The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  Capron recoiled but Hugo saw the fear in his eyes, fear that served only to heighten Hugo’s anger and his resolve to get answers from one or both of these men.

  “I told you, I don’t—”

  Hugo cut him off with a hand on his throat. “If either one of you tells me you don’t fucking know,” Hugo hissed, “I swear to God you’ll regret it.”

  A sound at the door made Hugo turn, his hand still clutching the thin neck of the gasping Capron.

  “What are you doing, man?” Tom asked in English. The words were casual but his tone was like steel and he walked toward them, his eyes taking in everything.

  “These assholes bought a necklace from someone. Someone who killed Collette Bassin and then killed Raul.”

  “OK then.” Tom nodded and switched to French. “But we don’t do it this way, Hugo. Take your hands off him.”

  “What?” Hugo hadn’t expected that. “Tom, we don’t have much time.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Please let him go.”

  Hugo did, his eyes on his friend who had changed somehow. The funny, irreverent Tom was detached, formal to the point of being almost robotic. The only sign of emotion was a faint and infrequent twitch in his jaw.

  Tom looked at Hugo. “Which of these gentlemen bought the necklace? Both?”

  Hugo waved his gun at Bruno. “The old man says he did.”

  “Bien.” Tom looked at Bruno and his voice was soft when he spoke. “I will ask you once and you will tell me the answer. But you need to understand that I don’t work for the police, I work for an agency of the American government that lets me kill people that I don’t like. And because you are together, if I kill you I will then have to kill your father. After that, your bodies will disappear and no one will ever see any sign of you ever again. Do you understand what I just said?”

  Bruno nodded, a small whimper escaping his lips. Hugo felt the fear and confusion shimmering from the young man and his father, and when he looked down he saw that they were holding hands.

  “Good,” Tom continued in French, his voice almost a whisper. “When I’ve asked my question, you will answer it fully. If you don’t, my friend here will need ten or fifteen seconds to leave the building.” He smiled, a wicked and lascivious smile that made even Hugo shiver. “Now. Give me the name of the person who sold you the necklace.”

  Bruno Capron’s throat let out a gurgle as he tried to speak, maybe to plead, but Tom just straightened and pulled a gun from his shoulder holster. He reached over to Hugo with his other hand, never taking his eyes from Bruno, his fingers finding their way to his friend’s shoulder and squeezing softly. “Time’s up. Hugo, can you leave please?”

  “Non, non, I’ll tell you.” Bruno’s hands were now tented in prayer and the words spilled out. “I don’t know a name, I promise, I would tell you. I didn’t know the necklace was stolen, not . . . not . . . from someone who was murdered, no way I would have bought it then. I’m not, I wouldn’t . . .” His words petered out and turned to tears, a large and soft man on his knees begging for his life.

  “I didn’t hear a name. What is his name?” Tom insisted.

  Bruno looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes. “His name? Non. It was a woman.”

  Tom and Hugo exchanged glances. “Describe her,” Hugo said.

  “A woman,” Bruno whined. “I don’t know, not someone I know and nothing special about her.”

  “My friend said to describe her,” Tom said, menace in his voice. “Please do so.”

  “She was . . . average. Average height and build, her hair . . . just normal.” Relief flashed in his eyes as he remembered something. “Pink. She had a streak of pink in her hair.”

  “Pink?” Tom looked at Hugo. “Mean anything?”

  Hugo nodded. “Natalia Khlapina. Alexandra Tourville’s assistant.” Hugo looked at Bruno. “She have an accent?”

  “Foreign. Not heavy but definitely foreign. Maybe from Hungary or Russia or somewhere east.”

  “Russian,” Hugo said. “She’s Russian.”

  Tom reached down and patted Bruno on the head. “Good boy. The police will be here and you can tell them the same thing.” He tucked his gun away and nodded to Hugo. “Let’s go find our little Russkie.”

  “Wait, what about me?” André Capron rattled the cuffs that connected him to the immovable oven. “What about these?”

  Hugo unlocked his cuffs and stowed them in a pouch on his belt. Capron held up his wrists, still shackled. “And these?”

