The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “I like the way you put that,” said Hugo.

  “Merci. Anyway, the final piece of the puzzle was the sex reassignment surgery, which is the physical ‘sex change’ itself. Said good-bye to the parts I’d never wanted, and hello to the part that I did. A lot of surgery and stitches, plenty of bruising and pain, and I’ll be glad to never see a hospital again. But the results . . . well, Don Juan himself couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “The marvels of modern medicine.” It sounded lame the moment he said it, but Lerens just smiled. It was a cliché, Hugo realized, but a true and happy one for her.

  “Well, a girl needs her beauty sleep,” Lerens said. “Any more questions?”

  “No. But if I think of any, I’ll let you know.”

  “I doubt it.” Lerens rose. “Still, thanks for coming tonight, being open about all this makes life easier for everyone. And by everyone, I mostly mean me.”

  “Me too. And I’m grateful that you trusted me enough to tell me.”

  “Facts are facts, and I am what I am,” Lerens said, then smiled. “Especially after hormone therapy and microsurgery.” She picked up her glass and drained it. “We should do this again sometime, I make a great wingwoman.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  She turned to leave, then looked over her shoulder. “And on that note, just so you know, I like girls.”

  Hugo’s mouth opened, but nothing came out and he could feel himself blushing, mildly but for the first time in several years. He watched Lerens leave and then sat there, thinking about her and Raul, and how lucky he’d been in his friendships with the French police. Lucky and horribly unlucky.

  On his walk home, he pushed thoughts of Raul from his mind and tried to enjoy the Paris night. The soft yellow and white lights in the streets and on the buildings painted the old stone structures around him like a watercolor, there but unreal, which is the way he still felt about living in Paris. He looked up as he walked, glimpsing movement in the windows of the apartments above him and this brought him comfort; those brief glimpses, the shadows flitting across squares of gentle light, told him these people were safe in their homes and going about their routines with their families, their friends, and their lovers.

  Tom was still out when Hugo arrived home. He’d picked up a half-bottle of wine for himself and poured a glass. He took out his phone to call Claudia as another need tugged at him, and even though it was after ten o’clock, he didn’t hesitate.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked immediately.

  “You know me,” Hugo said. “Get my hugs from Tom when I need them.”

  “Stop being brave, Hugo. Raul was your friend. Not only that but . . .” Her voice trailed off, but he knew what she was thinking.

  “But he took those bullets for me.”

  “Something like that, yes.” Anyone else would have sugarcoated it, but Claudia wasn’t like anyone else. “That’s not an easy thing to get past, especially for someone like you.”

  “You’re right, it’s not.” He swirled the wine in his glass but suddenly put it down when the image of blood came to him. “I’ve put myself in that car, in that parking lot, a hundred times. I wonder whether I would have seen the killer coming, maybe shot first, or been able to somehow capture . . .” He sighed. “But I’ve also wondered whether that’s true. I know how easy it is to sneak up on someone, even if they’re being careful. Raul was always very aware of his surroundings, and on something like this he would have been especially alert. Maybe if we’d gone together . . . ?”

  Her voice was soft. “A lot of maybes there, Hugo. But I’m glad you’re thinking these things and not burying them deep inside.”

  “Thanks, although the whole repressing thing works fine most of the time. That said, you’re welcome to come over and be my therapist.”

  Her laugh was gentle. “Role-play, huh?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He sighed. “I really would like to see you, you know.”

  “I know, Hugo. I would like that, too. It’s just . . . not possible, not right now.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, if it becomes possible, let me know.” Something else he didn’t want to think about: Claudia with someone new. He lightened his tone. “In the meantime, I’ll make like Tom and hire myself someone.”

  “You should, remember that girl from a while back? What was her name? She seemed very cool.”

  “Why, because she liked the look of you?”

  “Can’t blame her for that. Seriously, Hugo, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “Oh, I know, it’s just not my style. Even if it were, Hugo would not follow where Tom has already trod, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, you are utterly adorable. When things change, I’ll be throwing myself at you.”

