by Mark Pryor
“You didn’t include me in that question.”
“You already said you’ve only had one key.” Hugo looked him in the eye. “And you wouldn’t lie during a murder investigation, would you?”
Colbert ignored the question. “None of us can just make a duplicate key. Once a room is occupied, any keycard that’s programmed automatically generates a message that goes to the managers. If they think it’s suspicious, they can investigate. And they all know the policy that we’re allowed just one key, so if someone did duplicate a key to this room, either it or the old one would be deactivated.”
“So how would someone frame Andy by leaving a doctored computer in here?” Lerens pressed.
“Look,” Colbert snapped, “this is a room in a hotel that three people share. It’s not exactly Fort Knox, and just because I can’t tell you how it happened, that doesn’t mean it didn’t.”
“Except we have surveillance footage of him going into a store that sells spyware.”
“You’re making that up. Trying to trick me.”
“Surveillance from inside and outside the store,” Hugo added. “Not surprising that a place like that would use a lot of cameras, and very helpful for us. The footage is so good, we can see exactly what he bought, and it happens to be the precise make and model of camera found in Helen Hancock’s room.”
Colbert stared at him, then said, “That doesn’t make any sense. For Andy to do that.”
“Do you have a laptop?” Hugo asked.
Colbert nodded. “Sure. No room for a desktop in here.”
“Would you let us look at it?”
“You mean the outside?”
“No,” Hugo said. “I’d like to know what’s on it, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, actually. What’s on there is private and not anyone’s business.”
“I guess we could get a search warrant,” Hugo said mildly to Lerens.
“Based on what?” Colbert asked. “I’m no lawyer, but in the States you’d have to have some reason to justify doing that.”
Hugo kept his voice even. “How about you withholding information during this interview?”
“I haven’t. What are you talking about?”
“When I asked you who might have wanted to hurt Andy, you thought of a name. Who was it?”
Hugo was fishing, but Colbert’s involuntary responses to those questions suggested he was being dishonest. Colbert didn’t bite. He stood up and walked to the door. “I haven’t lied about or hidden anything, and I’m pretty sure a judge wouldn’t sign a search warrant based on you saying that I did. And even if one does, I have nothing to hide. I just don’t like the idea of you people fishing around on my computer for reasons I might have hurt my friend.” He looked at Lieutenant Lerens, then at Hugo. “I have to get ready for work, so I don’t think I have anything more to say right now.”
Hugo and Lerens stopped outside Helen Hancock’s room, but when she didn’t answer her door they went downstairs and found Jill Maxick in her office. Hugo stuck his head in, as Lerens lingered behind him.
“Do you happen to know where Helen is?” he asked.
“Not in her room?”
“Nope.”
“She didn’t say anything to me.” Maxick snapped her fingers. “I bet she’s gone to see Ambrósio Silva. She was on the phone to some lawyers earlier when I went in to check on her. Before they decide what to do, they want to make sure he’s on board with any plan.”
“To make the websites take the video down?”
“Right. And make sure that in doing so they don’t step on the toes of the police investigating Andy’s death. You want me to call her?”
“No,” Hugo said. “I’ll take a walk over to Silva’s place. Sometimes it’s better to talk to people when they don’t know you’re coming. But thanks.”
She gave him a tired smile. “Welcome. I’m clocking out for the day in about thirty minutes.”
“This is pretty stressful for you, I bet,” Hugo said.
“Helen is more than just a guest. She’s become a friend, you know. I hate to see her go through all this humiliation; it’s just so wrong.”
“Do you read her books?”
“Oh, yes.” Maxick blushed a little. “All of them. I feel silly liking romance novels at my age and stage in life, but I can’t help it.”
Camille tapped Hugo on the shoulder. “Hugo, we have to go.”
He turned. “Something happen?”
