by Mark Pryor
“How long do they record for?” Hugo asked. “Like, how much could they have captured?”
“Depends what they’re using. Estimate ten minutes per gigabyte if it’s a 1080p, which is the high-def version we use for evidence gathering and surveillance. Maybe fifteen minutes per gigabyte at 720p resolution. Still high-def and a high-quality recording.”
“How—?”
“Hush, I’m still talking. Now, the user would likely have to change out that memory card because once it’s full, the camera would stop recording.” He snapped his fingers as a thought struck him. “No, not necessarily. He could set it to loop record and use just the one memory card.”
“But wouldn’t that mean basically taping over what was recorded before?”
“It would. So, if I’m spying on someone, I’m stocking up on memory cards and switching them out. You had a question?”
“I did,” Hugo said. “How good is the picture quality likely to be? I’m thinking about what Helen Hancock said, about someone stealing her work. Good enough to do that?”
“Definitely. I just swept the painting and detected, mind you; didn’t see the device myself. But a 1080 high-def resolution would allow someone to read her worst cursive, and most definitely any typed pages left lying on the desk.”
“Good to know. It just seems odd that someone would try to steal her writing,” Hugo said. “She mentioned a couple of reasons but none of them very convincing. To me, anyway.”
“No clue.”
“Me neither. . . . I need to ask her more about that. So can you trace the signal? I mean, find out who’s picking it up?”
“Yes and no,” Tom said. “It’s not like a string, where I can just follow it to the end user. But it has to be someone fairly close, in the building most likely.”
“Yeah, Camille said within half an acre.”
“Give or take, yes. That doesn’t narrow it down much in a busy hotel like that, though.” Tom stood. “I need a drink, you want some wine?”
“Sure, red please. So how the hell do we find who’s doing this?”
“Well, I can tell you that whoever it is, if we figure that out, they will have evidence on their computer or phone. Every camera has a unique ID number associated with it, which will be captured and displayed on whatever device they use to watch the footage.”
“Kind of like a fingerprint,” Hugo suggested. He took a full wine glass from Tom, who sat back down opposite him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And precisely. The problem we have now, though, is how to find whose finger it belongs to.”
“I have two ideas,” Hugo said, taking a sip.
“Of course you do.” Tom rolled his eyes. “And I have three ideas, great ones. But you go first.”
Hugo smiled. “Well, to begin with, I would like to know whether the hotel’s electronic keycards leave behind any kind of trail.”
“Keycards?”
“For the hotel-room doors.”
“Ah, like when Helen’s door was opened, how many times, and by whom?”
“Right. That kind of technology changes fast; it certainly has since our bureau days, so I’m not really clear on how it all works. You?”
“Not really,” Tom said. He gulped down some wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m more of a steal-your-card kind of guy. Which is to say, I’m the one going in and out of hotel rooms, not so much the one trying to find out who went in.”
“But don’t you need to know, for countermeasures? To avoid being caught?”
“Like I said, stealing someone’s keycard is always the way to go. What was your second bright idea?”
“Well, Camille said that since there are no wires coming out from the painting, any camera will be battery powered.”
“Right,” Tom said. “And that battery will need to be replaced once every twenty-four hours. Something like that.” His eyes lit up. “I see where you’re going with this. We set up our own camera and record whoever is switching out the battery.”
“Exactly,” Hugo said.
“So, which approach do you want to take? Both at the same time?”
“No,” Hugo said. “To find out about the keycards, we’ll need the cooperation of the hotel management. And that could tip someone off.”
“Good point,” Tom said. “Which means we’re staging our first spying op together, Hugo. How cute is that?”
“I prefer to think of it as regular surveillance, and we did that plenty while at the bureau,” Hugo said. “But feel free to get sentimental on me, I don’t mind in the least.”
“Killjoy.”
“You know it. Anyway, we’ll have to put in our own camera without being spotted. We’ll need to assume that whoever our bad guy is, he’s watching every time there’s movement in the room.”
“Should be easy enough.”
“If you say so,” Hugo said. “By the way, did you sweep the whole room or just the painting?”
“Painting only,” Tom said. “No way to do all of that room without it being caught on camera.”
“Good point. But that means there might be more than one camera in there,” Hugo said.
“Oh, crap.” Tom suddenly looked worried. “I’m getting as rusty as you. I didn’t think about that.”
“Well, nothing we can do about it now. If there is, when our suspect changes the one battery, he’ll change any others in there, which we will be able to see. And that question will be answered.”
The following morning, Tuesday, Hugo checked in with his boss, Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor. As a former CIA agent, and one of the smartest people Hugo knew, he thought maybe the ambassador would know why someone might try to steal Helen Hancock’s work.
“Pretty cool we get to help out Helen Hancock, eh?” Taylor said, sitting forward behind his huge desk. He was the definition of ordinary-looking, perfect for spy work but not great for imposing himself on large furniture. Of average height and with no distinguishing features apart from a balding pate, he looked like he was one of the moving men, not a representative of the most powerful nation on Earth.
“Why do people keep fangirling over her?” Hugo asked. “I mean, I’ve heard of her before now, but it’s not like she’s Harper Lee or Maya Angelou.”
