The Sorbonne Affair

by Mark Pryor

  “No, an ugly man. Named Tom.”

  “Understood,” Lerens said. “Paul just brought in the computer you bagged at the hotel. Our techs will get to work on it soon. In the meantime, I’ll head over to the hotel and talk to Lionel Colbert.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hugo wanted to clear his head, and he considered calling Claudia for a bite to eat but had a sudden urge to sit quietly in his apartment and read a book. After his recent book discussion, he’d bought a new release, A Thousand Falling Crows by Larry Sweazy, immediately loving the protagonist, a one-armed Texas Ranger forced into retirement after taking a bullet from Bonnie Parker. The book brimmed with atmosphere, bleak, desolate, and threatening, yet somehow a delightful escape from his own recent swirl of murder and intrigue.

  Ten minutes later, he turned onto Rue Jacob, his thoughts on the comfy chair and book he was about to sink into. Twenty feet from his building, he heard footsteps behind him, closer than they should have been, and he started to turn around, his mind snapping back into the real world around him. Too late. He felt a searing pain above his right ear, and then a warmth overwhelmed him. He dropped to his knees, and his last view was the sidewalk speeding toward him, then nothing more than a deep, enveloping blackness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hugo lay motionless, his mind grappling with his whereabouts, with what had happened. He knew something had happened, but his mind was a fog and the memories drifted through it like ghosts, faceless and unrecognizable. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright and he squeezed them shut, wincing as the streak of yellow stabbed through the back of his eyes and into his brain. He took a slow, easy breath and was relieved that his torso seemed intact. He moved his arms and felt someone hold them down.

  “Stay still, monsieur, you might make it worse.” A woman’s voice.

  He tried to speak, but it came out as a mumble, unintelligible even to him.

  The same female voice. “You’re in an ambulance. You had an accident, looks like you fell and hit your head.”

  This time his voice was a slur. “Non, someone hit me.” He wanted to add, I fell after, after someone hit me, but it seemed like too much.

  Other voices floated over him. How long was I unconscious? he wondered. He could tell that the ambulance wasn’t moving. The engine was idling, the sirens quiet.

  “Alors, Monsieur Marston, the police are here,” the woman said. “They’re saying someone hit you. Can you speak to them?”

  “I don’t remember anything.” His voice was stronger, and he fluttered his eyes to let a little light in, not too much. “But I can talk to them. Quietly.”

  Hugo heard the paramedic relay the message and then add, “He has a sense of humor, so I’m guessing he’ll live.”

  Live. Die. Someone hit me.

  Shit.

  He reached a hand into his jacket.

  “Shit,” he said aloud. His gun was gone. He struggled, tried to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder held him down.

  “Relax, monsieur, your head is bleeding and you likely have a concussion.” Hugo opened his eyes further. A burly paramedic in a blue uniform was looking down at him, her hands on each of his shoulders. “You’ll stay still if I let go?” He caught a glimpse of Rue Jacob behind her.

  “Oui,” Hugo confirmed, starting to get his bearings. Even that slight attempt to sit had sent jagged streaks of pain through his skull. “I’ll stay still.”

  “Alors,” she said. “I’ll have the flic come in and talk to you.” She smiled, and added, “Quietly.”

  “Wait, I need you to call someone for me, it’s important. Her name is Camille Lerens; she’s a lieutenant with the Brigade Criminelle.” A thought struck him. “My phone. Did they take that too?”

  “Non, monsieur, we took it out of your pocket before lifting you up. So that it wouldn’t fall out and break. That’s how I know your name. I also found your wallet. You are an American policeman?”

  “Something like that. How bad is the damage?”

  “Like I said, bleeding and concussion. You should go to the hospital for a scan, at least have a doctor look at you.”

  “I feel OK,” Hugo lied. “I don’t need any of that.”

  “Your choice, monsieur. Here,” she said, offering him his phone. “You want me to make that call?”

  “No, thank you,” Hugo said, wanting to show her that he was fine. “I’ll do it. If you could just tell the flics I’ll be right with them.”

