The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel Page 6

  Hugo dialed and the phone rang twice before being answered.

  “Allo? Hugo, is that you?”

  “Bonjour, mon ami,” Hugo said. “How are you?”

  “Always better for hearing from you. But since you ask, very busy.”

  “Are you too busy for a wild idea and a trip to the countryside?”

  “I don’t have time for much of anything these days, as my wife will testify. Especially one of your adventures.”

  Capitaine Raul Garcia sounded tired, Hugo thought, but there was still humor in his voice. Hugo had once compared the policeman to a cactus, prickly on the outside but sweet inside. Their friendship had begun with Garcia extending a few, and grudging, professional courtesies during Hugo’s hunt for his bouquiniste friend Max. They’d worked well together on that case, learned to trust each other, and soon become friends as well as colleagues. And now more than ever, Hugo needed a friend in a policeman’s uniform.

  “This is less an adventure and more a matter of dry international politics.”

  “Sounds tedious. But safe, at least. What could international politics possibly want from me?”

  Hugo explained the situation, trying to be tactful and even-handed in describing Senator Lake’s allegations and Tourville’s concerns for his reputation.

  Garcia listened attentively, then asked, “Even if someone was in his room, why is it such a big deal?”

  “He thinks it’s a breach of security, which makes it a big deal to him.”

  “And that makes it a big deal to everyone, I suppose. But suppose he’s right, how can it be proven and what can be done about it?”

  “I think the point is that we try.”

  “We?”

  “I need it done discreetly. If I tell Monsieur Tourville that we are friends and I tell Lake that you’ve helped me solve cases in the past, then we can take care of this quickly and the politicians can get back to work.”

  “And stop acting like babies.”

  Hugo chuckled. “Well, they’ll still be politicians, so let’s not expect miracles. What do you think?”

  Garcia sighed. “I don’t know, Hugo. I really am swamped here and I wasn’t kidding about my wife, things have been . . . difficult lately.”

  “I’m sorry, Raul, I wouldn’t ask if I had another solution. And I would very much like to see you again, maybe Madam Garcia can come with you for some country air. Be good for you both to get away.”

  “Nice idea, but we’re not . . . Alors, I can come down tomorrow, is that soon enough?”

  “It’s perfect. I’ll ship the senator back to Paris, seal off the room, and when you can get here you can dust the place for prints and talk to a few people.”

  Garcia sighed again. “It’ll be good to see you, too, Hugo. Friendly faces in this business can be few and far between sometimes.” His voice perked up. “And it’s been a year or two since I’ve taken prints at a crime scene, it’ll be a good refresher for me.”

  “Excellent, thanks Raul. And so you know, the chef is wonderful here and they serve very good wine. Very good indeed.”

  “Well then,” Garcia said, “I really do have something to look forward to. I’ll bring cigars.”

  Senator Lake was happy to go back to Paris. He packed his bags while still bristling at the outrage of the night before, although he’d been somewhat mollified by the impending investigation and was grateful to Hugo for taking charge of it. Lake shook hands with Henri Tourville on the chateau’s steps, both a little cool, but they agreed that in a couple of days talks could resume, here or elsewhere, perhaps depending on what the Paris policeman discovered.

  Ambassador Taylor was less thrilled at the prospect of entertaining his compatriot for forty-eight hours but impressed by Hugo’s solution.

  “And it leaves me,” Hugo told the ambassador, “with a few days to enjoy the fresh air and find a book or two to read.”

  “The place probably has a library, right?”

  “I’m in it right now. Quite small but comfortable and well-stocked enough for me to have spent the morning in here. I read about hunting dogs favored by the rich and famous and a little bit about the demise of King Louis XVI and his lovely wife. Anyway, it looks like the sun’s coming out, so I’ll probably go for a walk in a little bit.”

  “Don’t rub it in, Marston,” Taylor grumped. “And wrap things up as soon as you can, we do have an international crisis to resolve remember.”

