by Mark Pryor
“Yes, I’m enjoying a nice glass of wine,” Hugo said, “and no, you may not join me.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m gonna be drinking somewhere, so it may as well be with you.”
“Try Camille, she’s been working hard lately. I’m sure she could use the break.” Hugo cleared his throat. “No pun intended.”
“Oh, good one, real funny.”
Hugo smiled. He remembered halfway through his suggestion that the last time Tom and Camille Lerens had met at a bar, Tom had been tanked. He’d picked a fight with some locals and, when she happened to show up and intervened, he clocked her in the eye, not even realizing who she was. For that he spent the night in a suburban Paris jail with a few bruises of his own, and neither Hugo nor the forgiving Camille Lerens gave up a chance to needle him about it.
“Thanks,” Hugo said. “Something special you needed?”
“Yeah, I hate to ruin your lovey-dovey evening with Claudia—”
“Well, for one thing, I never said a word about seeing her tonight.”
“Dude, just because you treat me like an idiot, doesn’t make me one.”
“Oh, Tom, I don’t. I treat you like a child, because you are one of those.”
“Fuck you. Anyway, be serious for a moment.”
Something in his voice rang an alarm bell in Hugo’s head. “OK, what’s up?”
“Our old friend on the other side of the pond.”
“Rick Cofer?”
“Yeah, that son of a bitch. You’ll never guess what he’s gone and done.”
“Well, you’re right about that, so just tell me.”
“He’s applied to the judge to let him leave the country. And he’s coming here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hugo straightened but was careful to keep his tone calm and measured as Claudia approached. “That’s unusual.”
“You think?”
“Tom, hang on a moment. Claudia just got here.” He rose to greet her, and they exchanged kisses. “It’s Tom, something of a crisis.”
“For him or you?”
“To be determined. Tempest in a teapot most likely, but you know how he is.”
“Oh, I know. He’s adorable.”
“Right, that’s what he is. I forgot.” Hugo rolled his eyes dramatically. “So then you take this call,” he said, offering her the phone.
“No, thanks.” She sniffed the carafe and wrinkled her nose. “You go sort him out; I’ll order something drinkable. It’s fine, Hugo, I’m in no hurry.”
“Well, I am,” Hugo muttered. He moved away so Claudia wouldn’t be tempted to listen, moving past the café’s tables and onto the sidewalk. “OK, Tom, I’m back. And let’s not leap to any conclusions about this. How do you know he’s coming to Paris?”
“Well, technically he’s requested permission to go to Holland, if you want to be precise about it.”
“Oh, so when you say he’s coming here, what you mean is that he’s not coming to Paris but in fact is going to a different country altogether.”
“The one next fucking door.”
“It’s not next door; Belgium is between—”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.” Hugo rubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to think. “Again, how do you know any of this anyway?”
“I made friends with his parole officer. Well, I had a colleague over there do that in person.”
“In a nice way or in a Tom way?”
“It doesn’t matter how, but it just needed to be done.”
“A Tom way, then. What do you have on the poor guy? You know what,” Hugo interrupted himself, “I don’t even want to know. You’re sure this news is straight from his PO, though.”
“Basically, yes.”
“Where in Holland is he going, and why?”
“Amsterdam.”
“Why there?” Hugo asked.
“Because if he asked permission to come to Paris, it’d be too fucking obvious that he’s coming after me.”
“OK, take a breath here,” Hugo said. “First of all, how would he know you’re living here in France, let alone in Paris?”
“No idea. But you can bet he does.”
“Second, if I’d been locked up in a Texas prison for more than a decade I’d be bursting to get away, too, and since millions of tourists go to Amsterdam every year, maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“Oh, right, sure. I’ve just spent a dime plus a nickel bunking with some fat, farting sasquatch and as soon as I’m out I’m going to pack myself onto a plane like a sardine, probably next to another fat, farting sasquatch, and fly for ten hours to a place known for rain.”
“And hookers. Legal ones.”
