by Mark Pryor
“Almost thirty.”
“Friend. Kid. And you’re my age, so . . . you know.”
“You don’t have to worry—she seems like a nice girl, which means she might be a little vanilla for me.”
Hugo burst out laughing. “Oh, Tom. You’re a man of many talents. But reading women isn’t one of them.”
“Oh yeah?” Tom asked. “Go on.”
“I’ve got to go—an appointment at the library. But I’m having dinner with Merlyn and Miki tonight, if you want to join us.”
“What are they doing today?”
“Merlyn called about an hour ago to check in. She’s going shopping and Miki’s writing in some café somewhere. So unless you want to come to the library with me, you’re on your own.”
“Hotbeds of action and excitement, libraries. In my experience, anyway.”
Hugo smiled and left Tom staring out of the apartment window, his elbows on the ledge as he watched the foot traffic on Rue Jacob below. Out on the sidewalk, Hugo looked up and gave him a wave before setting off toward the Eiffel Tower and the American Library, on Rue du Général Camou.
He walked slowly along Rue Saint-Dominique, sticking to the shaded side of the street, pausing to look into shop windows he’d not seen before and slowing to take in the smell of cooking as he passed the bistros. A tourist couple, given away by their sturdy shoes, backpacks, and camera, paused in front of him to stare at the wife’s phone. As he reached them Hugo realized what they were doing, and that paper maps were obsolete now, little squares of glass giving the temporarily lost a precise and easy way to safety.
As he got closer to the Seventh Arrondissment the streets widened and became quieter, the shopping districts melting into residential neighborhoods, and the cafés became few and far between. But as he rounded the corner onto Avenue Rapp, he couldn’t help but admire the view of the Eiffel Tower as it loomed over a narrow side street, visible between a pair of old stone buildings. The most iconic of Paris’s tourist sites framed just for him.
The library sat a hundred yards off Avenue Rapp, a stone’s throw from the Champ de Mars, the park that spread out like a grassy apron southeast of the Eiffel Tower, a perfect spot to picnic or just lie back and admire the tower.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the library, impressed with the number of people milling around. In front of him was the check-out desk, to his right the area set aside for the book sale, and to his left the reference-book area and a conference room that had glass walls that, Rogers had once told him, were virtually soundproof. He felt himself relax as he stepped inside, this place having the same effect all libraries had on him, with the quiet sounds of people leafing through books, the whispered conversations, and the almost-meditative state of the patrons as they devoted themselves to the written word. Hugo had often thought libraries were akin to places of worship, his version of church, where reverence and peace enveloped him like a blanket.
Hugo nodded to the two young men behind the check-out desk, then walked past them, his eyes peeled for Paul Rogers. It was almost 11:15, so his writing stint should have ended for the day. He kept going, entering the long, low room where the stacks of books began. This was the main part of the library, a deep, almost cavelike space whose second story meant a ceiling lower than in the entrance way, and also cut out all natural light. He walked slowly, looking down each row, but didn’t see Rogers.
At the end of the room he glanced at the stairs that led down to the basement, a place closed to the public. To Hugo’s left were the bathrooms, a spiral stairway up to the second floor, and the children’s section. He could see through the glass door a dozen children sprawled on cushions and rugs in a semicircle, eyes glued to the young man reading a story from a picture book. He heard footsteps coming down the staircase from the floor above, and smiled when he recognized Nicole Anisse. They’d met on half a dozen occasions, and Hugo had always been impressed by the tall, attractive, and whip-smart brunette who was one of the library’s two reference and collections librarians.
“Nicole, bonjour.” He held out a hand, but she smiled and gave him the traditional two kisses. Her cheek was cool against his, the light scent of her perfume alluring despite the setting.
“Monsieur Marston, comment ça va?” How are you?
“Very well, thank you. I’m looking for Paul Rogers.”
She looked at the clock on the wall. “He should be finished with his writing. You’re welcome to go down and knock on the door.”