  “We? Oh no, not me Mr. Ambassador, I’m just the—”

  “Yes, yes, I know what you are. But you might want to remember that I can easily promote you. Note taker, perhaps. Or sandwich bearer.”

  Hugo rang off with a laugh, then looked at the phone in his hand. He pulled himself out of his armchair and wandered out of the library into the main hall, headed for the main doors. Outside, he followed the gravel pathway around to the back of the house and found a quiet spot at the rear of the garden, a wooden bench protected from the sun, and to some degree the rain, by a trellis laced with brown vines of some creeping plant he couldn’t recognize.

  He sat quietly for a moment, his mind turning to Claudia, and he wondered if a phone call would bug her, interrupt her at work—he’d no idea what she might be doing—but he dialed anyway.

  “What a nice surprise!” Her voice sounded bright, and he knew she was smiling.

  “How’s my favorite newspaper reporter?”

  “You charmer.” Claudia laughed, the gentlest of sounds. “But how many reporters do you know?”

  “Millions,” he lied.

  “I’m glad to hear it. And glad to hear from you. I’m fine, keeping busy. They have me covering that Archambault case.”

  “I saw the headline, and your name, but didn’t read it.”

  “Horrible business. A suicide and then some. Monsieur Archambault was a fairly prominent banker, he had a nice house and a pretty wife. But he was working long hours, was stressed, and for some reason he thought his wife was cheating on him. He checked her internet history, her emails, and found some from a man he didn’t know that seemed to be in a code of sorts. He was convinced she was going to leave him so instead of talking to her, getting an explanation, he strangled her and hung himself. She lived, thank God, but he died.”

  “She wasn’t having an affair?”

  “No, quite the opposite. She was arranging a trip for just the two of them and the cryptic emails were from a travel agent trying to keep the secret. The poor husband got an idea in his head and for whatever reason he couldn’t shake it. Especially sad because they had two kids.”

  “Like you say, a horrible tragedy,” said Hugo. “Sometimes the reality in our heads is more powerful than actual reality.”

  “For sure.” Her voice brightened. “Other than that, I’m doing well. You?”

  “Yep, fine. Out in the countryside for a few days. It’s a work thing, but I have a day or so of down time.”

  “Lucky you.” There was a slight catch in her voice and Hugo knew she was wondering whether he was about to invite her to join him. He wondered the same thing.

  “Yep. I was actually hoping to see you again at some point.”

  “Oh Hugo, I can’t get away for a few days.” She laughed again. “Or maybe you didn’t mean out there.”

  “Whatever works, my schedule’s pretty flexible. I’ll take a hurried lunch at this point.”

  “Yeah, me too.” She paused. “It’s been a while since we really talked.”

  “Well, here I am, something wrong?”

  She sighed. “No, not really. I meant about us. Not that there is an us to speak of, it just seems like we sizzled for a while and then exploded into nothing.”

  “You make me sound like a fried egg.”

  She laughed again. “Alors, then we’re both fried eggs. But you know what I mean, Hugo, and I don’t like to play dating games or lead anyone the wrong way.”

  “That makes two of us. So what way are we going?”

  “I don’t know, everyth
ing is so . . . I’m just not sure I have time to devote to that side of my life right now.”

  “That’s OK Claudia, I understand.” He kept his voice light but a small hollow opened in his chest. Suddenly the bench felt too hard at his back and the brightness of the garden dimmed a fraction.

  “Do you? You are OK with us being on hold for a while?” Her voice seemed small. “You’re a great catch, Hugo, I will understand if some other lucky lady pounces on you.”

  He smiled. “If they’ve tried they must have missed, because I’ve not noticed any pouncing from anyone.”

  It was true, he’d not dated anyone since Claudia and not had any interest in doing so. He was wrapped up in work, yes, but she’d found and filled a little hole inside him. Not permanently, of course, but in a way that made him want to reserve his time for her and her alone. Being put on hold, despite being able to laugh about it, felt like a weight in his chest.