“You could say that.” Lerens held up the phone in her hand. “I just got a call about Wendy Pottgen. She’s been attacked.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Three police cars sat outside the apartment building, lights flashing rhythmically but their sirens now quiet. A young police officer stood in the propped-open doorway, and he straightened up and dropped his cigarette when he saw Lieutenant Lerens emerge from the unmarked car.
“Third floor,” the officer said. “No elevator in the building, but it’s the first door you come to.”
Lerens nodded and cast a disapproving, and obvious, look at the still-smoldering cigarette on the pavement. “Are you supposed to be smoking while on duty?”
“Technically, I’m off duty as of thirty minutes ago,” he said. “I offered to stay late to help out.”
“How diligent, I’m sure everyone appreciates that,” Lerens said. She breezed past him and added in a mild tone: “No one appreciates a wise-ass, though, least of all your lieutenant.”
Hugo gave the policemen a conspiratorial wink as he passed by. The flic may not know it, but the truth was that Lerens very much appreciated a cop who could think on his feet and speak up for himself. Rank meant something to her, of course, everyone respected the hierarchy, but that was less important to Lerens than staying late to help out, cigarette or not.
Hugo followed Lerens up the narrow staircase and at the third floor, the apartment door stood open. When they went in, Hugo saw two policemen standing over Buzzy Pottgen, who sat at a tiny, round table nursing a glass of water. She looked up but didn’t say anything.
“What happened?” Hugo asked. The police officers moved aside, and he sat opposite Pottgen. She had a couple of scratches on her face and the beginnings of a fat lip. Her hair was mussed, too, and her eyes flicked around the room as if expecting another assault from someone hiding inside.
Pottgen shrugged. “I don’t know. I was punching in the code to the main doors, and someone hit me from behind. Knocked me into the metal grill there. Like I told these guys, I didn’t see whoever it was.”
“They take anything?”
“No. I dropped my bag, but he just ran off, left it there.”
“Do you need to go to the hospital? See a doctor at least?”
She smiled and nodded toward the two flics. “You’re asking the exact same questions these guys did. And no, I’m fine, thanks, just a little rattled. And a headache.”
“You have any painkillers?”
“I think so, in the bathroom cabinet. My legs are still wobbly, so if you’d grab a handful I’d appreciate it.”
Hugo stepped into the tiny bathroom and opened the mirrored door of the cabinet over the sink. Out of politeness he tried to find only the pain medicine, but his eye fell on a prescription bottle, and he leaned in to read the label. He checked the date and rattled the bottle to confirm there was just one pill left, then replaced it and grabbed the painkillers.
He put the bottle in front of Pottgen, the lid off. “The label says to take two now, two more in four hours if that doesn’t help.” He gave her a serious look. “And I’d suggest a trip to the hospital; you may be concussed.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You really didn’t get a look at who did this?” Hugo asked.
“No, I really didn’t.”
“Couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman? Tall or short?”
“No.” She looked down at the table. “I’m sorry. I’d like to be of more help but I really have no idea. I
wasn’t even going to call the police, but I ran into the apartment owner, Madame Petit, and she insisted on calling when I told her what happened.”
Camille gestured to Hugo. “A quick word?”
“Sure. Excuse me, Buzzy, take those pills and I’ll be right back.” Hugo followed Lerens out of the apartment and onto the landing.
“Close the door, if you don’t mind,” she said.
Hugo pulled it shut behind him and gave her a quizzical look. “What’s going on?”
“That smart-aleck flic downstairs decided to make amends, so he went across the street to the pharmacy and asked if they have surveillance cameras.”
“And we’re standing here talking about it, so clearly they do.”
Lerens smiled. “Oh, yes. Inside and out. He downloaded the relevant moments on a thumb drive, put it on his phone somehow and texted it to me.” She turned her phone toward Hugo, and he leaned in and oriented himself. The camera captured the sidewalk nearest it, the two-lane road, and the far sidewalk, with the doors to Pottgen’s apartment off to the left side of the screen. People passed back and forth, their faces clear and visible on the near side, but a little harder to identify across the street.
