The Book Artist Page 18

  Hugo nudged Jameson. “You gonna let me have an earpiece? I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “No spare, sorry. But I’ll let you know if they spot him.”

  “I like hearing the radio chatter,” Hugo pressed. “Knowing who’s where, what they’re seeing. Even if it’s not him.”

  “Lerens said you’d ask,” Jameson said. “Which is why she didn’t give me a spare. It’s too obvious. If he’s watching, he might spot it, and why the hell would you be wearing an earpiece at your friend’s funeral?”

  “If he’s watching me, that means he’s already inside and your boys and girls have failed.”

  “Relax,” Jameson said. “We’ve got our best people out here, no one’s gonna fail you. This needs to be convincing.”

  “He’s right,” Pierce chipped in. “Not worth the risk.”

  Hugo dug his hands deeper into his pocket and pressed his forearm against the Glock on his hip.

  “I heard that you caught the crypt thief in here,” Jameson said.

  “Not quite, although he shot at me in here,” Hugo corrected. “He also shot at me in a different cemetery, in Montmartre. We caught up with him at his apartment.”

  “Aye, yes,” Jameson said. “I remember now. Sick puppy, that one.” He thumped his gloved hands together to warm up.

  “That he was,” Hugo agreed. “I thought you Scots were used to this weather.”

  “There’s a reason I left the motherland.”

  “Was it just the weather?” Pierce asked. They were making casual conversation, Hugo knew, to distract him, a measure of comfort and familiarity at a dangerous time.

  “It was mostly a woman,” Jameson replied. “But that didn’t last. The weather here was an added bonus, also less harsh and more predictable.”

  The three of them chuckled, but they went silent as Jameson tensed and put a finger to his ear.

  “They’ve spotted him. Southeast corner.”

  “At an entrance?” Hugo said.

  “No, which is weird. How the hell did he get in without being seen?”

  Hugo waited until Jameson had stopped listening to his radio, then said, “They closed up the tunnels, right?”

  “Tunnels?” Jameson asked, his expression blank.

  Hugo and Pierce exchanged glances, and Hugo said: “Yes. The crypt thief you were asking about. He moved around the city using the tunnel system. He knew them better than anyone—it’s how he popped up in here to rob those graves.”

  “Yeah, I know about them, of course.”

  “After that case, the authorities were going to work with the police to block the ones leading in here, and a bunch of others.”

  “I didn’t know about that part of it,” Jameson said. “Lemme ask Lieutenant Lerens.”

  Jameson stepped away and spoke quietly into the mic on his uniform. Hugo couldn’t hear the words, but the worried looks he was getting from the Scot told him plenty.

  “Some of them,” Jameson said when he stepped back beside Hugo.

  “Can you be any more specific?”

  “No. Bottom line is, some tunnels were walled up, some weren’t, and some of the ones that were, well, they did a shitty job, so who knows how effective they are.” Jameson shuffled his feet. “Also, they lost sight of the suspect. They weren’t sure it was him,” he added hurriedly, “but whoever that was, he’s no longer on our radar.”

  Hugo looked around at the rows of telephone-booth-sized crypts, hundreds of them filling the leafy cemetery. Snow had settled on the tops of most of them, but too many had their doors broken down, and too many gaped darkly at him, potential entry and exit points for a man intent on killing him.

  “Where’s the damn priest?” Hugo muttered. “We need to force things a little, get the program started and hope Cofer’s not quite ready.”

  Jameson put a hand to his ear again. “Fuck. The priest isn’t coming.”

  “Meaning?” Hugo said.

  “They found him in the funerary chapel. He’s dead.”

  “How?” Hugo pressed.

  “Hang on.” Jameson listened again, then said, “They don’t know. Could be a heart attack—there are no signs of violence.”

  “Which leaves open strangulation or suffocation,” Hugo said.

  “Does seem like quite the coincidence,” Pierce agreed.

  All three of them shifted, looking around but trying not to be obvious about it. There was a chance, a slight chance, that their plan was still in place, could still work, but the tension was palpable. The air around them had become still, as if the falling snow had blocked any breeze and shut out the rest of the world. Their breath steamed in the chill, and Hugo felt exposed, unprotected.

