by Mark Pryor
“One would hope not, but I get your point,” Hugo said. He reached into his pocket as his phone buzzed. “Excuse me, it’s Lieutenant Lerens. I should probably take this if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
Hugo stood and walked to an empty part of the restaurant. “Camille, what’s up?”
“Salut, Hugo. It’s Ambrósio Silva, and it’s bad news, I’m afraid.”
“What’s he done now?”
“That’s to be determined, whether he did it to himself or someone else did,” Lerens said. “Either way, he’s dead.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At any crime scene, Hugo liked to get a wide-angled look first, if at all possible. In houses that wasn’t always an option, but outside, like at this crime scene, it was easier and gave him a broad picture of what the killer saw, and where he might have gone to. For that reason, Hugo walked down from the busy road beside the Seine to the wide walkway that carried foot and bicycle traffic. He stopped short of the three policemen blocking access to the crime scene and spent a minute looking at it from afar, gazing around him.
Silva’s body sat in the shade of Pont de Sully, on the walkway but tucked underneath the cast-iron arch that stretched directly ahead of him, out across the River Seine. The bridge connected the Left Bank with the Right, running across the southeastern tip of Île Saint-Louis, offering tourists a view of Notre Dame and giving Silva a canopy from the elements. His back was to the stone wall, his head slumped forward and his legs stretching toward the river twenty feet away. Up above him, orange nets sprang out sideways from the side of the bridge, on top of which workers had temporarily halted renovations, their curious faces peering down at the collection of police below.
Hugo looked up at the bridge and made his way back up the stairs toward it. He stood with the workers and gave himself another wide-angled look, a different perspective of the same scene. After a minute he saw the medical examiner, Doctor David Sprengelmeyer, trot down from the street to the walkway beside the river, and then head toward the crime scene that lay beneath them, out of view. Hugo took one more look from above and then made his way back down to the walkway himself, waiting with the policemen until Lerens waved him through.
“This area was cordoned off to pedestrians,” she said, pointing to the “DO NOT CROSS” construction tape stretching across the sidewalk under the bridge.
“So no tourists coming and going, like they usually are.”
“Exactement.”
“Who found him?”
“One of the workers. They’re not supposed to smoke on the job, so he came down here to be out of sight.”
“Needed a cigarette after seeing that, I’d bet,” Hugo said. “How did the poor guy die?”
“Shot. Once in the chest.”
“While he was sitting there, or did he fall into that position?”
“Not sure yet, I’m hoping Sprengelmeyer can enlighten us.”
“How about the gun?”
“No sign of it, so definitely not suicide.”
The setting of the bridge, the river, the missing gun, and even the aspiring writer himself . . . it all called to mind a story crafted by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Hugo smiled grimly. “Remember our conversation earlier, about jumping to conclusions?”
“I think it was about making assumptions, but perhaps it’s the same thing. What are you thinking?”
Hugo remembered the conversation he had with Silva the first time they met, remembered, too, the death of Claudia’s father and the way he’d emulated a trick pulled by a character in a Sherlock Holmes story. Something felt off, somehow, and Hugo’s instincts were telling him to look closer. He eyed the distance from the body to the riverbank, then walked to the water’s edge. Lerens followed him.
“It’s unlikely that he killed himself,” Hugo said. “But there are no impediments between him and the drop into the water.”
“Impediments?”
“Silva was a Sherlock Holmes fan. Have you read any?”
“When I was younger, I’m sure.”
“I’m thinking about ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge.’ In that story, a woman shoots herself on a bridge after tying a rock to the gun, which dragged it over a bridge balustrade and into the river.”
“Why would she do that?”
“To make her suicide look like murder and frame someone else.”
“You’re not suggesting that Silva was suicidal and trying to frame someone, are you?”
“No idea,” Hugo said. “But, as I said, he was a big Holmes fan, and it’s the kind of emulation a writer might try.”
Lerens looked at him skeptically.
Hugo raised his hands in mock surrender. “OK, maybe being around all of these romance writers is finally getting to me, kicking my imagination into high gear. It could be that someone shot him and ran off with the weapon, of course. That seems reasonable. Or maybe the killer tossed the gun into the river as a countermeasure. Either way, I’m just saying that it’s worth dragging the riverbed.”
“Not if you’re the one who has to do it,” Lerens said. “Or put in a request for it to be done.”
“Red tape?”
She nodded. “Yes, but not just that. Putting divers in attracts attention to the crime, which isn’t ideal for tourism. Something I’m not concerned with, but my bosses are.”
“That so?” Hugo smirked. “Glad I’m not the one putting in the request, then.”
She threw him a dirty look and took out her phone. As she made her call, Hugo edged closer to the crime scene. Dr. Sprengelmeyer was finishing his work, and when he zipped his bag closed, he looked up and saw Hugo waiting. He walked over to him.
“Monsieur Marston.” He held out a hand. “Don’t worry, I was wearing gloves.”
“Doc.” Hugo shook his hand. “Sorry we have to keep meeting like this.”
