The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (31 page)

They staged outside the building, two officers on each corner wearing tactical gear and carrying automatic weapons. Another four men stood in front of the main doors awaiting breach instructions. Behind them, uniformed officers formed a cordon to keep curious Parisians out of harm’s way. Someone had made the decision to go in heavy despite the impossibility of clearing out the area, a show of force and a direct, highly visible, and very lethal response to the death of a police officer.

Hugo and Lieutenant Lerens ducked under the yellow tape, a uniformed
flic
saluting and holding it up so they could pass. They headed straight for the main entrance where they shook hands with the SWAT captain, whose cloth tag on his chest read
Moreau
. Hugo recognized him from a previous encounter, one that had resulted in Hugo being cuffed, and from the slight narrowing of the captain’s eyes, the recognition was likely mutual.

“She’s definitely not here?” Lerens asked.

“Definitely. Undercovers went up and knocked, then cleared out the apartments either side of hers. The neighbors saw her go out about an hour before we got here.”

“So we can get in the main doors?”

“Correct. Just a matter of getting in to her apartment.”

“Then let’s do exactly that.”

She let Captain Moreau lead the way with three of his men, the burliest carrying a tactical Mini Ram device that he’d use to smash open the apartment door. They left one man to secure the elevator and took the stairs. Halfway up, Lerens stopped and grimaced, lifting her left foot and shaking it a couple of times.

“All OK?” Hugo asked.

“Comes with the territory,” Lerens said. “The things you’d think would be a problem, boobs, bras, and other girly stuff, are easy. It’s the feet.”

Hugo looked down. Lerens wore black shoes, feminine but functional, the kind he’d seen policewomen wear all over the world. “They look comfortable enough.”

“For most women, they are.” She started up the stairs again, keeping her voice conspiratorial. “Problem is, men and women have different foot structure, in terms of density, flexibility, and goodness knows what else. Never found a pair that didn’t give me trouble sooner or later. These ones sooner, apparently.”

“I had no idea. Couldn’t you just wear men’s shoes? They look pretty much the same and for work, who’d even notice?”

“Oh, Hugo, and you were doing so well.” She cast him a disappointed look. “I’d notice, that’s who.”

They caught up to the SWAT team and followed them to the third-floor apartment belonging to Alexandra Tourville. Hugo and Lerens stood back as the SWAT officers positioned themselves on either side of the door and knocked loudly. They waited in silence, Moreau’s eyes intent on his watch. After thirty seconds, he nodded and an officer knocked again, louder this time. Hugo shifted on his feet as another thirty seconds ticked by. One more knock, then a wait of fifteen seconds. Moreau gave the thumbs up and then the door crashed open under the Mini Ram. It took less than twenty seconds to clear the small apartment, at which point the SWAT team stood down to let Lerens and Hugo make an initial search. Two crime scene technicians waited in the hallway, ready to come in and photograph, bag, and catalogue anything collected as evidence.

The apartment was exactly like Natalia’s, and it wasn’t until they moved from the bedroom to the living area that Hugo’s found anything of interest. Instead of a table bearing a television, Alexie’s apartment had a long desk covered in paperwork. Hugo began sifting through it as Lerens looked in the kitchen cabinets.

“A few dishes, cups, but not much in the way of food supplies,” Lerens said. “You finding anything?”

“Research papers. To do with her genealogy business, I think. Some articles about DNA testing, too, and a lot of internet searches.”

“That’s the modern way to trace ancestors,” Lerens said. “Easier than combing through boxes and boxes of municipal and church files. And the DNA makes it more certain, too.”

An open packet of buccal swabs seemed to confirm her theory, but Hugo was looking for something more definite, something relating to the case. He thumbed through several well-used books on French history and noticed several more on the floor. Hugo wasn’t surprised at Alexie’s interest, the nation’s most controversial queen was another woman whose reputation had been tossed about on the sea of public opinion like so much flotsam.

He put the books down and looked through a stack of computer printouts.

“Camille, I think I have something,” he said. She walked over and looked at the paper in Hugo’s hands, the rows of boxes and lines.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A family tree,” Hugo said. “And unless I’m much mistaken, it belongs to the Bassin family.”

They completed the search, slow and painstaking, in less than an hour and the results were largely disappointing. Lerens had hoped to find the gun used on Natalia and Raul, or at least some ammunition, but those were at the bottom of the Seine, Hugo assured her, nestling in several feet of mud. She’d known that, of course, but once in a while a search turned up a smoking gun, quite literally. Just not this time.

They convened at a café nearby. The crime scene people had photographed the printout of the Bassin family tree, as well as two pages of notes made by Alexie, then printed out copies in their van for Hugo and Lerens to study.

“What does it all mean?” Lerens asked.

“Not sure yet. The notes are mostly in shorthand, probably her own form of code. I can’t make much sense of them.”

“We’ve got people who can probably crack it, if you think it’ll help.” She toyed with her coffee, stirring it, tapping the spoon dry, then stirring again.

“Me too,” said Hugo, thinking of Tom. “And cheer up, this is a good lead. Another connection with the Bassin family, it’s good evidence.”

“I know. It’s just frustrating that I don’t know why any of this is happening. I feel like I’m two steps behind every step of the way.”

“We
were
two steps behind,” Hugo said. “Now we’re just one. And closing in.”

“You promise?”