  “It’ll happen, trust me. Hey, before I forget, how is Tom these days?”

  “He’s fine. Still living with me off and on, though he’s traveling a lot. I guess the CIA consulting picked back up once he stopped drinking; he’s a pretty good employee when he’s sober.”

  “And he’s managed to stay off the booze?”

  “As far as I know. We don’t keep any in the apartment, and if we go out together I don’t drink either. I’m sure it’s difficult and I have no idea what he’s like when I’m not around, but I think he’s on top of it, I really do.”

  “You’re a good friend, Hugo, you know that?”

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt for me to cut back myself. I’ve lost a few pounds in the bargain.”

  “Well,” Claudia said, her voice quiet again, “maybe one of these days I’ll get to see the sleeker Hugo.” They both knew what she meant, and that one of these days probably didn’t mean soon.

  “I’d like that, I really would.”

  He sat back and looked up, the vines overhead rustling and shifting in the wind, showing glimpses of white clouds scudding across the sky. Downtime suddenly seemed like wasted time, the small pleasures of reading and walking in the fresh air tainted by Claudia’s gentle, honest, yet surprisingly hurtful rejection. He’d been lucky in life, personally and professionally—he knew and appreciated that. He couldn’t help but wonder about his love life, the emptiness that he ignored so much of the time and filled just occasionally with painful memories. Memories of his first wife, Ellie, who he’d loved so desperately and who’d died in a car accident, sucked from his life in an instant. Memories, too, of Christine, his second wife who he’d thought he’d loved and who’d left him . . . why, exactly?

  He shook his head and stood up. Maybe that’s part of what I need to figure out.

  He looked up at the sound of feet on gravel and his mood shifted immediately. A dapper man was walking gingerly across the lawn toward him, a little plumper than he’d been the last time they met but still impeccably dressed and sporting one of his many bow ties. Hugo started toward him and they shook hands warmly.

  “Raul, you made it early. I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Merci, I’m pleased someone is.”

  “Problems at work?”

  “Work, home.” Capitaine Garcia wore those problems for all to see—for Hugo, anyway. Garcia’s normally happy face looked gray and heavy, even the extra weight in his body looked to Hugo as if it came from stress and not pleasurable indulgence.

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Maybe over a drink, later.” Garcia nodded toward his feet. “This grass, it’s like a carpet. My shoes are cleaner walking on their lawn than in my own home.”

  “I know, it’s a lifestyle I could get used to.”

  “You?” Garcia snorted. “Not a chance, you are a man of action, you’d be bored here within days. Hours, probably.”

  “Possibly,” mused Hugo, “but there are days when I’d sure like to give it a try.”

  “Certainement.” Garcia looked back at the house. “So what exactly is going on here?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything going on. As I said on the phone, Senator Lake insists someone was in his room, and Henri Tourville insists not.”

  “Somehow I’m supposed to get to the bottom of this? How is that possible unless they have cameras in the hallways?”

  “They don’t have cameras, and your job is much harder than solving that little mystery.”

  Garcia cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Your job, and mine, is to investigate and keep both sides happy. Seriously, I can’t imagine you’d find anything, any prints will belong to family members or staff, all of whom have a right to be in there. Lake emptied his briefcase and left it behind, so I think the plan is for you to make a good show of it so I can report that you interviewed everyone here and dusted for prints.”

  “Right, well, I should get started. Everything I need is in the car.” He gave Hugo a wry smile. “I do have real police work to do, you know.”

  Hugo clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and they began to walk toward the chateau. “Not today, my friend, not today.”

  Capitaine Raul Garcia watched as Hugo peeled away the masking tape that he’d used to seal Lake’s bedroom immediately after the senator had packed and vacated it. Garcia stood behind him making a note in a small pad that, according to the witness, Hugo Marston, the tape had not been broken and therefore no one had entered the room since it was closed up. Once the door was open, Hugo stepped aside and left Garcia to his work.