“You’re a book snob, Hugo. You always have been.” Taylor shook his head. “That woman has brought delight to millions of readers for many years and deserves all the credit and recognition she gets. And quite possibly a little respect from people like you.”
“She seems real nice,” Hugo said. “And I’m sure her books are wonderful; they just don’t happen to be my cup of tea.”
“Which you’d know because you’ve tried them, right?”
“Then I’ll rephrase. Her genre isn’t my cup of tea.”
“Then you need to branch out.” Taylor snorted with a little laugh. “It’s not like you have too much romance in your life, now is it?”
“Very amusing, boss,” Hugo said. “Thanks for pointing that out, but I’ll have you know things are going great with Claudia.”
“Right, sure. So what’s this business about a spy camera?”
“I wish I knew. There’s definitely one in the painting; Tom swept it yesterday and detected a transmitter.”
“He swept the room or just the painting?”
“The latter. He was worried that someone would be watching and see him do the rest of the room, which would screw up our plan to catch whoever it is.”
“What plan is that?” Taylor asked.
“To plant our own camera and catch the suspect in the act.”
“I like it. You have the hotel’s permission?”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here. To pick your brain as to why someone might do this, but also to get your help smoothing things over with the hotel.”
“The police can do that better than I can.”
“Hancock doesn’t want the police formally involved.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because if this guy has recordings of her, those will be copied and taken into evidence, and she doesn’t want potentially embarrassing things leaked onto the Internet.”
“Embarrassing like what? She have bad handwriting or something?”
Hugo smiled. “No idea. But that camera, depending on its lens, is likely to have captured her dressing and undressing. It picks up not only the desk, but also part of the bed and the bathroom. She knows the police will try to keep everything secure, but think about it—one cop who needs some money, he could easily sell a couple of minutes of one of the world’s top romance writers in the buff in her fancy hotel room. Or just post it for free for jollies.”
Taylor suddenly seemed more concerned. “I don’t know, Hugo. I appreciate your consideration for her privacy, but this could make some people very upset. The hotel, the Paris police . . .” His voice trailed off.
“The police know. I have them in the loop,” Hugo said.
“Your friend, Lieutenant Lerens?”
“Yes.”
“Who you, no doubt, also asked to be discreet and not act officially, or write any kind of report.”
“Well, true,” Hugo conceded. “But the police know at least.”
“So you want to run a secret operation to catch a criminal without the police’s official blessing, and I’m supposed to get the hotel management to agree to that.”
“Yep.” Hugo nodded. “That’s pretty much it.”
“They won’t do it.” Taylor shook his head. “Think about it from their perspective. What if their guests found out? That kind of hotel, with their wealthy private and business patrons—no way. It’d be a public-relations nightmare.”
Hugo tried to hide his irritation. “And you know that without asking them.”
“Yes. Hugo, we put guests of the embassy up at that hotel. We can’t just call over there and book a few rooms, then set up a sting operation.”
“I don’t see why you can’t let them make that call.”
“Again, think about it from their perspective—”
“I am,” Hugo snapped. “Look, if one of their employees is doing this, do you think they’d rather have the police involved, and by extension make it public, or have us go in there under the radar?”
“And what if you nab someone? Are you guys going to rough him up a little and then leave it at that? No, you’re going to have him arrested, at least you damn well ought to.” Taylor shook his head again, emphatically. “Either way, the police are getting involved. Now that you’ve established that someone’s bugging the place, there’s no way to keep a lid on this.” He sat back. “I’m sorry, Hugo, but that’s just the way it is.”
Hugo and Taylor locked eyes for a second, both breaking away when their phones pinged simultaneously. A group text message, which usually came from the on-duty security officer and more often than not meant an emergency or some kind of alert.
Both men checked their phones, and Hugo was the first to speak. “Well, I guess that moots the police issue.”
Hugo looked back at the text from his subordinate, Regional Security Officer Ryan Pierce: Body found at Sorbonne Hotel. Maybe an American. Want me to go down there?
Hugo tapped on Pierce’s name and waited while his colleague’s phone rang. He answered straightaway.
“Hey, chief. All quiet if you want me to cover that for you.”
“No, I’ll go, thanks,” Hugo said. “I’m with the ambassador, so let me put you on speaker.” He looked at the display and pressed the button. “There, you’re on. What do we know?”
“Not a lot. We just got a call five minutes ago from our liaison at the prefecture. One of the guests stumbled over a body in the stairwell. For some reason they think the victim is an American, so they let us know right away.”
“Is it a man or a woman?” Hugo asked.
“I don’t know, boss. I did ask for whatever details they have, but they didn’t give me any more than I told you. Not even why they think it’s an American.”
“Very helpful,” Taylor muttered.
“OK, thanks, Ryan,” Hugo said. “Can you stay put in the office and be available for me?”
“Of course.”
“Great, I’ll be in touch.” Hugo disconnected and looked at Taylor. “Well, field trip to the hotel for me. Let’s just hope it’s not our favorite romance writer.”