  He swiped at the touch screen and started to look for Lerens’s number, but he paused when he heard raised voices outside.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” said a familiar one. A moment later, Tom stepped into the ambulance.

  “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît, you cannot just—”

  “The hell I can’t; this idiot is my landlord.”

  Hugo couldn’t help but smile. He turned to the paramedic and two flustered police officers who were just outside the ambulance and said, “It’s OK, you can let him through. Just make sure he keeps his voice down.”

  “What happened, dude?” Tom asked, squeezing himself in beside the gurney.

  “I think someone took a whack at me.” Hugo went for some humor, to show he was all right. “If it was with a bottle, you’ll be the prime suspect.”

  Tom snorted. “I’d have finished the job.”

  “Can you call Camille and let her know? I’m assuming it’s related to the case. Cases. Maybe one of the stores has surveillance cameras.” Hugo’s heart sank. “And, Tom, call the ambassador. The bastard took my gun.”

  Tom shook his head slowly. “That’s gonna be a mess of paperwork, you dumb shit.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He groaned at the thought of it. “Just what I need.”

  “Any witnesses?” Tom asked.

  “I think so. No idea who, though.”

  “You see anyone?”

  “Tom, I just woke up. He hit me from behind. Stop asking me questions.”

  “Now, now, don’t get feisty with me. I’ll let the uniforms quiz you; they’re also short-tempered for some reason.” He patted Hugo’s arm. “I’ll call Camille and Ambassador Taylor, let them know. You going to the hospital?”

  “Yes,” said the paramedic, at the same time as Hugo said, “No.”

  “Well, you two sort that out. I’ll make some phone calls and poke around a little.” Tom hopped out of the ambulance, his phone already in his hand.

  “Just bandage me up; I’ll be fine,” Hugo said, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

  “I strongly recommend that you let a doctor check you out,” responded the paramedic as she hopped back into the bus.

  “Of course you do; that’s your job. But I have one to do as well, and I can’t do it from a hospital bed.”

  The paramedic shrugged. “As you like, it’s your head. But please have someone look at you later today, or first thing tomorrow.”

  “I will.” Hugo sat still as she finished winding a bandage around his head.

  “There. I put some butterfly stitches in, and the bleeding’s stopped, so if you take it easy for the rest of the day, you might be OK.”

  “Merci,” Hugo said.

  “You understand what I mean by taking it easy, right?” she said sternly. “And like I said—”

  “I know, see a doctor sooner rather than later.”

  “And have your tenant keep an eye on you, if he can,” she added.

  “My tenan . . . Oh, right. I will.” Hugo closed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself as a uniformed flic replaced the paramedic in the back of the ambulance. He introduced himself as he flipped open a notebook.

  “Je suis Julien Steinberg, monsieur. First of all, I have some good news. We found your gun in the gutter. Can you tell me the make and model?”

  “Bien sûr.” Hugo gave him that information, also rattling off the serial number.

  “Merci.” Steinberg slid the gun gently into Hugo’s holster beneath his jacket. “
Are you able to answer a few more questions?”

  “Oui.” Hugo closed his eyes for a moment, suddenly tired, then opened them again. “I can try, anyway.”

  “Do you remember what happened?” The officer’s tone was calm, his voice low, as if he was aware of Hugo’s throbbing head.

  “I was walking home, heard some footsteps behind me, and then . . . woke up here. How long was I out?”

  “I’m not sure, monsieur, but I can ask when we’re done, if you like.”

  Hugo forced himself onto one elbow, fighting the wave of nausea that swept over him. “The paramedic said there were witnesses. What did they tell you?”

  “Let me get your statement first, if you don’t mind.”

  Smart cop, Hugo thought. He doesn’t want my memories tainted with someone else’s. “I really don’t remember anything else,” he said. “I didn’t see anyone, hear anyone’s voice. I know someone crept up behind me and then . . . nothing.”

  “D’accord, merci. Un moment, s’il vous plaît.” The officer hopped out of the back of the ambulance and spoke to his colleague. Hugo sank back on the gurney, his head nestling into the pillow, and he fought the urge to close his eyes. A minute later, the officer returned. “Two witnesses. Neither one saw you get hit, they just saw the person running away.”

