The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “Can you tell me where you got it?”

  “No, but only because I didn’t get it from anywhere. You looking to buy one?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I’ll ask Alexie. Or ask her yourself, she brought it to the house. I think she meant to take it to her room but for whatever reason it was in the hallway, in the way. I had someone move it to the dining room.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate the information, I’ll check with her. Is she there right now?”

  “No. She’s been in Paris for a couple of days. I’ll text her cell number to you.” He paused, then said. “While I have you on the phone, has Lake said anything about our talks?”

  “No, I gather he took it pretty well.”

  “That’s what Felix told me. I’m a little surprised, to be honest.”

  “We were too,” Hugo said. “Relieved, though.”

  “Definitely, I’m glad that’s all over. Maybe the next man they send will be a little easier to work with.”

  Hugo rang off and looked at Tom. “Alexandra Tourville had the chest, took it to her brother’s house.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I’m guessing to hide it in plain sight. She might have worried about someone seeing her with it, but didn’t want to get rid of it in case she hadn’t found everything inside. Keeping it at her brother’s place was a smart idea, he told me himself no one really keeps tabs on what antiques or paintings they have or how long they’ve had them. Maybe she got unlucky that it wound up in the way and catching her brother’s attention, but even so, to him it was just another family heirloom.”

  “I’m still not getting a motive though,” Tom said. “Why would a Tourville kill an old woman for an antique chest?”

  “Fine question. And add to it, why would she kill Raul?”

  “If we’re really thinking she did that, too.”

  “I suppose it’s possible she hired someone to steal the chest, and that person killed Madam Bassin and then Raul. But like I said before, I think a woman killed Colette Bassin. Not just that but having talked to Alexandra, I’m not seeing her as someone to trust other people with her dirty secrets.”

  “Yeah, she wouldn’t be big on trust after what she went through, I think you’re right.”

  “Which leaves us with her as a killer, but without a motive. I can only think that she went to steal the chest, got caught red-handed and panicked.”

  “I know one way to find out.”

  “Yep,” Hugo said, reaching for his phone. “Time for our good lieutenant to bring her in and ask her.”

  “First thing tomorrow?”

  “No,” Hugo said quietly. “Tomorrow morning we have plans.”

  “Ah, right.” Tom’s head drooped as he remembered. “Tomorrow morning is for Raul.”

  Raul Garcia’s funeral service was held at a small Catholic church near his home in the eastern suburbs of Paris, the worn-looking and miniscule Eglise de Saint-Therese, which Raul had mentioned to Hugo once before, claiming “attendance under duress” three or four times a year. He’d gone to mark the seasons, Hugo knew, and to please his wife—one of those obligations the policeman had loved to grumble about, but with a smile in his eyes.

  Hugo waited outside with Tom and Ambassador Taylor because the church held fewer than fifty people and this service was for Raul’s family and close friends, the young and the old who wanted to shed private tears and hold familiar hands for comfort. Outside, all around them, an army of police officers gathered in the narrow streets, the quiet and respectful shuffling into position of men and women who may not have known Capitaine Garcia, but whose mourning for him was as real and sharp as the full dress blues and polished boots they wore in his honor. Hundreds of them would be part of the procession, brothers-in-arms escorting their colleague to his final resting place deep inside the cemetery at Père Lachaise.

  Camille Lerens was one of the few police officers inside the church, a friend to Raul as much as a colleague. She and Hugo had spoken at length the previous evening on the phone as he laid out the reasons he was convinced Alexandra Tourville was responsible for their friend’s death.

  Lerens had resisted at first, demanded more evidence as any good detective would, but finally gone quiet. “At the very least,” she’d finally said, “the woman has some explaining to do.”

  “Agreed. When will you bring her in?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll put the fugitive unit to work again tonight, hopefully they can locate and keep an eye on her until I can pick her up myself after the funeral.”

