by Mark Pryor
“Thanks for not pressing charges,” Tom said. “And I’m fine with you leaving me in jail overnight, too. I’d have left me in there longer.”
“I tried to,” Lerens said, “but at shift change this morning, the commander got all antsy about you being a US citizen, and him getting in trouble.”
“If it makes us even, you can punch me in the junk, if you want,” Tom said. A twinkle had returned to his eyes, but Hugo knew his friend was genuinely sorry.
“I might,” Lerens said, trying not to smile. “But if I do, it’ll be when you’re not expecting it. Come to think of it, you might enjoy that, so forget it.”
“Why don’t you come upstairs?” Hugo said to Lerens. “Tom’s getting changed and then he’s buying me breakfast. American pancakes. I’m sure he’d be delighted to buy some for you, too.”
“You know,” Lerens said, “this may be hard to believe, but I’ve never had your pancakes. Never seen America as the origin of culinary delights, but I’d love to try them.”
They started up the steps, and Hugo held the door for both of them, nodding to Dimitrios the Cretan concierge. As they entered the elevator, Tom was educating Lerens about American food. “No one does steak like a Texan. Hot dogs are the best sports food ever. And a good hamburger is the most satisfying meal in the world.”
“I’ll agree on the steak, maybe,” Lerens said. “But hot dogs? I don’t like to eat food when I can’t recognize which part of the animal it came from. Or which animal, for that matter.”
Tom punched the button for the top floor. “You prefer the recognizable but almost meat-free leg of a frog, then?”
“Correct. Bigger’s not always better.” Lerens gave a little snort of laughter. “And having been on both sides of the fence, I should know.”
“Wait, you told us you only liked girls,” Tom said.
“Don’t change the subject,” Lerens smirked. “And I didn’t say ‘only,’ I just said I liked girls.”
“Man, you really are playing every side of this game, aren’t you?” Tom muttered.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Lerens muttered back.
Hugo let them into the apartment, relived the tension was gone. Relieved, too, that Lerens knew just how to handle Tom. As a transgender cop, she no doubt caught flak from her colleagues, and clearly she’d figured out that humor was a powerful weapon in combating prejudice. Anyone who could out-banter Tom had a gift indeed.
As soon as they were inside, Hugo’s phone rang. It was Bart Denum.
“Hi, Bart, thanks for calling back.”
“Of course, what’s up?”
“I just wondered if you’d heard from Amy lately. We were supposed to have breakfast this morning, only she didn’t show.”
A slight pause on the line, then Denum said, “Oh, Jesus, I knew something was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was going to call you, Hugo, have you check up on her.”
“Why?”
“She’s not returning my calls, for the last three days. That doesn’t sound like a long time, but it was my birthday yesterday and we’d arranged to talk. I got one e-mail, real brief, but we’ve talked on my birthday, and hers, every year since the accident. It’s like . . . our thing.” Denum sighed. “But she’s nineteen now and in Paris, I didn’t want to crowd her. Figured she’d get to it, but now . . .”
“Yeah, seems a little odd. I wondered if she’d just lost her phone.”
“Could be, but she’d have said so and she knows how to get hold of me if she really wants to. And now she stood you up, too?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you meeting?”
“She called last week. Said she wanted to talk about something.” Hugo left out the part about keeping her dad in the dark.
“And you tried calling her?”
“And texting. I didn’t hear from her, waited at the restaurant for over thirty minutes. I’m sure something else came up.”
“First thing on a Sunday morning?”
There was a moment’s silence, and Hugo knew that Bart was trying to stay calm, think of rational reasons his daughter had missed the meeting. “Well, damn. That worries me, Hugo. I’m really starting to wonder if something’s going on.”
“I know you’re worried, and I don’t blame you. But remember that she’s a teenager, and I’m sure she’s enjoying the long leash she’s on. It shouldn’t be a surprise that she’d resist when you or I give that leash a tug.”
“But you know what she’s like. She’s not the rebel type; she’s thoughtful and responsible. And to not show up at all? To not even call you? That’s not her, Hugo, and you know it.”
A vision of the man lurking outside the restaurant appeared in Hugo’s mind, but he dismissed it. The man had nothing to do with Amy; he was just a visible symbol of something not right, someone out of place. And Bart had a point. It wasn’t like Amy to not show up, not even call.
“Text me her address, I’ll go by and see her.”
“OK.” Denum paused. “Hugo, I’m thinking about coming over there.”
“Paris is lovely this time of year, but there’s no need yet. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“I don’t know what makes you so damn sure . . .” Denum softened his tone. “I’m sorry Hugo, I’m really worried. It’s just me and her, and if something happens to her . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence because he didn’t need to. Hugo had survived Ellie’s death by throwing himself at danger, distracting himself with the least safe assignments he could claim. Africa, the Middle East. Bart didn’t have that option, he had Amy to take care of, and Hugo suspected his friend had been forced to subsume his grief to hers, to be the strong one, and as a result had never really recovered. And that made him fragile where Amy was concerned—the merest hint of losing her was enough to make the strong man crack.
