The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  “Spit it out, Emma, I’m a grown man. No need to sugarcoat whatever it is for me.”

  “Tom’s dead, sir. This man said Tom was dead.”

  Taylor sank backward in his chair, his mouth falling open. “What?”

  Emma had tears in her eyes. “He said Tom was dead.”

  “How? Where?”

  “He didn’t want to give me details, sir. But I took a number for you to call him back. He says he’ll tell you what he knows, but he doesn’t want to speak to anyone else.”

  “Jesus, how can this be . . .? He didn’t say how it happened?” Taylor knew the answer, knew after his conversation with Hugo that if Tom had been shot, stabbed, drowned, or dropped from a building, Rick Cofer was behind it. The details might be important to an investigation, but Taylor knew who had done this.

  “He was shot in the chest. Three times.”

  They sat in silence for a full minute, then Taylor asked, “Does Hugo know?”

  “I don’t know. I tried reaching him but had to leave a message. I told him to call you.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Taylor took a long breath, then asked, “Did you know Tom well?”

  Emma smiled. “I think everyone who ever met Tom knew him well. He was who he was.” She wiped away a tear and looked at Taylor. “He was one of a kind.”

  “That’s the truth,” Taylor said. He frowned. “You know this might be some kind of sick joke. I need to talk to the caller and see what he has to say. Find out who the hell he is.”

  “I emailed you his number,” Emma said. “It should be on your screen. Oh, and he said to use a secure line.”

  “Of course he did,” Taylor said wearily. “Well, leave me to it; I’ll let you know what I can when I’m off the phone.”

  “Yes, sir.” She got up and walked to the door, then turned. “You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Taylor said. “Tom and I go way back. A long way back.”

  The ambassador waited until Emma had closed his heavy office door, then he looked over at his computer. He tapped out the phone number, mentally noting the code for Amsterdam, and waited as it rang. Is this Cofer himself? Taylor wondered. Who else could it be?

  “Yes?” It was a man’s voice.

  “This is Ambassador Taylor in Paris. I was told you needed to speak to me about Tom Green.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for calling. This is a secure line?”

  “The only kind I ever use.”

  “Good. Sir, my name is Brendon Fowler, and I have something I need to tell you.”

  The call lasted ten minutes, and Fowler did all of the talking. He answered Taylor’s questions before they were asked, and he assured the ambassador he was telling him everything he knew.

  “As soon as I heard, I knew that bastard Cofer was behind it,” Taylor said grimly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I appreciate you telling me and arranging everything.”

  “Yes, sir. Tom and I go back a long way; I’ll do anything I can to help. Call me back if you need anything.”

  They disconnected, and Taylor got up from his desk. He let himself out of his office and went to where Emma sat, waiting for him. She looked up, and he just nodded.

  Emma straightened her back, but when she spoke, her voice cracked. “What can I do?”

  “I’m afraid we have a funeral to plan,” he said. “And if you could try again to get a hold of Hugo and have him come in as soon as possible.”

  “Do you want to just call him yourself?”

  “No. This conversation needs to be here, in person and behind closed doors. Certainly not on the phone, and Hugo will make me tell him if I call to ask him to come in. That guy can read me like a book.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tom came to with his back to a large, concrete planter and his legs stretched out in front of him. His head throbbed, and he felt warm blood running down his cheek. He fought to make sense of what had just happened, a voice inside yelling at him that it can’t have been Cofer because he’d been farther along in the alleyway. He’d heard him up ahead, whistling!

  But when he blinked the vision back into his eyes, he saw Cofer leaning forward as he sat on a bench at Tom’s feet.

  “Long time no see.”

  “Fuck off, Cofer.” Tom tried to shift his position, but a stabbing pain pinned him in place. At least he wasn’t tied up. “What the fuck did you hit me with?”

  “You’re getting old and slow, Tom Green. It doesn’t take much.”

  “Then why jump me from behind, you fucking coward.”

  “Says the man who’s been hiding in a hat and oversized coat, sneaking around behind me all day.”