  “Good. I’ll come too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine with me.” She paused, then her voice was sad. “The cops I send to look for her will be about the only ones not at the cemetery. They’ll be mad at missing it.”

  “Tell them they’re helping catch Raul’s killer, that should make them feel better.”

  She was right, and it wasn’t just the Paris police force that was devoting so much attention and manpower to Raul’s murder and to his funeral. The irony didn’t escape Hugo that Raul had done in death what he never would have in life: jumped to the head of a long and exclusive waiting list, bypassing the newly-dead rich and famous for a coveted space in Paris’s greatest cemetery. His burial there was inevitable, perhaps, as Raul’s rise in status had been easy and immediate. Right after the shooting, Hugo had seen the newspaper headlines and television news stories seething with anger, expressing the fury felt by the people of Paris, putting words to their abhorrence of the murder of a policeman and, at the same time, feeding their macabre attraction to the tragic story of his death. Both of these things, the drama and the tragedy, came together and swept over Paris like a tidal wave, carrying Raul to new heights, elevating the modest police captain into a hero. Something else, Hugo knew, that an alive Raul Garcia would never have countenanced.

  “Here they come,” Tom said, nudging Hugo with an elbow.

  The ripple began near the church doors and spread outwards. The slouched figures in blue, whispering and smoking, straightened up and fell silent as the pallbearers, senior police officers all, exited the church with Raul’s coffin held secure on squared shoulders. Hugo’s heart lurched and he gritted his teeth, pushing away images of his friend laughing, smiling, the sparkle in his eyes and the dapper appearance that had led Hugo to compare Raul to Agatha Christie’s sleuth, Hercule Poirot. He’s Belgian, not French, Raul would harrumph, but they’d both laugh, always.

  Hugo recognized the tallest of the pallbearers as Bartoli Garcia, Raul’s brother. In appearance, Bartoli was utterly different from his baby brother: tall, slender, with soft gray hair and matching brush moustache. They had the same eyes, though, sad now, but their color and shape sent a jolt through Hugo as he glimpsed a part of his good friend alive and well. Raul had spoken of his brother several times, shown Hugo a photo from his wallet. They’d been close and were both police officers—Bartoli a senior detective in their home city of Barcelona, Spain. He was now dressed in the finery of his office.

  Two minutes later, Hugo watched as the sleek hearse pulled away from the church, four police cars and eight police motorcycles parting the traffic as the procession began the five-mile drive to Père Lachaise. The ambassador hadn’t wanted extra security for himself, there were a thousand cops all around them, so Tom drove the embassy car, a black Cadillac with US and French flags sprouting from the hood. Hugo sat in the front seat beside him, and Ambassador Taylor climbed into the back seat.

  It felt good to be there, to know that Raul’s wife was seeing how many people had been touched by her husband’s life, and his death, but Tom seemed to be suffering. Not because he was closer to Raul, he wasn’t, rather because he’d lived the last five years burying his stocks of empathy as a covert employee of the CIA, and in his downtime numbing himself with alcohol. Now, sober and on his own time, Tom was feeling his grief and sorrow seep into the light and he didn’t know how to handle that. Humor, always a weapon for Tom, was all he had le
ft to fight back the sadness he didn’t want to feel, didn’t know how to feel. Consequently, he fidgeted as he drove, muttering to himself, not wanting to be inappropriate but eventually not able to help himself.

  “Should we put the radio antenna at half-staff?” he said.

  “Sure, go ahead,” Hugo said gently. He knew what his friend was going through, and didn’t want to make it worse by chiding him. They returned to silence, but half a mile later Hugo glanced over at his friend whose eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his hands gripping the wheel as if he were afraid to let go. Hugo saw the jaw clenched tight and looked away as a solitary tear made a slow descent down his friend’s cheek.

