CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hugo was finally allowed to go home, escorted into his building by two gendarmes, who pushed through the half-dozen reporters camped out on Rue Jacob wanting a quote or two from the sharp-shooting American. Safely inside, the flics waited in the lobby under the watchful eye of Dimitrios, the concierge, as Hugo climbed the stairs to his apartment, grateful for a few moments of peace and quiet before he had to change for the party.

Those hopes were dashed the minute he walked in the door. “Tom, I thought you were in England.”

“Delightful to see you, too,” Tom said. He was stretched out on the couch, shoes still on, with a book on his lap. Hugo saw it was one of his, The Unrepentant, by Ed Aymar. A pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he looked over them at Hugo. “You gonna shoot me right between the eyes, Wyatt Earp?”

“I would love to. And if you don’t get your feet off my couch I will.” He sank into a chair opposite his friend. “Reading glasses?”

“Technically it’s a disability, so you can’t make fun of me.”

“They come with hearing aids, some kind of package deal?”

“Funny. Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, my hearing is like my eyesight: just fine. Yours on the other hand . . .”

“Fuck off, Hugo.” Tom swung his legs off the sofa and put the book on the coffee table between them. “They’re from a high-end store in London. Cost a fortune so I know they look good.”

Hugo smiled. They’d come a long way together, he and Tom. Roommates at Quantico, they helped each other through training, and over their years with the FBI they’d shared the same postings several times. Hugo had gone on to train and work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, whereas Tom had honed different skills, ones that eventually got noticed by the CIA. They lured him away and even Hugo didn’t know the full extent of everywhere he’d been and everything he’d done. Didn’t know the half of it, most likely.

And now here was Tom, the secret agent extraordinaire, the man who’d killed for his country and turned himself into a functional alcoholic in an attempt to drown his demons, here he was pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose like a disappointed driving instructor.

“They look great, Tom. How was England?”

“Surprisingly sunny. For the three days I was there.”

“You’ve been gone two weeks.”

Tom grinned enigmatically. “Business trip.”

Officially retired, the CIA made use of Tom’s experience on a part-time basis, paying him handsomely and letting him travel in comfort, as long as he wasn’t too specific with those around him about where he was going, or why. Hugo had long ago given up asking.

“As long as you got your fill of fish and chips while you were there.”

“And these glasses.” He took them off and looked at Hugo. “So what the hell happened out there? And why did you give an interview to that hack? Kind of dinged your hero status there.”

“None of it was my choice, I promise you that.”

“You really shoot the gun out of his hand?”

Hugo groaned. “Good lord.”

“Well?”

“The third shot happened to hit the gun, which he was holding center-mass.”

Tom nodded approvingly. “Nice. I have no idea why you’re fighting this, Hugo.”

“Fighting what?”

“The hero narrative. Man, play it right and you could retire and write your memoirs.”

“I’ll have plenty of time for that,” Hugo said. “I like my job. Plus, I couldn’t afford this place without it, and then where would you live?”

“Ever the altruist, thank you. You working on something? Need help?”

“You hear about the American girl strangled at Château Lambourd?”

“Who strangled where?”

“It’s the home of a noble French family. The girl was a servant, basically. Someone garroted her in the middle of the night, but didn’t kill her.”

“Was it Colonel Mustard in the library?”

“Funny. It was on the landing by the stairs, and if I knew who did it, I’d have said.”

“Got the great Hugo Marston stumped, has it?” Tom sounded a little too pleased. “Sounds like you do need my help.”

“Actually, I do. But not on that case.”

“On what, then?”

“The shooting. Ambassador Taylor has me in the dark, since I’m a subject of interest or some damn thing.”

Tom nodded, serious now. “Well, they have to investigate, make sure it was a good shooting.”

“Yeah, I know that. But it’s frustrating not knowing what’s going on, and in the meantime I’m being hounded by the media and some of them, as you saw, want to turn me into the bad guy.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“The dead guy was carrying a fake CIA badge.”

Tom snorted. “Because agents carry badges to identify themselves in case they get caught?”

“Exactly. Anyway, seems like that’d give you reason to ask a few questions, no? Kind of a jurisdictional entranceway.”

“It might,” Tom said. “Anything specific you want to know?”

“Yes. I want to know everything you can find out about the shooter. And as soon as you can.”

“You know me, Hugo. An absolute whirlwind of energy and activity.” Tom stood. “So I’m gonna take a nap before dinner, then have a good long sleep tonight. I’ll get to work first thing on Monday.”

“Sooner.”

“Fine.” Tom let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll make a few calls tomorrow.”

“Discreet ones, please.”

“You wanna do this yourself?”

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry,” Hugo said. “You do your thing, I’ll do mine.”

“Which is?”

Hugo looked at his watch. “I’m sorry to say, my thing tonight is attending a black-tie event.”

Tom started for the bedroom. “Well, you have fun with that. Don’t get back too late, and no girls in the apartment.”

Hugo smiled. It’s my apartment, Tom.

Claudia and her driver, Jean, picked Hugo up from outside his building, after he all but sprinted past the remaining three reporters, who weren’t expecting him at that moment and didn’t have time to get pictures or ask questions.

Hugo waved cheerily at them out of the back window, and settled in next to Claudia.