  The waves of pain were receding, just a little, and Tom groaned and sat more upright. “The orange outfit. Intentional, then.”

  “Well done.” Cofer leaned forward and spat in Tom’s face. “Genius fucking CIA agent.”

  “Great, now I’m getting Ebola from an ape.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. You won’t be living long enough to contract any diseases.”

  Something in Cofer’s voice made Tom study the man’s face. From a distance, he’d been right that Cofer had lost weight. But closer up, Tom guessed that it wasn’t diet or prison exercise that had done it. And it all made sense now, the use of the brother’s passport, the lack of care, the brazen shirt, and even the open-air attack in the middle of Amsterdam. There was a damn good reason Cofer was taking such risks.

  “What’ve you got?” Tom asked. “AIDS? Cancer?”

  “I wish it was AIDS, they can cure that shit these days.” Cofer shook his head. “But that cancer, man, all they can do is fill you with chemicals, make you feel worse, and then tell you maybe you’ll live an extra six months.”

  “That all the time you have left?”

  “Maybe a year.” He shrugged. “I don’t need that long, though.”

  “How’s that?” Tom asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “How long does it take to kill a man?” Cofer sneered.

  “You should fucking know already. Oh, wait. You kill innocent women, not men.”

  “I’ve killed more than that bitch at the bank, you asshole. And even if I hadn’t, by the end of today, shit, by the end of the hour, I’d have one notch on my belt.”

  “Yeah, that’s how you see other people, isn’t it?” Tom sneered. “Notches. Not human beings, but expendable, for your own ends.”

  “You know, at the time, I had no idea.”

  “About what?” Tom touched the top of his head and was pleased that the blood flow seemed to have slowed.

  “That I’d killed your sister. I had no idea that’s who it was, and I was going nuts inside, trying to understand why you murdered my brother like that.”

  “Murder? Cockroaches don’t get murdered—they get stepped on or dropped into the waste disposal.”

  “My lawyer told me. I tell you what, most inmates in prison hate their lawyers, did you know that? They figure they’re on the take from the government or that they shook them down for high fees and then got them a shitty deal.” Cofer shook his head slowly but never took his eyes off Tom. “No, sir, not me. My lawyer screwed you guys good. Used your dead sister and your cowboy past on those US attorneys, made them terrified of going to trial.”

  “And yet there you were in prison, and your criminal brother pushing up daisies.”

  Cofer nodded. “Yep, right next to your sister.”

  “I bet she reached over and cut his tiny balls off. Or was he like you, and didn’t have any?”

  “What’re you going to do, Green, question my bravery so I throw down my gun and challenge you to a fistfight? Even a has-been like you could take a man dying of cancer—I’ll give you that much.”

  “You don’t have a gun.” Tom moved his hands, just a little, just enough to confirm what he’d feared three minutes ago.

  “I have yours.” Cofer pulled Tom’s .32 Beretta from a jacket poc
ket and let it dangle between his knees. “Good God, taking it from you couldn’t have been any easier. You know how many times I’d imagined this moment? Pictured how this might go down?”

  “You’re really going to shoot me? Here?”

  “You know, probably fifty percent of the time I got realistic and imagined you winning. I didn’t hit you hard enough, fast enough, you saw me too soon, whatever the reason. And yet here we are, and it was so easy.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Tom eyed the gun, wondered if he could move fast enough to kick it out of Cofer’s hand. He doubted it. Not yet, anyway.

  “Do you like the courtyard? I rented it. Well, the small apartment in the front, the courtyard comes with it. I bet it’s nice in the summer. Shame you won’t live to see it.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Oh, I’ll make it to Christmas, I think.”

  “I was referring to one of my colleagues dispatching you, not your case of jail-contracted syphilis.”

  “Oh, were you?” Cofer shook his head with amusement. “Not if today is any guide. I really can’t believe how easy it was to trap and disarm a former FBI agent. The orange shirt, the stroll through Amsterdam, and this place. Where, just so you know, I’d originally planned for your body to lie unfound for the remainder of my rental period, which is Sunday morning. You’d have been in quite a state by then, especially since there’s a warm spell coming.”

