The Paris Librarian by Mark Pryor Page B

hungry eyes roaming over the groups, looking for a score. Their selfie sticks and shiny trinkets made them seem like fishermen trying to lure in willing customers, but in Hugo’s mind they were more like the predators you’d see circling the water holes of Africa, practiced at spotting the weak, those least wedded to their cash—the gullible and the gaudy-minded.
    The apartment was in a building on Avenue de Suffren, an apt name for today, Hugo couldn’t help thinking. He pressed the buzzer and after a moment a disembodied voice came out of the speaker.
    â€œ Allô? ”
    â€œMs. Gregory, this is Hugo Marston. I work at the US Embassy and am a friend of Paul’s.”
    â€œOh, yes, hi. He’s not here right now, he’s at work.”
    That moment , Hugo thought, that brief moment on the cusp of despair, when someone’s world has changed but they don’t know it yet, have no sense of the pain and sadness they’re about to suffer .
    â€œI just came from there. Can I come in for a moment?”
    A moment’s hesitation. “Yes, of course. Take the stairs up one flight, then first door on your right.”
    A buzzer sounded and Hugo pushed open the door. He crossed the small marble foyer and trotted up the stairs to her apartment, and knocked. A moment later, the door was opened by a tall, slender woman with her blond hair in a ponytail.
    â€œHugo, nice to see you again.”
    They exchanged bises awkwardly, Hugo still more accustomed to shaking hands with Americans than kissing them.
    â€œYou, too, Sarah.” He gestured toward her apartment. “May I?”
    â€œOf course. Is everything OK?”
    The first tinges of worry. The start of the landslide .
    Hugo didn’t say anything, just stepped into the entryway as she moved back inside. He followed her through a doorway on the left, a large living space that opened into a modern kitchen.
    A man rose from the sofa to Hugo’s right. He was tall with coffee-colored skin and close-cropped hair, a good-looking man in his early thirties. He wore a white shirt tucked into blue jeans, an expensive watch on his wrist.
    â€œI’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company,” Hugo said.
    â€œThis is Alain Benoît, a friend of mine and Paul’s,” Sarah said. “He was just on his way out.”
    The man moved toward them, his hand extended. “ Enchanté ,” Benoît said.
    â€œHugo Marston.” Hugo looked hard at the man as they shook hands, looking for signs of . . .  anything . It was odd that Sarah had emphasized that Benoît was a friend of them both, and given the age difference between Sarah Gregory and Paul Rogers . . . and this was Paris, the city of love. Or, perhaps, Hugo had been in law enforcement too long, suspicious of everything and everyone.
    Sarah gave Benoît a gentle smile as he walked over and kissed her on each cheek. “See you tonight,” he said in French. Sarah nodded and they waited for Benoît to let himself out.
    â€œI’m sorry to interrupt,” Hugo said.
    â€œIt’s fine, like I said, he was leaving anyway and we’ll see him this evening for dinner.”
    The weight of Hugo’s mission pressed on his chest at the word we . The moment shortened even more, Hugo already forming the words to snap another person’s world in two, change it indelibly and forever. Whoever Alain Benoît was, Paul Rogers was not going to have dinner with him tonight, or any other night.
    â€œCan we sit?” Hugo asked.
    â€œSure.” She gestured to an armchair as she sat delicately on the sofa, worry now clear in her eyes. “Is something wrong? Is it Paul?”
    â€œSarah, I’m so very sorry, but there’s no easy way to say this. Paul appears to have had a heart attack at the library. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
    Sarah gasped and a hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes filled with