The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (26 page)

“You make me sound like a nagging wife.”

She laughed. “Sorry. But you know what I’m saying.”

Hugo heard a key in the door. “Well, talk of the devil, he’s home. Fingers crossed he’s sober.”

“It’s not even midnight. If he was drinking he’d be out later than this. Anyway, go check on him and call me tomorrow if you like.”

If I like
. “I will. Good night.”

He looked up as Tom swung the door open and staggered in, grabbing the counter for support, his head hanging down like he was going to throw up. When he spoke, his words were slurred, almost incomprehensible. “Hi honey, I’m home!”

A pit opened up in Hugo’s stomach. “Oh, Tom.”

“Wassamatter?” Tom hiccupped, then burped. “S’all good, man.”

“Shit, Tom, what have you done?” He rose and started toward his friend. “You going to throw up? I can get you a—”

Tom suddenly straightened and Hugo saw that his eyes were clear, almost as bright as the grin he was wearing. “Fuck me,” Tom laughed, “you’re making me feel bad, being all nice and shit even when you thought I’d fallen off the wagon.”

Hugo shook his head. “You complete and utter bastard. Jeez, Tom, you just about gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, amigo.” Tom cackled and started for his bedroom. “You deserved that for following me. And you should have seen the look on your face, you sweet, adorable man.”

“Fair enough. Just don’t do it again. And are you gonna tell me where you went?”

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

“No, I’m just concerned. Fine: concerned and curious.”

“Fucking nosy, more like it.” Tom stopped in his doorway. “And no, I’m not telling you. Not tonight, anyway.”

The morning came early for Hugo, but after a better night’s sleep than he’d had in a while. It was five o’clock and he considered trying to grab another hour, maybe two, but then remembered the morning’s task: searching Natalia Khlapina’s apartment from top to bottom, and a few words with her boss, Alexandra.

He reached over and checked his phone for messages. Lieutenant Lerens had emailed just after midnight, offering to pick him up at seven. She’d also given Khlapina’s address, which he mapped to see if he could walk. Up near Gare du Nord, so it’d take him an hour or so and give him a chance to eat on the way without hurrying. He checked the weather with a head out of his bedroom window; a soft breeze that would warm before long and a gray sky that would likely stay that way. He dressed in jeans, white shirt, and a jacket, before pulling on his old, slightly frayed Lucchese boots, the best of his three pairs for walking.

As he passed through the living room, he heard a grumble from Tom’s bedroom, the door open.

“You up already?” Tom called out.

“Yep. I’m walking up to Khlapina’s apartment. Want to join me?”

“Fuck off.” A pause. “All due respect, of course.”

“Of course. Lieutenant Lerens will be here at seven to pick you up, if you want to be there for the search.”

“Very kind. Ask her to bring coffee and food.”

“Ask her yourself. See you there.”

It was a straight shot, pretty much, but once he’d crossed the Pont des Arts he meandered down side streets whenever he could, taking the smaller ones that ran parallel to busier Rue du Louvre and Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, avoiding the fumes from the early morning cars and buses carrying their cargo to work. He bought coffee to go in Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau, rubbing elbows at the counter with the suited workers headed to the nearby mercantile exchange, several cab drivers, and a trio of surly bike messengers fueling up for the morning’s deliveries.

As he neared Gare du Nord, Hugo found himself in unfamiliar terrain. The streets and buildings seemed less alluring here, more functional somehow. There were fewer cafés spilling their tables into the streets, and the stores sold more than they displayed, telling Hugo that this was an area where the tourists rarely wandered, a place that working Parisians called home.

That changed, though, when he turned into Rue Cadet, a pedestrian street that reminded him of the quaint streets of the sixth and seventh. A
fromagerie
sat to his right, closed at this time of day but with a gentle orange light burning somewhere in the store, its glow a soft backlight for the wheels of waxed and heavy cheeses. A few steps on he passed a small brasserie with maybe ten tables, the kind of place where the owner would also cook and who, at opening time, would stand on the stoop with a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other, ready to put both behind his back to smile and welcome a new customer.

He moved to one side as a pretty girl on a bicycle approached, pulling a rolling carry-on bag behind her with one hand. She flashed Hugo a smile as she passed, putting an extra bounce in his step for a moment or two.

He chose a large, anonymous café outside the Gare du Nord for his breakfast. He wanted to disappear for thirty minutes, be one of the invisible many so he could think about the investigation and plan some of the questions he’d ask Alexandra Tourville. It wasn’t just about the questions, of course, it never was. More often than not it was a person’s reaction to his questions that was telling. He didn’t kid himself that he was any kind of human lie detector. He knew from dozens of interviews with sociopaths and psychopaths that a lie could slip as easily from some tongues as the truth. Not only that, but a truly good liar could manipulate his listener into either believing or not believing his story, throwing out so-called “tells” whenever he wanted to change the course of his interviewer’s belief.

Was Alexandra Tourville an accomplished liar? Hugo had no reason to believe she was any such thing, but he also knew better than to go into a situation like this offering someone the benefit of unquestioned credibility. Her checkered past made that task more difficult, of course, because he didn’t want to prejudge her based on ancient indiscretions, whether they were real lapses in judgment or merely dramas conjured up by the media.

