by Mark Pryor
Of the three apartments, or studios, on the lower floor, one person was home. A student at the Sorbonne, he was a wiry, bespectacled young man about an inch taller than Hugo. He said he knew Amy, and it was obvious from the way his eyes lit up that at the very least he had a crush on her.
“Alors, I don’t know her well, though,” he said. “And I think I saw her last Sunday, not since.”
“Does she work, have a boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. She’s never brought anyone here that I’ve seen, but then I probably wouldn’t see if she did. When we talked, she said she was a model, but I don’t know anything else about her job.”
“Did you two ever go on a date?”
The man looked wistful and shrugged. “She’s out of my league.”
Hugo smiled. “Women like intelligence, don’t underestimate yourself.” He handed the man a card. “Call me if you see her. Better yet, have her call me.”
“D’accord, I will. Is she . . . in danger?”
“Not as far as I know,” Hugo said.
He spoke to three other people in the building, one of whom knew Amy by sight but hadn’t seen her in weeks. The other two had never even seen her. City living, Hugo thought. He’d grown to love Paris, very quickly in fact, but he’d grown up in and around Austin, Texas, where neighbors were people you actually knew, not just shared a building or a street with.
As he passed Amy’s apartment, he stopped and listened again, frowning at the silence from behind the closed door. He tried the handle, but that was wishful thinking. He pulled out his phone and dialed Tom.
“You finished breakfast yet?” Hugo asked when his friend answered.
“Yep, just in time for lunch.”
“How’re things with Camille?”
“Peachy. She’s a good sport, but ordered a crapload of food she didn’t eat. You know how much orange juice costs at this place?”
“I hope she ordered a large.”
“Two. How’s your little expedition?”
“Turns out I need your help, if you don’t mind. We’ll need your lock-picking set. Or mine.”
“Sure. Don’t want me to mention this to Camille, then?”
Hugo laughed. “Funny. She may be a good sport, but she’s still a cop.”
“I’ll take a cab, be there in thirty minutes. Try not to lurk around looking suspicious in the meantime.”
“I’ll do my best.”
It took Tom forty minutes, which for Hugo was three leisurely walks around the block. As he completed the last one, Tom was climbing out of the cab. “You have any cash, Hugo? I was going to give this guy a credit card, but he got all shouty.”
Part of being Tom’s friend, Hugo had come to accept, was opening up his own wallet. He didn’t mind for taxis, and he no longer had to buy Tom’s booze. The problem was the occasional call girl that Hugo would find making coffee in the morning. Even in modern-day Paris, most working girls preferred cash to credit. And unlike booze, Tom hadn’t given those up, and his tastes tended toward the high-class, and therefore pricey. Twenty Euros for a cab ride was nothing in comparison.
Outside Amy’s door, Hugo wondered for a moment whether he should call Bart and get his permission to enter the apartment. Or track down the building owner and just use a key. The latter was too much hassle, he decided, and the former would cause Denum to worry more.
Four minutes later, Tom had the door open. Hugo took a deep breath and started to walk in.
“Wait up,” Tom said. Hugo noticed his friend was wearing a pair of surgical gloves, and he waved another pair at Hugo. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but we could be at a crime scene.”
“Ah, yes.” Hugo took the gloves and snapped them on. “I hope you’re wrong, but good thinking.”
“And if we are, let’s not fuck it up. The French police are already kinda unhappy with me, a contaminated crime scene might make them rethink those assault charges.”
“They wouldn’t need to,” Hugo said. “They’d have a whole new set of charges for both of us. Come on.”
They picked their way through the studio apartment methodically. They’d done this together before, many times for the FBI, and they slipped straight back into the routine. Hugo went left, Tom to the right. No words, no chit-chat, not unless one of them found something worth talking about.