  Hugo was already moving toward the door, so Tom looked at the cuffs and shrugged. “French, I believe. Shame I don’t have a key, but you can ask the cops to let you out. I’m sure if you’re nice and helpful they will.” He started to follow Hugo but turned back. “One more thing, mes amis.” His voice was hard, and he slowly opened his jacket to remind them what he was carrying. “We weren’t here and you didn’t tell us anything. Understand?”

  Hugo could tell that father and son were so desperate to end their ordeal and get rid of the Americans, especially the ice-cold Tom, that they would have agreed to anything. Heads nodded ferociously. “Oui, d’accord,” they said in unison.

  Outside, they paused to regroup. A wind had picked up, the same one that had brought the rain clouds to Paris an hour ago. The debris that dotted the city streets, even somewhere as well-tended as the Butteaux-Cailles, had started to shift and scuttle from the sidewalks to the street.

  They stood by Hugo’s car and Tom spoke first. “You won’t usually hear this from me, but we need to proceed with a little care.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We now have a definite link to the Tourville household. Make no mistake, Hugo, that guy is powerful and he’ll do all he can to obstruct an investigation into the woman who works for his sister. He’s always protected her, and this is no different.”

  “Meaning we operate under the radar as much as possible.”

  “Precisely.” He gave Hugo a tired smile. “And that’s where I come in.”

  Hugo rested a hand on his friend’s arm. “You already came in, Tom. And I’m very glad. Raul would be, too.”

  In truth, Hugo was relieved that Tom was willing to take the lead. Suddenly tired—of death and of chasing through the streets on this damn case—he welcomed a chance to share the burden with his best friend. It didn’t hurt that Tom was right, this really was what he did best. Several times in recent years Hugo had needed help or information and had no way, no legitimate way, to get it. Every time, he was able to turn to Tom for assistance and get what he needed through Tom’s murky and frighteningly effective CIA contacts.

  “So my plan is just to locate her, and if she’s somewhere away from Chateau Tourville then you and I can pay her a visit.”

  “That’s good.” Hugo shook his head. “But I want to bring in that police lieutenant, Lerens. Raul talked to me about her this morning, said she’s good.”

  “Lerens? I heard she used to be a dude.”

  “Yep. That a problem for you?”

  “It’s a little weird, but as long as I don’t have to date her, I’m fine with it.”

  “Charming.”

  “Hugo, I really don’t give a crap. I just want to find the fucker who . . .” He took a breath, unable to say the words just yet. “Raul said she’s good?”

  “He did. Very good.”

  Tom shrugged. “Then I suppose she is, and if you want to bring her in that’s fine. I’ll find Khlapina and we can let Lerens know. Maybe she’ll bring us along for that chat.”

  “Maybe.” But they both doubted it. A meticulousness and painstaking investigation didn’t usually allow for courtesies like that, but if they had to back out, so be it. Pride, a sense of ownership in the case, all of that could go by the wayside, sacrificed for the only goal that mattered: catching Raul Garcia’s killer.

  “Jesus,” Hugo said. “I don’t even know what day it is.”

  “Saturday.” Tom checked his watch. “OK, I’m
making some calls, get the ball rolling. I’ll let you know when we find her and you can tell Lerens. Assuming those two chumps in there talk, then the frogs will be looking for her, too. We’ll have her today or tomorrow, is my bet.”

  “Just because she sold the necklace, doesn’t mean she was the shooter,” Hugo said. “That fact and her connection to Tourville may buy her some time.”

  “And distance. I need to get to work, she could be on her way out of France already.”

  “Love those porous borders,” Hugo said with a grimace. “Chasing fugitives in Europe these days is like catching rats with a lasso.”

  “Interpol.” Tom said. “They ain’t perfect, but they have a lot of lassos.”

  “Then get to it.” Hugo watched as Tom walked to his car, pulling his phone from his pocket. He was talking by the time he slid behind the wheel and sat there, giving instructions and descriptions, his free hand gesturing like that of a conductor. Once he took a sip from a clear plastic bottle, catching Hugo’s eye through the windshield. Water, he mouthed.