  “You talk too fucking much.”

  “Right, sorry, I need to get to the good bit. See, you probably think this is all about killing you and Hugo Marston, but it’s more than that. You see, I’ve had to live with the knowledge of my brother’s death, and of course I witnessed it. I couldn’t figure out how to trap you both in the same place and kill you, so the better course of action is to kill you, make Marston suffer, then kill him.”

  “If you like, you can kill him first, that’d work just as well for me.”

  “Funny man. Brave in the face of death, I like it.”

  “You really plan to kill Hugo as well?” Tom asked. “I’m the one who took out your brother, so unless you’re actually the monster I think you are, why don’t you leave him out of it?”

  “Not a chance,” Cofer snapped. “He’s the one who covered for you. He’s as guilty as you are.” Cofer grinned, and Tom thought he’d never seen a man so evil. “The best part is, I’m gonna take him out when he’s at his lowest. Dressed in black, long-faced, and teary-eyed. Then pop, and you and he can get together in whatever FBI hell exists in the afterlife.”

  “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

  “Thank you,” Cofer said. “It was meant as a compliment, right? After all, I’ve been planning this for a several years, thanks to lots of spare time and a good library in the prison.”

  “So much for rehabilitation,” Tom said.

  Cofer sat back. “It’s true what they say about the federal pen, you know. I’ve done state time and federal time, and I much prefer the latter. Better food, more exercise available. Frankly, a better class of inmate. The politicians and money launderers make for better conversation than your common criminal.”

  “Like bank robbers, you mean.”

  “See, I don’t know why you keep trying to antagonize me.”

  “Might as well have some fun before I die,” Tom said. “I’m not known for my delicate manners.”

  “Don’t you want to know if I had help? I thought you law-enforcement types were all questions. You know, Nothing but the facts, ma’am”

  “Doesn’t seem like it’d change much.”

  “Well, I just want you to know that the Dutch police can be corrupt, too. I mean, as well as you Feds and the rest of the court system that helped you cover up my brother’s murder.”

  “I told you, he was exterminated, not murdered.”

  “Funny. It’s also funny that a certain member of the Dutch customs was open to financial persuasion. He’s the one who ignored the fact that I used a dead man’s passport. You probably didn’t know about that, though, did you?”

  “Actually, I did. For what it’s worth.” Tom adjusted his position, but a new jolt of fire pierced his skull and he winced.

  “He couldn’t get me a gun, wouldn’t go that far. Funny where people draw the line when it comes to their morality, isn’t it?”

  “Please give the turd my thanks.”

  “All seems so random, so pointless, because here I am with a gun after all.”

  “And you’re going to use it no matter what I say,” Tom said. “You seriously expect me to play nice only for you to shoot me in cold blood at the end of our little chat? Fuck you.”

  “If your friend were here, I bet he’d be trying a little harder to stay alive. Mostly out of cowardice, but he’d be smarter about it.”

  “You leave him out of this. I shot your maggot of a brother. He wasn’t even there.”

  “Sure he was. You and he chased us there, together. Yeah, you pulled the trigger, but who covered it all up?”

  “There was nothing to cover up. Your shithead brother was trying to escape, and I shot him.”

  “You shot him in cold blood inside the house. Your buddy Marston walked away, turned his back and let you stage the scene to suit your story. And you knew he would; that’s why you dared to shoot my brother. You knew he’d cover for you.” Cofer sneered at Tom. “No, you may have pulled the trigger, but he’s as responsible as you. And he’ll pay just the way you’re going to pay.”

  And that was the reason Cofer was in Holland, Tom realized. That’s why he’d come to Amsterdam on a passport that could be tracked. He knew the difference between Tom and Hugo. He knew that Hugo had a job to do and that Tom was the reckless, shoot-from-the-hip kind of person. Cofer knew that once he’d been sighted in Amsterdam, Tom would head out there to confront him, whereas Hugo would stay in Paris and show up to his responsible, important, day job until there was definitive proof Cofer was in Europe. Despite himself, Tom couldn’t help but respect the plan. An evil, twisted plan, yes, but one that showed him he’d underestimated Rick Cofer.

