Hugo Marston 04 - The Reluctant Matador Read online

  “Yes, I’m afraid she was.”

  “Merci, Hugo. I’ll make a note of all this. We’ll find the husband or boyfriend who did this, I promise.”

  They shook hands, and Hugo resumed his walk, trying to shake off the image of the young woman. But as he crossed the bridge, the river beneath him looked gray and slick, cold and lethal, utterly devoid of mercy for even a poor, tortured girl. He shivered as a breeze caressed his neck, and he quickened his stride.

  As he turned onto Rue de Rivoli, Hugo’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the display, and immediately his spirits lifted. It was Claudia, the only woman he’d felt anything for since his divorce. Claudia, the bright-eyed reporter, daughter of French nobility, classy, sexy, and, Hugo suspected, not quite as interested in him as he was in her.

  “Claudia, bonjour.”

  “Hugo, how are you?”

  “Fine. On my way to breakfast but I got waylaid.”

  “Breakfast by yourself?”

  “No. The daughter of an old friend is over here looking for work; I’m meeting her at the restaurant.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. What kind of work?”

  “Modeling.”

  “Runway or commercial?”

  “No clue. They’re different career paths?”

  Her laughter was soft and made him long to see her. “Oh Hugo, you’re so cute. I do miss you.”

  “Then join us.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m having my biannual craving, so we’re meeting at Breakfast in America.”

  “I wish I could, but I have plans. Although, the most handsome man in Paris, off to breakfast with a model. I should probably interfere for my own interests.”

  “Didn’t know you still had an interest,” Hugo said, suddenly feeling like a needy teenager. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

  Claudia laughed again. “Silly. That’s why I was calling. I’d like to see you. Have drinks then dinner, spend some time together.”

  “I would like that, very much.”

  “Tonight?” she asked.

  “Tonight is perfect.”

  “I’ll come by your apartment at seven, we can take a stroll and choose somewhere along the way.”

  They rang off, Hugo’s mood immediately improved, and he began to enjoy his walk along Rue de Rivoli, the city opening up around him. He slowed as he passed a crepe vendor, the man’s hot plate filling the air with the alluring aroma of his paper-thin pancakes. A pair of grateful businessmen took hot cups of coffee from the vendor, lips pursed in unison as they blew steam from the cups. Hugo walked on and allowed his mind to linger on Claudia, the socialite and professional woman who could chill politicians with a look, and who could also giggle like a schoolgirl and dance in her underwear to make Hugo laugh. Well, laugh for a little while because Claudia’s underwear tended to provoke other reactions in Hugo, reactions that brought out more of Claudia’s talents.

  He was smiling as he turned onto Rue Malher, replacing the delights of Claudia with the prospect of a gigantic breakfast. He checked his watch: not quite eight, which made him a few minutes early.

  He loitered outside the restaurant, waiting for Amy, trying to suppress the rising worry that she wouldn’t show. He distracted himself by watching the other people on the street, several passers-by, tourists, and dog walkers, all with their own missions, and of marginal interest to Hugo. One man caught his eye, though, a man who lingered across the street, walking in little circles, his head down. Hugo surveyed him, wondering what he might see, what he might be able to deduce about him. The man was tall but slightly built and maybe Hispanic. He wore jeans, a white shirt, and a blue blazer, and the clothes fit him the way a wealthy man’s clothes always fit. A gold watch caught occasional flashes of the sun as the man ran his hands through his hair every thirty seconds or so, and a matching necklace told Hugo the man made good money, and liked to spend it. As Hugo started to lose interest, the man glanced over and seemed to hold Hugo’s eye for a second too long. It was nothing Hugo could identify, and certainly nothing he could ever explain rationally, but in his time as an FBI agent he’d learned that people have a sixth sense, a tingle in the back of the neck, for a reason. He’d trusted his sense in the past, and never regretted it. The man looked away, and Hugo studied him more closely. As if to block Hugo’s gaze, the man turned his back, fished in a pocket for his cigarettes, and lit one up.