“They have legal hookers in Nevada. And illegal ones everywhere. He’s not making a transatlantic trip to get laid, Hugo.”
“Maybe he built up a weed habit in the slammer; now he’s coming to where it’s easily available and very legal.”
“Oh, you mean like in the much-closer Seattle or Portland, and the entire fucking state of Colorado?”
“Maybe it’s the Dutch pancakes,” Hugo said lightly. “I hear they’re very good.”
There was silence for a moment. “You’re kidding me with this shit, right?”
“I grant you, it does seem unlikely, but unless you can convince me that he knows you’re this side of the Atlantic, him coming after you is no more likely than him wanting to get out of America, the land that locked him up, that took away his freedom for so many years.”
“It’s a four-hour train ride from Amsterdam to Paris. And you don’t have to show your passport or notify any authority you’re leaving the country.”
“I get it, Tom. Your theory is that he picks Amsterdam as a smoke screen.”
“Right.”
“Then he’s the dumbest criminal I’ve ever heard of.”
“Why?”
“Because here we are, discussing how easy it is to get there from here!” Hugo insisted. “Honestly, it’s the worst smoke screen ever.”
“Yeah, except you’re not buying it, so you’ll be looking the other way when he puts a gun to the back of my head.”
“Well, that’s another thing. Where’s he going to get a gun, exactly?”
“Criminals find guns. Or maybe he’ll hit me over the head.”
“Or maybe you’ll just die of paranoia.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“So, what, you want to go to Amsterdam and confront him? Follow him?”
“Maybe I do. And maybe I want you to come with me.”
“No chance. Not even close.”
“Great friend you are.”
“Agreed. I mean, here I am ignoring my beautiful, smart, journalist friend, Claudia, just to talk nonsense on the phone with you.”
“Fine, hang up. Go choke on a fucking olive.”
“No chance of that either.”
“Yeah, what makes you so sure?”
“Simple,” Hugo said. “I’m going straight for the escargot.”
After dinner, they went back to Hugo’s place, Hugo texting Tom on the way to make sure his friend was out of the apartment eating or, more likely, drinking somewhere. Hugo had a leftover slice of cheesecake that he suggested they share but, unsurprisingly, the giant mouse who lived in his spare room had found and devoured it despite the DON’T YOU DARE! note that Hugo had left on the lid.
Instead, he opened a bottle of Pichon Longueville, and they sat close to each other on the couch, resting their feet on the coffee table. Hugo frowned as his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, so he waited for it to go to voicemail.
“Go ahead,” Claudia said. “I know you; it’s fine to listen to the message. It might be important.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Thanks.” He held the phone to his ear, his eyes longingly on Claudia, and it was Michelle Juneau’s voice he heard: “Hugo, sorry to bother you, but I’m at the library and the police just left. We called them because there�
��s been a theft. Burglary. Whatever. I thought I should call and let you know, though I feel a bit silly now. Call me back on this number when you get a chance. Thanks.”
Hugo put the phone down. “Someone from the library. There’s been a book theft.”
Claudia’s brow furrowed. “Why would you care about a book theft?”
“I wouldn’t, especially right now.” It was his turn to think. “Maybe she didn’t mention a book. . . . But whatever it is, it can wait.” He smiled. “I’ve had enough interruptions for one night.”
“Very true,” Claudia said. “So . . . what’s going on with your case?”
“Let’s not talk about that. Tell me about you, what stories you’re working on.”
“Let’s both leave work at the office,” she said. She leaned forward to pick up the wine bottle, inspecting the label. “Weren’t we supposed to make plans to visit this place?”
“You were supposed to make plans and invite me along,” Hugo reminded her.
“I think you’re right, I was.” She put the bottle down. “Naughty me, maybe I can make it up to you.”
“Maybe.” Hugo put down his glass and sat back on the couch. “I’m listening.”