  Standing in the bedroom, Garcia took a few deep breaths and looked around. He could feel the age of the room, with its worn rug and oaken floor that a thousand feet had polished to a shine. To his right a table flanked the inside wall of the room; behind it from where he stood was a wing-backed chair and ottoman in cracked brown leather. A reading lamp, the most modern thing in the room, sat in the corner behind the chair. The right hand wall was dominated by an armoire that was seven feet tall and six wide. The four-poster bed was in front of him, up against the left-hand wall, and behind it Garcia could see another door—to the bathroom, he assumed.

  He stooped over his bag, a black box with a carrying handle like attorneys used to lug around their papers and books. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and flexed his fingers as he surveyed the room again, this time planning his incremental assault.

  He didn’t mind that it was, for all intents and purposes, a waste of his time. To have a couple of hours to get back to basics, to remind himself how to do the fundamentals of his job in peace and quiet, those moments were always to be welcomed. And at an alleged crime scene where no one expected you to find evidence, well, that was the kind of pressure he could live with.

  He’d considered dusting the door knob, but Hugo assured him that he himself, the senator, and heaven-knew-who-else had touched it recently, so he began with the table to his right. He knelt down to inspect the highly-polished wood, seeing several possible prints. He dusted them with gentle strokes and carefully laid his tape over the dust, pulling it back up swiftly and smoothly before transferring the tape to a backing pad, laying the print on the glossy side of the pad before documenting where he’d found the print on the back. He worked slowly, methodically, enjoying the occasional creak of the floor under his feet and the muffled sounds of the house beyond the bedroom, settling into a rhythm that was as pleasant as it was efficient.

  He paid special attention to the tables beside the bed and to the bedpost nearest the door. If someone had come in and leaned over the senator, those would be the places he’d most likely have touched. Finally, he turned to Senator Lake’s briefcase, and sat on the bed as he worked, hunched over the case as though it held the solution to a heinous murder.

  After ninety minutes he had a stack of cards, dozens of prints, and a sore back. As he stretched himself, he checked the room for other evidence, but, having no real idea what he might be looking for, that didn’t take long. Nothing looked broken or out of place, no stran
ge stains or scratch marks. Just an old bedroom with the kind of furniture money couldn’t buy any more.

  Garcia texted Hugo when he’d finished, wanting to get started on interviewing people who were at the chateau that night. After a few seconds, Hugo texted back and directed him to the library. Garcia hefted his case down the broad staircase and found the library door wide open, his friend and Henri Tourville sitting inside, the latter looking slightly impatient.

  Tourville stood and shook Garcia’s hand. “Capitaine Garcia, thank you for doing this. Something of a charade, I’m afraid.”

  “Bien, you are welcome. Not too much of one, I hope, the police don’t like to play parlor games while on the clock.” He smiled but hoped that his tone made it clear that he wasn’t entirely kidding.

  “Of course. You have everything you need?”

  “I just need to talk to whoever was here that night and get prints to compare against the ones I found.”

  “Prints?” Tourville’s brow creased and he looked back and forth between Hugo and Garcia. “Mais non, you’re not taking prints from anyone here, absolutely not.”

  “If I don’t do that, Monsieur Tourville, then how do I know whose prints I lifted?” he gestured to his bag.

  “You run them through whatever databases you have and see if a random stranger shows up, that’s what you do. I’m certainly not having my family and staff printed like they were common criminals. You can talk to a couple of staff members but forget interviewing my family. It’s an insult to even suggest they might be involved.” He turned to Hugo. “I trust, Monsieur Marston, that you’re not going to suggest lie detector tests or interrogations for my sister or myself?”

  “No, not at all. I think all the capitaine is saying is that if he can compare the prints he found in the room against those who are normally allowed in there, others might stand out. Give him something to investigate. And you’d discard their prints immediately after that, right Raul?”