Sprengelmeyer jerked his thumb at Silva’s body. “Not as sorry as he is.”
“True enough. Learn anything we can use?”
“Maybe, maybe not. He was shot once in the chest, straight into the heart, so he died pretty much immediately. You want to know when and who, am I right?”
“Of course.” Hugo had never met a medical examiner who’d give a straight answer, especially at a crime scene, so he was patient, let the doctor do it his own way.
“I can’t tell you if it’s suicide or murder. I know the crime-scene techs swabbed his hands for gunshot residue, but that’s hardly a definitive test, as you know. I’m guessing they’ll have those results by tomorrow morning.”
“Can you tell what caliber was used?”
“Not right now. Large, I’d guess. It plowed right through him and took some chips out of the wall. Crime-scene people will have that at the ballistics lab by now, so another answer you’ll have to get tomorrow.”
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“No. The only wound I see on him is the gunshot, no other bumps, bruises, or scrapes at all.”
“And time of death?”
“No more than a couple of hours would be my estimate.”
“Can you tell if he was standing or sitting?”
“Sitting, it looks like.”
Hugo looked over the doctor’s shoulder at Silva, still propped against the stone wall as if he was taking a nap. “You ever see someone shoot themselves in the heart like that?”
“Heart, head, mouth. Stomach even.”
“Why would someone do that, the stomach?”
“No clue. Painful as hell.” Sprengelmeyer shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the thing about my job; I never get to ask my patients any questions.”
The medical examiner turned and walked away, so Hugo moved in front of Silva and knelt down. He took a moment, as he always did, out of respect for a dead man and to let the discomfort of seeing a dead body shift into a more dispassionate professionalism. Hugo tried, in every case, not to treat a corpse as merely a blob of evidence to be inspected, poked, and prodded. Somewhere, people would mourn
this man; and, despite the hundreds of dead people Hugo had seen, he always made himself remember that each had been a living, breathing individual who deserved respect. Even, or perhaps especially, in death.
There was very little blood on his blue shirt, and the entry wound was clean and round. Hugo tried to see the exit wound, wanting to gauge for himself the size of the weapon used, but he couldn’t see it without moving the body, and he didn’t have permission for that yet.
“Well, Mr. Silva,” Hugo said quietly. “I don’t know whether you did this to yourself, or whether someone else did. But either way, I promise I’ll do my best to find out. And I’m sorry we didn’t figure out what was going on before this had to happen.”
He stood and turned to see Camille Lerens walking toward him. “The divers will be here within the hour.”
“How deep is the water here?”
“No idea. The river averages about thirty-five feet, and I’m sure there’s a nice layer of sludge at the bottom they’ll have to deal with.”
“I bet that’s fun.”
“Hey, they get well paid for it, so as long as they do a thorough job, I’m not worried.”
“I’ve generally found the Paris police to be pretty good,” Hugo said with a smile.
“Thanks.” Lerens looked left and right, then said, “So there’s something I wanted to mention.”
“Sounds serious.”
“I’ve been offered a job. Back in Bordeaux.”
“That is serious.”
“Oui. I haven’t responded, but it’d be a pay increase, more responsibility, and close to my parents.”
“A promotion?”
“Assistant chief.”
“Fancy,” Hugo said. “And even though I’d be very upset at you breaking up this crime-solving thing we have going, you know I’d support you.”
She put a hand on Hugo’s arm. “I do know that, thank you.”
“Tom, on the other hand, I can’t promise anything.”
“He’ll have to find another policewoman to punch.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem for him, I’m sure. But I’m guessing whoever it is won’t be as cool as you.”
“You mean forgiving,” she laughed. “I should have let him stay in jail a few more days.”
“Probably. When do you have to decide on the job?”
“They want an answer by the end of the week.”
“Just curious, did they seek you out or the other way around?”
She laughed gently. “The former. I’m very happy here, you know that. But I’d be a fool not to consider it. Although . . .”
“Although what?”
“Part of me wonders how much of the offer is for PR purposes.”
“In what way?” Hugo asked.
“Come on, Hugo, don’t play dumb with me. In the modern world, demographic statistics mean something. To some people, anyway.”
“Ah, I see. And having a transgender police lieutenant, and one of color, in a high position looks good.”
“And a lesbian one, at that.”
“Is that what you . . . I mean, you’re a . . .”
“Labels are tricky, I know,” Lerens said kindly. “Especially for dinosaurs like you.”
“A good reason to do away with them, if you ask me.”
“Certainement,” Lerens agreed. “We should do away with any and all modernities that make cis-gendered, arrow-straight, white males like Hugo Marston uncomfortable.”
“Glad we’re on the same page, Camille. Warms my heart to know that.”
She threw him another dirty look, then cracked a smile. “Funny man.”
“Not often, but thanks.” Hugo straightened, as if remembering why they were there. “Well, you know I’ll support whatever decision you make. In the meantime, what do you want me to do to help here?”
“I have to wait for the divers and for Sprengelmeyer’s people to take the body. We’ll have autopsy, ballistics, and gun-shot residue test results back sometime tomorrow morning, so I’m not sure there’s anything else to be done today.”