“It’s got nothing to do with listening.” Claudia leaned in and kissed his lips, gently to begin with, letting Hugo taste the sweetness of the wine and savor the soft aroma of her perfume. She pressed her body into his, and Hugo pulled her close, wanting to feel the weight of her on top of him, and a second later she was astride him.
“Oh, Hugo,” she whispered. “We don’t do this enough.”
He didn’t reply, just kissed her harder and let his hands drift down to the waist of her jeans. He flicked open the button and they separated for a moment, but their eyes locked as they undressed each other, hands careful but urgent, and when they were both naked she pushed him down onto the couch and stretched her naked body over him, covering him, kissing him again as his hands caressed the soft skin of her back and dipped lower to caress her bottom. She tried to pull away, but Hugo put a hand on the back of her neck and she moaned her pleasure at this small act of dominance, sinking back onto him, kissing him again and working her hands under him to pull him even closer.
He broke the kiss long enough to whisper in her ear, “You’re making amends, my love, don’t stop now.”
Mischief flashed in her eyes as she reached down and picked up her blouse, then drew it slowly over his eyes as a makeshift blindfold. “I have no plans to stop,” she assured him. “So you just lie there and accept my apology. It may take a while.”
They dragged themselves to bed around midnight and were on the verge of sleep when the front door slammed.
“Tom’s home,” Hugo murmured, not bothering to open his eyes.
Claudia snuggled into him. “Hush, I’m asleep.”
“Then pray he doesn’t—” The bedroom door flew open and Tom staggered in. “So much for prayer,” Hugo groaned.
“Yo, dude.” Tom’s silhouette swayed in the darkness, and he steadied himself by sitting heavily on the bed, just missing Claudia’s feet. “Man, I been thinking about Cofer, what we need to do.”
“We need to go to bed and talk in the morning,” Hugo said.
“You’re already in bed, stop complaining.”
“Great, now you go and we’ll be good.”
“I said stop complaining,” Tom slurred. “Seems to me, we need to be proactive, not give him any advantage.”
“I’m not going to Amsterdam.”
“Yeah, you are. We’re sitting ducks here in Paris, and we need to finish what we started.” Tom hiccupped. “Hey, that’d be funny as a spoonerism. We need to stinish what we farted.”
“Tom. Sleep. I’ll buy you breakfast tomorrow and we can talk about it.”
“I shoulda taken care of that asshole when I had the chance.” He slapped at the bed and hit Claudia, who squealed.
“Oh man, you have a girl here? Shit, dude. What if Claudia found out?”
“First of all, Claudia and I are not dating exclusively,” Hugo said, then winced as he received an elbow in the ribs from under the covers. “And second of all, I’m pretty sure she’d approve of this . . . young lady.”
Tom was silent for a moment. “It’s not Camille is it? She likes her a lot, but even so . . . Camille, is that you?”
“It’s not Camille, Tom, for crying out loud. It’s Claudia.” Hugo reached out and switched on his bedside light. “You happy now?”
“You naked under that sheet, girl?” Tom’s eyes were red and he blinked in the light. “If so, I’d be a lot happier if I could—”
“Tom!” Hugo sat up. “If you pull this sheet away . . .”
Claudia propped herself up on an elbow and frowned at them both. “You two, you’re like Neanderthals sometimes. If he pulls this sheet away, you’ll do what, Hugo?”
“Wrap it around his neck,” Hugo said.
“I’m not a delicate maiden, so I can do that myself—you don’t need to protect me.” She turned to Tom. “And, what, you want to see a naked woman? Like you’ve not seen a million before?”
Tom wore a look of confusion, like he knew he was being chastised but didn’t really understand why. “Well, no, I mean yes,” he stammered, “but not you, I mean, you’re different, and I haven’t . . .” His eyes dropped as his words tailed off.
“Yeah, I am different,” Claudia said. “I’m your friend—not some piece of meat to ogle.” She sat up and the sheet slid down, revealing her breasts, but Tom kept his gaze on the floor. “This guy next to me is the only one allowed to ogle me.”
