by Mark Pryor
“But who? How can we possibly stop him?”
Hugo already had his wallet out. He jammed a twenty-euro note under the olive dish. “There’s only one heart he wants.” He held Claudia’s eye. “Only one person it could possibly be.”
Chapter Forty-one
When Tom didn’t pick up, Hugo left a message, calling details into the phone as they ran to Claudia’s car.
“What about the police?” she asked. “We have to call them.”
“No,” Hugo shouted back. “We’ll probably beat the cops there, and if he hears them coming, he’ll kill her right there.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes. Let me drive?” It was a question, and one that earned a dark look. “I know the way,” he explained. “It’ll be faster.”
They were almost at the car and she unlocked it remotely on the run, before throwing him the keys. In seconds they were speeding along the Boulevard de Clichy.
“When we get there.” Hugo glanced at her. “Is there any point in asking you to stay in the car?”
“None,” she said. “And if I said I would, I’d be lying. Just so you know.”
“Claudia, that’s not smart.”
“It is if you’re not calling the police. I’ll hang back, I’ll call them if . . . Well, you know.”
If I get shot. “OK. I can live with you hanging back,” he said.
Hugo took a left, away from the busy boulevard, then swore as two men, drunk already, staggered into the street ahead of him. They heard the car’s horn and flew headfirst into a parked motorcycle as he rocketed past, a pair of Olympic divers abandoning form for function.
Hugo jammed the car into a handicapped space and they both jumped out, Hugo reaching for his backup weapon, a wooden-handled Smith & Wesson that felt heavy in his hand. They ran into the building, Hugo relieved that if she wouldn’t sit tight, she let him lead. They took the stairs two at a time, slowing as they neared the apartment, Hugo switching to stealth over speed. As they turned into the corridor, Claudia paused and Hugo gave her a grateful nod.
He inched toward the door, keeping his gun up and his back to the wall. When he reached it, he stopped to listen. Nothing. He tried the handle but the door was locked. He had no choice but to knock, making sure he kept his body away from the door in case the Scarab was inside and armed.
There was no response to his knock. He hammered the door with the butt of his gun.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he called. “Amelia, it’s Hugo Marston.”
He waited and exchanged looks with Claudia who stood at the end of the hallway, watching nervously.
“Amelia, I’m coming in.” He aimed the .44 at the lock and fired twice. The sound set his ears ringing but he didn’t hesitate, shouldering the door open and bursting into the apartment.
It looked the same as when he’d left it, no sign of a disturbance, nothing out of place. He checked every room, looking for signs that she’d been gone long, or maybe taken against her will.
Claudia appeared in the doorway. “Not here?”
Hugo shook his head. “And no way to tell when she’ll be back.”
“If ever.”
“Right.”
“We have no idea where the guy lives?”
“Tom’s looking into that. Until he comes up with something, we have to go to the next-best place.”
“Which is?”
“She told me about Al Zakiri’s barge but said she’d never seen it, never been there. She was lying.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw flowers when I was there.”
“Ah. And as we all know, men don’t buy themselves flowers.” She smiled. “Not men like you and Al Zakiri, anyway.”
“Precisely. Let’s head to the river.”
“You think Villier would take her there?”
“No, he’d take her to his place,” Hugo said. “I think she’d go to the houseboat to get away for a few days, and to be closer to Al Zakiri.”
They started back along the corridor to the stairs. “Would Villier know about the boat?”
“He’s been preparing for a while. It’s possible he followed her, got to know her. He probably knows a lot more about her than we do.” He stopped in his tracks. The blurred image of a man on a bridge dissolved and came into focus. It was the eyes that sealed it. “He’s seen the boat,” he said, his jaw tight.
“That’s not very encouraging,” she said. As they exited the building, she held out her hand. “Want me to drive?”
Hugo craned his neck to find the barge as they drove over the Pont Alexandre, but there was too much traffic, too many pedestrians to get a clear view.
Claudia knew the places to park in Paris—as a journalist with deadlines, she had to—and she tucked the car into a space on Rue Surcouf, two blocks from the riverfront. Hugo dialed Tom as he climbed out of the car.
“Have anything on where this bastard lives?” he asked.
“Not yet. We’re running every variation of his name we can think of, got descriptions out to the uniforms on the street, using our best guesses as to where he might live.”
“Which is?”
“Somewhere near a metro stop, not the city center. He has to live alone, given what he’s doing, but if his name isn’t on a lease or deed then he’s using cash and you don’t do that in the Latin Quarter.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“No shit. Any other suggestions?”
Hugo thought for a moment. “You know, I might. It’s a long shot, though.”
“My specialty. What have you got?”
“On our way out, Pierre Galvan told us that Villier’s mother was famous for two beautiful tattoos, a snake on her front, a leopard on her back.”
“We know he got the snake.”
“My guess is he also got the leopard, we just don’t know about it. If you can pull all the death reports from the past couple of weeks, just to be safe, go through the descriptions, look for a tattoo like that.”
“Dude, we’re not stupid,” Tom said. “We’ve already been on the lookout for bodies that are mutilated or are missing tattoos.”
