The Book Artist Page 15

  “Thank you. And you know I mean it when I say I’m the luckiest person in here to have the great Hugo Marston working on my case.”

  “Well, if we’re being honest,” he said, “most of the people in here are probably guilty, so they wouldn’t want me on their case.”

  Claudia laughed gently. “Oh, no, you’re so wrong. I’ve come to learn that everyone in here is innocent. They told me so.”

  Hugo nodded, then became serious. “I know one person who is, that’s for sure.”

  Claudia held his eye. “You do know that, right? That this is absurd and I would never have hurt that woman. I didn’t even know her.”

  “Of course, there’s no question.” He clenched his fists to dispel the urge to grab and hold her hands. “Have you seen a lawyer yet?”

  “Not seen, but talked on the phone. Twice, and the best one in Paris. She’ll be in touch with you at some point.”

  “OK, good.” He took a breath. “Claudia, there’s something you need to know, something I don’t think the police have told your lawyer yet.”

  “What is it?”

  “They told me they have your DNA.”

  “Well, yes, I gave a sample just like everyone else did.”

  “No, not that way,” Hugo said. “They found your DNA on Alia. On her hand, probably under her nail.”

  Claudia’s mouth opened, but for a moment she just stared at Hugo. Finally, she said, “But that’s not possible. I never went into the museum, the exhibition.”

  “Is there any way you could’ve bumped into her outside?”

  “No, of course not. I did my training run up there, felt faint, and passed out. I didn’t even run past the museum, let alone go in.”

  “You didn’t stop for a moment, maybe walk for a bit, talk to anyone?”

  “Hugo, no. Stop. You know I didn’t. There must be some mistake with the DNA, that’s all.”

  “He seemed pretty certain. Confident.”

  “Was it Marchand who told you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not his biggest fan,” Claudia said.

  “Nor am I, but I’m told he’s good at his job.”

  “Then he’ll figure out it’s a mistake.”

  “If he doesn’t,” Hugo assured her, “then I sure as hell will.”

  “Just find whoever did this. If you find out, they’ll see it wasn’t me.” She paused, then asked the question he’d hoped she wouldn’t. “Do you have any good suspects for it?”

  “Not right now,” he said. Sadly, no one else left their DNA behind, he thought but didn’t say. “I’m still working on it, but now that Marchand has his sights set on you, he’s told me to back right off. He says that since I’ll be your alibi witness at trial, I’m a material witness and can’t be investigating.”

  “Which is true, isn’t it?”

  “Technically, yes.” He looked her in the eye. “But you know I’m not going to stop, right? You know I’m going to figure out who did this, don’t you?”

  “I do,” she said quietly. Then she looked up and smiled again. “But please hurry up. The accommodations are awful, and the food is even worse.”

  “Plus, you have a marathon to train for,” Hugo said, returning the smile. “You want me to stay and keep you company for a bit longer?”

  “I’m fine, Hugo, really. I’d rather you get back to finding whoever did this, and you can’t do that from here.”

  “You said you’re allowed to make phone calls, right?” he asked.

  “Only to my lawyer. But I can get her to contact you if I need something. And if you have any questions for me, whatever they are, go through her. I’ll call her right now and give her your contact information.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Nicola Dumont.”

  “I hope she’s good,” Hugo said.

  “She is. For what I’m paying, she has to be. More to the point, you’re good.”

  “And cheap.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” She winked and started to slide her hand across the table, stopping after a few inches and glancing past Hugo toward the guards. “Damned jail rules. Go back to work, Hugo, get me the hell out of here.”

  “I will. I most definitely will.”

  She nodded and stood, and he watched as she got up and went to the back of the visiting room and was let through the sliding iron door. She didn’t look back, but he noticed her straighten as she walked through the doorway, walk away from him and back to her cell.

  Hugo hurried out of the jail and checked his phone to see several texts and missed phone calls, all from Emma. He dialed her number.

  “Hugo, there you are. What’re you doing?”

  “Visiting someone. Where’s the fire?”

