The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “I had no idea. Couldn’t you just wear men’s shoes? They look pretty much the same and for work, who’d even notice?”

  “Oh, Hugo, and you were doing so well.” She cast him a disappointed look. “I’d notice, that’s who.”

  They caught up to the SWAT team and followed them to the third-floor apartment belonging to Alexandra Tourville. Hugo and Lerens stood back as the SWAT officers positioned themselves on either side of the door and knocked loudly. They waited in silence, Moreau’s eyes intent on his watch. After thirty seconds, he nodded and an officer knocked again, louder this time. Hugo shifted on his feet as another thirty seconds ticked by. One more knock, then a wait of fifteen seconds. Moreau gave the thumbs up and then the door crashed open under the Mini Ram. It took less than twenty seconds to clear the small apartment, at which point the SWAT team stood down to let Lerens and Hugo make an initial search. Two crime scene technicians waited in the hallway, ready to come in and photograph, bag, and catalogue anything collected as evidence.

  The apartment was exactly like Natalia’s, and it wasn’t until they moved from the bedroom to the living area that Hugo’s found anything of interest. Instead of a table bearing a television, Alexie’s apartment had a long desk covered in paperwork. Hugo began sifting through it as Lerens looked in the kitchen cabinets.

  “A few dishes, cups, but not much in the way of food supplies,” Lerens said. “You finding anything?”

  “Research papers. To do with her genealogy business, I think. Some articles about DNA testing, too, and a lot of internet searches.”

  “That’s the modern way to trace ancestors,” Lerens said. “Easier than combing through boxes and boxes of municipal and church files. And the DNA makes it more certain, too.”

  An open packet of buccal swabs seemed to confirm her theory, but Hugo was looking for something more definite, something relating to the case. He thumbed through several well-used books on French history and noticed several more on the floor. Hugo wasn’t surprised at Alexie’s interest, the nation’s most controversial queen was another woman whose reputation had been tossed about on the sea of public opinion like so much flotsam.

  He put the books down and looked through a stack of computer printouts.

  “Camille, I think I have something,” he said. She walked over and looked at the paper in Hugo’s hands, the rows of boxes and lines.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A family tree,” Hugo said. “And unless I’m much mistaken, it belongs to the Bassin family.”

  They completed the search, slow and painstaking, in less than an hour and the results were largely disappointing. Lerens had hoped to find the gun used on Natalia and Raul, or at least some ammunition, but those were at the bottom of the Seine, Hugo assured her, nestling in several feet of mud. She’d known that, of course, but once in a while a search turned up a smoking gun, quite literally. Just not this time.

  They convened at a café nearby. The crime scene people had photographed the printout of the Bassin family tree, as well as two pages of notes made by Alexie, then printed out copies in their van for Hugo and Lerens to study.

  “What does it all mean?” Lerens asked.

  “Not sure yet. The notes are mostly in shorthand, probably her own form of code. I can’t make much sense of them.”

  “We’ve got people who can probably crack it, if you think it’ll help.” She toyed with her coffee, stirring it, tapping the spoon dry, then stirring again.

  “Me too,” said Hugo, thinking of Tom. “And cheer up, this is a good lead. Another connection with the Bassin family, it’s good evidence.”

  “I know. It’s just frustrating that I don’t know why any of this is happening. I feel like I’m two steps behind every step of the way.”

  “We were two steps behind,” Hugo said. “Now we’re just one. And closing in.”

  “You promise?”

  “Sure,” said Hugo. “Why not.”

  “Very encouraging. In the meantime, I’m not sure what else we can do.”

  “Me neither. Your people will find her, we’ve both seen them do it time and again. No one can move around without leaving some sort of trail, especially someone not used to living in the shadows. They’ll find her.”

  “Waiting for them to do it is the hard part. That and not really knowing the why of all this.”

  “Agreed. On that score, do you mind if I send this stuff to a friend? I haven’t spoken to her in a while, but she’s big into genealogy and may be able to make sense of it.”