Even so, Buzzy Pottgen was easy to spot. She came into the frame from the right, head down as if lost in her own world, her walk and figure recognizable despite her face being turned away from the camera.
Hugo watched the periphery of the screen on both sides, waiting for her attacker to show, holding his breath as if that’d help him not miss a frame.
Pottgen reached the double doors to the apartment building. She paused, as if trying to remember the code, her hand hovering over the key pad. Hugo noticed that Lerens was watching him, not the screen, as if she already knew who the attacker was.
Unless . . . she’s watching me for my reaction because something’s not right . . .
Pottgen’s hand moved, entering the code, and the right-hand door clicked open. Hugo moved his attention to a man in a sports coat coming up behind her, his face impossible to make out, and his gait, his size, everything about him unfamiliar. In a second, he was past her, and Pottgen herself was disappearing through the doorway, the metal grill on the front of it slowly swinging closed behind her.
No one charged in behind her. Two men, one smoking a cigarette and the other waiving his newspaper as he made his point, passed by, but neither slowed or showed any interest in the closed door.
Hugo sighed. “She lied.”
“Unless she was attacked inside the building, outside her apartment door,” Lerens offered.
“That’s not what she said. She was pretty clear about it being down there.”
“Maybe she was confused.”
“She lied,” Hugo said again. “The question is, why?”
“Hugo.” The policewoman’s eyes narrowed. “You have that look on your face.”
“Hang on . . .” Hugo looked at her, then at Pottgen’s closed door. “If . . .”
“If what? Why don’t we just go in and ask her?”
“No. Right now she thinks we buy her story. That means she won’t . . . you know, interfere.”
“With what, exactly?”
Hugo heard the exasperation in her voice and smiled. “With what we’re doing next.”
“Which is?”
“Well, what I’m doing next. You need to stay here and babysit.”
“That’s not how this works, and you know it,” Lerens said firmly. “This is my investigation and you don’t get to—”
But Hugo was halfway down the flight of stairs and didn’t hear the rest, having no interest in finding out what it was he wasn’t supposed to do.
Ambrósio Silva was home alone when Hugo rang the bell to his apartment. The main doors buzzed without Silva even asking who it was, and Hugo let himself into the small, marbled foyer. Silva’s apartment, which he shared with Mike Rice, was on the rez-de-chaussée, or ground floor. He crossed the foyer and knocked, hearing the sound of steps before the door opened. Silva opened the door, filling the gap with his bulk.
“I was just going out,” he said, pointing to his sneakers. “For a run.”
“This won’t take a moment,” Hugo said.
“Another time,” Silva moved toward Hugo, as if to shut the door behind him, but Hugo didn’t budge.
“No, I think now would be best.”
Silva turned and glared at him. “Unless you’re here to arrest me, you don’t get to decide that.”
Hugo felt the big man’s presence, his menace, just inches from him. “Why so hostile, Mr. Silva? This doesn’t seem necessary in the least.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had a bad afternoon; I need to work off some stress.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Silva looked at Hugo for a second, then said, “What do you know?”
“Can we go inside and talk about it?”
“No. I’ve just finished stretching, and if I cool down I won’t be able to run. I’ll give you one minute.”
“I want to know why you’re hiding things from investigators conducting a murder inquiry. You hid that you were sleeping with Helen Hancock, and you didn’t tell me about your fling with Wendy Pottgen.”
“I’ve already explained to you why I kept my relationship with Helen secret; and, as for Buzzy, well, you didn’t ask me about it.”
“This isn’t a game, Mr. Silva. One person is dead, and one other person has been publicly humiliated . . . maybe two people, though to be honest it’s hard to tell.”
“Don’t judge me—you don’t have that right.” Silva had turned red and his eyes flashed. “I don’t have to feel a certain way just because you think I ought to. You have no fucking idea what I’m going through, none whatsoever.”