It didn’t take them long to finish. Hugo ended up in the small kitchenette, noting no dishes in the sink, nor on the little draining board. The fridge was all but empty, some cans of Diet Coke and bottled water, but nothing perishable. The pull-out couch served as Amy’s bed, but when he opened it up, the sheets had been stripped off. Maybe she remade the bed every night, but Hugo doubted it.
Tom exited the small bathroom and shrugged. “Think she’s cleared out? No feminine products in there at all. Also no toothbrush, toothpaste, or any of those damn face creams pretty girls slather themselves with.”
“Kitchen indicates she’s gone, too,” Hugo said. “Nothing in the fridge to go bad, and all dishes put away.”
“We need to check with the landlord to see if she ended the lease. Any idea who it is?”
“No,” said Hugo, picturing the downstairs neighbor. “But I know a man who does.”
“Good.” Tom looked around. “So, you gonna do your thing here?”
“My thing?”
“Yeah, where you point out to dumb old me that it’s the things we’re not seeing that matter the most.”
“If you know that’s my thing, why don’t you tell me?”
“Makes me all warm and fuzzy to hear you do it. For old time’s sake.”
Hugo sighed. “Fine. The main thing I’m not seeing is a passport. I’m also not seeing money or bank stuff, though she could be operating here on cash. I’m also not seeing a lot of clothes or any suitcases, which is odd for a model.”
“Right. I noticed all that.”
Hugo grinned. “Figured you did.”
“Now what?”
“Now we figure out if she left the country.” Hugo took out his phone and called the embassy, reaching his second-in-command, Ryan Pierce. “Ryan, it’s Hugo. Need you to look up a passport number, and check to see if its owner is still in France. If not, where did she go?”
“You’re working today, boss?”
“Not officially.” Not officially yet, that is. Hugo gave Pierce Amy Dreiss’s name and date of birth. “Call me back when you know something.” He rang off, but before he could put his phone away, it buzzed. An unknown number, but he answered anyway.
“Mr. Marston, this is Emily. Edwards.”
“Hi, Emily, please call me Hugo. Have you heard from Amy?”
“No. But I remembered something about that conversation I told you about. Where she was offered a job. I just remembered that she showed me a business card. I can’t imagine it’s very helpful, but you said call about any little thing.”
“Absolutely. What can you tell me about the card?”
“Just that it was white and had a black border around it. Very thin black border, like it was a good-quality card. Expensive, with delicate cursive writing on it.”
“Was the writing also black?”
“Yes. I’m really sorry, but that’s all I can remember about it because she kind of flashed it, I didn’t get to read the name or anything. Just that he was from Spain.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all, I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be, Emily, that’s very helpful. If you remember anything else, let me know. Call any time.”
“I will.”
Hugo rang off and looked at Tom. “The idea that she went traveling may have merit. Our girl now has a vague connection to Spain.” Hugo looked around the tiny space and realized that the business card hadn’t been in the apartment, either.
“Field trip?” Tom said hopefully.
“We don’t know she’s there for sure, or where in Spain if she is.” He checked his watch. “I’d like to get something
to eat. And then we can take a local field trip.”
“Where to?”
“The club where Amy met this Spanish dude.”
“What kind of club?”
“No idea, but it’s in Pigalle.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Tom said. They both knew that Pigalle had two faces, the saucy, playful one that showed in the day, and the darker, raunchier one that emerged at night. Any club out there was likely to dangle temptations in front of Tom that he didn’t need. “You know the name of the place, I assume?” Tom asked.
“Club Caterina. Familiar with it?”
“No. But I can’t remember half the places I’ve gotten wasted in.”
“Well then,” said Hugo. “We’ll just have to behave ourselves and hope they don’t remember you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The club was in a post-lunch lull. The tourists who liked naked skin with their croque-monsieur sandwiches were off exploring other parts of Paris; the winding streets of nearby Montmartre, perhaps, or back to the hustle and bustle of attractions lining the Seine.