“He didn’t tell me exactly where he writes,” Hugo said.
She nodded toward the basement stairs. “He converted the storage space that we call the atelier, put a chair, desk, and lamp in there. At the bottom of the stairs, turn right, you’ll soon come to the last row of shelves. You wouldn’t know it was there unless someone told you, but head between the wall and the shelves, it’s at the far end, white door.”
“Sounds like a great little hideaway.”
“It’s perfect for him, really. Tucked away in the corner, nice and quiet.” She pulled a face. “Although it’s a little creepy down there. If I was locked in that space for two hours every day, I’d go insane, so I have no idea how he manages to be creative in there.”
“Insanity and creativity are closely linked, non?” Hugo joked.
“Maybe.”
“He’s always down there alone?”
“He likes the quiet, so yes.” Anisse smiled. “Except for a certain lady who guards the door. You’ll see who I mean.”
Hugo thanked her and started down the steps to the basement. Almost immediately, the chattering from the front of the library was silenced, and as he descended the air around him felt cooler, and perhaps a little staler. There was something else there, too, though. Something reassuring in the dusty air, that inescapable book smell, and Hugo’s fingers itched to start flipping covers, turning pages.
At the bottom of the stairs curiosity overtook him and he went into a short hallway to his left, which ended in a closed door. He knocked on it gently and, when no one answered, he opened it and went in. Boiler room and storage, he noted to himself. Practical, not creepy.
He retraced his steps, closing the boiler-room door behind him, and walked toward the large basement. At the base of the stairs, he found himself looking at maybe twenty rows of metal shelves, each filled with books, and in various places along the wall lay piles of books as tall as him. He moved to his right, to the last stack, which he rounded with care. To his right was a brick wall, painted white many years ago, and at the end of the row was a closed door. Paul’s converted writing room.
Hugo remembered what Nicole Anisse had said about a woman watching over the former atelier, but didn’t see her until he got closer to the door. She gazed down from a four-foot-high painting, a woman in a white tunic and white turban with oddly rosy cheeks and a slightly bored expression in her eyes. As he looked at the painting, Hugo was glad Anisse had told him its subject was a woman; he might have wondered otherwise.
Hugo stood in front of the door and hesitated. He hated to interrupt a man busy with his work, his own form of art, but Paul Rogers had told him it would be OK to do so. Hugo knocked gently and waited. When he got no response, he knocked a second time, louder, but still heard nothing from inside. Maybe he finished up and isn’t in there? Hugo tried the door, but it was locked. He knocked again.
“Paul, it’s Hugo Marston,” he said, then raised his voice a notch. “You in there?”
Silence.
Hugo retraced his steps and found Nicole Anisse still outside the children’s section. “No reply from the dungeon. Did Paul reappear?”
“Non,” she said. “At least, he didn’t come past me.”
“OK. I don’t mean to worry you, but do you have a key to the room he’s working in?”
“It’s locked?”
“He probably locked it when he left.”
“Monsieur Harmuth can get a key. Ah, there he is.”
“Did I hear my name?
” Harmuth approached them, a smile on his lips. “Telling him what a great boss I am?”
“Bien sûr,” Anisse said with a playful roll of the eyes. Of course.
“Hey, you know I don’t speak French,” he said playfully, before turning to Hugo. “Not very well, anyway. Always learning. The embassy guy, Hugo, right?”
“Hugo Marston, nice to see you again.” Hugo had met Michael Harmuth several times. He was Paul Rogers’s right-hand man, the assistant director of the library for the past year or so, and the library’s resident IT whizz. Harmuth had an open, friendly face and bright eyes. With white hair, he looked older than he probably was, but he had an energy about him that Hugo liked. They shook hands and Harmuth winced. “My bum elbow,” he explained.
“Tennis player?” Hugo asked.
“Heavens no. A brisk walk is about all I manage these days. Elbow, back, and the right knee when it’s cold. If I tried anything more than a stroll I’d fall apart.”