  “Good.” He wanted to believe her, and he wanted to ask what “things” needed to change, but he was afraid to ask. Partly because he didn’t want to hear about a boyfriend but also because he knew how private she could be, and he wanted to make sure he respected that. “Hey, speaking of Tom, have you talked to him lately?” he asked.

  “What do you mean by lately? Something wrong?”

  “In the last few weeks. No, nothing wrong. I think he’s still sober but he’s taken to disappearing on me and being all cryptic about where he’s going. Once a week he just takes off.”

  “Um, Hugo, have you met Tom before? That’s what he does.”

  “Yeah, I know. But this feels different. I can tell when it’s the CIA or even a hooker dragging him out. But it’s Sunday night and he sauntered out of the apartment on his way somewhere specific. He even caught me when I tried following him so he knew I—”

  “You followed him?” Claudia sounded mildly outraged.

  “Well, you know. Kind of.”

  “Either you did or you didn’t.”

  “I did until he caught me. Which was almost immediately. Look, I’m just asking. I want to know because I want to make sure he’s OK.”

  “So ask him.”

  “I did. He told me to mind my own business.”

  “So mind your own business.”

  “Very helpful, Claudia, I’m so glad I ran this by you.”

  “Look, he’s sober, happy, and healthier than I’ve ever seen him. Just be happy for him. I know you spent a long time worrying about him, trying to get him to change. Well, now he has. You got what you wanted, what’s best for him, so maybe loosen the reins a little.”

  “You make me sound like a nagging wife.”

  She laughed. “Sorry. But you know what I’m saying.”

  Hugo heard a key in the door. “Well, talk of the devil, he’s home. Fingers crossed he’s sober.”

  “It’s not even midnight. If he was drinking he’d be out later than this. Anyway, go check on him and call me tomorrow if you like.”

  If I like. “I will. Good night.”

  He looked up as Tom swung the door open and staggered in, grabbing the counter for support, his head hanging down like he was going to throw up. When he spoke, his words were slurred, almost incomprehensible. “Hi honey, I’m home!”

  A pit opened up in Hugo’s stomach. “Oh, Tom.”

  “Wassamatter?” Tom hiccupped, then burped. “S’all good, man.”

  “Shit, Tom, what have you done?” He rose and started toward his friend. “You going to throw up? I can get you a—”

  Tom suddenly straightened and Hugo saw that his eyes were clear, almost as bright as the grin he was wearing. “Fuck me,” Tom laughed, “you’re making me feel bad, being all nice and shit even when you thought I’d fallen off the wagon.”

  Hugo shook his head. “You complete and utter bastard. Jeez, Tom, you just about gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry, amigo.” Tom cackled and started for his bedroom. “You deserved that for following me. And you should have seen the look on your face, you sweet, adorable man.”

  “Fair enough. Just don’t do it again. And are you gonna tell me wh
ere you went?”

  “It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

  “No, I’m just concerned. Fine: concerned and curious.”

  “Fucking nosy, more like it.” Tom stopped in his doorway. “And no, I’m not telling you. Not tonight, anyway.”

  The morning came early for Hugo, but after a better night’s sleep than he’d had in a while. It was five o’clock and he considered trying to grab another hour, maybe two, but then remembered the morning’s task: searching Natalia Khlapina’s apartment from top to bottom, and a few words with her boss, Alexandra.

  He reached over and checked his phone for messages. Lieutenant Lerens had emailed just after midnight, offering to pick him up at seven. She’d also given Khlapina’s address, which he mapped to see if he could walk. Up near Gare du Nord, so it’d take him an hour or so and give him a chance to eat on the way without hurrying. He checked the weather with a head out of his bedroom window; a soft breeze that would warm before long and a gray sky that would likely stay that way. He dressed in jeans, white shirt, and a jacket, before pulling on his old, slightly frayed Lucchese boots, the best of his three pairs for walking.

  As he passed through the living room, he heard a grumble from Tom’s bedroom, the door open.

  “You up already?” Tom called out.