  Hugo nodded and climbed behind the wheel of his own car. He’d fought for months to get Tom to stop drinking, but it had taken a bullet from a serial killer to make him quit. As distraught as he was about Garcia’s death, Hugo couldn’t help but detect the specter of Tom’s nemesis and he hoped against hope that the bullet that almost killed Tom, but saved him from alcohol, wouldn’t be undone by the ones fired by their friend’s killer. Hugo had always been strong and capable, untouched in some ways, amid the violence and sorrow that was an inevitable shadow to his career. But Raul Garcia’s death had shaken him to his core and as he started his car and looked at Tom in his rearview mirror, Hugo wondered, truly wondered, how he himself might cope if today’s horror sent his best friend ricocheting back to the bottle.

  Hugo woke in a panic, a dream-weight that had been pressing down on his chest taking moments of wakefulness to evaporate. As his head cleared, the relief that came with a disappearing nightmare was replaced by the memory of the previous day’s tragedy. He rolled out of bed and padded in to the kitchen, where Tom was sitting at the breakfast bar, his hand curled around a mug of coffee and the morning’s newspaper in front of him.

  “You’ve been out already?” Hugo asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk and picked up the paper. Made coffee, too, but it tastes like shit.”

  “I’ll take some anyway.” Hugo went into the kitchen and poured a cup, stirring in a spoonful of brown sugar. “They write much about it?”

  “Front page. Light on the details, as you’d imagine.” Tom sipped his coffee. “What kind of a moron do you have to be to kill a cop?”

  “A desperate one,” Hugo said. He walked to a nearby armchair and sank down. “I’ve been thinking about that, because every criminal in the world knows you don’t kill a policeman. Ever. For one thing there’s always one more to fill his shoes but, more importantly if you’re the criminal, you bring every kind of heat imaginable to the case.”

  “Like you said, she must have been desperate.”

  “Yeah. Or not a criminal.”

  Tom glanced over. “I’m not following.”

  “That’s OK, I’m not making sense. No word from any of your people?”

  “Nothing to get the juices flowing. They have a couple of addresses for her that the cops have already visited. No sign. She may have left the country, of course, but that takes time to verify, even assuming she did it through somewhere that has border control.” He put his hand on the newspaper, almost a caress. “No word about a funeral, either.”

  “He was Catholic,” Hugo said. “Shit, Tom, this . . .”

  “Yeah, it does. And not being able to do anything about it also sucks.”

  Hugo drained his coffee and dropped his cup in the kitchen sink before heading to his room to dress. “I’m going for a walk. Join me?”

  Tom looked up. “I may not be a drunk any more, but let’s not go crazy here.”

  “You used to run ten miles without breaking a sweat.”

  “Sweaty crotch, actually, but I managed to hide it pretty well.”

  “Thank heavens for that.”

  “Damn right. Actually, I have plans later that involve walking and I don’t want to wear my delicate self out.”

  Hugo cocked his head. “Plans?”

  “Yep. A date of sorts. I would describe it, if we’re being technical, as none of your business.”

  “OK. Be mysterious, see if I care.” But Hugo couldn’t help but wonder, and if memory served this was the third week in a row Tom had gone out on a weekend evening. He’d been back by eleven o’clock each time, and stone cold sober as best Hugo could tell, but until now Tom hadn’t made any mention of going out, he’d just put on his coat and left. At first Hugo had wondered if maybe he was attending some kind of meeting related to his drinking, but Tom didn’t believe in twelve-step programs, and since he’d been gone about six hours each time an AA meeting didn’t fit anyway.

  Hugo dressed, opening his bedroom window to check the air temperature, and decided that he’d do what he’d done the previous two weeks, and as Tom had suggested: mind his own business.

  Hugo and Tom talked some more before Hugo went out. They both wanted to make sure there was nothing to be done, no angle they’d missed. They talked, too, about Senator Lake and together called the ambassador to make sure he knew the latest and to get an update on the senator.

