“Nope,” Tom said. “Thought I’d run it by you first. If I tell them, they’ll have questions I can’t answer.”
“You think I can answer them?”
“No, but if we tell them together I’ll have someone else to look like a dumbass beside me.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Damn straight. Sandwiches at Chez Maman first?”
Hugo hesitated. “Sure. I can be there in an hour.” He put away his phone and walked to where Garcia stood with his back to a chestnut tree, resting.
“News you can share?” asked Garcia.
“Yes. The autopsy confirmed that the girl’s skin, the part that was hacked, had traces of ink on it.”
“A tattoo? Interesting. Anything else?”
“No, not really.”
“A long conversation for ‘not really.’” Garcia’s eyes held Hugo’s, but showed more amusement than annoyance. He was letting Hugo know that he knew, that was all.
“It was Tom,” Hugo shrugged, playing the game. “He likes to talk.”
“He is well?”
“Sometimes.”
“A good man, Tom,” Garcia said. He took a deep breath and surveyed the cemetery. “Still works for the CIA, does he?”
Hugo smiled. “Sometimes.”
“That’s what I thought. So if there’s anything else, you’ll let me know?”
“Just as soon as I can, I promise.”
“Bon,” Garcia said. “Because I’d much rather work on this with you than, say, a horde of outsiders.”
“I know what you mean,” Hugo said. “And I feel the same.”
Chapter Eight
Chez Maman hadn’t changed since Hugo had last visited, many months ago. Not surprising, since it hadn’t changed, as far as he knew, in the hundred or so years it had been open before that. This visit was significant, though, because Hugo had not set foot inside since his friend Max had died. Been killed. Murdered. Max, the gruff bouquiniste who’d rested his elbows on each one of these wooden tables over the years, often with Hugo sitting across from him.
Chez Maman, hidden in plain sight, its soot-stained, plaster walls and grubby windows like camouflage so even though it sat less than a block from the Seine, Hugo had walked past it a hundred times without seeing it, without noticing the battered wooden sign over the door, and a place that Hugo would have walked past a hundred more times if Max hadn’t bidden him enter.
The owner, “Maman” was the only name Hugo had ever heard, initially cast a suspicious eye over the American because this wasn’t a bar for Parisians in suits, let alone foreigners wearing them. No, this was a bar for the men who kept those Parisians happy, its workers, its sweepers, its street-side booksellers. But over the two years that Hugo had been coming, Maman warmed to him, trusting him because Max did and because he didn’t act like any American she knew. Maman, with her shock of orange hair, her half-smoked cigarette, and trailing her oxygen tank whenever she stepped out from behind the bar to clear tables, which was not often.
A place like this, yellowed on the inside from a century of filterless cigarettes, held onto history, and when Hugo stepped across the threshold he felt Max’s absence, felt disloyal almost, coming to their watering hole as if nothing were wrong. He paused inside the doorway to let his eyes adjust, as always, and when they did he saw Maman staring across the bar at him. He nodded, as always, and looked around for Tom, somehow and for some reason a kindred spirit to the old woman from the first day Hugo had introduced them. His friend was like that, especially with people who served drinks.
Tom was in the far corner, a glass and a half carafe of red wine in front of him, sitting where he could see everyone who came and went. Hugo felt his gaze as he moved to the bar. Tom would know this was hard. By the time Hugo got there, Maman had poured a whisky and set it on the bar, a statement of understanding in a chipped tumbler.
“Salut,” Hugo said.
She nodded, her eyes holding his, a woman who threw looks and not words to make herself understood. I’m sorry.
Hugo looked at the drink. “Merci. But a little early for the hard stuff,” he said.
She looked at him again and he felt a fool. He picked up the glass and together they said it.
“To Max.”
Hugo tipped the whisky back, feeling the burn in his throat. When he put the glass down she swept it from the top of the bar without a word, sentimentality done with, a luxury this bar did not indulge.
“Tu veut manger?” she asked.
“Oui,” he said. “A sandwich, whatever you have. And coffee. Same for Tom.”
She nodded and retreated, their moment over.
“OK?” Tom asked, when Hugo eased into the seat opposite him.
“Sure.” Hugo watched him, wondering if he’d misheard the heavy tongue in his friend’s mouth.
“Where’s the frog?”
“I assume you mean Capitaine Garcia?”
“Yep.”
“He had work to do. Kind of like us, only we’re here,” said Hugo. “Have you been drinking?”
“I just saw you take a belt of the hard stuff. You really gonna lecture me?”
“I’m your friend, not your dad. But yeah, Tom, I am. You’ve been drinking like a fish for months now.”
“Bullshit. A year at least.”
“Then maybe it’s time to ease up. Especially before noon.”
“I’m doing this for my liver, spreading it throughout the day to make it less concentrated.” He held up his glass. “Medically speaking, this is very sensible.”
“Not amusing, Tom. We’re supposed to be working — at least, I am. God knows what you’re supposed to be doing. Anyway, I’m not getting paid to sit around with drunks in bars, I know that much.”
“Ah, I get it.” Tom wagged a finger. “This is your place with Max, that the thing?”
“Yes, Tom,” Hugo sighed. “That’s it exactly. You jealous?”
“Sure, if I can use it as an excuse to drink.” Tom put his forearms on the table and Hugo leaned away from the smell of his breath. “You’re a big boy, Hugo. You had to come back here sooner or later. And you got the guy who killed Max, remember that.”
“Time to move on?”
“You know what I always say.” Tom raised his wine glass and sipped, then put it down with care. “It’s always time to move on in our profession.”
“Never heard you say that, Tom. What are we doing here?”
“Waiting for sandwiches. Maybe getting drunk.”
“You’re there already. Maybe you should slow it down a little?”
“Maybe you should catch up.”
“With you staying at my place, I feel like I have been.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Which, the drinking or you staying?”
“Either one.”
“I like having you there but as your unpaid landlord I’m banning alcohol from the premises.”
“Fuck you, boss.” Tom smiled innocently as Maman dropped plates in front of them, each bearing a half-baguette stuffed with ham and brie.
Hugo picked his up. “You had something to tell me?”
“Yep,” Tom said. “Have a look at this.” He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it on the table, smoothing it out with a palm.
Hugo read the title across the top of the page. “A press release?” he said. “Seriously?”
“I know. Our dear senator’s idea. You know politicians, if their mug isn’t in the paper or on TV then they get hives.”
Hugo picked up the page. “This is the worst idea possible. Whether it’s a terrorist or some random punk with an itchy trigger finger, this is the worst possible idea.”