  “Can you come to the embassy?”

  “Now? It’s quitting time.” Although Hugo had no plans to stop just yet, he wanted to talk to Rob Drummond again. And maybe Lieutenant Intern Marchand.

  “I know. But the ambassador wants to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

  “What’s urgent?”

  “Hugo, please. Just come back to the embassy.”

  Something in her voice, a slight break or tremor, gave him pause. “Emma, is everything all right?”

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “So I’ll see you here soon.”

  And then she hung up on him.

  It was a straight shot to the embassy, not quite two miles along Rue de Rivoli, a route that Hugo would walk on any other day. But the wobble in Emma’s voice, the way she hung up so quickly, told Hugo something was very wrong indeed, so he jumped into a cab outside the prefecture.

  He was about to give the driver his destination when the ambassador texted two words: Chez Maman.

  Hugo smiled. They hadn’t been to Chez Maman in a while, but it was closer than the embassy and would serve him a drink. Hugo got out of the cab, apologizing to the driver and slamming the door shut so he didn’t hear the man’s frank expressions of surprise.

  He walked quickly, crossing Pont Saint-Michel with his head down against the wind, and in five minutes he was leaning against the anonymous door of Chez Maman, a one-room bar that you wouldn’t know was there unless you did. Its customers were locals only, although Hugo had been in there drinking with Tom once when a foursome of tourists wandered in. Eastern Europeans, Hugo had guessed right away from their cheap jeans and bright, white sneakers. They come to a jarring halt once inside, wide eyes taking in the worn stone floor; the low, smoke-stained ceiling; and the sturdy wooden furniture that had supported the drinks, and backsides, of serious drinkers for more than a century. Maman, always stationed behind the bar with her rolling can of oxygen within reach, had ignored them the way she ignored every first-timer in there, the way she’d ignored Hugo until Tom had charmed the orange-haired battle-ax into loving them both. When the tourists entered, the other ten people in the bar—some playing dominoes, some cards, and some just drinking— glared so hard that a force field seemed to appear. The drinkers at Chez Maman put up with tourists like this in every other part of their city, but not in their bar. The force field grew with every passing second, and pretty quickly the foursome exchanged panic looks and backed out of the door, closing it quietly but firmly behind them.

  Hugo got a few appraising looks when he stepped into the bar, but the briefest of waves from Maman put everyone at ease. Hugo took a seat at the bar.

  “Been a while,” Maman said in her raspy voice. “Whisky?”

  Hugo looked at his watch, even though the answer was always going to be yes. He nodded and watched as Maman poured generously from a bottle with no label. She put a separate glass of ice next to the whisky.

  “Merci, Maman,” Hugo said.

  “Where’s your handsome friend?” she asked.

  “No one’s ever called him that before. But he’s in Holland.” Hugo glanced at the door, wondering if it was news of Tom that the ambassador was about to give him. A deep worry nestled in the pit of his stomach, and
Hugo only burned away the edge of it with a mouthful of whisky.

  “Looking for pleasures of the flesh?” Maman rasped.

  “Looking for . . . an old acquaintance.”

  “That could be the same thing.”

  “Not in this case, I can assure you of that.”

  “Well, he’s too young and energetic for me anyway,” she said with a lascivious wink.

  Hugo smiled. “No one’s ever called him that, either. Not for a few years, anyway.”

  They both looked at the door as it opened, and Ambassador Taylor walked in. Maman blushed at the sight of him, and turned to Hugo.

  “You didn’t tell me he was meeting you here.”

  “Oh, well,” Hugo joked, “Tom has some competition?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Maman whispered. “The ambassador has him beat, hands down.”

  Hugo chuckled, and once Taylor and Maman had exchanged pleasantries, and she’d poured him an extra-large whisky, they found an empty table at the back of the room. Before Taylor could say anything, Hugo spoke.