  “That’s all on hold,” Ambassador Taylor said. “I’ve not told him about the Russian woman being involved but he’s no dummy, he knows something is up.”

  “He’s not heading back to the States?” Hugo asked.

  “Wishful thinking? No, but he’s taken to walking every morning and afternoon, says he’s enjoying Paris now. I don’t know, maybe he is, but he’s sure as hell antsy. I’m not having to hold his hand, which is a relief, and he’s not wandered off again, which I’m also grateful for.”

  Hugo detected a note in the ambassador’s voice, a thought unsaid. “Spit it out, boss, what are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. It crossed my mind that he’s got himself a girlfriend. I know we talked about that before, but he’s got to be going somewhere. His security detail aren’t saying anything.”

  Tom chuckled. “Off with their own pieces of tail, if I know the Secret Service.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe they’re being discreet but I’m pretty sure they’d have said something if he was tasting the local delights, so to speak. Ah well, like I say, everything’s on hold and he’s not bugging me too badly so I’m fine with it.” He paused. “And I’m so sorry about Capitaine Garcia, I know you guys had gotten to know him well, and I know how much you appreciated him as a colleague and a friend. Let me know when the funeral is, I want to be there.”

  When they rang off, Tom went and stood by the window, looking out over Rue Jacob, silent. Anxious to be moving, Hugo let himself out of the apartment and made his way down the stairs and out into the street.

  He comforted himself with the familiar, narrow streets of the sixth and seventh arrondissements, wandering aimlessly in the direction of the river that split Paris into north and south, left and right. He’d come to know this part of the city intimately, with its myriad art galleries, furniture shops, and clothing boutiques, most the size of his bedroom and selling quality not quantity, their owners knowledgeable and in business to sell the items they loved, not just to make a buck. Sometimes he’d turn a corner and find a store had disappeared, been emptied of merchandise and filled with something totally different, wedding dresses to watercolors, as if a coup had taken place overnight. He’d feel a touch of sadness because familiarity can itself be comfort, but, as much as he walked, he soon got to know the new shapes and colors on display.

  He angled his walk to stay away from the wind, which billowed down the narrower streets and wrapped itself around him, alternately holding him back and pushing him onwards. At one point he sought refuge in a café just off Rue d
e Grenelle and when he looked at his watch it was two in the afternoon. He ate a slow lunch, an omelet and a basket of bread, and tried not to think about Raul Garcia.

  One mental distraction was Tom, the little brother in his life who seemed to have finally turned things around. A master at deception, Tom was hopeless when it came to lying to Hugo—most of the time he didn’t bother. Which meant that if Tom was drinking again, Hugo felt confident he’d know. Confident but not positive, and so these weekly outings, which Tom was being evasive about, were a concern. The normal things people hide from their friends, hookers for example, were not things Tom felt the need to keep to himself. Quite the opposite. On at least one occasion Hugo had found a beautiful and half-naked courtesan wandering around his apartment and, with Claudia’s help, he’d even paid the bill.

  Claudia. He looked at his phone and thought about her. He’d called yesterday to break the news about Raul and she’d taken it hard. They’d had a connection, those two. Raul, the wise and dapper man who’d been married for decades, had an unashamed and utterly harmless crush on the beautiful Claudia. For her part, she’d reveled in making the Frenchman feel special, a fondness that was as genuine as Raul’s affection for her.

  Hugo had stayed on the phone as she tried not to cry, stayed on longer when she couldn’t hold it back, and talked to her for almost an hour as she regained her composure. He’d wanted to be with her last night, a longing he’d not experienced in years, a desire far more powerful than merely physical. But she’d declined, keeping that distance between them she’d put in place over the previous months. Hugo hadn’t pushed, partly out of pride but mostly because he’d never been one to chase, a belief that if someone was running away or just needed space then coercing them back with pleas and entreaties was shallow and manipulative, and would ultimately ruin any chance for a relationship. They’d both been sad when the call ended, to be left alone with their thoughts of Raul, but Hugo missed her voice for other reasons, too.