And he’d cracked once before, in London. Hugo and Denum were stationed at the US Embassy there, and one July morning a jihadist in a trench coat had shown up in front of the embassy at the same moment Denum had arrived for work. A cool summer morning on a leafy street, a normal day at the office turned upside down by a man with a death wish, for himself and others.
After the incident, Hugo had watched the security-camera footage over and over. He watched as the two men stood just feet from each other, almost as if both were frozen in fear and indecision. For a few seconds they stared at each other, then the man opened his coat and let Denum know they were both about to die. A US Marine shot the bomber in the shoulder before he could detonate, a gunshot that triggered something in Denum, caused him to pull out his own gun and unload it into the falling body of the terrorist. Denum had been shuffled out of the service immediately, free of criminal charges on the theory that the bomber was as good as dead anyway, but Denum was put under the watch of some specialized mental-health experts for six months. Hugo had helped him get a desk job with the TSA in Washington, and he’d done well there, made friends, and moved up.
Now, years later, his breakdown was a thing of the past, a moment of horror not spoken about, but Hugo often wondered if the dark hands that had gripped his friend that day had entirely let go, or whether they trailed their oily fingers through his mind, waiting for another chance to operate him like a puppet.
Hugo hoped not, because of all the things likely to push him back into the fog, a missing Amy would top the list.
“I’ll go over to her place,” Hugo assured him. “I’ll find her, and if she’s not there, I’ll talk to her neighbors. Let me check it out before you dash over here, OK?”
“You’ll go today?”
“Yes, I will.” Hugo saw that plate of pancakes disappear for a second time. “I’ll go right now, I promise. This is what I do, Bart, you know that. I look for people who’ve gone missing, and I find them.”
Denum’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “That’s what worries me.”
“What do you mean?”
“By the time
you start looking for missing girls, Hugo, they’re usually in a whole lot of trouble.”
CHAPTER THREE
Hugo hung up and wandered into Tom’s room, normally Hugo’s office, but only when his friend was out of town.
“Change of plans,” Hugo said.
“A problem?” Tom asked.
“Could be. I’ve had some good people work for me but this guy, Bart Denum, was one of the best and is a good friend. You ever meet him?”
“Heard you talk about him, and his daughter, but I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Well, his daughter is here, living here in Paris for a few months. Seems to have gone missing.”
“He call the cops?” Tom asked. “I hear they handle that kind of thing.”
“Funny, but we’re not there yet. She’s not returning his calls or e-mails, but it’s only been a few days. She could be in a jail cell somewhere with a hangover.”
“Touché.”
“Thanks. I need to go check out her place, see if there’s any sign of her. I could leave it until later, but I’d rather not.”
“Yeah, well, I’m fucking hungry so I’d rather you did.”
“So go eat.”
“Nah,” Tom said. “I’ll come with you. Highly trained backup and all that.”
“I think I can handle knocking on a door.” Hugo tilted his head toward the living room. “Plus, methinks you and Camille have some catching up to do.”
“And by that, you mean I have some groveling to do.”
“Correct. Let’s go.” Hugo led Tom back to Lerens. “Sorry, Camille. I have to go check out something for an old friend, which means you’ll be enjoying your first pancakes with Tom. His treat.”
Lerens looked back and forth between the two men. “They don’t serve alcohol there, do they?”
“I don’t think so,” Hugo said.
“And I’m back on the wagon, I promise,” Tom said quickly.
“I wasn’t thinking of you,” Lerens said. “I could use a shot of something, my face hurts.”
Back on Rue Jacob, they started to go their separate ways when Lerens stopped. “Hey, you need help with your little mission?”
“No, thanks for offering, though. A friend needs me to check on his daughter, an aspiring model living in the Marais.”
“A model?” Tom said. “You didn’t mention that before, you bastard. I’d have insisted on helping.”
“I know,” Hugo grinned. “Enjoy your pancakes.”
Amy lived in a building that sat just off Rue des Rosiers, on the Right Bank, in the Marais district. For some reason, Denum had texted Hugo a photo as well as her address, and in the picture she wore a blue soccer uniform and held a ball. She had brown, curly hair and a bright smile. Definitely a pretty girl, Hugo thought, but he wondered, not for the first time, whether she had the stark beauty required to make it as a model in Paris. Those girls, as far as he could see, tended to be stick thin, almost gaunt, with alienlike eyes and cheek bones like knives. Amy had the kind of athletic beauty that turned heads on the street, but Hugo wondered if that would be enough to match the exotic look required for magazine shoots and fashion runways.
The front door to the building had no lock, which surprised and disappointed Hugo. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and found himself in a foyer lined with mailboxes. A second door led to the ground-floor apartments and a wooden staircase. Amy’s place was on the second floor, and from the look of the place, Hugo guessed each floor held three studios, the original large apartments broken into smaller units to exploit tourists and renters like Amy.
He climbed the stairs, noticing how quiet it was in the building despite its proximity to the heart of Paris. Old walls of plaster and brick, not drywall. He turned right down a dark hallway and stopped in front of Amy’s door. He listened for a moment but heard no sound. He knocked. Again, silence from inside, so he knocked again, louder this time.