  As they neared the Boulevard Périphérique, the convoy slowed. Cars had pulled to the side to let them pass, drivers and passengers standing and watching, some even saluting. The media had publicized the procession’s route and so the bridges overlooking their route were lined with people, some with flags, others with handwritten signs of support, and some even had blown up photos of Raul, the official picture released by the prefecture to the media. Most stood with a hand raised, a wave almost, a signal to every family member, every cop, everyone in the procession, that they were there to lend their support, their respect, their love.

  The crowds thickened as they drew up to the cemetery, an honor guard funneling the leading vehicles to the main entrance on Boulevard de Ménilmontant. The three Americans left the car and took their places among the mourners, a slow and silent train led by the pallbearers, silent except for the sound of feet shuffling over the cobblestones of the cemetery and the whispered words of comfort that always accompany the recently-departed to their graves.

  After Raul’s coffin had been lowered into place and the last words of the priest had been uttered, the mourners straightened their backs and started to move away from the burial site. Hugo’s little gathering had been joined by Claudia, who looked like a beautiful widow herself in her black skirt, boots, and jacket. She’d clung to Hugo’s arm the whole time and they’d exchanged looks and small smiles, but neither had trusted words just yet.

  Hugo put his arm around her as they started to move away, a slow drift in the general direction of their car.

  “Monsieur Marston.” The voice was from behind him, a woman. He turned and saw Raul’s wife standing there, a short and delicate woman in black. She was stooped, from grief or maybe tiredness, and the black veil did nothing to hide the redness ringing her eyes. Her thin hands clutched a tiny black purse, a prop to match the outfit, but despite the frailty of her appearance, her voice was strong.

  “Madam Garcia.” He stepped forward, his hand extended. He’d not had a chance to speak to her, tell her what he was feeling, because the ranks of family and the Paris police had closed her off from the world, protected her while she suffered through the first bouts of grief. And Hugo hadn’t pushed, that wasn’t his way, but he’d wanted to speak to her in person. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Raul was a friend, a truly wonderful man.”

  “Merci bien. He spoke to me about you often.” Her tone was reserved and Hugo suddenly wondered if she was angry, if she blamed him for not being in that parking lot, for putting her husband there instead. “He said you always got him into trouble.”

  “Never on purpose, of course, he was always there for me. He was a great policeman.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “He said the same about you. He used those exact words.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Mourners filed past, parting around them like water, giving them space to talk. “Please, if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all.”

  “There is something. I know that you were working together when he was killed. I don’t know the details of the case, he would never tell me. But he did tell me, always, bragging like a child, when he got to work with you. He liked his job, Monsieur Marston, but he loved the few cases he had with you. It was like he was young again, chasing bad guys with the American cowboy.”

  “We worked well together, we really did.”

  “What I’m trying to say, is that he didn’t die because of you. If everything he told me about you is true, you will try to blame yourself for what happened. I know that could have been you in the car, not him, but please remember, always remember, that you did not kill Raul.”

  Hugo’s throat closed on him and tears stung his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “If you had been in the car, Raul would have given his life to change places, to save you. And I know you would have done the same. You have seen a lot of death in your job and, if you’re like Raul, you have spent many hours telling the family of victims that they are not responsible, that the only person at fault is the one who pulled the trigger.”

  Hugo nodded sadly. “Yes, I have.”

  “Then you need to remember that is true here, too. It doesn’t change because you are involved, because Raul was involved.” She reached out and put a hand on his arm. “ You are not responsible for his death. You were a good friend to him and you brought him great joy. The thing you can do for me is to remember that. Please.”

  Hugo opened his mouth but couldn’t speak, silenced by her words that were so unexpected and generous. Madam Garcia gave him a small smile and squeezed his arm, nodding as she moved back into the flow of people, loved ones reaching out to take her arm.

  Hugo stood still for a moment, then moved away from the path, away from the main entrance and from the gentle crush of people. He wanted a moment by Raul’s grave, a chance to recover and then say good-bye, and maybe a few other words. As he waited, he saw Lieutenant Lerens approach, with purpose in her movements, which told Hugo she had news.