“Sure,” said Hugo. “Why not.”

“Very encouraging. In the meantime, I’m not sure what else we can do.”

“Me neither. Your people will find her, we’ve both seen them do it time and again. No one can move around without leaving some sort of trail, especially someone not used to living in the shadows. They’ll find her.”

“Waiting for them to do it is the hard part. That and not really knowing the why of all this.”

“Agreed. On that score, do you mind if I send this stuff to a friend? I haven’t spoken to her in a while, but she’s big into genealogy and may be able to make sense of it.”

“Go ahead. Someone local?”

“England, actually.”

“As long as she’s a professional and quick.”

Hugo smiled. “She’s a professional, all right.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Hugo said. “She’s one of the brightest, most honest, and hardworking people I know. She does the genealogy stuff part-time, but when I spoke to her last year she said her other business was a little more lucrative.”

“I could use a lucrative business. Especially if Alexandra Tourville disappears and I don’t solve this case. What is it?”

“She’s a professional dominatrix.”

“Well,” Lerens said, laughing for the first time that day. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that. Now, I’m absolutely the last to judge someone else’s lifestyle but I have to say, I’m very curious how the upright and respectable Hugo Marston came to be friends with a pro domme.”

“Who says I’m upright and respectable?”

“Fair question, and one shouldn’t take people at face value. So, something you want to share with me?”

“My friendship with Merlyn,” Hugo said, before taking a slow sip of coffee, “is a story for another day.”

He’d not had a moment alone with Raul since his friend’s death. A crowded open-casket viewing had been at his home, a long line of men and women in black paying their respects, a sad and silent shuffling past that left no real time for words. When Hugo’s turn came, the only real thought he had was about the incredible job done by the funeral home, their patches and make-up remodeling Raul into angelic, if contrived, serenity.

The taxi dropped Hugo off at Père Lachaise in the late afternoon. He’d already called Merlyn and they’d caught up after a year of no contact, then he’d explained the situation and texted the photos. She had down time, she’d assured him, and would get right on it. Hours, she promised, not days.

Here, the day seemed to have held still for him, the wind dropping and the sun hovering just above the old chestnut, oak, and plane trees that sheltered the stone tombs and kept the summer heat from scalding the tourists. On the path outside the cemetery, a few people came and went but the media had packed up their trucks, their stories wrapped up and ready to go. Hugo used the smaller entrance in the northwest corner, near Avenue Gambetta, and as he trotted up the narrow stairs two uniformed policemen stood aside to let him pass. Paying their respects to a fallen colleague, possibly, or maybe just looking for a quiet place to smoke and pass an hour.

Hugo took the cobbled Avenue de l’Ouest toward the heart of the cemetery, feeling the calm of the place settle about him. He wasn’t a man of faith like Raul Garcia, and much of the time they’d spent at this cemetery together, on the case of the crypt thief, had been passed in good-natured banter, their jousts and jests a thin disguise for a probing interest in the other’s beliefs.

But a belief in God or the afterlife wasn’t necessary for a conversation with the dead, not in Hugo’s book. Just as funerals were staged to indulge and assuage the sadness of the living, so could a quiet talk to a stone cross or a mound of earth provide balm for a mourner’s grief. A few minutes alone just sitting might be enough, a time for some memories of a short but distinct friendship to wash over him, to dilute the sorrow that Hugo was afraid to let himself feel too deeply.

But when he got to Raul’s tomb, a waist-high stone casket garnished with a hundred bouquets, he saw that he wasn’t alone. On a bench opposite, a woman sat looking up at him. Her eyes were dry but the tissue in her hand said she’d been crying, and because it was Claudia, Hugo was very glad to see her.

“How are you?” he asked gently.

“Very happy you’re here.” She took his hand as he sat. “There were too many people this morning, too much fuss. I can’t help thinking that he’d have hated most of it.”

“True, but it wasn’t just for him.”

“I know. Even so, I wanted just to sit with him for a while.” Her voice quavered but she threw Hugo a sharp look. “And don’t you dare give me some nonsense about how he’s not here anymore. Don’t you dare.”

“How could I?” Hugo squeezed her hand. “I’m here too, aren’t I?”

“I suppose so.”

They sat quietly for a moment, then Hugo said, “I think he’d have liked it that we were here together.”

“He would.” Claudia turned slightly to face him. “Hugo, I know what happened, how it happened. I want to know that you’re not blaming yourself.”

“Then I have to disappoint you, because I am. Not . . . all the time, or too much. But I wish people would stop pretending that those bullets weren’t intended for me.”

“They were intended for anyone who got in the way. You, Raul, whoever.”

“Nice try, and I’ll get over it, Claudia, so please don’t worry. I think for me it’s just part of the grieving process.” He gave her a small smile. “I call it the
blaming
process.”

“Then blame the person who shot him, who wanted to shoot you.” Claudia slumped on the bench and sighed. “And tell me you’re doing OK, truly OK.”

“You know me, I’ll be fine. This sucks, all of it, and I don’t have the words to say how much but . . .” He shrugged.

“I know. But remember what I said. Blame the right person, and that’s not you.”

“That’s the thing about feelings and emotions, they aren’t always logical. And I’m a police officer at heart, so I’m always going to wonder what I could have done to stop it from happening. I can’t help that, and part of it is wishing I’d been there instead of him. And I could have been, should have been.”