“No,” Hugo shouted back. “We’ll probably beat the cops there, and if he hears them coming, he’ll kill her right there.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes. Let me drive?” It was a question, and one that earned a dark look. “I know the way,” he explained. “It’ll be faster.”
They were almost at the car and she unlocked it remotely on the run, before throwing him the keys. In seconds they were speeding along the Boulevard de Clichy.
“When we get there.” Hugo glanced at her. “Is there any point in asking you to stay in the car?”
“None,” she said. “And if I said I would, I’d be lying. Just so you know.”
“Claudia, that’s not smart.”
“It is if you’re not calling the police. I’ll hang back, I’ll call them if … Well, you know.”
If I get shot. “OK. I can live with you hanging back,” he said.
Hugo took a left, away from the busy boulevard, then swore as two men, drunk already, staggered into the street ahead of him. They heard the car’s horn and flew headfirst into a parked motorcycle as he rocketed past, a pair of Olympic divers abandoning form for function.
Hugo jammed the car into a handicapped space and they both jumped out, Hugo reaching for his backup weapon, a wooden-handled Smith & Wesson that felt heavy in his hand. They ran into the building, Hugo relieved that if she wouldn’t sit tight, she let him lead. They took the stairs two at a time, slowing as they neared the apartment, Hugo switching to stealth over speed. As they turned into the corridor, Claudia paused and Hugo gave her a grateful nod.
He inched toward the door, keeping his gun up and his back to the wall. When he reached it, he stopped to listen. Nothing. He tried the handle but the door was locked. He had no choice but to knock, making sure he kept his body away from the door in case the Scarab was inside and armed.
There was no response to his knock. He hammered the door with the butt of his gun.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he called. “Amelia, it’s Hugo Marston.”
He waited and exchanged looks with Claudia who stood at the end of the hallway, watching nervously.
“Amelia, I’m coming in.” He aimed the.44 at the lock and fired twice. The sound set his ears ringing but he didn’t hesitate, shouldering the door open and bursting into the apartment.
It looked the same as when he’d left it, no sign of a disturbance, nothing out of place. He checked every room, looking for signs that she’d been gone long, or maybe taken against her will.
Claudia appeared in the doorway. “Not here?”
Hugo shook his head. “And no way to tell when she’ll be back.”
“If ever.”
“Right.”
“We have no idea where the guy lives?”
“Tom’s looking into that. Until he comes up with something, we have to go to the next-best place.”
“Which is?”
“She told me about Al Zakiri’s barge but said she’d never seen it, never been there. She was lying.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw flowers when I was there.”
“Ah. And as we all know, men don’t buy themselves flowers.” She smiled. “Not men like you and Al Zakiri, anyway.”
“Precisely. Let’s head to the river.”
“You think Villier would take her there?”
“No, he’d take her to his place,” Hugo said. “I think she’d go to the houseboat to get away for a few days, and to be closer to Al Zakiri.”
They started back along the corridor to the stairs. “Would Villier know about the boat?”
“He’s been preparing for a while. It’s possible he followed her, got to know her. He probably knows a lot more about her than we do.” He stopped in his tracks. The blurred image of a man on a bridge dissolved and came into focus. It was the eyes that sealed it. “He’s seen the boat,” he said, his jaw tight.
“That’s not very encouraging,” she said. As they exited the building, she held out her hand. “Want me to drive?”
Hugo craned his neck to find the barge as they drove over the Pont Alexandre, but there was too much traffic, too many pedestrians to get a clear view.
Claudia knew the places to park in Paris — as a journalist with deadlines, she had to — and she tucked the car into a space on Rue Surcouf, two blocks from the riverfront. Hugo dialed Tom as he climbed out of the car.
“Have anything on where this bastard lives?” he asked.
“Not yet. We’re running every variation of his name we can think of, got descriptions out to the uniforms on the street, using our best guesses as to where he might live.”
“Which is?”
“Somewhere near a metro stop, not the city center. He has to live alone, given what he’s doing, but if his name isn’t on a lease or deed then he’s using cash and you don’t do that in the Latin Quarter.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“No shit. Any other suggestions?”
Hugo thought for a moment. “You know, I might. It’s a long shot, though.”
“My specialty. What have you got?”
“On our way out, Pierre Galvan told us that Villier’s mother was famous for two beautiful tattoos, a snake on her front, a leopard on her back.”
“We know he got the snake.”
“My guess is he also got the leopard, we just don’t know about it. If you can pull all the death reports from the past couple of weeks, just to be safe, go through the descriptions, look for a tattoo like that.”
“Dude, we’re not stupid,” Tom said. “We’ve already been on the lookout for bodies that are mutilated or are missing tattoos.”
“Then expand it to missing persons. I guarantee he’s got that tattoo in his collection, and whoever it belonged to is dead. Which means someone, somewhere, is missing her.” He looked up as they stopped at an intersection. “And if her body’s not been found, it’s likely to be a drug addict, prostitute, someone who lives alone, or whose movements aren’t monitored.”
“I’m on it. Where are you?”
“Down by the river. Rousseau’s apartment was empty and I didn’t see any sign of a struggle, so hopefully she left under her own steam.”
“You’re checking the barge?”
“Yep. I’ll call if we find anything.”
Hugo hung up and they crossed the street at a jog, feeling the evening breeze lift off the river to meet them, bringing with it the smells of the city, the aromas of cooking as the nearby cafés and bistros fired up their kitchens, which fought with the acrid choke of the evening’s traffic and the metallic odor of the Seine itself.
They paused by the low wall that overlooked the riverfront, looking both ways for the battered barge.
“I don’t see it,” Hugo said.
Claudia pointed to their left. “The river bends after the Pont de l’Alma. Maybe it’s around the corner.”
“I’d be surprised if she knew how to move it.”
“Because girls can’t drive boats?”
“Can you?”
“I’d figure it out. If I had people hounding me about my dead boyfriend, I’d figure it out fast.”
Hugo started toward the stone steps that lead down to the walkway. “Let’s go see.”
They walked fast, making their way to, and then beneath, the Pont des Invalides, eyes scanning up and down the river for the houseboat. The evening had started to settle over the city, flattening the light and making it hard for them to be sure of what they were seeing, cabins of blue and black looking the same as green when they sat so low in the water.
An old man in a worn gray overcoat sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the walkway, a fishing rod over the water. Hugo approached him.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur,” he said. “You fish here a lot?”
“Some,” the man said, not looking up.