Hugo chuckled. “I’m getting there myself. Still manage a run once or twice a week but it takes me days to recover.”
“Don’t you have to pass fitness tests and all that, as a secret agent?”
“I’m hardly secret. And no, nothing like that.”
“I see. So here’s something I’ve always wondered,” Harmuth said conspiratorially. “Do you guys carry your guns with you at all times? FBI agents do, right?”
“They do. And I probably shouldn’t answer that.” He gave Harmuth a wink, answering him without words.
“Ah, I see. Very cool. With one of those under your armpit, I guess you don’t really need superhuman fitness or ninja training.”
“I’m a long way from my ninja days. Like I said, a run now and again makes me sore. Advil is my friend.”
“Not me. Stopped using processed pharmaceuticals years ago. I use the natural stuff—you should, too, and I’d be happy to give you some pointers. There’s some really good stuff out there, for general pain but also for more serious ailments.”
“I may take you up on that, thanks.” He paused, then continued. “So I was looking for Paul, had an appointment with him, you might say.”
“He’s probably still writing.”
“I figured, but yesterday he told me to interrupt him if it got to be eleven. I just knocked on his door but there was no answer.”
“He wasn’t there?”
Hugo shook his head. “And it’s locked.”
“That’s odd. Let’s pop down there and see. If he’s like me, he may just be taking a nap.”
“I wondered if he had headphones on, some of the new ones are pretty good at drowning out the world,” Hugo said. “But I knocked pretty loudly.”
Harmuth patted his pockets and came up with a key, a look of worry on his face now. “You know, about a year ago Paul had . . . it wasn’t a heart attack exactly, but he had some problem. Irregular heartbeat or something.”
They started walking. “I didn’t know that,” Hugo said.
“You know what he’s like, pretty private, so a lot of his friends had no idea. I’d only been working here a little while, I think he only told me because he had to, for time off.”
A jolt of worry shot through Hugo and he started forward, quicker steps than before. “He’d call an ambulance if something was wrong, I’m sure,” Hugo said. Assuming he was able to.
“Actually, no. We just put in this new technology, it jams cell signals. We wanted people to put their damn phones down and read books in here.”
Hugo followed Harmuth down the stairs into the basement, which seemed smaller and tighter with two of them there. Harmuth advanced on the atelier’s door with the key in his hand, his pace suddenly slower, more hesitant. He glanced nervously at Hugo, who said, “You want me to do it?”
“No, I’m sure everything’s fine. I’m fine.” He pulled his shoulders back and stopped in front of the door. The key rattled in the lock. Harmuth took a quick breath, turned the door knob, and pushed the door open a crack. “Paul? You in there?”
Harmuth’s head and right shoulder disappeared into the room, but he stopped short of going all the way in, his left hand still on the door knob as if for safety. He paused like that for a full five seconds, and Hugo was about to step forward to see for himself when Harmuth staggered back.
“What is it?” Hugo started forward, grabbing Harmuth’s shoulders when it looked like the man might collapse. Harmuth nodded that he was all right, so Hugo pushed the door to the little room open and looked inside. Paul Rogers sat in a leather office chair behind a rickety desk that carried a water bottle, several books, a notepad, and an open laptop. He’d tilted to one side, his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. But it was the color of his skin that gave it away, the gray tinge and the waxy pallor that Hugo had seen a hundred times before, in a hundred different places. The light from the bare bulb reflected off the walls, making him look almost blue, but one thing was for sure: Paul Rogers was dead.
Hugo moved into the room, his eyes scanning everything around him, careful not to touch anything. This looked like a natural event, a heart attack, and Hugo saw no signs of violence to Rogers’s body. Out of habit and training, Hugo rounded the desk and put two fingers to Rogers’s neck to confirm that the man was dead. No pulse, skin cold. He’s been dead an hour at least, Hugo thought.