  “Go ahead. Someone local?”

  “England, actually.”

  “As long as she’s a professional and quick.”

  Hugo smiled. “She’s a professional, all right.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Hugo said. “She’s one of the brightest, most honest, and hardworking people I know. She does the genealogy stuff part-time, but when I spoke to her last year she said her other business was a little more lucrative.”

  “I could use a lucrative business. Especially if Alexandra Tourville disappears and I don’t solve this case. What is it?”

  “She’s a professional dominatrix.”

  “Well,” Lerens said, laughing for the first time that day. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that. Now, I’m absolutely the last to judge someone else’s lifestyle but I have to say, I’m very curious how the upright and respectable Hugo Marston came to be friends with a pro domme.”

  “Who says I’m upright and respectable?”

  “Fair question, and one shouldn’t take people at face value. So, something you want to share with me?”

  “My friendship with Merlyn,” Hugo said, before taking a slow sip of coffee, “is a story for another day.”

  He’d not had a moment alone with Raul since his friend’s death. A crowded open-casket viewing had been at his home, a long line of men and women in black paying their respects, a sad and silent shuffling past that left no real time for words. When Hugo’s turn came, the only real thought he had was about the incredible job done by the funeral home, their patches and make-up remodeling Raul into angelic, if contrived, serenity.

  The taxi dropped Hugo off at Père Lachaise in the late afternoon. He’d already called Merlyn and they’d caught up after a year of no contact, then he’d explained the situation and texted the photos. She had down time, she’d assured him, and would get right on it. Hours, she promised, not days.

  Here, the day seemed to have held still for him, the wind dropping and the sun hovering just above the old chestnut, oak, and plane trees that sheltered the stone tombs and kept the summer heat from scalding the tourists. On the path outside the cemetery, a few people came and went but the media had packed up their trucks, their stories wrapped up and ready to go. Hugo used the smaller entrance in the northwest corner, near Avenue Gambetta, and as he trotted up the narrow stairs two uniformed policemen stood aside to let him pass. Paying their respects to a fallen colleague, possibly, or maybe just looking for a quiet place to smoke and pass an hour.

  Hugo took the cobbled Avenue de l’Ouest toward the heart of the cemetery, feeling the calm of the place settle about him. He wasn’t a man of faith like Raul Garcia, and much of the time they’d spent at this cemetery together, on the case of the crypt thief, had been passed in good-natured banter, their jousts and jests a thin disguise for a probing interest in the other’s beliefs.

  But a belief in God or the afterlife wasn’t necessary for a conversation with the dead, not in Hugo’s book. Just as funerals were staged to indulge and assuage the sadness of the living, so could a quiet talk to a stone cross or a mound of earth provide balm for a mourner’s grief. A few minutes alone just sitting might be enough, a time for some memories of a short but distinct friendship to wash over him, to dilute the sorrow that Hugo was afraid to let himself feel too deeply.

  But when he got to Raul’s tomb, a waist-high stone casket garnished with a hundred bouquets, he saw t
hat he wasn’t alone. On a bench opposite, a woman sat looking up at him. Her eyes were dry but the tissue in her hand said she’d been crying, and because it was Claudia, Hugo was very glad to see her.

  “How are you?” he asked gently.

  “Very happy you’re here.” She took his hand as he sat. “There were too many people this morning, too much fuss. I can’t help thinking that he’d have hated most of it.”

  “True, but it wasn’t just for him.”

  “I know. Even so, I wanted just to sit with him for a while.” Her voice quavered but she threw Hugo a sharp look. “And don’t you dare give me some nonsense about how he’s not here anymore. Don’t you dare.”

  “How could I?” Hugo squeezed her hand. “I’m here too, aren’t I?”

  “I suppose so.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, then Hugo said, “I think he’d have liked it that we were here together.”

  “He would.” Claudia turned slightly to face him. “Hugo, I know what happened, how it happened. I want to know that you’re not blaming yourself.”