“No kidding,” Taylor said, his forehead creased with concern. “This isn’t good. Not good at all. I mean, if they were looking at a public-relations nightmare before, this will take the cake. Whether it’s Ms. Hancock or not.”
Hugo stood. “I’ll let you know as soon as I get down there, but while I’m on my way, say a prayer that it’s not her. I may not be a fan of her books, but the world needs more writers, not fewer.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The body was still in the stairwell when Hugo got to the hotel. The police were obviously trying to keep a low profile out of respect for the hotel’s reputation, but the tension in the large lobby was palpable. Four or five uniformed officers lingered, looking uncomfortable, awaiting orders that they no doubt hoped would take them out of there to do some actual police work.
Hugo showed his credentials to the clerk behind the desk and said that he was expected.
“Third floor, monsieur,” the woman said. “The stairs will be to your left when you exit the elevator.”
Hugo thanked her and moved to the elevator bank. As he waited, he heard a familiar voice behind him, a soft Scottish brogue.
“Mr. Marston, nice to see you again, sir.”
Hugo turned to find a bald policeman in uniform smiling at him.
“Paul Jameson,” Hugo said, shaking his hand. “You’re still working with Camille?”
“Yes, sir, I sure am. Best detective on the force, why wouldn’t I be?”
Hugo had met Jameson on a previous case and had been impressed by his intelligence and attention to detail. The fact that he was a happy Scotsman in a flic’s uniform appealed to Hugo’s sense of humor, too. Like Hugo himself, Jameson was a fish learning to swim in new and occasionally dangerous waters.
“So what do we have? Your office passed on almost no details.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. As you can imagine, the hotel’s putting all kinds of pressure on us to keep mum. I mean, people will find out, but later is better than sooner for them.”
“But they’re cooperating with the investigation?”
The elevator dinged and its door opened. Jameson gestured for Hugo to go in first. “Yes, as far as I know. Lieutenant Lerens wouldn’t stand for any less, I can tell you that.”
“Very true.” Hugo pressed the button for the third floor and gave Jameson a wry smile. “Are you intentionally deflecting and not giving me details?”
“Yes, sir,” Jameson replied, with a smile of his own. “Orders. You know how it is.”
“Just tell me this. Is the victim Helen Hancock?”
“The author?” Jameson looked surprised. “No, sir. It’s an American all right, but not her. Since it’s you, I can probably just tell you . . .”
“I can wait twenty seconds,” Hugo said. “Can’t have the only Englishman on the Paris police force getting in trouble.”
“I’m Scott—” Jameson shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “Right, got it. You know that.”
Hugo smiled, and the elevator stopped with another ding. The door opened and Hugo waved an arm. “Here we are. After you.”
They turned left and walked to the end of the hallway, where a uniformed flic guarded the door to the staircase. Voices drifted up to them through the open doorway, and Hugo recognized Camille Lerens’s among them. The officer took his name down on the crime-scene log and stepped aside.
“Go ahead, sir,” Jameson said. “The crime-scene people have come and gone, so you don’t have to worry. It’s on the next landing down. Sorry, he’s on the next landing.”
Hugo nodded, stepped through the door, and looked down one
flight of stairs at the three police officers who were standing over the body of a man. Hugo started slowly down the stairs, waving a hand at Lerens when she looked up and saw him. He didn’t recognize the other two officers, but they moved apart to let him stand next to Lerens on the step just above the landing.
The body of a man lay spread-eagle on the floor, face up. Blood smeared the area around him, including the wall of the stairwell, which was painted with red, half-formed handprints and finger trails. Black dust covered various parts of the white stairwell, the only evidence that a careful crime-scene team had been and gone. Hugo looked down and studied the man’s face. It was square and solid, with freckles to match his thick, sandy hair. He could have been quite handsome, Hugo thought, or maybe not. Looks were hard thing to judge on a dead man.
He looked at Lerens. “Qu’est-il arrivé?” He gestured to the body with his hand. What happened?
“Je ne suis pas sûr.” Lerens said. I’m not sure. “About all I know is who he is and how he died.”
“Cause of death already? They usually make you wait for that.”
“The knife wounds in the back plus the kitchen knife itself left on the stairs were a bit of a clue. Even our medical examiner at his grumpiest acknowledged that.”
“Doctor Sprengelmeyer?”
“That’s the one,” Lerens said.
“Then he acknowledged it informally, of course.”
“Of course. You want to know who the victim is?”
“He works here at the hotel,” Hugo said. “His name is Andrew Baxter, and he’s an American citizen. He has a gambling problem. Rather, he had a gambling problem.”
Lerens grinned and the two uniformed officers stared at Hugo, then exchanged confused glances. “You should probably explain that,” she said.
“I got his name from the crime-scene log, I’ve told you guys before—you should use an ID number instead of a name for that. He’s an American, because you called us here, of course.”
“And the gambling problem?” Lerens asked.
“From the dirt on his fingers and the pair of dice on his necklace. I saw him the other day in a bellhop suit in the lobby. So he’s working two jobs here, some kind of cleaning or maintenance job as well as carrying bags. Given the dice, I presume the two jobs are to pay for his gambling habit.”