“Actually, I am—right now,” Hugo said, his eyes glued on Claudia.
“Hush. The pair of you, really.” In one fluid motion she swung her legs off the bed and stood. Tom’s head twitched, but he stayed looking down, and Hugo saw Claudia fighting not to smile. She gave a dramatic sigh and strode in her perfect nakedness directly past Tom to the bathroom. “You sure as hell better sneak a peek, Tom Green, it’s the only one you’re ever going to get.”
She brought Hugo coffee in bed the next morning, waking him up with a backrub but then resisting his clumsy efforts to increase the range of her motions.
“Not now,” she chided him. “You have to go to work. And I wanted to ask you something.”
“Keep massaging, and I’ll answer anything you want to know. Very slowly.”
“Last night, Tom said you and he were sitting ducks here in Paris. He said you needed to finish what you started.”
“Oh, that was nothing. Drunk talk.”
“I don’t think so, Hugo. I didn’t like his tone, he sounded truly concerned. For you and for himself.” She stopped rubbing his back. “What was he talking about?”
“Something that happened a long time ago.” Hugo rolled over and looked up at her. “He was referring to something that happened while we were in the FBI, but the copious amount of alcohol he no doubt consumed last night apparently distorted events in his mind, or outcomes. Or something. You can ask him yourself this morning; he’ll tell you he was talking nonsense. If he even remembers.”
“Yes, of course he’ll say that, because he wouldn’t have said anything at all if he’d known I was in here with you.” She frowned. “If you guys have a secret, he’s not going to suddenly admit it after a few loose words, is he?”
“Don’t ask me to predict Tom’s behavior, drunk or sober,” Hugo said.
“It’s OK for you to have a secret from me, Hugo. It really is. But if you’re a ‘sitting duck,’ that doesn’t sound good. It sounds dangerous, and now you’re saying it has something to do with when you were in the FBI, which makes it sound more dangerous, not less. And if my boyfriend is in danger, I think I have some sort of right to know about that.”
Hugo smiled. “‘Boyfriend’ now, is it?”
“You think I bring coffee in bed to every man I sleep with?”
“I have no idea. But to be my girlfriend, coffee needs to be accompanied by eggs Ben
edict.”
Claudia snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“Hey, I’m an optimist,” he said.
“And I’m a realist, which means I know that you worked to catch dangerous people when you were in the FBI. I’m also a journalist, which means I know when someone changes the subject, is being evasive, and is hiding something from me.”
That was one of the things he liked about Claudia. One of the many things. She was direct and honest about what she wanted, and what she wanted to know. He’d not told her much about leaving the bureau, had never felt the need, but she was right that he probably did owe her an explanation, especially if Tom was correct about Rick Cofer and his intentions. If nothing else, by putting himself close to Claudia, Hugo was necessarily putting her at risk, so for that reason alone, he owed her at least part of the story.
Except she wasn’t one to accept just part of a story and let the rest go. Not only was it her job to get a full accounting, it was her nature. And he wasn’t ready to tell it all, not yet.
“I have to keep something to myself for a little longer,” he said, and took her hand. “Not just for my sake, but for Tom’s. I hope you know it has nothing to do with trusting you.”
“No, I think you know you can trust me with anything.” She wagged a finger. “So I will trust that you have good reasons and let you have your secret with Tom. But I will tell you one thing. If you’re going to make me wait to hear it, this secret had better be a good one.”
Hugo pulled her onto the bed next to him and kissed her forehead. “Oh, I think you’ll find that as far they go, it’s pretty decent.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At ten that morning, Hugo and Camille spoke on the phone to discuss the next step toward solving Baxter’s murder and the mystery of the spy camera.
“I wanted to check with you,” Lerens began, “to see if you have your usual arrangement with Claudia.”
“About press coverage?”
“Right. We’re not getting any calls, not yet, and Claudia’s not been bugging me for details so I assume if there’s a story you’ll give her the details once we figure out what’s going on?”
