“I do,” said Hugo. “He is. And when I find him, I'll call you.”
Hugo spent the rest of Saturday trying to find Max's house. Tom was still not answering his phone, but one of the other bouquinistes gave Hugo Max's last name, or what he thought it was: Cloche. But four hours on the Internet, running free searches and using pay sites, gave him nothing.
Chapter Six
On Sunday morning, Hugo stationed himself on the busy Boulevard de Palais, near the exit to the metro stop closest to the Prefecture de Police. He walked in large circles, the police station always in view, hoping that the mid-morning tourist traffic and his hat and coat collar would give him the element of surprise.
He saw his man as soon as he emerged from the metro, the thin figure sporting the familiar heavy overcoat and woolen ski hat. Hugo hurried across the street and caught up to him at the front steps of the prefecture.
“Excusez moi, Detective Durand,” he said.
The detective turned, his hooded eyes taking a moment to make the connection. “Ah, Monsieur Marston. How can I help you?”
“A progress report would be nice.” Hugo decided to gauge Durand's response before mentioning the so-called hoax/mistake investigation.
“Not much to say, sadly.” Durand frowned and looked down, as if thinking. “We searched the river that night but found no boat matching the description you gave. No one of the alleged victim's description turned up, either, in the hospitals or morgue.” He turned his eyes onto Hugo. “And of course, we still have those witnesses who say your friend went onto the boat voluntarily.”
“I suppose you're not willing to give me the names of those witnesses,” Hugo said, forcing himself to remain calm.
“I cannot, I'm sorry.”
“You can,” Hugo said. “I'm one of us, remember.”
“Non. Je m'excuse.” Durand started to turn away but Hugo gripped his sleeve.
“So the investigation is over?”
“Non. The description of your friend, and the boat, remains with our men on the street. If an unidentified person shows up in an ambulance or hearse, that person will be checked to see if it is him. Now, unless you know something you are not telling me, I don't quite see what more I can do.”
“You can start by changing the designation of the investigation. It's neither a hoax nor a mistake.”
Durand raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”
“What difference does it make?”
The detective stepped closer and Hugo smelled the stale cigarettes on his breath, saw the little flecks of gold in the angry green eyes. “Monsieur. I appreciate you are not used to being in this situation and that usually you are in my shoes. However, I have done my job and will continue to do it. Now, please let go of my arm. Right now.”
A new voice snapped out behind Hugo. “What's going on here?”
Durand stiffened, his eyes wary now.
So the newcomer is your superior. Hugo turned to look at the man who'd spoken. He was short and fat, with a polka-dot bow tie scrunched under the lowest of several round chins. He immediately reminded Hugo of the wily Hercule Poirot with his dark, watchful eyes and balding, egg-shaped head. He also had the moustache, though this man's was a thin line rather than the thick and oiled specimen worn by Agatha Christie's sleuth.
“Just trying to get some information,” Hugo said. “No big deal.”
“I am Capitaine Raul Garcia,” the man said.
“Hugo Marston.”
“A tourist?”
“Head of security at the US Embassy. I live here.”
Garcia nodded and watched Hugo for a moment, then his eyes slid down to Hugo's hand, which still gripped Durand's sleeve. Garcia smiled, like a conjuror withholding the secret to a magic trick. “Bien. Pleased to meet you. However, I'm sure you appreciate that even an American colleague has no need to lay hands on one of my detectives.”
Hugo held his eye. This was an olive branch, a chance for Hugo to back off. Behind the soft words, though, it was clear whose side Garcia would take.
Hugo released Durand's sleeve and opened his mouth to say something, but Garcia brushed past him and, with a flick of his wrist, directed his junior detective into the prefecture. Hugo clenched his jaw and started after them, but another gesture from Garcia sent two uniformed gendarmes to block his way. Hugo didn't feel like a fight, and being arrested by the French cops would take some explaining to his own boss.
He walked away from the prefecture, avoiding the riverfront even though he knew all the stalls would be closed up for the day, Sunday being a day of rest for Christians, sinners, and bouquinistes alike.
At his apartment, he left messages at the ambassador's home and office, hoping his boss would be able to pull strings, get an investigation moving. Two hours later, neither call was returned.
Work kept his mind busy the rest of the afternoon, drafting shift rosters and approving vacation time until he could slip into a hot bath with a cold scotch, the events of the past two days seeping back into his mind after the impenetrable barrier of embassy business. A sadness crept through him, a feeling of hopelessness that had come to replace the urgency he'd felt immediately after Max's kidnapping. He tried to suppress it, tell himself there was still a chance, but he knew that hope was fading. If Max was free, uninjured, he would have sought out Hugo by now. And if he wasn't…Eventually, Hugo climbed from the tub, his body sapped of energy by the worry, the warm water, and the drink. He fell into bed long before midnight but slept fitfully.
Hugo woke early on Monday. He was glad to be active and walked the mile and a half to the US Embassy, thinking about Max every step of the way, wondering what he could do — should do — to help find his friend. A dark thought pressed in on him, reminding him that finding people wasn't all he was good at. When those who'd gone missing couldn't be found, all that was left was to catch those who'd harmed them. Given Max's age and the coldness in Nica's eyes, Hugo knew he had to face the possibility that finding Max was no longer his priority.
The snow had receded from the roads, pushed back by a warm Sunday and the workers who had scraped and brushed the city streets all weekend. Piles of graying slush lay at intervals on the sidewalk, watery at the edges, creating webs of rivulets that streaked the pavement and disappeared into the gutters. After yesterday's warmth it had turned cold again, temperatures hovering a couple of degrees above freezing, and Hugo wondered if the frigid day would turn the wet streets into ice rinks.
He used a side door at the embassy, showing his credentials on the way in and passing through the least busy of the metal detectors. It was a formality; he'd known the two marines guarding that entrance for over a year.
Inside, Hugo walked down the quiet hallway, hearing the murmur of voices and the clicking of computer keys behind closed doors, glad not to see anyone. He didn't particularly want to explain why he was not out enjoying his vacation or on his way to the States, the usual holiday destination for embassy employees. But if he wanted to use his office, seeing his secretary was unavoidable.
In another era, Emma would have been described as handsome, and it would have been a compliment. In her late fifties, she had the erect posture and even features that gave her a timeless appeal. Her shoulder-length brown hair knew its place, always, and she wore just enough make-up to let you know she had made an effort. They had worked together for two years, but other than her never-failing promptness and efficiency, Hugo knew little about her. He had access to every law enforcement tool in existence and no doubt could have learned plenty, but he'd respected her privacy the way she respected, and protected, his.