by Mark Pryor
“I was interested in your perspective.”
“Right now, my priority is saving the reputation of this hotel,” she said.
“Meaning?”
She didn’t answer but gestured for Hugo to follow her into her office. She shut the door behind them, perched on the edge of the desk, and shook her head slowly. “I feel like I’m losing it. The murder, the spy camera . . . everything’s going wrong, and it’s like it’s all my fault. At least, my fellow managers are acting that way.”
“They’re blaming you?”
“Yes. Helen’s become my friend, so I should be making sure her stay is perfect. I’m American and so was Andy, so somehow that’s my fault, too. And now Leo and Thomas have gone from roommates to murder suspects and don’t trust each other; they’re at each other’s throats, and both threatening to quit. If I oversee an exodus of employees on top of everything else, I’m done for here.”
“And you like your job.”
“I really do, yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry this is all rolling downhill to you; that’s not right.” In the face of Jill’s distress, Hugo changed tack, asked about the real reason he was here. “Tell me what happened with finding the computer. I need to know exactly how it went down.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain after. Best you just tell me without knowing why, if you don’t mind.”
“OK.” She shrugged. “Like I said, Leo and Tom were about to assault each other, so I agreed to split them up. We have a couple of smaller rooms I’d prefer to keep for paying guests, but we’re headed toward a slow period and I’m really focused on keeping people happy right now.”
Hugo gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“I’m sure someone will find fault with it. . . . Anyway, I went up there to make sure the switch went smoothly; I could just picture them getting into blows over the toaster or something stupid. But Tom wasn’t there, so I grabbed a couple of boxes of Leo’s stuff to put them onto the luggage cart we were using. One of the boxes split open and spilled everywhere.”
“One of the things in it was a computer?”
“Yes, that’s right. I guess an old one, because Leo acted surprised, like he didn’t know it was there.”
“Did that seem odd?”
“Not really. I mean, I only use laptops and never throw them away. I probably have three or four lying around my apartment.”
“OK, so what happened then?”
“Nothing. We cleaned up and moved his stuff to the new room.” She cocked her head. “What’s this all about?”
Hugo was deciding whether to answer or stall when the door flung open, narrowly missing him. Tom stood there, his face dark as thunderclouds.
“You and me. Outside, now.”
“Excuse me,” Hugo said to Maxick.
“Wait, you were going to explain what—”
“Whatever it is can wait,” Tom snapped. He turned on his heel and marched into the reception area, heading for the exit.
“Is everything OK?” Maxick asked. “If it’s something to do with the hotel . . .”
“It’s not. My friend has it in his head that some bad guy from our past is coming to Paris to . . . do something or other—maybe start trouble. I’d better go.” Hugo gave her an apologetic smile and then hurried after Tom, catching up with him outside, at the top step.
“Tom, what the hell’s going on?”
“He’s here. I saw him.”
“Rick Cofer?”
“You don’t believe me.” He set off, with Hugo in tow. “We’re in a hurry, because he’s at a café half a mile from here.”
“And we’re headed there to do what?”
“Let him know we know he’s here. Find something he’s done, and get him pulled back to the States.”
Hugo put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and planted himself in his friend’s path. Over Tom’s shoulder he saw Jill Maxick standing outside the hotel, just a few feet away, with a worried look on her face. “Wait, stop. There’s no way Cofer got here already. No possible way.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I saw him, with my own two fucking eyes! Face it, Hugo, he’s gunning for us!”
“Calm down,” Hugo growled. “Even if you did see him, if it is him, we’re not going off half-cocked here. If he’s here, it may be legally.”
“Which is bullshit.”
“Yeah, it is. But I hate to tell you, what that means is this situation requires us to think about what we do, not go in guns blazing.”
“Leave it up to you, in other words.”
“Yeah, well,” Hugo said with a wry smile. “I know that’s not going to happen. But this isn’t Texas, and we’re not cops here. We have to be smart about this.”
Tom shrugged off Hugo’s hand. “We’re putting eyes on him right now, though. I want you to see him.”
“Fine.” Hugo gestured ahead. “Lead the way.”
Tom set off again, and Hugo trailed slightly behind, hoping his friend would lose some of that built-up steam before they got there. He turned to check on Jill Maxick, who raised a tentative hand and waved before turning back into the hotel. As they walked, Hugo watched the people around him, the row of mopeds parked alongside Rue des Écoles, a man and a teenage boy perching sidesaddle on one of them, sharing a baguette sandwich as a trio of hopeful pigeons loitered nearby.
They walked for ten minutes, the tension growing as they got closer, the sights and sounds of Paris blurring to Hugo as he focused on what he might see in a nearby café. Could Rick Cofer really have made it here? He tried to think of alternative explanations, but the only possibilities seemed to be that Tom was mistaken, or delusional.
That, or Cofer was indeed in their city, and there could only be one reason for that. For the first time in many years, Hugo felt a twinge of resentment toward his best friend, one that Tom apparently sensed.
“I told you once before I’m sorry, right?” he said, breaking his silence.
“We both made choices, Tom.”