  “It’s about Tom, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes, it is.” Taylor took a gulp of whisky, grimaced, and started in on the story, telling him what Brendon Fowler had said, as close to word-for-word as he could make it. When the ambassador had finished, Hugo realized both of their glasses were empty, though he’d not noticed either of them drinking. His mind was both numb and buzzing, not wanting to process what he’d been told, not wanting to accept it, so he stood and went to the bar. Maman took one look at his face and poured two large ones. When Hugo put his money on the bar, she pushed it away.

  “On the house,” she said. “You look like you need them.”

  “Merci,” Hugo said. “We do, and I’ll explain it to you when I can.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  Hugo nodded and went back to the table. He put the drinks down and sat. “Well, thank you for telling me in person,” he said finally. Then he picked up his glass and raised it to eye level. The ambassador did the same.

  “To Tom,” they said together.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Hugo held the door for his neighbor Ashley Errico, this time unburdened by dog or groceries, and she flashed him a grateful smile. Then she gave him the once-over.

  “Never seen you in a black suit before,” she said. “You going to a funeral or something?”

  “Actually, yes,” Hugo replied.

  Her face fell. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I was just . . . I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Please, it’s OK,” he said with a kind smile. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “Except I guessed, so I could have. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine, really. Not someone I knew that well.”

  “Oh, OK.” She started to turn away but stopped. “So where’s your friend Tom these days?”

  “He’s . . . traveling,” Hugo said.

  “Been quiet around here without him.” She winked. “Haven’t needed to open the door to any hookers for ages.”

  “Enjoy the respite,” Hugo said. He gave her a wave and headed out onto Rue Jacob, looking up at the gray sky as big, fat raindrops started to fall. Thanks, Tom. You would have your funeral on a rainy day in December, wouldn’t you?

  They’d decided against a church ceremony for a devout atheist. Or, as the ambassador had put it, “We’d be making the place a target for lightning strikes, for sure.”

  Instead, they decided to hold a memorial at noon on Thursday, in a quiet corner of the Luxembourg Gardens. In past discussions with Tom, he’d always been adamant about being cremated instead of buried, but Hugo and the ambassador had agreed that the following day a graveside burial would be held for just a handful of close friends, in the famous cemetery of Père Lachaise. Tom might not have approved of the fact of a burial, but he’d have liked the impressive grounds and his famous neighbors.

  The memorial service was open to everyone, though, and Hugo was shocked at the number of people who were there. More than a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty, most of whom Hugo didn’t recognize. Hugo caught sight of Camille Lerens and gave her a warm hug.

  “Impressive turnout,” she said.

  “Bartenders and prostitutes, if I had to guess,” Hugo said.

  “In that case, pretty thin turnout,” Lerens said with a smile. She squeezed Hugo’s arm. “You doing OK?”

  “Yep. Let’s get things going, shall we?”

  They moved to the front of the group, shaking hands and hugging those they recognized, grateful for the presence of those they didn’t. At the front, two rows of chairs had been set up, not nearly enough for the attendees, and facing them a temporary podium. Next to it stood Ambassador Taylor and a woman Hugo didn’t know. Ambassador Taylor spotted Hugo and gestured for them forward. He extended a hand to Lerens.

  “Lieutenant Lerens, nice to see you again. Apart from the circumstances, of course.”

  “Of course. Good to see you, Monsieur Ambassador.” They shook hands and Taylor introduced them to the serious-faced woman in a dark suit and long black wool coat who stood next to him.

  “This is Assistant Director Danielle Tierney, from the CIA. Please meet my RSO Hugo Marston and Lieutenant Camille Lerens of the Brigade Criminelle.”

  They shook hands, and Tierney spoke directly to Hugo. “I know you and Tom were friends, good friends. Please accept my condolences, and those of the agency.”

  “Thank you,” Hugo said. “It was good of you to come.”

  “I knew Tom well, too,” she said, and allowed herself a small smile. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “You want to sit up front, Hugo?” Taylor asked.

  “Sure. Am I speaking first?”

  “Yes,” Taylor said. “I’ll introduce you, then let you speak. Then I’ll say a few words. Then Lieutenant Lerens on behalf of the Paris Police, and finally Director Tierney.”