  “You have a description?”

  “Not one we can use to identify anyone. Both witnesses say he was short, but one says stocky and the other skinny. They agree on the hoodie, either red or orange.”

  “Did you find what they hit me with?”

  “Yes, most likely. There was a heavy stick in the gutter; we think that was the weapon, but we’ll test it for his prints and DNA. Yours to make sure it was used, and his to find the bastard.”

  “Assuming it was a man,” Hugo prompted.

  “Right, with that description, it might not be.”

  “How long will the DNA testing take?”

  The officer grimaced. “Probably a while. Weeks would be my guess. Months, maybe, since they didn’t manage to kill you.”

  “I thought so.” With some effort, Hugo reached over to his phone again. He typed out a text message and hit send. They think the stick is the weapon. Cops to send it for DNA testing . . . “By the way, the other officer here, I think I met him once.” He propped himself up again, trying to see out of the back.

  Steinberg yelled at his colleague. “Jean, viens ici!” and gestured for him to come over.

  The second flic appeared at the end of Hugo’s gurney. “Have we met before?” Hugo asked.

  “Non, monsieur, I don’t think so.”

  “You look very familiar . . . maybe you have a relative in the force?”

  “My father, but he retired years ago.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time; I must be mistaken.”

  “Not a problem,” the cop said. “How are you feeling?”

  “A sore head, a little dizzy, but I’ll live.”

  “You’ll go to the hospital?”

  “At some point, yes. Thanks for all your help today. I appreciate what you do.”

  “You’re very welcome.” The officer turned as Tom’s face peered into the ambulance. “Can I help you, monsieur?”

  “He’s with me,” Hugo said. “You guys mind helping me up? I have a couch waiting for me.”

  “Is it far?” Steinburg asked. “Be happy to give a colleague a ride home.”

  “It’s about twenty feet away,” Tom said. “Idiot got mugged on his own doorstep.”

  “Technically I wasn’t mugged,” Hugo said. “They didn’t take my gun, phone, or wallet—just hit me and ran.”

  Tom grinned. “Well, we’ve all had that urge.”

  With a few grunts and groans, the officers helped Hugo off the gurney and out of the ambulance. He felt a little light-headed, and his skull throbbed like someone was still drumming on it, but he was glad to be upright.

  He shook hands with the flics and paramedics, thanking them, then started toward his apartment building, Tom falling into step close beside him.

  “You get it?” Hugo asked.

  “Won’t Camille be pissed?”

  “I bet she would’ve authorized it if we’d asked.”

  “But we didn’t. And so she didn’t.”

  “We’ve used your lab before, and we don’t have weeks or months to wait,” Hugo said.

  Tom glanced over his shoulder as they reached the steps of the building. “OK, just make sure she knows it was your idea.” He put a hand on Hugo’s arm to help him up the stone steps.

  “I will,” Hugo said.

  Inside the foyer, Tom unzipped his jacket and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. The weapon was about two feet long, and they both studied it for a few seconds.

  “Thanks. I don’t need a tampering-with-evidence charge on my record.”

  Hugo looked up at him. “Totally unrelated question, but did you have any joy with your earlier escapade?”

  “Fuck no. But if he’s here, I’ll find him—and for your sake, if not for mine.” Tom held up the bag. “Apparently you’ve become a very soft target.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Camille Lerens showed up with half a dozen red roses and a smile on her face.

  “I just saw Tom on the way out,” she said.

  Hugo was lying on the couch, his bandaged head on two pillows. “Let me guess, something about me being old and incapable of looking after myself.”

  “Exactly.” She walked to the open kitchen and lay the flowers down on the counter. “Got a vase here somewhere?”

  “You recall who lives here, right?”

  “Oh, good point.” She pulled a water jug from a cupboard. “This’ll do.”

  “You’re very sweet, Camille, but it was just a bang on the head.”