  “Any chance of a radio now?” he asked.

  “I’ll see if someone can bring you a spare,” Jameson said, and made the request into his mic.

  “Thanks,” Hugo said.

  “Shit, they found a body behind a crypt.” Jameson relayed the information quietly, still listening. “Homeless man, stabbed once in the throat.”

  “Maybe that’s how he got in,” Hugo said. “He suspects this is a trap, that we’re looking for people here by themselves, so he either paid or forced someone to walk in with him.”

  “But we’re blocking the entrances, not allowing anyone in,” Jameson insisted. “Singles, couples, groups, no one has been allowed in this morning.”

  “So he is using the tunnels?” Pierce asked.

  “Sowing confusion,” Hugo suggested. “Maybe the homeless guy and the dead priest are coincidences; maybe they’re meant to send a message; or maybe he’s trying to create confusion.”

  “He’s succeeding,” Jameson muttered. “How hard can it be for fifty cops to find one person out here by himself?”

  “It’s more than a hundred acres,” Hugo reminded him. “Trees, crypts, mausoleums. And tunnels. He won’t go unspotted for long, but in the meantime there are plenty of places to hide. He just needs to make his way here slowly, get close enough.”

  “How close is that?” Jameson asked.

  His question was answered a second later when a shot rang out, a sharp crack, that froze everyone in place as the sound echoed off and between the stone crypts all around them. Except one man wasn’t still. Hugo saw him start to topple beside him, and he reached out instinctively as one of the men sent to guard him, one of his friends, collapsed to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A second shot rang out, and Hugo threw himself on the fallen man.

  “Ryan, can you hear me? Ryan!”

  Pierce didn’t respond, and Hugo looked at his subordinate, his colleague, and saw a neat hole in the man’s cheek. Hugo called his name again, and Pierce’s eyes rolled toward him, but they were full of confusion. A moment later, Pierce jerked in Hugo’s arms, and the confusion left his eyes, replaced by an empty stare that Hugo had seen plenty of times before. Panic rose in Hugo’s chest, and he was about to start chest compressions when someone tugged hard on his shoulder.

  Kneeling behind him, Paul Jameson was shouting and pointing away to their left, but when Hugo raised his head, he couldn’t see anyone. The body of his second-in-command lay inert beneath him, and despite the danger Hugo wanted to stay where he was, shield and protect his friend.

  But Jameson was shouting still. “Hugo, get up, go!”

  “I can’t, we need to—”

  “Someone will give him CPR, but you need to come with me!” He gestured frantically for a uniformed flic to run over and begin life-saving measures, and Hugo allowed himself to be rolled off Pierce for that to happen.

  Another shot zipped past them—Hugo felt it cut the air—and a moment later, Jameson was dragging him to his feet. Hugo scrambled backward, shielding himself between the stone crypts and behind a tall, stone mausoleum. As he scanned the graveyard, desperately looking for Cofer, a third shot rang out and Paul Jameson dropped to the earth. Hugo started forward, but strong hands grabbed his coat and pulled him back. Hugo
turned and stopped short at the ridiculous disguise Tom was wearing, the wool hat and large brown mustache that drooped past his chin. But two men had been shot and were lying in the open, and Hugo knew he had to get to them.

  “Stop!” Tom said, seeming to read his mind. “He’s not after them. He’s after you, and he has a limited number of bullets.”

  Both men looked to their left as the sound of voices and running feet cascaded toward them, the plainclothes officers summoned by the shots or by a cry for help from one of the flics around the grave.

  Hugo realized Tom was right, that Cofer was after him and him only.

  “He’ll have moved,” Hugo said. “Follow me.”

  “Let’s do this.” Tom threw his hat to the ground and tore off the fake mustache. “That’s more like it.”

  Hugo turned and ran, angling between the ten-foot-high crypts and away from Avenue de la Chappelle, where the police would soon converge on the shooting scene, and where they would be able to help Jameson and Pierce. He guessed that Cofer would head the same way to put some distance between himself and the police, find somewhere he could hide again until he regained his target. Hugo’s mind flashed back to the stocky little man who’d shot at him before in this place, a man who didn’t even know his name and who disappeared into the ground before Hugo could catch him, the man they still called the crypt thief.