  Hugo nodded and looked at the sky. “Rain’s holding off, for now. Let’s get started. And, if you don’t mind, once I’m done I’ll just mingle with people, maybe hang nearer the back.”

  “Understood. Have a seat, we’ll get on with it.”

  Hugo sat between Lerens and Tierney, and the crowd fell silent as Ambassador Taylor took up position behind the podium. Hugo glanced over his shoulder and caught Emma’s eye. She sat bolt upright on the row behind him, looking pale but determined. If Hugo was like a son to her, then Tom was the cheeky best friend she’d doted on. The best friend, she knew, who’d always look out for her Hugo. Hugo felt a pang of regret, of guilt, at seeing the pain on her face. He turned his attention to Taylor who was starting to speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being here. It’s cold out, and Tom would hate it if we piled on too much sentimentality, so we’ll keep things short. We’ll start with Tom’s best friend, who I’m sure you all know, or have at least heard of. Hugo Marston.”

  Hugo stood and went to the podium, his eyes scanning the crowd. He took a breath and spoke from the heart. “If you don’t mind, I will speak as if Tom is still alive, and use the present tense.” The crowd murmured its approval. “Tom Green is a jerk. He’s a mooch, too. He has the moral compass of a moray eel, and I have no idea how his liver didn’t kill him long ago. He’s also my best friend. The man I can count on no matter what. I’ve never thought about life without Tom, because he was a giant in mine, as I’m sure he was in yours. It never seemed possible that Tom could ever disappear.” Hugo smiled. “Even when, just sometimes, we wanted him too.” Several people laughed gently. “Here’s the thing. This memorial and tomorrow’s private burial will not be the end of things. The man who shot him is still out there, but I promise he won’t be for long.” Another murmur from the mourners, and Hugo paused. “On that, I give you my word. Thank you again for being here, for showing your love and respect for Tom.”

  There was a gentle, respectful ripple of applause as Hugo nodded to the ambassador and walked to his right, around the two
rows of chairs. He shook a few more hands as he made his way to the back of the crowd, and he heard Ambassador Taylor’s strong voice sweep over the mourners, saying nice things about his former CIA colleague.

  Hugo looked behind and to each side, into the park, where several people had stopped what they were doing to watch the proceedings. One was a man feeding pigeons, his hand still clutching a broken baguette, and two women had stopped on the path, their strollers in front of them, plastic covers over their wrapped-up babies.

  Hugo turned his attention to Taylor’s eulogy but noticed an old man slowly making his way toward him from the middle of the crowd. He had a wool cap pulled low over his ears and a scraggly white beard that hadn’t seen a comb in a month or two. The man stationed himself beside Hugo and watched in silence for a moment. Then the old man spoke.

  “Any sign of him?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “How many eyes do we have?”

  “About two dozen, I’m not sure exactly,” Hugo said.

  “The pigeon feeder and the two ladies with strollers?”

  “Yep. They’re that easy to make?”

  “That used to be my job, remember, but I doubt that asshole will notice.”

  “You don’t think so?” Hugo asked. “Why not?”

  “In part because he’s just an asshole who doesn’t know shit about surveillance. But mostly because he thinks Tom Green is dead and so he’ll be fooled by your lovely memorial.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Hugo said. He smiled at the scraggly beard. “I hope you appreciate the turnout.”

  “Fuck you,” the man muttered back. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?” He shook his head slowly. “A mooch, a drunk, and a jerk . . . really? At my own funeral?”

  “Well, you’re always telling me to be more honest and less politically correct.” He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “And, hey, you never know, when you really do get yourself killed, maybe I’ll try a little harder to be nice.”

  Hugo and Tom stood side by side in silence as Taylor finished his remarks and ceded the podium to Camille Lerens. She was in on it, too, the whole scheme, so Hugo’s eyes picked out the strong shoulders of Emma, who wasn’t. As soon as I can, I’ll tell you everything. I promise.