“Then expand it to missing persons. I guarantee he’s got that tattoo in his collection, and whoever it belonged to is dead. Which means someone, somewhere, is missing her.” He looked up as they stopped at an intersection. “And if her body’s not been found, it’s likely to be a drug addict, prostitute, someone who lives alone, or whose movements aren’t monitored.”
“I’m on it. Where are you?”
“Down by the river. Rousseau’s apartment was empty and I didn’t see any sign of a struggle, so hopefully she left under her own steam.”
“You’re checking the barge?”
“Yep. I’ll call if we find anything.”
Hugo hung up and they crossed the street at a jog, feeling the evening breeze lift off the river to meet them, bringing with it the smells of the city, the aromas of cooking as the nearby cafés and bistros fired up their kitchens, which fought with the acrid choke of the evening’s traffic and the metallic odor of the Seine itself.
They paused by the low wall that overlooked the riverfront, looking both ways for the battered barge.
“I don’t see it,” Hugo said.
Claudia pointed to their left. “The river bends after the Pont de l’Alma. Maybe it’s around the corner.”
“I’d be surprised if she knew how to move it.”
“Because girls can’t drive boats?”
“Can you?”
“I’d figure it out. If I had people hounding me about my dead boyfriend, I’d figure it out fast.”
Hugo started toward the stone steps that lead down to the walkway. “Let’s go see.”
They walked fast, making their way to, and then beneath, the Pont des Invalides, eyes scanning up and down the river for the houseboat. The evening had started to settle over the city, flattening the light and making it hard for them to be sure of what they were seeing, ca
bins of blue and black looking the same as green when they sat so low in the water.
An old man in a worn gray overcoat sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the walkway, a fishing rod over the water. Hugo approached him.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur,” he said. “You fish here a lot?”
“Some,” the man said, not looking up.
“I’m looking for a houseboat that was moored along here recently, fairly old but with a newly painted green cabin.”
“A lot of houseboats along here,” he said. “They come and go.”
“This one was owned by a tall, Pakistani man. You may have seen a very pretty lady go aboard.”
“Ah oui,” he said. “Now I know the one.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“The police took it. Yesterday, I think.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“I assume the man who owned it is in trouble.”
“You might say that,” Hugo said. He turned to go. “Merci bien. Et bonne chance.”
“I hope they let his girlfriend go, though.” The old man shook his head. “Too pretty to be in jail, that one.”
Hugo turned back. “What do you mean?”
“She was down here an hour ago. Arrested.”
Arrested? That wasn’t right, if she were in custody, Tom would know. And so would Hugo. “The police arrested her here?”
“Oui.” The old man wiped a finger under his nose. “Not even an hour ago. She came down here, looking for the boat. The flic was waiting for her.”
“Wait, you said ‘the flic.’ Just one policeman?”
“Oui.”
“What did he look like?”
“Not like any policeman I’ve seen before. Not in uniform, so I assume undercover or something. Little man, nasty looking. He had short hair and shifty eyes, and these big hands.” He shook his head again. “I was right there when it happened. Poor girl, she was terrified. Didn’t resist, but he still threatened her with the gun.”
“Did he handcuff her?”
“Oui,” said the man.
Hugo’s heart sank and he thanked the man again and went over to Claudia and asked for her phone.
“Tom, it’s Hugo. We were too late, he kidnapped Amelia Rousseau from the quay an hour ago.”
“That right? Then hop aboard your steed, my friend, because I just found out where the bastard lives.”
Chapter Forty-two
The Scarab held her hand as they went up the stairs. He didn’t think she’d fight; it wasn’t that. More because he wanted her not to be afraid, to trust him and understand how important she was to him.
She slipped once and he chided himself for not keeping this area cleaner, but the smell of urine and garbage seemed to have settled into the concrete itself. She was so beautiful, so delicate, so perfect. It was only inside that they’d be safe and secure from the world.
As he unlocked his front door, she saw what lay inside and pulled her hand out of his with a small cry, stepping back, her pretty eyes wide with fear.
“Come. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. When she shook her head, the Scarab grabbed the chain between the handcuffs and drew her closer. “It won’t help. Nothing will change what has to happen.”
“Why is that there?” Her voice was a whisper. “What are you going to do?”
He smiled, wanting to reassure her, but instead she recoiled and his face hardened. He led her to an old radiator in the living room, watching as her eyes skittered around the room as if looking for danger or, he thought, hope.
He unlocked one wrist and looped the open cuff around a metal pipe that fed water to the radiator, enjoying the sound of the steel teeth as they chattered closed.
“Wait here, please,” he said, as if she had a choice.
He left the apartment and went upstairs, walking into the old woman’s place and looking around, making sure no one else had been there. A smell came from the bathroom that wrinkled his nose, like meat left out for too long, getting ready to spoil.
The girl was still wrapped up, the blanket soiled and sticky. He picked her up, cradling her like a baby, looking down at the strands of red hair that flopped out of the top of her wrap. He started down the stairs but as he got close to his apartment door he heard footsteps coming up to meet him. He jumped down the last few stairs and shouldered his door open.