He took a last sip of coffee and checked his watch. Time to go.

Lieutenant Lerens was waiting outside the building with Tom and half a dozen men in uniform who would make sure the search was kept secure and undisturbed. She looked better, rested, and Hugo hoped he did too. She wore a sense of purpose about her like a cape, her handshake brisk and firm, her instructions to the uniforms clear and precise. The soul of a policeman, she’d said, not a super model.

“We did a canvass of the place yesterday when we discovered the address,” Lerens said. “It’s a fairly empty building, but the people we spoke to, including some who work here, told us there’s been no unusual coming and going, no strangers or otherwise noticeable people wandering the hallways.”

“Good to know.”

They turned as Alexandra Tourville arrived in a taxi, watching as the ranks opened as if a red carpet had been laid out for her.

“May I take the keys?” Lerens asked, after the formalities.

Alexandra raised her eyebrows but handed them over without protest. The four of them entered the building, Lerens leading the way and Tom at the rear. Inside, the group paused to take a look, and Alexandra spoke up, as if sensing their surprise at the cavernous foyer.

“It used to be a hotel, very popular in the twenties. Closed thirty years later and has been used as offices, apartments, and pretty much everything you can think of. Five years ago, an elderly couple was running a drugs and prostitution business from the fourth floor.”

Hugo looked around him. The dingy reception area seemed to echo with her voice, though he could imagine grand parties being held here, the peeling gold paint and ornate wall sconces now darkened by time and use. Half a dozen fifties-style chairs and sofas littered the space, squared-off throwbacks in mustard and ketchup colors.

The elevator, at the back left corner of the foyer, was new. Clean round buttons that lit up when touched and a gentle slide upwards, barely noticeable.

“Who owns the place now?” Lerens asked. “You?”

“
Mon dieu, non.
” Alexandra Tourville said. “I actually find it annoying that people assume I’m wealthy. My brother is, of course, and he provides a modest stipend for me. That includes four of the apartments here, which are in my name but that I am not allowed to sell.”

“How did that happen?”

Alexandra sighed. “If you must know, my past life was marked by a consistent inability to spend money in a sensible way. A lot went to charity, just as much went to expensive parties, and some was stolen by people I trusted.” The elevator dinged softly, announcing their arrival on the fifth floor. Alexandra stepped out first, still talking. “I grew up later than most people, Lieutenant, partly because of a sheltered, no, make that
spoiled
, upbringing. And partly because I matured slower than I should have.”

They walked down a hallway to a door, number 505. Lerens unlocked it and nodded to Hugo. “All yours. Please, though, don’t—”

“Touch anything,” Hugo finished her sentence with a smile. “I’ve done this before, don’t worry.”

Tom followed directly behind as Hugo entered the tiny apartment. The front hall was two or three steps, no more, and to the immediate left was the windowless bedroom, like a little cave with room for a queen-sized bed against the right-hand wall, and a built-in closet to the left.

“Anything in particular we’re looking for?” Tom said quietly behind him. “Besides the obvious.”

By “obvious,” Tom was referring to the jewelry stolen from Collette Bassin. “Mostly that,” Hugo said. He turned and spoke in a whisper. “I’m also curious to see if the senator has been here. No reason to think he has, but . . .”

“Good idea.” Tom wrinkled his nose. “Smell that?”

“Perfume,” Hugo nodded. “Certainly not a man’s.”

“But very nice,” Tom said with a grin.

Hugo ignored him and went to the closet. He used his elbow to slide it open, crouching to look behind the rows of clothes hanging inside and giving a low whistle at what he saw inside. Tom crouched next to him.

“Someone had a shoe fetish,” Tom said, handing Hugo a pair of latex gloves. “Expensive ones, too.”

“And most of them barely worn.”

Hugo did a quick count, cutting himself off at thirty pairs of shoes, all colors and styles, from the daintiest red stilettos to knee-length boots draped with leather straps and silver buckles.

“How could you wear all these? You’d have to be a caterpillar.”

Hugo knew they were both wondering the same thing: not whether Natalia had worn these shoes, but how she’d paid for them.

“Wait a moment.” Hugo straightened up, his eyes still on the mass of shoes on the closet floor. “That’s odd.”

“What is? I mean, apart from the fact she has nine thousand pairs of shoes.”

“Yeah, but look at them. Closely.” It was a challenge, something they would do whenever they got the chance, whenever one of them noticed something first. Hugo won mostly, but even when he did Tom was never far behind.

“Well, I . . .” Tom grunted as he rested on one knee, inspecting the footwear in more detail. “Ah, look at that. Why would she have two different sizes?”

“No idea. Makes it more interesting, though, doesn’t it?” Hugo felt a fizz in his veins, the jolt of adrenaline that came with the discovery of something out of place, out of the ordinary. A shoe fetish was one thing, and might explain why Natalia was dealing in stolen property, but stacks of new shoes in different sizes? That required a more unusual explanation.