  Tom was panting behind him, and Hugo heard him shout, “To the left.”

  Hugo glanced across and saw a figure fifty yards away, dodging between the crypts and heading toward them at an angle. He stopped and put a hand on Tom’s heaving shoulder.

  “Let him chase me,” Hugo said. “You come up behind him.”

  “Why not just holler for the troops?” Tom panted.

  “I don’t want him going to ground.”

  “OK, but, fuck, I’m pretty much gassed already, so don’t make him run too much farther.”

  “I won’t.” Hugo slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get the bastard.”

  Tom sank to one knee and peered over a stone tomb. “I’ll spot him, let him go after you. Just make sure he doesn’t shoot you before I get there.”

  “I’ll try.” Hugo gave his friend a grim smile, turned, and ran into the forest of crypts, going slowly enough to be seen by his pursuer, but fast enough not to be shot by him. He’ll have to be close to shoot that .32, Hugo thought, but somehow that was little comfort each time he emerged from behind a stone sepulcher and stepped into an open space. He kept his head low out of instinct, and caught flashes of movement to his left and back a little, Cofer closing in. Hugo scanned the tombs ahead to find one that would suit his plan, and he spotted it just as he crossed the empty Avenue Neigre and disappeared again into the cemetery’s interior.

  It was a waist-high, stone crypt that sat beneath a willow tree, whose spindly branches hung down, trailing across the top of the gravesite. It was set in a little space, too, apart from the resting places around it. Hugo rounded it and sank to one knee, drawing his gun and watching intently for Cofer. He spotted the tall figure twenty yards away as Cofer leapt from behind one tall crypt to hide behind another.

  “I’m over here,” Hugo called. “You don’t have much time; reinforcements are on their way.”

  “That so?” Cofer’s voice floated across to Hugo. “Isn’t that what Custer said?”

  “I mean it. Give it up, Cofer, or get on with it. This is a long way to travel just to end up in a French prison.”

  “Dutch prison, you mean. And I hear they’re very comfortable.” A flash of movement and Cofer dodged behind a closer crypt. There were just two rows between them now.

  “How many shots do you have left?” Hugo called out.

  “Enough. Your fat little friend only needed three to die. I’m guessing two will suffice for you.”

  “You’re gonna need to get closer then. You’re a shitty shot.”

  “Shitty? I just killed two more of your friends, didn’t I?”

  I don’t know, Hugo thought, but if you did . . . “You were aiming for me.”

  “True. You gonna play by the rules this time, Marston? Just curious, if I give you the chance, are you gonna kill me in cold blood like you did my brother?”

  “I didn’t do that, Cofer.” Where are you, Tom? Hugo wondered.

  “You’re as guilty as your fat friend was. And you know it.” Another flash of movement, and Hugo dropped a little lower as Cofer moved up one row. “Hey, let’s do this like they used to back home,” Cofer said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Quick draw. Face-to-face.”

  “This isn’t a game, Cofer.”

  “You’re too scared? Or don’t you trust me to play fair?”

  “Damn right I don’t.” Hugo spotted Tom finally, moving low and quietly across Avenue Neigre, directly behind where Cofer was standing. Keep him talking, and make some noise, Hugo told himself. “After all, you put three bullets into an unarmed man. Why the hell would I trust you not to do that to me?”

  “How about I give you my word?” Cofer laughed. “That worth anything to you?”

  “About as much as your life,” Hugo responded. “Which is to say, no.”

  “Yeah, well, how about—What the . . . ?”

  Hugo heard a scuffling sound and two soft thumps and, just as he stood up, Tom appeared with Cofer at the end of his gun, hands raised and eyes wide with surprise.

  “You should’ve seen his face!” Tom said. “Fucking classic.” He shoved Cofer forward, and they watched as the ex-con stumbled and fell to his knees. He stayed like that for a moment, then seemed to regain his composure, and he looked up at Tom, eyes still wide.

  “How did you not die?”

  “I was wearing a vest, you moron.”

  “A vest?” Cofer shook his head slowly. “Well, shit.”

  “I’m not known for my forward thinking,” Tom said. “Hugo made me promise to wear it, even though I wasn’t planning on you seeing me first.”