  “Then I have to disappoint you, because I am. Not . . . all the time, or too much. But I wish people would stop pretending that those bullets weren’t intended for me.”

  “They were intended for anyone who got in the way. You, Raul, whoever.”

  “Nice try, and I’ll get over it, Claudia, so please don’t worry. I think for me it’s just part of the grieving process.” He gave her a small smile. “I call it the blaming process.”

  “Then blame the person who shot him, who wanted to shoot you.” Claudia slumped on the bench and sighed. “And tell me you’re doing OK, truly OK.”

  “You know me, I’ll be fine. This sucks, all of it, and I don’t have the words to say how much but . . .” He shrugged.

  “I know. But remember what I said. Blame the right person, and that’s not you.”

  “That’s the thing about feelings and emotions, they aren’t always logical. And I’m a police officer at heart, so I’m always going to wonder what I could have done to stop it from happening. I can’t help that, and part of it is wishing I’d been there instead of him. And I could have been, should have been.”

  “Stop, Hugo. Please.” She entwined her fingers in his. “He wouldn’t like it that we’re arguing.”

  Hugo chuckled. “Are you kidding? He’d love it. He’d come right over and put his arm around you and tell me I’m a fool. He’d love it.” By the time he’d stopped talking, Hugo realized she was crying again, so he put his own arm around Claudia and pulled her tight. “We were lucky to have known him. Let’s stick with that for now.”

  She sniffled and nodded, then straightened up. “My derriere is sore, I’ve been here almost an hour,” she said. “Can we go for a walk in here, then I’ll let you two boys have some alone time.”

  “Sure, that sounds wonderful.” They stood up and strolled up a slight hill toward Avenue Feuillant, not paying attention to anything but the feel of the stones under their feet and the soft rustle of the trees overhead. “You know, the last time I was here, it was with Raul. We were trying to find the scarab, figure out what that murderous little bastard was up to.”

  “I know, I was with you one of those times. And kept bugging you both for the story.”

  “Like I could forget. Of course, you ended up in the story, which you have a habit of doing, don’t you?”

  “Tough to get rid of me.”

  They walked on in silence, eyes passing over the names of the long-dead and a few belonging to the more recently interred. It was its own city, this place, with its rows of miniature houses in differing states of repair, some gaping open thanks to rusted gates, others sealed tight and impenetrable. They approached a young man who’d tucked himself inside a weathered sepulcher like a sentry, his pen at the ready and a rough blond beard pointed down at the notebook in his hand. As they passed, he showed them the lines of poetry that he’d scratched across the stark white paper in blood-red ink. Hugo and Claudia exchanged soft smiles at the exchange, and he knew she loved this aspect of Paris, the convergence of death and art that appeared in front of your eyes like a very real ghost, the inspiration that came to those who sought it, art springing to life on the hallowed ground filled with the dead.

  “He believed in God, didn’t he? Raul, I mean,” Claudia said finally.

  “Yes. But if you’re going to tell me he’s in a better place, I’ll throttle you.”

  She gave a gentle laugh. “No, I wasn’t going to say that. I was just going to ask you to see it from his perspective, to understand the way he would have seen it.”

  “Which is?”

  “That God, his God if not yours, had some sort of plan in mind.”

  “Killing a good man is a shitty plan.”

  “I agree. But remember that Raul may not have.”

  Hugo didn’t feel like arguing. He felt like sitting on someone else’s grave holding Claudia’s hand, drawing comfort from her and sharing a grief that he suppressed just as much as Tom did, letting it out in dribs and drabs for Claudia to soak up or wipe away. They sat in silence for a minute, then Claudia asked, “So you found who killed him?”

  “We’re looking for her.”

  “I can’t believe it’s Alexandra Tourville.”

  Hugo looked at her sharply. “Who told you that?”

