Chapter Thirteen

Garcia sat back and looked at Hugo. “Maybe it’s not such a big deal. He’s a grieving father, so let him issue his press release, it’s just a piece of paper.”

“No, it’s not.” They were sitting under the awning of the café, watching the lines of camera-toting tourists stream toward the Cathedral of Notre Dame. “Look at all those people. You think they’ll want to visit your precious monuments if they know a terrorist is on the loose?”

“Ah, maybe not.”

“And even more importantly, it will shut down any investigation not related to Al Zakiri.”

“You think?”

Hugo gave a wry smile. “A terrorism investigation is as much politics as it is crime prevention. Here’s what will happen: someone will be put in charge of finding Al Zakiri and his little band of bomb-throwers. That person will be able to demand all the resources he wants, and believe me when I tell you that once he has them, he won’t let them go. We get another killing that looks even slightly related to Père Lachaise, it’ll be roped into the Al Zakiri hunt and fuel the terrorism paranoia.”

Garcia nodded. “And because you think Al Zakiri has nothing to do with this, the real killer gets away.”

“Right. And a killer who gets away with it has no reason to stop.”

Attends, you think it’s a serial killer?” Garcia scoffed. “That seems like a stretch. To go from two random killings, maybe some bone snatching, to a serial killer?”

“That’s the point,” said Hugo, his voice hard. “We have no idea who he is or what his motives are. Should we just assume he’ll melt into the night never to harm anyone again?”

“No we should not. But it’s your twenty-four hours, what do you suggest?”

“Start by telling me where we stand.”

D’accord.” Garcia ran a fingertip over his pencil-thin mustache, nodding as he organized his thoughts. “Like you, we were assuming that the person who killed those young people is the same person who broke into Jane Avril’s tomb. We found out this morning for sure.” He took out a photograph and showed it to Hugo. “This is a picture, what we found is being processed by our evidence people.”

“Is that a dung beetle?”

Exactement. Known to Egyptians as a scarab beetle. One was found at each crime scene, small, green, and made of glass.”

Hugo stared at the picture, a smile creeping across his face. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Maybe, but we still have no idea how he got in or out. After the murder, we increased security at Père Lachaise. We thought about how best to do that and we decided that we couldn’t effectively police the inside of the cemetery. That place is more than a hundred acres in size, with seventy thousand monuments. We’d need hundreds of men to have enough eyes to be sure we had the place covered.”

“Hardly practical at short notice.”

“Especially in the summer. You may have noticed that we take our vacations right about now, police officers included. But in any event, not practical as you say.” Garcia held up a finger. “But, this is the twenty-first century and we are learning to make the most of its technology. We fixed the broken cameras and made sure we had at least one looking up and down every stretch of the cemetery’s wall. Not an inch was out of our view. We watched those walls in real time every moment and even played the tapes back after Tuesday night’s break-in, again in real-time speed.”

“And saw nothing.”

Exactement.” Garcia spread his hands. “No one coming in, no one going out.”

“How about extra cameras inside?”

“One. By Morrison’s grave. Where else would we put them? And from it, nothing.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “After Tuesday night’s raid,” Hugo began. “Who noticed—”

“No one at first, even though we cleared the cemetery first thing in the morning.”

“Cleared?”

“We put a couple of men inside at opening time, just to walk the grounds, to see and be seen. They even ran dogs through to make sure no one was in there overnight, hiding.”

“Good thinking.”

Merci. Alas, nothing.”

Hugo was incredulous. “So they walked right past a smashed-open grave?”

“Yes and no. He’d pulled a tarpaulin from a nearby crypt that was being repainted. Draped it over Avril’s open grave.” He spread his hands again. “Simple camouflage.”

Hugo grunted. “So how’s he getting in?”

“No idea, but it shouldn’t happen again. This time we have men with dogs inside, all night long. They catch a sniff of someone, hear a footstep that shouldn’t be there, they will be released. And God help the salaud that they catch.” Garcia sat back. “But we can’t do that forever.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to. He’s hit twice in three days so he’s on some sort of schedule.” Hugo snapped his fingers. “A schedule, of course! That’s why he didn’t see them coming and just hide.”

“What are you talking about?”

“His schedule, the dark.” Hugo pointed at the sky. “I’m talking about the moon.”

“So he’s a werewolf now?” Garcia smiled. “I prefer the idea of him as a zombie. They move more slowly. A round man like myself could even catch one.”

“Or escape from one,” said Hugo, returning the smile. “But no. Quite the opposite. I think it’s possible he planned his raids to coincide with the new moon to ensure he’d be operating at the darkest possible time. Even if he gets spotted somehow, he just has to dive behind one of the seventy thousand monuments and you’ll never see him again.”

“Makes sense,” said Garcia, nodding slowly. He looked up. “You think he’ll hit again?”

“No idea,” said Hugo. “But if he does, it could well be tonight.” He stood and dropped change into the saucer on the table. “And you and I, my dear capitaine, are going to be there waiting for him.”

 

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Hugo let himself into his apartment on Rue Jacob. He heard the water running in the bathroom attached to the spare room. A moment later, Tom walked into the living room with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was still wet and bags sat under his eyes, dark and wide as if a child had been given license with a black crayon.

“Surprised to see you wearing that,” Hugo said.

“I heard you come in. Didn’t want to give you a complex.” Tom wandered into the kitchen and leaned over the sink. He cleared his throat and spat into the drain.

“Nice,” said Hugo. “Couldn’t do that in the shower? Or not at all?”

“Fuck off.”

“Planning to, as it happens.”

Tom seemed to hear something in Hugo’s voice, raising bloodshot eyes to look at his friend. “Going where?”

“A cemetery.”

“Why?”

“To catch a bad guy. Want to come?”

“No thanks.” Tom spat again, but this time just for effect, Hugo thought. “Don’t feel too good. Not up to much right now.”

“You owe me for your little friend, by the way.”

“Oh. She was expensive?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t worry, she was worth it.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“I don’t. But any time I spend your money it’s definitely worth it.”

Hugo faced him, his tone serious. “Tom, you can’t be doing that. Not here. I’m head of security at the US Embassy. Which means prostitutes, even expensive ones, are not allowed.”

“Then we have a good system going. I fuck them, you pay them. Almost like it’s not prostitution at all.” Tom looked away, unable or unwilling to meet Hugo’s eye.

“No more, OK?” Hugo hesitated. “What are your plans, Tom?”

“For when? Tonight? This week? Or are you asking what I want to be when I grow up?”

“Are you working this case with me or not?”

Tom rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“If it’s terrorism, I’m working the case, and if it’s not, I’m not. Problem is, no one seems to know yet.”

“It’s not terrorism, Tom.”

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

“Then fuck it, I don’t get paid and you get stuck with the bill for a hooker. How’s that?”

Hugo walked past him toward his own bedroom. “Sober up, Tom. Keep going like this and even if Amelia Earhart herself moves in next door, no one’s going to trust you to find her.”

“Prejudice against drunks?”

Hugo stopped in the doorway to his room and looked at his friend, rolls of fat bulging over the towel, his face that of a man twenty years older than he was. “At some point, Tom, it stops being a joke. At some point, you have to realize that you are a long way from where you should be.”

“And where the fuck is that?”

“Not for me to say. But you just turned down the chance to go out in the field, to hide out in the most famous cemetery in Paris and catch a killer red-handed.” Hugo shook his head. “Turned your back on an adventure. Never thought I’d live to see that day.”