  “Just so you know,” Tom said. “Hugo Marston is not only braver than me, but he’s about ten times smarter. Which makes him about fifty times smarter than you.”

  “And yet, as I said before, here we are. You bleeding on the ground, and me sitting comfortably with your gun in my hand.”

  “He’ll get you. And he won’t play the nice guy you think he is.”

  “Nice guy? I think he’s an asshole. And, just like the asshole lying in the dirt in front of me, he’s going to die in an alleyway in Paris. Two murderous cops dying on foreign soil, like the rats they are.”

  “It won’t fire,” Tom said, eyeing the gun. “Fingerprint trigger lock. I’m afraid you’re going to have to beat me to death with it.”

  Cofer paused, uncertainty in his eyes. He looked down at the gun, then quickly back to Tom. “It’s a normal trigger, a normal gun.”

  “Who was that whistling, by the way?” Tom asked. “You pay someone to do that?”

  “Lots of starving musicians in Amsterdam, you know. Well, everywhere, I guess.” He heaved the gun in his hand. “Normal trigger and a full clip, from the weight of it.”

  “It won’t fire. So you better hit me over the head again, or take off running. I’d suggest the latter, since my legs will probably be wobbly for a while.”

  “You’re bluffing, Green, and you’re not very good at it.”

  “Not so.” Tom held his eye. “And my legs are starting to feel a lot better, so it’s time for you to go.”

  “I’m not much for running these days,” Cofer said. “So, why don’t we just try it, see if it works?”

  From ten feet away, Rick Cofer raised the pistol, took aim, and shot Tom Green in the chest. Three loud cracks echoed around the courtyard, the sound lingering for several seconds after Tom’s body crumpled sideways to the dusty cobbles, where he lay, absolutely still, his eyes open but unblinking.

 
; Cofer stood and went to him, wondering if he should put an extra bullet in Green’s temple just to make sure. But the man who’d killed his twin brother wasn’t moving or breathing, so there was no need; it would only serve to attract more attention. Plus, he knew that Green was right. Hugo Marston was the smart one of the pair, and as soon as he heard about his friend’s death, he’d use all of his power and resources to get to Rick before he could finish this mission. Which meant Rick might need every single one of those bullets, if it came to a shoot-out.

  Cofer smiled. A shoot-out with a Texan. What a perfect way to go.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At the same time Ambassador Taylor was dialing Brendon Fowler’s number, Hugo took a seat in the jail visitation room in the bowels of the prefecture. He watched the other visitors take seats at the other small but sturdy tables, everyone’s eyes on the iron door at the back of the room. When the visitors were all locked in, a bell rang and the heavy door clanked open.

  Hugo’s heart almost broke when Claudia walked through the doorway, pale-faced and dressed in the blue denim uniform of the jail. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and even though she was trying to be brave, the dark smudges under her eyes told him she’d not rested or relaxed for even a moment since being arrested. He wanted to get up from the chipped and scarred Formica table and hug her, but the guards had made it very clear to the handful of visitors that there was to be no touching. You touch, you leave was the gist of things.

  “Hugo.” She smiled and sat opposite him. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

  “You too,” he said. “How’re you holding up?”

  “I’m fine. It’s a little cold back there, so next time if you could bring a nice bowl of hot chocolate. Maybe a few so I can share them around.”

  “Be glad to,” Hugo said with a reassuring smile.

  “Honestly, I’m surprised they let you in here at all.”

  “You really think they could stop me?” He gave her a small smile. “Not a chance.”

  “You are sweet, Hugo. But I wish you didn’t have to see me this way. It’s humiliating.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong. And you know I don’t care about what you’re wearing; the fact you’re here doesn’t change a thing about you. I just want to help however I can.”