  “Camille Lerens.” Claudia smiled. “Don’t worry, she told me unofficially. We’re friends, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I wrote an article about her when she joined the force from Bordeaux. She liked that I wrote as much about her career as her gender.”

  “I had no idea you even knew her.”

  “Yep. She’s fed me stories now and again, she trusts me not to write things I shouldn’t.”

  “Smart woman,” Hugo said.

  “Me or her?”

  “Both, as far as I can tell.”

  “Why did Tourville kill Raul? Try to kill you?”

  “I think for the same reason she killed her assistant, Natalia Khlapina. She was tying off loose ends, severing all connections between herself and the Troyes robbery, the murder of Collette Bassin. Self-preservation, pure and simple.”

  “But why did she rob that house? What was in the chest that she needed so badly?”

  “I’m not sure.” He couldn’t tell her about the lock of hair, for some reason it seemed like the key to this. If Camille Lerens hadn’t told Claudia about it, Hugo felt he shouldn’t, either. “I’ve been thinking about it, though, and I’m sure it has to do with the family’s history.”

  “The Tourvilles?”

  “No, the Bassin family.”

  “Tell me why you’re sure it’s her. I have to be honest, Hugo, I have a hard time believing it, despite her past.”

  “I know. And this reminds me of Senator Lake, the way everyone was judging him.”

  “Deservedly, no?”

  “I’m beginning to think so. But when it comes to character flaws and personality defects, people’s judgments go from zero to one hundred in a flash. Like with him, and maybe with most politicians, you either love them or you hate them. And if you hate them, you pounce on some aspect of their personality and magnify it. We all do it, all the time. The same way new lovers ignore each other’s defects until they can’t anymore.”

  “You’re losing me. I thought we were talking about Alexie Tourville.”

  “We are. See, her behaviors before she supposedly turned her life around are pretty telling. She was selfish, in constant need of stimulation, and irresponsible with money. Now she’s broke and resentful that she has to rely on her brother. How else would you describe her?”

  “Charming when she wants to be. Sexually promiscuous, if we’re to believe what we read.”

  “The photos help on that score,” Hugo said. “And related to that, she has this ability, or drive, to reinvent herself.”

  “I get the feeling those traits mean something.”

&
nbsp; “They do. And bear in mind, she doesn’t exhibit them to a sharp degree, but they are all behaviors exhibited by someone with sociopathic tendencies. When we talked to her about Natalia’s death, she acted sad but I didn’t see any tears, no real sorrow.”

  “Wait, that sounds like you’re justifying her being the bad guy.”

  “And that’s because she’s not your psychopathic killer from Hollywood. Sociopathy is a continuum. It exists in corporate CEOs, politicians, people who are successful but who have enough empathy to fit right in with the people around them. Forget the idea that every sociopath or psychopath gets off on killing, they don’t. You and I live alongside them, they can be our neighbors and our bosses. Most are relatively harmless, getting off on furthering their careers, making money, or achieving positions of power.”

  “So what’s her motive in life, what’s her goal?”

  “That,” Hugo said, “is where I’m not caught up yet.”

  “Personality aside, go back to why you think she killed Madam Bassin.”

  “Well, there’s the chest. It was found in Natalia’s apartment but Alexie obviously has access to it: she’s the landlord. And she said Natalia only went there a couple of times a month, so getting in unseen would have been easy. The whole apartment building is practically deserted.”

  “OK, what else?”

  “No one can definitively say Alexie had possession of the chest, not yet, and it’s true that Natalia could have taken it to the Tourville Chateau. But Natalia doesn’t make sense as the killer, and I think Alexie lied to me about her.”

  “How?”

  “She belabored the fact that Natalia was a thief, essentially a kleptomaniac with a shoe fetish. But those things don’t necessarily go together. And the jewelry in Natalia’s apartment, it was older. Beautiful, but old. Kleptomaniacs are like magpies, they like shiny new things. They don’t steal objects that are old, used.”

  “Camille told me that she had a lot of new shoes.”