A movement to his left caught his eye, near the top of the stairs, and he glanced over. She was partly in shadow and he couldn’t see her face, but it was a young woman, and she was watching him. He started toward her.
“Hi, Amy?”
She turned and ran.
This sudden, unexpected reaction stopped Hugo in his tracks, but only for a second or two. He started after her, calling her name, and followed the sound of her feet clattering down the stairs, wanting to catch her but not scare her further away. Had she not seen it was him?
He reached the ground floor as she exited onto the street, and he caught a flash of her terrified face through the glass of both doors as she glanced over her shoulder. It wasn’t Amy at all. Hugo slowed for a moment but started after her again, knowing something was wrong. Moments later, he was behind her in the street.
“Hey!” he called out. “Stop, I’m a friend of Amy!”
She didn’t hesitate, maybe she didn’t hear him, so Hugo took off running again, no more than thirty yards behind her. She jinked right onto a side street, and seconds later Hugo did the same. The girl was lying on the sidewalk, her handbag six feet from her, its contents a trail of debris between her and it.
“It’s okay, I’m a friend of Amy’s,” Hugo said in English. “I’m an American, the head of security at the US Embassy, her dad used to work for me.”
“You know Amy?” the girl asked, her voice faltering.
“Yes, ever since she was little.” Hugo stooped to offer her a hand. He helped the girl to her feet and caught her when her ankle gave way. “Like I said, her step-dad and I are old friends and colleagues.”
Her mouth twitched with a smile. “She calls him her dad, doesn’t like people saying ‘step-dad.’” She winced again. “I tripped. I think I twisted it.” She was trying not to cry.
“Here, rest against this car, give it a moment to recover.”
“Thanks. So . . . why were you looking for Amy?”
“Her dad asked me to. You’re a friend of hers?”
“Yes. My name’s Emily. Emily Edwards.”
“Nice to meet you, Emily, I’m Hugo Marston.” He bent to pick up the contents of her handbag. He handed them, and the bag itself, to Emily, knowing that their arrangement was beyond his purview. “Do you know where she is?”
“No. That’s why I was there.” She put her foot on the ground and tested her weight on it. “I think I can make it to that café.” She nodded to the spread of tables and chairs at the end of the street.
“Perfect, I could use a top-up.”
They walked slowly down the street and took a table outside. She ordered a café crème, and Hugo asked for the same.
“Why did you run away, Emily?” Hugo asked.
“I don’t really know. Seems like Amy’s been mixing with some weird people lately, then I saw you there with your hat and coat like some gangster, you scared me. Sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s fine. So how did you meet Amy?” he asked. “Or did you know her in the States?”
“No, we met over here. Two months ago, I guess. I’m a secretary at a modeling agency. She came in to do a shoot there and we got talking. We’re both from Florida, know a lot of the same places. Plus, I got the feeling she was a little lonely. Or maybe homesick.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Three days ago. We had brunch.”
“How was she?”
“Fine. Well, excited. She’d met some guy at a club, and apparently he was interested in having her model for him. I was a little worried that it was just a sleazy come on, but she said it was legit.”
“What kind of club?”
“It’s called Club Caterina in Pigalle. I’m kind of a homebody, don’t do the whole dance and clubbing scene, so I’d never heard of it.”
“Was she having any success with her modeling career? You say she had a session at your agency.”
“That was something she paid for. For her portfolio. And no, she wasn’t having much luck. There are a lot of pretty girls in Paris, and she’s one of thousands wan
ting to be a model. It’s funny, a lot of people don’t realize that the ones who make it, very often they’re kind of odd-looking. Not the usual beautiful face you see walking down the street. There’s usually something striking about them, something almost a little off. Those are the ones who make it in high fashion.”
“And Amy didn’t fit that mold?”
“Like I said, she’s a very pretty girl. But she has that cute cheerleader thing going, you know? Not the haughty model look.”
“I know what you mean. So who was the guy, do you know?”
“She may have told me his name, but I don’t think so. If she did, I can’t remember it. Sorry.”
“Did she describe him?”
“No, why would she?” Emily smiled. “I know, you’re just doing your job. But no, she didn’t.”
“And you have no idea where she might be?”
“I don’t. She’s not really the type to pick up a guy and hide away with him for days at a time. I wondered if she had, you know, and that’s why I haven’t heard from her.”
“Were you expecting to?”
“Yes, we had dinner plans Thursday night. I called and e-mailed during the day to make sure we were still on but never heard back. She didn’t show at the restaurant, and didn’t respond at all on Friday or Saturday, either. She always has her phone on her, I mean always. That’s why I stopped by her place, wondered whether she was holed up with someone. I just wanted to make sure she was okay, you know?”
“Yeah,” said Hugo. “Me too.” And I’m beginning to wonder.
CHAPTER FOUR
After he’d given Emily his business card, Hugo put her into a cab and paid the driver in advance. He hesitated for a moment but couldn’t see any other option, so he walked back to Amy’s building. He began on the bottom floor and started knocking on doors to find someone who’d seen her recently, or someone who might know where she was. Hugo didn’t want to call Bart and tell him his daughter was missing, and that’s the exact conclusion his friend would draw if Hugo reported not finding any sign of her.