  “How are you, Hugo?”

  “Same as everyone here. Sad and pissed off.”

  “I heard what she said, Raul’s wife.”

  “An amazing woman.”

  “He wouldn’t marry anyone else.”

  “No.” They stood in silence for a moment, then Hugo said, “They were having trouble, you know. Their marriage.”

  “Ah, Hugo. Everyone has trouble in their marriage. Does that bother you, that he died while they were having problems?”

  “A little. He was working too much, too late. She didn’t like that.”

  “Why would she? If they were arguing about that, it was because she wanted to see more of him, not less. That’s good, Hugo. A good thing.”

  “I suppose so. And thanks for trying to make me feel better. Anyway, you have news?”

  “Let’s walk.” They joined the stream of people heading back to the entrance, and Lerens kept her voice low even though most around them were police officers. “We found her place, but not her.”

  “She has an apartment in Paris?”

  “Doesn’t everyone with a country home?” Lerens was joking, but barely.

  “Where is it?”

  “I’ll give you one guess.”

  Hugo glanced across as it hit him. “The same building Natalia lived in.”

  “Right. She told us she owned apartments there, and said she rented them out. Just forgot to mention that she kept one for herself.”

  “How convenient. And no wonder your canvass of the place didn’t turn up any unexpected visitors.”

  “Right. Anyway, she’s not home and they’ve sealed the place off. I have someone meeting us there with a search warrant.”

  “Based on?”

  “The circumstantial evidence that we talked about before. And a fingerprint match from the plastic chairs in the apartment building to the one taken in Lake’s room. Nice work, Hugo.”

  “Thanks. No match to the Bassin crime scene?”

  “We didn’t get a full set from the chairs, so no.”

  “Damn. The prints you have won’t hold up in court, you know that, right? She’ll argue that she could have left them at different times.”

  “Of course she will.” Lerens smiled. “But I said search warrant, not trial. You coming?”

  They staged outside the buil
ding, two officers on each corner wearing tactical gear and carrying automatic weapons. Another four men stood in front of the main doors awaiting breach instructions. Behind them, uniformed officers formed a cordon to keep curious Parisians out of harm’s way. Someone had made the decision to go in heavy despite the impossibility of clearing out the area, a show of force and a direct, highly visible, and very lethal response to the death of a police officer.

  Hugo and Lieutenant Lerens ducked under the yellow tape, a uniformed flic saluting and holding it up so they could pass. They headed straight for the main entrance where they shook hands with the SWAT captain, whose cloth tag on his chest read Moreau. Hugo recognized him from a previous encounter, one that had resulted in Hugo being cuffed, and from the slight narrowing of the captain’s eyes, the recognition was likely mutual.

  “She’s definitely not here?” Lerens asked.

  “Definitely. Undercovers went up and knocked, then cleared out the apartments either side of hers. The neighbors saw her go out about an hour before we got here.”

  “So we can get in the main doors?”

  “Correct. Just a matter of getting in to her apartment.”

  “Then let’s do exactly that.”

  She let Captain Moreau lead the way with three of his men, the burliest carrying a tactical Mini Ram device that he’d use to smash open the apartment door. They left one man to secure the elevator and took the stairs. Halfway up, Lerens stopped and grimaced, lifting her left foot and shaking it a couple of times.

  “All OK?” Hugo asked.

  “Comes with the territory,” Lerens said. “The things you’d think would be a problem, boobs, bras, and other girly stuff, are easy. It’s the feet.”

  Hugo looked down. Lerens wore black shoes, feminine but functional, the kind he’d seen policewomen wear all over the world. “They look comfortable enough.”

  “For most women, they are.” She started up the stairs again, keeping her voice conspiratorial. “Problem is, men and women have different foot structure, in terms of density, flexibility, and goodness knows what else. Never found a pair that didn’t give me trouble sooner or later. These ones sooner, apparently.”