“I made mine first, didn’t give you too many options.”
“Maybe that’s true. But I still could have done things differently.”
“Let me dangle in the wind?” Tom gave a rueful smile. “That’s not you.”
“Hey, it’s not too late, so let’s just worry about whoever you think you saw.”
Tom shot him a dirty look for the use of the word think. But Hugo knew he was right, that Tom had put him into a box that day, made him choose between two very rocky paths. As long as Cofer had been in prison, and they’d continued with their own successful careers, Hugo had been able to put any feelings of resentment into their own compartment and hide them away. But if that sonofabitch was making another appearance in their lives, then at some point he and Tom would have to talk a little more.
They continued on in silence for a while, but at the beginning of Rue Thouin, Tom stopped. “The place next to the Indian restaurant—it’s called Café Ursula.”
“Wait, how in a city of more than two million people did you happen to spot one guy in a café down some little side street?”
“I didn’t. I spotted him from a distance in the Luxembourg Garden and followed him here.”
“Why didn’t you just call me?”
“Because.” Tom chewed his lip for a second before speaking. “I went out last night. Someone stole my phone.”
“You mean you lost it.”
“For fuck’s sake, Dad, does it make a difference at this point?”
“It might if you took LSD while you were out drinking.”
Tom, apparently, had also lost his sense of humor. “I’m not fucking imagining this. Let’s go.”
Hugo didn’t move. “So what’s your plan, exactly?”
“Simple. We go in there, provoke him into making a scene, record the whole thing, and get him yanked back to Texas. And hopefully a tiny prison cell.”
“Provoke him how?”
; “Good grief, man, do you need a script for this?”
“It might help. Or just, you know, a vague outline of how this goes down.”
“Hugo, I swear to God,” Tom fumed. “For once in your life, do something a little rash. Let go of the reins and fucking gallop while shooting from the hip. You don’t have to map out every little frigging step you take—sometimes you can just wing it and everything turns out the way it should.”
A moment of silence opened up between them, and Hugo knew that those words had triggered in Tom the same images they raised for him, images of a blistering day in Houston, gunfire and emotions running hot, and Tom leading them away from the rule book, insisting that to make things right they should, together, just wing it.
“You might be right,” Hugo said quietly. “And you know that I’m thinking about the one time I did fly a little high with you. Didn’t work out so well, did it?”
“Maybe not.” Tom nodded slowly, but his eyes glittered with anger, and when he spoke his voice was firm. “But that just means it’s time to put things right.” Without another word, he turned and started down the narrow street toward Café Ursula.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The café was small, a narrow strip of a building wedged in between an Indian restaurant and what looked like a lawyer’s office. Hugo brushed past the empty outside tables and entered the café two steps behind Tom, who’d obviously opted for the aggressive approach. The go-to mode when it came to Cofer.
The bar was at the back of the room, a dozen square tables and their chairs taking up the rest of the space directly in front of them. The café had been updated recently, which surprised Hugo for no particular reason he could identify, and the place was full. Hugo moved to Tom’s right side, indicating that he’d scan that side of the café for Rick Cofer, but it was quickly obvious that unless Cofer had changed his appearance drastically and picked up a companion, he wasn’t on that side. Tom finished his search just as quickly, and he threw Hugo a dark look that said, He was here, I saw him.
“Maybe the restroom?” Hugo said, ignoring a diminutive waiter who waived an impatient arm at them and then toward the one empty table.
“Maybe.” Tom started forward and Hugo followed, the reassuring weight of his gun holster shifting as he moved. They paused outside the door marked Hommes, just long enough for Tom to take a deep breath.
“Wait,” Hugo whispered. “Are you carrying?”
Tom shook his head.
“I’ll go first, then.”
Tom hesitated and then gave a small smile. “Probably look better for you to shoot this one anyway; I’ve reached my quota.”
“Nice,” Hugo said. “But just so you know, I’m gonna try very hard not to shoot anyone. They’re not used to it over here.”
Tom moved aside. Hugo stepped forward, gave him a nod, and shouldered the door open, sending it crashing into the wall. Hugo stepped into the small white-tiled room and saw a man staring at him, eyes wide over a white drooping mustache, his ancient hands frozen around a paper towel he’d been using to dry them. Behind him was the closed door of a toilet stall.
“Excusez-moi,” Hugo said, then nodded to the stall. “Il y a quelqu’un?”
“Non.”
Hugo nodded and moved out of the way, the old man in a sudden hurry to finish up and leave. Hugo looked back at the closed door of the stall, which reached the floor and ceiling. No way to know if the old fellow was right. Hugo stepped forward and tried the handle. Locked.
He and Tom turned as a figure appeared behind them. He wore the white shirt and black pants of an employee, and his face was creased with annoyance.
“What’s going on here?” He demanded, hands now on hips. “You scared poor Monsieur De Kruyff. And you better not have damaged my door.”
“We’re waiting,” Tom said, indicating the stall.
“It’s locked,” the man said. “It’s not working. You have to use the women’s, but wait until the two in there leave.”