  Hugo stared at the man for a full minute, enough time to conclude that he was up to no good, a simple trick he’d used many times: a normal person would resent being stared at, would either move away or confront the person doing the staring. This guy, on the other hand, was pretending a little too hard not to notice. Drug dealer? Shaking down a local store? Nothing to do with Amy, surely. How could he be?

  Hugo took a deep breath and smiled at his own raging imagination. Being so close to crime for so many years, he often had to check himself, recognize that a man leaning against a wall might just be waiting for a lover, that two people on a park bench might just be resting and not spying. Like the poor drowned girl, this man had nothing to do with him, and Hugo had no reason to clutter his own world with imagined crimes. Sure, being head of security at the US Embassy could be tedious, more meetings than action, but peace and a lack of stress was good for the soul.

  Hugo’s stomach growled and he checked his watch. Ten minutes gone, so time to get a table, to wait with a cup of coffee in his hand. Inside, the place was busy—it always was—but owner Craig Carlson spotted him above the heads of the other customers and waved him to a free table. When Hugo got there, they shook hands.

  “Long time, no see,” Craig said. “Flying solo today?”

  “Good to see you,” Hugo said. “No, a young lady is meeting me.”

  Carlson raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes?”

  “Nothing like that. A friend’s daughter, over here for a few months. I’m just checking in with her.”

  “Checking in, or checking up?”

  Hugo smiled. Good question.

  Carlson moved off as a waitress arrived with a mug of coffee, and Hugo sat back to wait. Maybe it was the coffee, it was always strong and good here, but Hugo didn’t like the way his heart rate had picked up, nor the way he caught himself checking his watch every thirty seconds. He looked out of the window and saw that the man was still there, lighting another cigarette. Hugo shrugged and focused on his coffee, tried to ignore the worry that touched at the back of his neck, the merest brush of cold, teasing fingers. Amy was fine, just late. Like all teenagers, she had a million more important things to do than meet her dad’s middle-aged friend for breakfast. Things like sleep. That she was late should have been no surprise, Hugo told himself. He should have expected it.

  Thirty minutes later, Hugo called Amy’s cell phone but wasn’t even able to leave a message. A metallic voice let him know her mail box was full. He shook his head, stood, and dropped cash on the table to pay for his coffee. He waved to Carlson and stepped out into the street, far from happy about the call he now had to make to his friend across the Atlantic. He took the phone out of his pocket and glanced around, looking for the man in the white shirt and blazer. He was gone.

  Hugo dialed Bart Denum in Florida. When his friend didn’t answer, Hugo left a brief message, no details just a request for a call back. Before he could put his phone away, it rang and, to Hugo’s surprise, it was Claudia again.

  “Hello,” he said. “Don’t tell me you want a rain check already.”

  “Not at all. Are you with your friend? I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “She didn’t show up. Everything OK?”

  “With me, yes. But I just got a call from Tom.”

  “At this time of day?” Tom Green, as Hugo had started to explain to Amy, was Hugo’s best friend, had been since their days at the FBI Academy. What he’d not told her, and couldn’t, was that in recent years Tom had been freelancing for the CIA or, as he put it, was “a semiretired spook.” He lived in Hu
go’s spare room, at least when he was in the country. Tom never talked about his work, even though Hugo knew his friend battled many demons from what he’d seen and done. Tom’s weapons in that fight were his brash, uncouth, and reckless personality, his bluster hiding a deeply troubled psyche. His biggest and most potent weapon had been the bottle. For years, Tom had binged on everything he could, acknowledging his problem only when it almost cost him his life. In recent months, though, he’d been dry, kicking his whisky habit to the curb while maintaining his unreliable and foul-mouthed temperament. And his love for sleeping until noon.

  “Yes, at this time of day,” Claudia said. “I know, I thought maybe someone had stolen his phone and called me by accident.”

  “I bet. He went out around eight last night and I didn’t see him come in. I assumed he was sleeping when I left the apartment, he usually is.”

  “Well, I’m afraid he needs your help.”

  “Can’t find the coffee grinder?” Hugo snorted. “Why call you and not me, the big idiot?”