When Hugo and Tom entered, two Barbie-like bartenders looked up but didn’t interrupt their conversation. They tended a circular bar that sat in the middle of the club. To the left of the bar were two raised stages, both skewered by brass poles, and to the right sat twenty or so round tables, occupied by a few groups and pairs of men. Beer bottles and carafes of red wine decorated their tables like flower arrangements. The place smelled of stale beer and unemptied ash trays. Smoking was no longer allowed inside Paris bars and restaurants, but clubs like this looked the other way when patrons ready to part with their cash lit up in the corners.
Hugo and Tom took up positions on bar stools and waited for one of the bartenders to pay them attention.
“You have an approach in mind?” Tom asked.
“Not really. Show them the picture of Amy and see if they recognize her. Take it from there.”
One of the Barbie twins sashayed up to them. “Bonjour, je suis Zazie.” She eyed them for a moment, then switched to English. “You are from America? England?”
“America,” Hugo replied. “How did you know?”
She shrugged. “I’m good at my job. Something to drink?” She nodded at the unattended brass poles. “Dancing starts at four.”
“Two Diet Cokes,” Tom said. “What kind of dancing?”
Zazie looked at him. “Are you serious?”
“Oui,” Tom said with a straight face. “Oh my, it’s not naked girls is it?” He turned to Hugo. “Come on, sweetie, we got this place all wrong.”
Hugo tried not to smile, and failed. “Ignore him. We’re looking for a missing girl, a friend.”
“Also American?” Zazie asked.
“Right,” Hugo said. “But she’s been living here for a while.”
“D’accord. You have a picture or a name for this girl?”
Hugo pulled out his phone and found the photo. “Her name is Amy. Amy Dreiss.”
“I don’t recognize her, but we get a lot of people in here. Also, I’m new and only work fifteen hours a week. You need to ask Alice.”
“And who is Alice?” Tom asked.
“She’s worked here a long time, knows a lot of the customers,” Zazie said, checking her watch. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“Well,” Tom said. “We better have those Diet Cokes.”
“Diet Cokes?” Zazie said. “Bien sûr. Anything in them?”
Tom rubbed his hands together. “Well, since you ask . . .”
“Just straws,” Hugo said. “Merci bien.”
Hugo watched Zazie pour the drinks, just in case. She returned with them and nodded toward a young lady who’d just entered. “She’s early. That’s Alice.”
Zazie called her over and showed the three to a table near the bar. Hugo studied Alice as they sat, curious because she didn’t look like she belonged in a questionable Pigalle club like this. She was petite and on the pretty side of mousy, with tiny hands and clear skin that didn’t look to be carrying any makeup. She wore a light-beige jacket over a white shirt, and jeans tucked into black boots. In a city full of beautiful women, she probably didn’t turn too many heads on the street, but there was something about her ordinariness that appealed to Hugo.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her eyes wary.
“I hope so,” Hugo said with a smile. “I gather you know Amy Dreiss.”
“Amy . . .” she looked at Hugo and Tom, shaking her head until the realization hit. “Ah, l’Américaine?”
“Oui,” Hugo said. He showed her the picture. “That her?”
Alice nodded. “And who are you?”
“Friends of her father. When did you last see her?”
“Last week, I think. Maybe five or six days ago.”
“She comes in here a lot?” Hugo asked.
“Sure. I mean . . . I don’t understand, is she OK?”
“That’s why we’re asking, we want to make sure she is. Her father hasn’t heard from her in a few days and he’s worried. I said I’d stop by and check on her, but she wasn’t home.”
“Oh, I see. Like I said, I haven’t seen her in a few days. But when she was here, she was fine.”
“Did she come with anyone?”
Alice looked at Hugo like it was a stupid question. “No. Why?”
“Does she have a boyfriend, do you know?” Tom chipped in.
“I don’t think so.”
“We were told she was offered a job by someone in this club,” Hugo said. He figured they’d get further with the full truth. There was no reason this girl had anything to hide and, as a friend, she’d want to help. “A modeling job. Do you know anything about that?”