Tom hesitated, but Hugo put a hand on his arm. “He’s not here, Tom. Let’s look around, see if he’s in the neighborhood.”
The waiter switched to English. “Who’s not here? Who are you looking for?”
Tom reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Hugo raised an eyebrow. “You carry his photo now?”
“It’s from his prison file, latest picture.”
“So that’s a yes, then.”
“Fucking right,” Tom growled. “I wanted to know what the bastard looked like after a decade or more in prison. You know, so I recognize him when he comes for me.”
Hugo turned his attention to the increasingly agitated waiter. “Have you seen this man recently?”
The waiter studied the picture after taking it from Tom. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not good with faces.”
“Very helpful,” Tom said, snatching the paper from the man’s hands. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I don’t know,” Hugo said lightly, “since we’re here, I could sure use a coffee. Maybe a pastry?”
“Shut up, Hugo,” Tom said on his way to the door.
Out in the street, Hugo stopped him. “Tom, what’s your plan now?”
“Run around like a chicken with its head cut off until I find him. Then beat him to death.”
“Yeah, that might work. But I have a better idea.”
“Oh, let me guess,” Tom said testily. “It involves talking or phoning someone or looking something up on a computer.”
“It does. If that’s too inactive for you, then go do your chicken run and I’ll do my talking thing and we’ll see who comes up with a result first.”
“Yeah, we will.” Tom turned and started to walk away. “I may have to stop for a drink first, though.”
Hugo shook his head and took out his phone. He scrolled through his list of contacts and found the name he was looking for. After half a dozen rings, a familiar voice came on the line.
“Is this really Hugo Marston calling me?”
“It is. Andy Whitener, how are you?”
“Surprised, to put it mildly.” Whitener was a former police officer for the city of Austin, Texas, quitting after fifteen years to become a federal probation officer. He and Hugo had met when Whitener was assigned to the joint FBI–Austin PD robbery task force. They’d worked several cases together and become friends, drifting out of contact when their job paths diverged. “I heard you were with the State Department.”
“Best job in the world,” Hugo said. “And I get to live in Paris.”
“Nice.” There was a brief pause. “So, I heard about your little issue, or should I say Tom Green’s issue. Sounded to me like the bad guy got a hug and a kiss rather than the sentence he deserved.”
“Yeah, that was kind of a mess.”
“Well, I’m sorry it went down that way. I didn’t know Tom, met him a couple of times, but you were the best agent I ever worked with. Best cop, period.”
“Thanks, Andy, I appreciate that. How’s the probation business?”
“Getting old, like me.” Whitener chuckled. “I’m retiring in three years, go live on a beach somewhere.”
“Sounds heavenly. Come see me in Paris, though, if you can.”
“I’d like that, very much. Now then, tell me what I can do for you; I presume this wasn’t just a social call.”
“You’re right. It has to do with that little issue, as a matter of fact. The guy got released from prison.”
“Jesus, already?”
“I’m afraid so. Tom Green is over here with me. He thinks he saw the dude.”
“In Paris?”
“Right,” Hugo said.
“Coming for revenge, eh?”
“That’s what Tom believes. It seems a little far-fetched to me.”
“You said he saw him? What was the guy’s name again?”
“Rick Cofer. And what I said was, Tom thinks he saw him.”
“You don’t think he did?”
> “I have no idea,” Hugo said. “That’s why I’m calling. I want to know if we can find out whether he’s being tracked, whether he asked for and was issued a passport. I had my people at the embassy check, but our system will only tell us when and where it was last used, not if someone has possession of one.”
“Well, that’s not so useful.”
“Exactly. Think you can help?”
“I don’t know.” Whitener chuckled. “But I can surely try. I’ll call you back later today.”
Hugo spent the next thirty minutes walking in circles, one eye out for Tom and the other for Rick Cofer, or anyone who might look like him. He took a moment to call his second-in-command, Ryan Pierce, and confirm that Cofer hadn’t used a passport in his own name in the past few days.
“I told you, boss, I’ll stay on it and let you know if that changes.” Pierce didn’t like his competence or diligence being questioned, and Hugo knew he shouldn’t be doing so. “We have this great alert system, you know, been in place a couple of decades now.”
“I know, I’m sorry, Ryan. Thanks for putting up with me.”
“For now, boss, for now.” There was humor in his voice, which Hugo was grateful for.
Hugo took a shortcut down a narrow side street, keeping his eye on a couple of homeless people who looked desperate enough to take his wallet, but other than stare, they left him alone. Hugo half expected to see Tom at a jog, crisscrossing the streets and alleys around him, increasingly desperate to find his nemesis, who may or may not even be on the same continent. Hugo soon gave up, assuming Tom had meant what he said about that drink.
He checked the time, pondering his next move. He needed to check in with Camille about the second laptop, and to get back to the hotel to finish up with Colbert’s interview. But his mind was foggy, distracted by Tom’s distress and the possible presence of Rick Cofer. He pulled out his phone and called Camille. He briefed her on the developments at the hotel.
“You’re going back?” she asked.
“I was going to ask you to. I’m a little distracted right now.”
“Pretty lady?” Her voice was coy.