“You smell good,” he said, nuzzling her. She did, a sexy mix of jasmine, vanilla, and something he couldn’t identify. She laughed and playfully pushed him away, and then drew him back in close again, saying she didn’t mean it. Hugo was glad—it’d been too long since he’d seen her, in fact long enough that her hair had grown past her shoulders, further softening her already beautiful features.

When they got to Château Lambourd and climbed out of the car, Hugo noted that she looked even better than she smelled. She wore an off-the-shoulder light blue dress that hugged her figure down to the knee-length ruffled hem. A pair of silver heels made her taller than usual, and Hugo used her extra height to his advantage, planting kisses on her welcoming lips several times before they headed to the entrance.

The château was resplendent, too. Candles lined the path to the main doors, and two liveried footmen stood to attention either side of the open doorway. A string quartet was set up in the courtyard to welcome guests, and Hugo recognized Vivaldi’s spring concerti. There was no one checking invitations—Claudia said they were doing that remotely from one of the former stables, using hidden cameras and facial recognition software. She didn’t know how she knew that, so Hugo wasn’t convinced, but crashing this party required a black tie or evening gown, so even the uninvited would have looked good.

Inside, in the large and open reception area, white-jacketed waiters proffered silver trays carrying champagne and hors d’oeuvres, while newly arrived guests laughed and chatted in small groups and the sweet sounds of the violins drifted in and around them like a gentle breeze.

“Quite the party,” Claudia said. “I’m surprised I’ve never been here before.”

“Me too. How is that possible?”

“My father used to come, but they don’t allow children to this party, and as an adult I’ve always had other things to do. Travel, mostly.”

“I think you’ll be impressed with the place. Off this foyer, all downstairs, is the functional stuff, huge kitchen area, wine cellar, servant quarters.”

“Where that girl was staying when she was attacked?”

“Yes, but she was attacked at the top of those stairs, the second floor.” Hugo glanced in that direction to show Claudia.

“What was she doing up there?”

“She says she doesn’t remember, but I think that wasn’t true.”

“Then what?”

“I suspect she’d paid someone a visit, but doesn’t want to either get them in trouble with us, or get herself in trouble with the family.”

“A midnight tryst, how exciting,” Claudia said with a wink. “Who do you suspect?”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to investigate tonight?”

“You’re not. We’re just talking.” She swiped two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed one to Hugo. “Santé.”

“Santé to you, too.” They clinked glasses.

“Well?”

“I have no idea who she was seeing, if anyone.”

“You asked her?”

“Gosh, no, didn’t think of that,” Hugo said sarcastically, earning himself a punch in the arm. “Let’s go up to the second floor and see the main living rooms.”

Claudia looped her arm through Hugo’s, and they walked up the stairs toward two more footmen, erect and unmoving.

“I wonder if they’re there to stop drunk people falling down the steps,” Claudia whispered.

“Let’s get drunk and find out,” Hugo whispered back. At the top of the staircase another open space held giant vases brimming with flowers. Sweet-scented lilies, bloodred roses, and cascades of wildflowers that filled the area with color and the soft smell of spring. Hugo cursed silently as his phone buzzed with a new text, and he took a discreet look at the screen.

Call me. It was from Tom.

Hugo hesitated, and Claudia noticed.

“What was my rule?” she said sternly.

“It’s Tom. Probably unhappy about the empty fridge. Or something else domestic like that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah, probably not. You going to be mad if I call him back?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll hound me until I do, if I know Tom.” At that moment another text came in: Now! and Hugo showed it to her. “See?”

Claudia crossed her arms and pretended to be angry. “Well, make it snappy. And don’t be surprised if you come back and find me chatting with some other handsome hunk. Or hunkette.”

Hugo kissed her lips again and started for the staircase that led to the top floor, but one of the two footmen standing in front of the bottom step put out a hand to stop him.

“Oh, so you’re not just ornamental,” Hugo said in English. He switched to French when the man gave him a quizzical look. “I need to make a call, in private.” He dug out his credentials and showed them. The footmen glanced at each other, and one of them nodded. “Merci bien,” Hugo said and trotted up to the third floor.

The thick rugs and even thicker wood floors muted most of the hubbub below, and Hugo sank into a plush velvet armchair away from the top of the staircase to call Tom.

“This better be good, my friend, you made Claudia mad at me for calling you.”

“Well, now you can have makeup sex. So you’re welcome.”

“It’s not that kind of party. You have something for me?”

“Yeah, couple of things.”

“That was quick,” Hugo said.

“Nap didn’t work out so I made a phone call or two. Five actually. Anyway, first of all the dude you shot isn’t necessarily American.”

“I know. At least, I know the passport was a forgery.”

“You knew that already?”

“Yes. I didn’t mention it?”

“No, you fucking didn’t.”

“Sorry,” Hugo said. “Did you ID him then?”

“Not yet, no one has. But I did ID the gun.”

“And what does that tell us?”

“Not good things, Hugo. Not good at all.”

“Stop playing cute, Tom, Claudia is waiting for me. Impatiently.”

“Okay, well, here goes nothing. Like I said, the dude may or may not be American,” Tom said slowly. “But the gun definitely is.”

“I thought someone said it was a Glock. That’s Austrian—”

“No, you idiot. I don’t mean where it was made, I mean where it came from.”

“And that is?”

“US soil, I’m afraid. To be more precise, our fucking embassy. Hugo, it’s one of yours.”