“Then explain it to me,” Hugo said, his voice calm. “Explain to me why I just saw Wendy Pottgen with a fat lip.”
Silva stared down at Hugo. “You think I did that?”
“Well, she has a fat lip right now,” Hugo pressed. “She lied about how she got it; and she admitted that she didn’t want to call the police to report it. Both of which suggest to me that it was a heat-of-the-moment thing and she’s protecting someone.”
“And that’s me,” Silva said.
“I’m asking.”
They locked eyes for a second, then in one fluid move Silva pulled his front door shut behind him and took a large stride past Hugo, knocking him off balance as he sprinted for the main doors. Hugo recovered quickly, but his cowboy boots slipped on the marble floor as he took his first step, and by the time he hit the doors Silva was twenty yards ahead, his large body bounding down the sidewalk, the early-evening pedestrians ahead of him parting so they didn’t get flattened.
Hugo had a split second to decide whether or not to chase him. Catching up was one thing, a likelihood, but then what? He’d never rugby-tackled anyone that big and strong, not without backup, and he didn’t plan to start now.
“It’s not like we won’t find you,” Hugo muttered. “You big idiot.”
Hugo let the door swing closed behind him and called Lerens to update her.
“So chasing off like that worked well,” she said, not hiding the sarcasm.
“Some you win, some you lose,” Hugo replied, a little chastened. “And on that note I’m clocking out for the day, but call if something comes up.”
Hugo tucked his phone away and started the walk back toward his apartment, prying his thoughts away from the murder of Andrew Baxter, away from spy cameras, and away from tight-lipped witnesses. He had a café in mind, one that sat on the corner of three streets, one that made very good Americano cocktails and served more than passable pizza. Maybe Claudia would join him; they could share a dozen snails and a bottle of wine.
And this was the difference for Hugo, in his new life as an RSO. At the end of the day, he could take off his gun, tuck away his badge, and switch off for the evening. Paris was a place to savor, its cafés and bistros spilling onto the sidewalks, giving tho
se sipping wine and nibbling on olives the chance to critique or admire the style of those walking home, and giving those passing by a tempting suggestion for their own evening ahead. As an FBI agent he’d always been on call, always at the ready, especially as a behavioral analyst. Oh, sure, these days he might get a late call about a tourist in the slammer for being rowdy, but that was little more than a courtesy, not something he needed to deal with immediately. As he knew from his experiences with Tom, drunk guys can sleep it off behind bars as well as anywhere.
He decided he would call Claudia, and when she answered she sounded delighted.
“I thought you were stuck in a case, didn’t want to bother you.” Her voice turned coy. “Well, I did want to, but I knew I would’ve bugged you about the murder.”
“Always the journalist,” Hugo said with a smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“And what would you do, Mr. Lawman, if you saw an old woman getting mugged while you were out and about?”
“Good point—some things we just can’t ignore. So, dinner?”
“Yes. Nowhere fancy, though.”
“I was thinking about pizza and wine on our favorite corner,” he said. “Not sure which café exactly, but we have several to choose from, so maybe I’ll surprise you.”
“Perfect! I will set a course for Rue Mazarine now.”
Five minutes later, Hugo exchanged bonjours with a waiter and settled behind a small table. In front of him, the low evening sun cast long shadows on the street, and the not-unpleasant waft of someone’s cigarette a few tables away reminded him that he was still in Europe, where one’s pleasures may lean toward the wicked but are rarely indulged in guiltily.
He ordered a glass of red wine, choosing the slightly rough house Bordeaux over the downright raspy house Burgundy. He didn’t mind suffering a little, at least until Claudia arrived to drop a pair of reading glasses on the end of her nose and choose something decent from the full wine list.
He sighed as his phone buzzed in his pocket, sighed again when he saw Tom’s name on the screen. He hesitated, but Tom was a persistent one and, if Hugo didn’t answer, his friend would either track him down in person or keep calling until he got some satisfaction.