The girl swung her head toward him and raised her free hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes settled on the body he carried and she shook her head slowly in disbelief.
“Non, non . . .”
“Be quiet!” he hissed.
He placed the dead girl on the floor and went out onto the landing. He kept a hand on the .22 in his pocket and waited for his downstairs neighbor to reach him.
“Salut,” the man said. “I thought I heard something strange from your place, I wanted to make sure someone wasn’t breaking in.”
“Everything’s fine,” the Scarab said.
The man hesitated. “Bien. Then I’ll leave you to it.” He started to go but turned back. “Do you know if anyone’s going to do something about the smell in this stairway?”
“Oui, moi,” said Villier. “I’m going to take care of that today.”
“Oh, good. We’re heading out of town, going camping for a week in the Loire. It’ll be nice to come back to a cleaner place.”
“When are you leaving?” Villier asked.
“Right now.” He gestured over his shoulder. “They’re in the car waiting, we were packing up when I heard . . . those noises.” He looked at Villier for a moment. “You sure everything’s OK?”
The Scarab tightened his grip on the gun. “Yes.”
“D’accord. I was in the basement, it’s where we keep our tent. I saw some bundles with wires sticking out of them.” He grinned, but uncertainty lay in his eyes. “You’re not going to blow the place up are you?”
“Non.” Villier forced a smile. “They are smoke bombs, for the bugs. I saw some cockroaches, thought I should get rid of them before they spread. It’s good that you’re going away, I’ll make sure it’s all done by the time you get back. Have a safe trip.”
“We will.” The man waved a hand as he started back down the stairs and Villier watched him all the way, leaning over the iron railing to see him climb into the passenger seat of the couple’s red car. He smiled as they drove out of the parking lot and turned into the street. The building needed to be empty of people for what was going to happen.
He went back inside and found the girl crumpled on the floor and sobbing, one arm raised by the radiator as if she had a question. She looked up at him. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll scream. I’ll scream until someone hears me.”
The tears choked her words but he could see that she meant them. He shook his head, wanting to be kind. “No one will hear you. But please don’t scream, it will spoil things. A little.”
Her head sank and he stooped to pick up the whore, the smell of her filling his nostrils. He left the door open to prove to the girl that no one was there to hear her scream, and carried the whore downstairs and across the parking lot to the dumpster. He heaved her in with a shrug of his square shoulders, swatting her foot with his hand when it hung over the edge. He headed back to the building and went up to the old woman’s apartment. He picked her body up, out of the tub, noting that she smelled different, as if death had settled in quicker. She was lighter, too, which helped.
He paused to look in at Mimi, who cried out when she saw the old woman in his hands. “I’m not going to do this to you,” he said. “I promise.”
Not exactly.
When he’d dropped the old woman on top of the whore, he climbed up the stairs, the realization that everything was now settling about him. He stood on the landing and looked out over the parking lot, lifting his eyes to the darkening sky and smiling at the spread of orange that flowed across the horizon. The few clouds soaked up the color with their edges, like sponges hoping to paint the rest of the sky for hi
m.
He started at the sound of an engine revving down, the sound he heard every time a car pulled into the parking lot. His neighbors, hopefully. Maybe they forgot something. But the engine died, and he walked to the end of the landing to look through the security glass, threaded with wire, to see who it was. A surge of anger scorched his stomach as he saw the American sitting inside the vehicle. He’d known the man might survive, had been content with knowing he’d be able to tell the story of Louise Braud to the world, explain how she’d been reunited with her son.
He had not expected Marston to find him, though, not here, not now. It was too soon.
He watched as the passenger door opened. It might be all right, he thought, if it’s just Marston. His body wouldn’t contaminate the pyre. The Scarab couldn’t risk his and Mimi’s ashes mingling with those of a whore or an old woman, but Marston had some of the qualities he wanted, physical and intellectual. No, Marston’s ashes couldn’t hurt, but the woman he was with, well, another woman couldn’t possibly be a part of the ceremony.
The Scarab watched, his face pressed to the glass, as the two people in the parking lot talked animatedly in the car. They were making an important decision, he knew.
If he comes up alone, he can be a part of it. If they both come up, they die by the bullet.
Yes, he thought. It was an important decision for all of them.
Chapter Forty-three
Claudia drove as Hugo relayed directions from Tom. As they waited at a red light, fuming with impatience, Hugo asked Tom how he’d found the place.
“We came up with a call girl who’d gone missing,” Tom said. “She had a tattoo on her back, a big old lion.”
“Lion?”
“King of the jungle, baby. Kick a leopard’s ass any day.”
“I’m not sure that’s the point here.”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s what we got, and we even got a little bit more.”
“Something that ties her to the Scarab?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I got the last address she went to. She’d been there once before according to the guy who reported her missing. He called himself her boyfriend, but I assume he’s her pimp. Anyway, I did some research on the address. It’s a three-story place with an old lady on the top floor and a gay couple on the ground floor.”