  “Because he’s embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed? That doesn’t sound like Tom.”

  “This is a first, even for him. The big idiot pissed off some traffic cops and landed himself in jail. Go bail him out, will you?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hugo sat by himself in the small waiting room, trying not to squirm on his plastic chair while a surly, mustached police officer read and reread Tom’s paperwork. Finally, the man left his station behind the counter and disappeared into the back of the police station. Hugo knew that about the only stroke of luck in this whole episode was that Tom had been snagged in a suburb in the north west of the city, a part of Paris where the streets were normally quiet and the jails usually empty.

  Ten minutes later, Tom trudged out behind the flic, head down and eyes glued to the floor. He was pale and his clothes were rumpled, like he’d tossed and turned in them all night. Which he probably had. He smoothed his hair down with one hand as the officer handed him a brown paper bag. Tom peered inside it, still avoiding looking at Hugo, and then took out his belt, laces, and a wallet. He finally glanced over at Hugo.

  “You’d probably prefer that I hung myself in there, eh?”

  “No, Tom, not really.”

  Tom stuffed his laces and wallet into his pants pockets, put on his belt, and then handed the bag back to the officer.

  “Sign here, please, monsieur,” the flic said.

  Tom put both hands on the counter either side of the clipboard, as if signing his name was a task to contemplate before doing. He drew a long breath and then signed. He nodded to the flic and then turned and walked to the front door of the station. Hugo stood and followed him out.

  In the parking lot, Tom stopped. “You drive up here?”

  “This doesn’t count as official business. We’ll have to take the metro, sorry.”

  “Hugo.” Tom didn’t move, just dug his hands into his pockets and stared at the cobbled ground.

  “It’s okay, Tom.”

  “You’re like my fucking dad, you know. You say, ‘It’s okay’ and I hear, ‘You’re a loser.’” Tom held up a hand. “I know you’re not saying that. And you’re not my dad.”

  It was a long time into their friendship before Tom had opened up about his father, Vincent. He’d died when Tom was fifteen, and Hugo could tell from the way he talked about his old man that Tom never forgave him for dying, and never forgave himself for being mad at the man he’d loved more than any other.

  “Tom. You’re right, I’m not your dad. And it really is okay. You think I never tied one on, got picked up for driving when I shouldn’t?”

  “Seriously, you? Get arrested?”

  “Well, no, but not because I’m an angel.”

  Tom shook his head, trying to suppress a smile. “Stop trying to make me feel better.”

  “I’m your friend, that’s my job.”

  “I’m supposed to be sober, Hugo. You know how fucking hard it is to be sober when you’re a drunk?”

  Hugo stepped closer, lowered his voice. “You’re not a drunk, Tom. Not anymore. You slipped one time. That’s all.” Hugo put a hand on his friend’s arm. “I don’t know one single person who’s given up booze and not fallen off the wagon. Not one. It happens. It’s all part of being—”

  “A drunk?”

  “Sober, you asshole,” Hugo grinned. He checked his watch. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah, what did you have in mind?”

  “I was just at Breakfast in America. An aborted attempt to eat pancakes and bacon.”

  “Aborted thanks to me?” Tom asked sheepishly.

  “No, actually. Let’s get over there and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Pancakes and bacon? Fuck yes. You mind if we swing by the apartment first so I can change?”

  “I was going to insist on it, you smell like a brewery.”

  They walked in silence to the metro stop, Tom wincing at the screeching of the trains that echoed through the tunnels. Underground, they passed a tramp begging on some dirty stairs, and Hugo thought about making a joke, comparing the odors of the man and Tom, but his friend looked so forlorn, Hugo decided to leave him alone. On the ride home, Tom sat back with his arms crossed and closed his eyes. When they reached their stop at Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Hugo stood and nudged Tom with his foot.

  “Wake up, old man, we’re here.”

  They trudged up the steps into the fresh air, which seemed to revive Tom a little. “Helluva day.”

  “Hence my early-morning walk toward pancakes,” Hugo said.