Ballistics, Hugo thought, Michelle Juneau’s voice surfacing in his mind. Surely not.
“Excuse me a moment,” he said, “I need to check on something.” Camille Lerens nodded and drifted back toward the crime scene to give him privacy. Hugo pressed the Call Back feature on his phone and waited.
“This is Michelle Juneau.”
“Hi, Michelle, how’re you?”
“Oh, Hugo, hi. I’m fine, but something’s happened at the library, and I thought you’d want to know.”
“You mentioned a theft.”
“Yes. After you were here talking to those people, Helen Hancock’s students, it seems like it might be related. Or it might not be, I really don’t know.” She was talking quickly, her voice high and excited. “I didn’t think of a connection until after the police left, sorry.”
“Calm down, Michelle, and tell me what’s happened.”
“You know that glass cabinet in the conference room?”
“Of course, yes.”
“Well, someone broke into it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hugo’s heart sank. “What was stolen?”
“A gun. Hunter S. Thompson’s gun.”
“What else?”
“Nothing. Oh, except the bullets that go with it.”
“All of the bullets?”
“No,” Juneau said. “Just two or three of them. I think so, anyway.”
“When did this happen?”
“That’s the thing, we’re not sure.” She sighed. “Sometime in the last few days, we think.”
“You think? Explain that to me, Michelle, because the timing of this, it’s potentially a huge deal.”
“I know, I know. And I’m sorry.”
“Just tell me when you think it happened.” Hugo caught Lerens’s eye, his tone of voice had evidently alerted her that something was wrong.
“We don’t really use that room a lot. It’s not covered by any of the security cameras, obviously, because people have important meetings in there and wouldn’t want to be recorded.”
“But no one noticed a smashed cabinet?”
“It wasn’t smashed, sorry, I didn’t explain that bit. We reported it to the police yesterday, and when they came they said it looked like someone had used a glass cutter to do a controlled break. Like, a circle they could put their hand through.”
“OK, but no one noticed the gun was missing?”
“That’s the crazy part,” Juneau said. “Whoever took it left most of the bullets behind and put a replica in its place. I guess it’s a toy or something, but it looked real, or real enough that no one looked very closely. And the hole in the glass was at the far end of the cabinet, not really visible from the front.”
“Who noticed it was the wrong gun?”
“A library patron. He wasn’t even sure at first, asked if we’d substituted one Hunter Thompson gun for another one, so we took a look and discovered the fake.”
“And called the police.”
“Yes, of course, since it was a gun. Well, we would have anyway, and I think the gun was disabled, inoperable.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know, just some thought I had, a memory from when we acquired it. I can’t think we’d have displayed a fully functioning gun like that. I guess it was technically locked up, but . . .” Her voice tailed off. “I can’t be entirely sure it was disabled, to be honest.”
“When did you report it?”
“Yesterday evening, right after we found out. I was talking to some people here about it and realized that you’d want to know, so I left you a message after we talked to the police. I wasn’t sure if there was any connection with what you’re doing, so I didn’t know if they’d tell you right away.”
“I appreciate that, Michelle, and you’re right—I definitely want to know, because the police haven’t passed that on yet. I guess there’s no reason they’d make the
connection, though. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you back right away. Do you have any idea at all who might have taken it?”
“The police asked the same question. No, I really don’t, none of us do. We all made a list of people we know who’ve had access or definitely have been in the room this past week, and we gave it to the police. I can e-mail it to you, if you want, but it’s long and everyone working here is on it.”
As are all the people associated with Helen Hancock, Hugo thought. “No, that’s OK, I can get it from the police. But thanks again for the call; I’ll be in touch if any other questions come to mind, if that’s alright.”
“Anything, Hugo, call anytime.”
They disconnected and Hugo explained the new development to Lieutenant Lerens as two men placed Silva into a body bag and zipped it closed, then lifted it onto a gurney. They moved out of the way as the medical techs wheeled it to their van, and Hugo could hear the whir of cameras from the bridge, the press and public alike fascinated by the anonymous but familiar sight of a dead body sealed in a black bag, the gruesome details hidden but the end result clear.
Hugo and Lerens moved into the lee of the bridge, away from prying eyes and cameras as they continued their conversation about the gun theft.
“You think it might be the gun that killed Silva?” she asked.
“One hell of a coincidence if not.”
“Agreed. Whoever they reported it to will have asked this, probably, but if not we’ll need the library people to check to see whether the purchase records, or donation records I guess, say anything about it being usable or not.”
“Good idea. I’ll ask them to look if they haven’t already.” They turned as the sound of engines rolled in from the river behind them. “Your divers?” Hugo asked.
“I’d say so; it’s a police launch.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Hugo said. “My boss called me earlier; he wants to get together so I can brief him on the investigation. Maybe we can do it over wine and pizza.”
“Sounds delightful,” Lerens said, checking her watch. “Looks like I’ll be here for the next few hours, so enjoy it for me.”