Alice shrugged. “We have men in here all the time offering jobs like that. Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s because they’re trying to pick up some girl.”
“One thing I don’t get,” Tom said. “Why would a girl like Amy choose to hang out at this place?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” asked Alice.
“Well, it’s not near her apartment, for one thing.” Tom looked around the bar. “And for a nice, well-educated American girl to hang out at a strip club . . . No offense or anything, but there are a million bars in Paris, most a lot closer to home and less . . . well, strippy.”
Alice cocked her head and looked at Hugo, then Tom. A smile spread slowly across her face, and she began to laugh. She stifled it with one hand, and said, “Oh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding here.”
“How so?” Hugo asked.
Alice laughed again and looked him in the eye. “Your sweet little American girl doesn’t come here to drink or hang out, mon ami. She works here.”
“Seriously?” Tom said. “Tell me she tends bar.”
Alice gestured with her thumb toward the twin brass poles. “You know what French and American men have in common? Both love cheerleaders, especially ones that take their clothes off. And your friend’s daughter makes a very sexy little cheerleader.”
“You’re kidding?” Hugo sat back in his chair and shook his head.
“Pas du tout.” Not at all. Alice cupped her small breasts. “And impressive assets. Her stage name is ‘Amy D’ for good reason.”
“Your buddy’s not going to like that very much,” Tom said, once Alice had retired to the dressing room.
“No, he’s not,” Hugo agreed.
“The occasion for a real drink, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would not,” Hugo said emphatically. “Damn, I didn’t ask about a Spain connection.”
Tom rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Well, if I can’t have a drink, at least we can go talk to a stripper while she changes.”
“There you go,” Hugo said. “Look what being sober can do for you. Sure you don’t want to stay and have a drink while I go back there?”
“Fuck you.”
They started for the back of the club, Hugo pausing when his phone rang. “Hello?�
��
“Hey, it’s Ryan. Got a hit on your girl’s passport.”
“That was quick.”
“Yeah, I know.” Pierce chuckled. “Figured I could cut out early once I got you a result.”
“Sounds fair to me. Where did she go?”
“Spain. Specifically, she flew into Madrid.”
“Good work, Ryan, thanks. Now go home.”
“Ten-four, boss. Call my cell if you need anything else.”
Tom pointed at a sign for the office. “Anything useful?” he asked.
“She went to Madrid.”
“Do you think she stayed there.”
“No idea, but I do know that it’s the easiest city to fly into on short notice. It’s also very central, and with their rail system she could get pretty much anywhere quickly and easily.”
“Spain’s a big place to look for one girl. But I assume we’re going anyway?”
“Tom,” Hugo sighed. “I have a full-time job, remember. An ambassador to report to, people to manage.”
“Papers to shuffle, asses to kiss, yeah I get it,” Tom said.
“And all we know is she went to Madrid. That’s not much of a lead.” He took out his phone. “Let me call Bart, though. Let him know that much.”
Tom gestured toward the back. “Dude, can we go see the naked girls already?”
“In a moment, be patient.” Tom sober was childish, impetuous, hormone-driven, and irritating, but Hugo had gotten used to all that, or maybe looked past it, and had been glad to have his friend sober and healthy. They’d not talked about his binge and maybe they wouldn’t, maybe it really had been a one-off. Now, Hugo wondered if Tom acting like this was a way of telling Hugo he was back to his sober, and annoying, self. Bart wasn’t answering his phone, so Hugo left a message then went back to Tom, who was waiting impatiently in the back hallway.
“Not there, so let’s see if we can find anything else before he calls back.”
They followed the faint thump of music to a closed door bearing a “Performers Only” sign. Hugo knocked, and a few seconds later Alice appeared. She wore a micro skirt of black latex and hadn’t gotten around to putting her top on yet. She winked at Hugo, who made a point of looking her in the eye, and she said, “Can’t wait until four o’clock, eh?”
