having a former FBI agent and a former CIA agent on your team.”