  “I could’ve shot you in the head. I should have.”

  “Hindsight is a bitch, huh?”

  “I told you I was coming here.” Cofer shook his head slowly, and Hugo could almost see his mind working. “So all this. And yesterday’s event. It’s all been a ruse to get me?”

  “A successful one,” Hugo said. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose so.” Cofer rocked slowly to his heels, then looked back and forth between Tom and Hugo. “So what now, the execution?”

  “It’d be my pleasure,” Tom said, and aimed his gun at Cofer.

  “No!” Hugo held up a hand. “We’re not doing it that way, Tom.”

  “Not this time, you mean,” Cofer snarled.

  “Don’t push your luck.” Hugo snapped. He looked at Tom. “Dude, no. He goes back to prison. We can send him postcards every now and again to remind him how much fun we’re having in the free.”

  “Hugo, this is bullshit.” Tom kept his gun pointed at Cofer’s head. “He shot Ryan and your Scottish pal. Fuck, he shot me!”

  “Yeah, he did. And for that he’ll die in prison.”

  “A cushy Dutch one,” Tom snapped. “Not happening.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gun Cofer had taken from him in Amsterdam, the one he’d just taken back.

  “What are you doing, Tom?” Hugo asked.

  “I think I’m about to commit suicide,” Cofer replied.

  “Not exactly.” Tom threw the gun to the ground, and it skittered to within three feet of Cofer. Tom put his own gun back into a pocket. “That quick draw you wanted.”

  “Hardly.” Cofer gestured to Hugo, who was still covering him with his Glock. “He drew already.”

  “Then I suggest you draw real fast,” Tom said mildly. “And aim for him first.”

  Hugo took a small step forward. “Tom, pick up that gun. He’s going to prison.”

  The air quivered with tension, the breath of three men puffing out like smoke as they watched each other, three st
atues waiting for someone else to move first. The sounds of voices and police sirens drifted over to them but seemed so very far away.

  “Prison?” Cofer said quietly. “Fuck that.” He lunged forward, his body flattening out and rolling as he grabbed the gun from the earth and twisted toward Hugo, still lying down but his arm getting halfway up before a shot rang out. Cofer’s head snapped back, then slammed down into the cold, hard ground. His arm seemed not to know the rest of him was dead, and for a few seconds he pointed the gun at the sky. Then the weapon dropped from his hand and hit the earth with a thud.

  “Nice shot,” Tom said. He stepped forward and stood over Cofer, looking down. “Yep. Dead as a doornail.”

  “What the hell were you playing at?” Hugo moved to the .32 and picked it up. “What if my gun had jammed?”

  “Oh, please. I thought of that. It’s unloaded.”

  “I shot an unarmed man?”

  “A man you reasonably thought was armed,” Tom corrected.

  They both turned as four police officers ran between the crypts, guns in hand. Camille Lerens was at the front of the pack.

  “You guys OK?” she said, looking back and forth between them.

  “Yeah, we’re fine.” Hugo glared at Tom, who plucked the .32 from his hand.

  “We sure are, just dandy,” Tom said. He handed the gun to Lerens. “Here, take this, it’s evidence.”

  “Who shot him?” Lerens asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, just barked orders at the men with her, who pulled back and cleared the crime scene.

  “I did,” Hugo said. “He had that in his hand, was bringing it up to shoot me.”

  “Head shot,” Lerens said matter-of-factly. “Impressive. And it looks like a clear case of self-defense, but we’ll have the crime-scene people come out here, and you’ll both have to give a statement, of course.”

  “Of course,” Hugo said.

  Hugo knew his written statement would be thorough, but it might have a gap or two as to how and when Cofer pulled the gun. Apparently his friend hadn’t evolved much from the previous encounter with the Cofers, but Hugo had. And he was angry with Tom for that. The rules were there for a reason—not just to protect dirtbags like Rick Cofer and his brother, but to protect cops, too. Play by the rules and you get to keep your badge, and your freedom. Of course, Tom didn’t have a badge to lose. His ire at his friend was tempered, though, by the knowledge that they’d both breathe easier with Cofer permanently out of the picture. And Dutch prisons, he’d heard, were pretty plush when compared to American ones.