Chapter Thirty-two

Hugo sat in his favorite armchair, across from Tom who was sprawled on the sofa. He looked tired, but some color had returned to his face. Between them on the coffee table lay the file on the dead girl, Elaine Fournier.

“I’m not waiting on you hand and foot, you know that, right?” Hugo smiled, but was only half-joking. The way he’d been lately, Tom would be demanding martinis and whiskeys like he was at a bar.

“I know what you’re thinking, and on that score you can do me one favor.”

“A little early in the day, isn’t it?”

“Depends on the favor.”

“True enough,” Hugo said. “What is it?”

“I’d like you to remove all the alcohol from this place.”

Hugo cocked his head. “Are you serious?”

“Very. Look, I’ve been sober for two days. It’s been hard, but it’s also been good.”

Hugo sat forward, hardly believing his ears. “Sure, Tom, whatever I can do to help.”

“I’m tasting food. Seeing colors. Thinking about something other than having a drink. It’s fucking amazing.”

“Tom, you’re about to make me cry. Or hug you.”

“Please don’t, you’ll drive me straight back to the bottle.”

Hugo held his hands up in surrender, still smiling. He went to the phone and dialed the concierge. “Dimitrios. Hugo Marston. When’s your birthday?”

“Three weeks ago, monsieur. Pourquoi?”

“I have a present for you, if you like single malt Scotch, wine, and beer. Some of it opened.”

Bien sûr, merci bien.”

“Don’t thank me, you’re doing us a favor. But you’ll have to come collect it, unwrapped.”

“I’ll be up in a little while, monsieur.”

Bien.” Hugo hung up. “You just made a Greek very happy.”

“That’s what I live for, to make people happy.”

Hugo dropped back into his chair. “What the hell did they do to you at the hospital?”

“They mentioned something about fixing a heart that was two sizes too small.” Tom adjusted his position, and winced. “They also mentioned that you took possession of . . .” he gave Hugo a sheepish look.

“Your possessions?” finished Hugo. “Yes, I did. Flushed.”

“I figured.”

“Cocaine’s bad, Tom. You’re giving that up, too, right?”

“Honestly, I’d barely even started on the stuff,” his voice was de­fensive, but softened. “Which is to say yes.”

“Case closed, then.”

“Thanks. Now let’s talk shop. Where are things with the Scarab?”

“I’m working with Garcia. He’s trying to find his mother, maybe she can lead us to him. Or help us figure him out, which may help us identify his next victim before he gets to her.”

“So far they’ve been pretty random,” Tom said. “The two at Père Lachaise, the girl yesterday. Plus the bones, old and new. What’s the general theory, he’s recreating Frankenstein’s monster?”

Hugo smiled. “That’s what Garcia said. And he may be right. My guess is he’s using the bones to make a skeleton, and took that poor girl’s skin because of the tattoo.”

“Which leaves us where?”

“There’s meaning behind his choice of those bones. Jane Avril and La Goulue. Elaine Fournier, though, she wasn’t a dancer.”

“She was chosen because of that tattoo?” Tom asked.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he kill the roommate? He must have known she’d be able to identify him. Why did he leave fingerprints, for that matter?”

“Because it’s almost over.”

“What is?”

“Whatever he’s doing. And I have the distinct impression it’s not going to end well. This guy has operated too long in the shadows, literally. He’s going to go out with a bang.”

“Then you better figure out what kind of bang. And where. And make sure I’m nowhere near.” Tom sat up straight, his hand on his chest. “Do you even have a plan?”

“I do,” Hugo said. “I’m going down there.”

“Where?”

“To Castet. It’s where this all started and it’s the best chance I have of figuring out who this guy really is.”

“Well,” Tom said, stroking his chin, “now that we killed our nonterrorist I’m out of the chain of command. But I bet I can rustle up a plane to fly you down there. Tomorrow morning?”

“Sure. Can it carry two passengers?”

“Thanks, but I’m in no shape to travel.”

Hugo grinned. “I figured that out all by myself. I had someone else in mind.”

 

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Claudia arrived at the apartment just as Dimitrios was making off with his stash of booze. She held the door for him and looked at Hugo with an eyebrow raised.

“Tom’s cut me off,” he said.

“Just from alcohol?” she said, then smiled. “I hope we can still get hookers around here.”

“Damn right,” Tom said, now lying flat out on the couch. “In fact, if we’re not drinking we can get even more of them.”

She went to him, and said, “Now you know how it feels.” The previous year she’d been hit in the shoulder, the bullet intended for Hugo.

“You going to stay and nurse me while handsome is gone?” Tom asked, nodding at Hugo.

“And where is handsome going?” She gave Hugo a quizzical look and the hands-on-the-hips stance told Hugo she wasn’t looking to be left out.

“Boys’ trip,” he said. “I’m borrowing a CIA plane and heading down to Castet, where our Scarab is from.”

“Haven’t the French police poked through the village?” she asked.

“Not yet. I just spoke to Garcia, he’s asking the locals to hold off.”

“I’m coming,” she said.

Hugo smiled. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this dance, and the last time she got her way. “I’d love for you to come,” he said. “But like I said, it’s a CIA plane and they don’t let foreigners on board.”

She looked at Tom, but he was Hugo’s best friend and more than happy to have the beautiful Claudia nursemaid him in Paris for a day or two. “What he said. They’re just a bunch of bureaucrats with guns.”

“What if I follow you?” she asked.

“What if I handcuff you to the chair?” Hugo replied, then saw the look on Tom’s face. “You’re enjoying this conversation too much.”

“I just started to,” he grinned. “Please continue. Something about Claudia and handcuffs.”

“This is the man you intend to leave me with?” Claudia said, unable to hide her smile.

“I’m rethinking that,” Hugo said. His phone rang and he moved to the kitchen to answer. “Raul, comment ça va?”

Bien,” said Garcia. “I got your message.”

“Any word on the Scarab’s mother?”

“Nothing specifically on her. But the Villier family home is still sitting there. Never sold and, according to the local police, not occupied. You think he’s living there, under the radar?”

Hugo thought for a moment. “I doubt it. For one thing it’s a small village and any kind of activity would be noticed immediately. Second, he’s operating in Paris, which tells me he almost certainly lives here. But the house will tell us something, I’m sure of that.”

“Us?”

“Right,” said Hugo. “I called you earlier because I want to take a trip down there, and I figured I’d need a policeman with me. Especially after what you’ve just told me.”

“Definitely. When do we leave?”