  “Yeah. So was that true, you’ve never been arrested?”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Shame. Still, you’d think the food in a French jail would be good, right? Especially in the burbs.”

  “Can’t say I’d thought about it.”

  “Yeah, well, it was awful. A sad day when the French can’t serve a decent piece of bread, even in a jail. Sad day.”

  Hugo smiled. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “One question, or is this where the third degree starts?”

  “I’m not going to grill you, Tom, I told you I’m not upset you fell off the wagon. It happens.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “If you didn’t want to call me, which is fine, I’m wondering why you didn’t call the embassy. You’d have been out of there in about fifteen minutes.” Hugo snapped his fingers as the realization hit. “Ah yes, never mind. Forget I asked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it strikes me that even if you didn’t call the embassy, the police should have. The fact that they didn’t means you never told them who you are.”

  “Too drunk. Couldn’t remember my own name.”

  “No, that doesn’t add up either. A quick look at your wallet . . .”

  “Do you need me for this conversation?”

  They turned the corner onto Rue Jacob. A warm breeze picked up and a cluster of yellow leaves scuttled ahead of them. As they neared the door to the apartment building, Hugo saw a figure sitting on the steps. She was in a jogging suit, but the corn-row hair and dark-skinned profile were unmistakable. Camille Lerens.

  “Look who it is, maybe she has a fun case for us. Plus, she was attacked last night, probably in worse shape than you.”

  “I doubt it.” Tom lowered his head and trailed behind Hugo, like he didn’t want to be seen or heard. When they got to the steps, Lerens stood and Hugo was pleased to see she looked uninjured. One slightly blackened eye but no slings, casts, or facial cuts. They exchanged bisous, Hugo careful to lightly brush her cheek with his in case there was unseen damage.

  “Camille, comment ça va?” I heard you got into some trouble last night. Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, thanks.” She looked past Hugo at Tom. “And how is our little drunk this morning?”

  “Hungover,” Hugo said. “But be nice, everyone makes mistakes now and again.”

  “Oh, isn’t that the
truth,” Lerens said, her eyes still on Tom. “Alors, Tom, you want to tell your protective friend here what my mistake was last night?”

  Hugo looked back and forth between them. “I don’t . . . Your mistake?”

  Lerens nodded. “Oui, it was a big one, wouldn’t you say, Tom?”

  The realization swept over Hugo like a wave, and he turned to face Tom. “You. Claudia said the traffic cops picked you up, so I assumed you were driving drunk, but you did that—you’re the one who assaulted Camille.”

  Tom still stared at the ground, but he raised a hand in protest. “Hold up, cowboy, that’s not what happened.”

  “It better not be,” Hugo said.

  “Or what?” Tom growled.

  “Ease up, both of you,” Lerens said. “I’m the one who got pummeled.”

  “‘Pummeled’ is a little strong,” Tom said, morose again.

  “I think I should be the judge of that,” Lerens said.

  “So what the hell happened?” Hugo demanded.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” Lerens began, “Tom called me to see if I wanted to go out.”

  Hugo raised an eyebrow. “Like on a date?”

  “No!” Lerens and Tom said in unison.

  “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Go on.”

  “He suggested some bar in the suburbs, I said I’d meet him there. Then I got caught at work, couldn’t make it. I was doing paperwork, listening to the police scanner, and I heard about a drunk foreigner picking fights outside that bar. I headed over there as fast as I could and arrived just in time to see Tom squaring up to a couple of motorcycle flics. I tried to get between them, make everyone calm down and see some sense, but then Mohammed Ali here started swinging.”

  “Oh lordy,” Hugo muttered.

  “We got him under control pretty quickly, but he landed a couple on me before we did. Lucky for him, he didn’t connect with the other two flics.”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “And that’s why no one at the embassy was notified.”

  “What do you mean?” Tom said, looking up.

  “Am I right?” Hugo looked at Lerens.

  She nodded. “I’m not pressing charges, but I thought it appropriate he spend a night in the tank. Give me a little satisfaction, and him some consequences.”