He took one more look around the room and then stepped back into the hallway. He pulled out his cell phone but saw there was no service. Harmuth was sitting on the floor, pale and wide-eyed. His mouth moved silently for a moment, then he asked, “Is he . . . is he dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hugo said.
Harmuth’s eyes dropped to Hugo’s phone. “You have to go to the entrance. The cell-phone jammers.”
“Right. Normally I’d approve,” Hugo said grimly. “Can I leave you here for a moment while I call this in?”
“Umm, sure.” Harmuth’s eyes flickered to the door. “I’m sorry, I’ve not really seen . . . that before. I’ve been lucky, I guess.”
Hugo reached back and closed the door to the little room, instinctively touching only the frame of the door and not the knob. “Just make sure no one goes in, OK?”
“No problem.” Harmuth started to get to his feet, and Hugo gave him a helping hand. “Might frighten people if I’m sprawled out on the floor,” he said with a weak smile.
“Just hang out here, I’ll be right back.”
Harmuth glanced at the door again and grimaced, then gave Hugo a quick nod.
Hugo watched his phone display as he walked briskly through the library to the front entrance. He realized that he didn’t quite know whom to call. All of his encounters with death, including the ones on foreign soil, had been of the nefarious kind, where there was no doubt that police and forensics people were needed. As he neared the front of the building, Hugo saw the bars indicating service. He called up his list of contacts and dialed the only person he knew would be able to help.
“Salut, Camille, it’s Hugo.” Lieutenant Camille Lerens, his contact and friend in the Brigade Criminelle, the division responsible for investigating the city’s most serious crimes, like murder, kidnapping, and terrorism.
“Ah, mon ami, comment ça va?”
“I’m well, and you?”
“The happiest woman in the force,” she said.
Despite the circumstances, Hugo smiled. He knew full well what she meant. A few years ago, Camille Lerens had been Christophe Lerens, a good cop in Bordeaux whose bravery was sorely tested when he decided to make the full transition to the person, the woman, he’d always been on the inside. The macho culture of the police had challenged Camille’s resolve, but supportive parents and the surprise allegiance of one of Paris’s fiercest police chiefs had seen her through. As far as Hugo could tell, Camille’s gender was now a nonissue, her abilities as a police officer having won over even the worst of her tormentors. Where living life as a successful woman, and one of color no less, had once been a dream, it was now her reality. Sh
e could have been bitter about the long, hard road, Hugo knew, but that wasn’t her way.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “So I’ve got a situation, not sure how to handle it.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m at the American Library on Rue Général Camou. Someone who works here, a friend of mine, actually, was working by himself in a basement room and died.”
“I’m sorry to her that. . . . Natural causes?”
“Looks like it.”
“I hear something in your voice. You sure?”
“I’m not a doctor, Camille, I wouldn’t want to say I’m sure. But it doesn’t look like murder or suicide, so I’m not sure what else it could be.” A sudden wave of sadness swept over him. For the last few minutes he’d been in work mode, tucking away any and all feelings to make sure the right people were notified and doing their jobs. But saying the words, bumping into that realization that his friend Paul Rogers had just passed away . . . that fact was no longer tucked away, and Hugo felt a hollowness in his chest at the loss of a good man.
“He was your friend, you said?”
“Yes. He’s the director here, I’ve known him several years. We talked a lot about books, and he was supposed to show me some that the library is selling.”
“Je suis désolée, Hugo. Do you want me to come out there?”
“No, I just didn’t know the procedure for a death by natural causes.”
“Normally, a doctor is called and he or she will certify the death and issue a certificat de décès, of death. You know what, I’ll come out and bring a couple of crime-scene people with me. Things are slow and it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“I don’t think you need to, Camille. He was alone in a room, the door locked, and may have had a heart condition.”
“It’s no problem. The crime-scene woman I usually use has a new recruit, this is a perfect training opportunity for him. If it’s natural causes, it won’t matter if he screws up.”
“If you’re sure. I’ll head back down to the room and make sure no one goes in. And there’s no cell-phone service in the building, just so you know.”
