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?”
Thirty
They staged outside the building, 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.