  “Yep. I’m walking up to Khlapina’s apartment. Want to join me?”

  “Fuck off.” A pause. “All due respect, of course.”

  “Of course. Lieutenant Lerens will be here at seven to pick you up, if you want to be there for the search.”

  “Very kind. Ask her to bring coffee and food.”

  “Ask her yourself. See you there.”

  It was a straight shot, pretty much, but once he’d crossed the Pont des Arts he meandered down side streets whenever he could, taking the smaller ones that ran parallel to busier Rue du Louvre and Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, avoiding the fumes from the early morning cars and buses carrying their cargo to work. He bought coffee to go in Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau, rubbing elbows at the counter with the suited workers headed to the nearby mercantile exchange, several cab drivers, and a trio of surly bike messengers fueling up for the morning’s deliveries.

  As he neared Gare du Nord, Hugo found himself in unfamiliar terrain. The streets and buildings seemed less alluring here, more functional somehow. There were fewer cafés spilling their tables into the streets, and the stores sold more than they displayed, telling Hugo that this was an area where the tourists rarely wandered, a place that working Parisians called home.

  That changed, though, when he turned into Rue Cadet, a pedestrian street that reminded him of the quaint streets of the sixth and seventh. A fromagerie sat to his right, closed at this time of day but with a gentle orange light burning somewhere in the store, its glow a soft backlight for the wheels of waxed and heavy cheeses. A few steps on he passed a small brasserie with maybe ten tables, the kind of place where the owner would also cook and who, at opening time, would stand on the stoop with a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other, ready to put both behind his back to smile and welcome a new customer.

  He moved to one side as a pretty girl on a bicycle approached, pulling a rolling carry-on bag behind her with one hand. She flashed Hugo a smile as she passed, putting an extra bounce in his step for a moment or two.

  He chose a large, anonymous café outside the Gare du Nord for his breakfast. He wanted to disappear for thirty minutes, be one of the invisible many so he could think about the investigation and plan some of the questions he’d ask Alexandra Tourville. It wasn’t just about the questions, of course, it never was. More often than not it was a person’s reaction to his questions that was telling. He didn’t kid himself that he was any kind of human lie detector. He knew from dozens of interviews with sociopaths and psychopaths that a lie could slip as easily from some tongues as the truth. Not only that, but a truly good liar could manipulate his listener into either believing or not believing his story, throwing out so-called “tells” whenever he wanted to change the course of his interviewer’s belief.

  Was Alexandra Tourville an accomplished liar? Hugo had no reason to believe she was any such thing, but he also knew better than to go into a situation like this offering someone the benefit of unquestioned credibility. Her checkered past made that task more difficult, of course, because he didn’t want to prejudge her based on ancient indiscretions, whether they were real lapses in judgment or merely dramas conjured up by the media.

  He took a last sip of coffee and checked his watch. Time to go.

  Lieutenant Lerens was waiting outside the building with Tom and half a dozen men in uniform who would make sure the search was kept secure and undisturbed. She looked better, rested, and Hugo hoped he did too. She wore a sense of purpose about her like a cape, her handshake brisk and firm, her instructions to the uniforms clear and precise. The soul of a policeman, she’d said, not a super model.

  “We did a canvass of the place yesterday when we discovered the address,” Lerens said. “It’s a fairly empty building, but the people we spoke to, including some who work here, told us there’s been no unusual coming and going, no strangers or otherwise noticeable people wandering the hallways.”

  “Good to know.”

  They turned as Alexandra Tourville arrived in a taxi, watching as the ranks opened as if a red carpet had been laid out for her.

  “May I take the keys?” Lerens asked, after the formalities.

  Alexandra raised her eyebrows but handed them over without protest. The four of them entered the building, Lerens leading the way and Tom at the rear. Inside, the group paused to take a look, and Alexandra spoke up, as if sensing their surprise at the cavernous foyer.

  “It used to be a hotel, very popular in the twenties. Closed thirty years later and has been used as offices, apartments, and pretty much everything you can think of. Five years ago, an elderly couple was running a drugs and prostitution business from the fourth floor.”