  “Whatever you say.” She finished arranging the flowers, then leaned down to sniff them. “There. Lovely.” She turned back to Hugo. “This have anything to do with the conversation we had before, about you leaving Houston?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But maybe.”

  “Then I think I deserve an explanation,” she said.

  Hugo rubbed his head gingerly and grimaced. “Yeah, probably.”

  He told her the basics, about the robbery, the men they were chasing, the abandoned house in Houston where the Cofers holed up. He left out some of the details and was careful not to apportion blame; but what he said, and his tone, gave her the gist of it.

  “And now this Cofer is after some revenge?” she asked, when he’d finished.

  “Again, maybe. I guess we’ll know more after that club is tested.”

  Lerens turned, hands on her hips, her face serious. “About that.”

  “Right,” Hugo said, forcing himself to sit upright. “You see, Tom tried calling you but had to leave a message. Purloining the weapon was my idea, not his.”

  “That so?”

  “Really, it was. We can’t wait that long, and he’ll have us a result by tomorrow.”

  “Fingerprints and DNA?”

  “Yes, both. And whether it’s related to the hotel case or . . . the other thing, we need to know who wielded it as soon as possible.”

  “It was definitely the weapon?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, to be honest,” Hugo said. “I wasn’t in any shape to look around for something else, and the two flics there seemed to think so.”

  “Did the witnesses say what was used?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  Lerens looked at him for a moment. “Happened about an hour ago?”

  “Yes, roughly.”

  “Then I’ll be right back.”

  “Take a grocery bag in case you find something,” he said. “You know where to look?”

  She picked up a bag from the counter and looked over her shoulder, a smile on her lips. “I’m guessing near the blood smear just outside your front door.”

  When she’d left, Hugo picked up his phone and checked his voicemail. H
e’d heard it ring earlier but had been half asleep and not inclined to reverse the direction he was headed. The message was from Andy Whitener.

  “Hey, it’s me, Andy. Put down the baguette and call me.”

  Hugo did, straightaway. “It was a beautiful French model, not a baguette,” he joked.

  “Well, shoot, I’d never ask you to put down one of those.” Whitener chuckled. “Anyway, I’ve got some info for you. First of all, your man Cofer did make a request to be allowed to travel abroad. That request was denied. He has a passport, though. I guess he went through the application process with the hope he’d get permission to travel. Like I said, he didn’t, but I don’t have a way to see if the passport’s been used.”

  I do, and it hasn’t, Hugo thought.

  “But here’s the thing. He’s also AWOL.”

  Hugo perked up. “Meaning?”

  “He has certain reporting conditions, by phone and in person.”

  “He’s not been doing that?”

  “He’s been making his phone calls,” Whitener said. “But not the in-person meetings. Three times he’s phoned in and made excuses; he leaves a message each time about why he can’t be there.”

  “Do you have those dates?”

  Whitener hesitated. “I do, but I can’t give those out—you know that.”

  “Andy, look. You know the situation, what happened and who he is. If he’s not making those meetings but is calling in, it could be because he’s no longer there. It could mean that Tom’s right about where he really is, and that puts me in a very dangerous position.”

  “Hugo—”

  “Tell you what. I just need to know if he’s been missing in action this past week, that’s all I care about. That he’s not resurfaced there.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Right now, we’re not able to put eyes on him.”

  “OK. Last question: Is it possible to see where he’s been calling from?”

  “Not that I know of,” Whitener said. “At least, there’s nothing in his file that his PO noted.”

  Hugo thanked him and hung up. He lay back on the couch and let his mind wander over the possibilities. The truth was, he had no idea whether Rick Cofer had revenge in his heart, but he certainly wouldn’t put it past the guy. He’d profiled him while studying the bank robberies, looked at his movements and his methods, the care with which he and his brother had planned and carried out the raids. But that was different; it was more like a job to them, the robbing and getting away with it both essential elements to ensure a successful venture. This, if it was happening, was more personal. That suggested to Hugo that Cofer might take more risks, be more unpredictable the closer he got to his targets. But it made him much more dangerous, too, which meant it was best to assume the worst.