  Hugo looked around him. The dingy reception area seemed to echo with her voice, though he could imagine grand parties being held here, the peeling gold paint and ornate wall sconces now darkened by time and use. Half a dozen fifties-style chairs and sofas littered the space, squared-off throwbacks in mustard and ketchup colors.

  The elevator, at the back left corner of the foyer, was new. Clean round buttons that lit up when touched and a gentle slide upwards, barely noticeable.

  “Who owns the place now?” Lerens asked. “You?”

  “Mon dieu, non.” Alexandra Tourville said. “I actually find it annoying that people assume I’m wealthy. My brother is, of course, and he provides a modest stipend for me. That includes four of the apartments here, which are in my name but that I am not allowed to sell.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Alexandra sighed. “If you must know, my past life was marked by a consistent inability to spend money in a sensible way. A lot went to charity, just as much went to expensive parties, and some was stolen by people I trusted.” The elevator dinged softly, announcing their arrival on the fifth floor. Alexandra stepped out first, still talking. “I grew up later than most people, Lieutenant, partly because of a sheltered, no, make that spoiled, upbringing. And partly because I matured slower than I should have.”

  They walked down a hallway to a door, number 505. Lerens unlocked it and nodded to Hugo. “All yours. Please, though, don’t—”

  “Touch anything,” Hugo finished her sentence with a smile. “I’ve done this before, don’t worry.”

  Tom followed directly behind as Hugo entered the tiny apartment. The front hall was two or three steps, no more, and to the immediate left was the windowless bedroom, like a little cave with room for a queen-sized bed against the right-hand wall, and a built-in closet to the left.

  “Anything in particular we’re looking for?” Tom said quietly behind him. “Besides the obvious.”

  By “obvious,” Tom was referring to the jewelry stolen from Collette
Bassin. “Mostly that,” Hugo said. He turned and spoke in a whisper. “I’m also curious to see if the senator has been here. No reason to think he has, but . . .”

  “Good idea.” Tom wrinkled his nose. “Smell that?”

  “Perfume,” Hugo nodded. “Certainly not a man’s.”

  “But very nice,” Tom said with a grin.

  Hugo ignored him and went to the closet. He used his elbow to slide it open, crouching to look behind the rows of clothes hanging inside and giving a low whistle at what he saw inside. Tom crouched next to him.

  “Someone had a shoe fetish,” Tom said, handing Hugo a pair of latex gloves. “Expensive ones, too.”

  “And most of them barely worn.”

  Hugo did a quick count, cutting himself off at thirty pairs of shoes, all colors and styles, from the daintiest red stilettos to knee-length boots draped with leather straps and silver buckles.

  “How could you wear all these? You’d have to be a caterpillar.”

  Hugo knew they were both wondering the same thing: not whether Natalia had worn these shoes, but how she’d paid for them.

  “Wait a moment.” Hugo straightened up, his eyes still on the mass of shoes on the closet floor. “That’s odd.”

  “What is? I mean, apart from the fact she has nine thousand pairs of shoes.”

  “Yeah, but look at them. Closely.” It was a challenge, something they would do whenever they got the chance, whenever one of them noticed something first. Hugo won mostly, but even when he did Tom was never far behind.

  “Well, I . . .” Tom grunted as he rested on one knee, inspecting the footwear in more detail. “Ah, look at that. Why would she have two different sizes?”

  “No idea. Makes it more interesting, though, doesn’t it?” Hugo felt a fizz in his veins, the jolt of adrenaline that came with the discovery of something out of place, out of the ordinary. A shoe fetish was one thing, and might explain why Natalia was dealing in stolen property, but stacks of new shoes in different sizes? That required a more unusual explanation.

  He dug through them for anything else, some clue that might lead him toward his answer, up-ending the boots in case they doubled as hiding places, but eventually he stood, empty-handed. He gave the clothing on the hangers a second look, but they were all the same size—Natalia’s, he estimated. A quick check under the bed revealed nothing, so Hugo moved out of the bedroom and back into the little hallway.