by Mark Pryor
“I’ll do my best.” He gestured toward the river. “But if you find anything interesting in there, please let me know.”
At six that evening, Hugo met Ambassador Taylor at Chez Maman, the last place anyone would expect a senior representative of the United States government to go for drinks. Despite its location near the river, no tourists ever troubled its orange-haired bartender-owner, known to everyone as just “Maman.” The place had been functioning as a bar for a hundred years or more, and its floor and walls were coated with the smoke from the million-plus cigarettes, pipes, and cigars that had been lit within its walls. That history and a lack of windows meant that even now, when smoking inside a bar like this was banned, every time he stepped outside, Hugo’s clothes and skin smelled like he’d been firing up strong Cuban cigars for hours.
The floor was uneven, the chairs and tables sturdy and worn, but it was a safe place. Safe from tourists, yes, but also from prying eyes and ears—really from any kind of interference. You could sit alone and nurse a drink for two hours and not be bothered by anyone. Or you could drink yourself into oblivion, and someone would heft you into a cab and send you home without emptying your wallet. Hugo knew this place through Tom, of course, and after thirty or forty visits had finally been welcomed as a semiregular.
Welcomed was a strong word, perhaps. It just meant Maman didn’t shoot dirty looks his way anymore, although she looked a little disappointed Tom wasn’t there to flirt with.
Hugo and Ambassador Taylor sat against the back wall and nursed glasses of the house scotch. In truth, it might also have been Irish whisky, or possibly even some form of cheap, small-label bourbon; one didn’t go to Chez Maman for top-shelf liquor, vintage wine, or craft beer. You got what you asked for more or less, and it cost half what you’d pay in any other drinking establishment in Paris.
“Not been here in a while,” Taylor said. “Last time was with Tom, I think.”
“Same here,” Hugo said. “I’m half expecting him to burst through the door and yell at us for not inviting him.”
Taylor smiled at the thought. “How’s he doing these days?”
“Same old Tom. A little lighter on the booze than he used to be, I think; he’s getting older after all.”
“Aren’t we all?” Taylor said. “What’s going on with the Helen Hancock case? Any updates?”
“Yes. One of the players was found shot to death under the Pont de Sully.”
Taylor sat up straight. “Murdered?”
“Could be.”
“That is news. Who was it?”
“Ambrósio Silva. You may have seen his recent online shenanigans with Helen Hancock.”
“Ah, yes, I did see something about that.” As a former CIA operative himself, J. Bradford Taylor had seen a whole lot worse than two consenting adults having sex, but even so he sighed deeply and shook his head. Hugo wondered if perhaps his boss was disappointed in Hancock, reinforcing what she’d said about the destruction of her clean image that her publisher had worked to create. Hugo couldn’t help but smile at the idea of an ambassador and former spook being affected by the downfall of his favorite romance writer, but Taylor seemed to shake himself out of the doldrums. “So, a fresh mystery for an already-strange investigation.”
“Right. A new twist every day, it seems,” Hugo said. “And of course Silva’s death ups the ante considerably.”
“He have any connection to Andrew Baxter?”
“Passing acquaintance at most, best we can tell. In my opinion,” Hugo went on, “the central mystery is the spy camera in Helen’s room. We figure out what that was about, and everything else will fit into place, I think.”
“Any more footage come to light?” Taylor asked.
“No, not that we know about anyway. I know Lieutenant Lerens has people monitoring the Internet in case something new pops up, but nothing as of yet.”
“That’s good.”
Hugo took a sip and sat back. “You OK, boss? You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m fine, thanks. This job, it gets to you sometimes.” He looked around the dingy little pub. “That’s why I wanted to come here. Zero chance of having to glad-hand someone, play the charming ambassador, listen to someone’s problems or complaints.”
“Nice to cut loose a little,” Hugo agreed. “We need to get you a false mustache and send you out drinking with Tom.”
Taylor snorted. “I can see the headline now. US Ambassador Arrested after Drunken Brawl with Pack of Nuns.”
“Nuns come in packs?”
“Don’t they? No idea. Anyway, I’ll have a few here, and that’ll be a nice-enough change.” He gave a small smile. “Drinks, that is, not nuns.”
“Can’t imagine too many of the latter have set foot in here in the past century.” Hugo raised his glass. “So here’s to unwinding just a little bit.”
Taylor chinked glasses with Hugo but didn’t look him in the eye, so Hugo set his scotch down gently and said: “Boss, I know something’s bothering you. And I’m guessing we’re here because you want to tell me, so why not spit it out?”
Taylor looked around the room, but the half dozen customers paid them no mind, and Maman herself was nowhere to be seen. Probably dragged her oxygen tank out back where she can smoke in peace, Hugo thought.
Taylor ran a hand over his bald head and down across his face, sighing deeply. “Helen Hancock found you at Isabelle Severin’s funeral,” he said. “She knew you were there because I told her.”
“OK,” said Hugo. “I already knew that, so no big deal. Go on.”
“The thing is, I’m a little more than just one of her million or so readers.”
“I didn’t know that,” Hugo said. “But I think I’m beginning to see.”
“Do you? I’ve not said anything yet.”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you and Helen were just coffee-drinking buddies.”
“I guess.” Taylor looked around the room again. “It’s not what you’re thinking, though.”
“So tell me what it is.”
“She did a signing here a number of years ago, and I went. It was just after a terrorist threat; nothing came of it, but I had a couple of your guys with me, suits and earpieces, you know the look. Anyway, it got her attention, and we ended up chatting, then going to dinner. A case of a couple of slightly lonely people who like books having a good meal.”
“Nothing wrong with that at all.”
“Right. So the next couple of times she came to Paris, for research or whatever, we got together for dinner. One night we both had a little too much, let our guard down and then . . . well, pick your cliché.”
Hugo smiled. “One thing led to another? Biggest mistake of your life? Or hers, more likely.”
Taylor flashed a smile. “Funny. But that’s the thing, it was . . . good fun, and neither of us felt remotely bad about it afterward. So on her next visit, we did the same again.”
“How very French of you both.”
“Trouble is, Hugo, that next time was this past week.”
A silence opened up between them as Hugo realized what Ambassador Taylor was saying. You think you might be on candid camera, too, he thought. “When exactly did this encounter happen?”
“A few days before she discovered the camera.”
Hugo pursed his lips in thought. “I don’t mean to get personal, boss, and I surely don’t mean to judge, but was she sleeping with you and Silva at the same time?”
“I don’t know if it was the same time exactly, and it’s not that I really mind her sleeping with someone else.” He shrugged. “I just didn’t think it appropriate for her to sleep with one of her students.”
“He’s a grown man.”
“Sure, one who looks up to her and places a degree of professional trust in her. It just,” Taylor struggled for the right words. “I don’t know, it just didn’t seem like something she’d do. Not without telling me, anyway.”
“I hear that,” Hugo said. “B
ut if your thing was no-strings-attached, why would she have to tell you about it? Maybe Silva asked her not to, and she was honoring his request.”
“Like I said, I don’t know, it just didn’t sit right with me.”
“Ambassadors aren’t immune to jealousy, you know.”
“But it wasn’t like that,” Taylor insisted. “Really, I mean it.” He slumped back in his chair. “I’m doing a shitty job of explaining it.”
“Thing is, you don’t need to. What’s important is whether or not that camera was in place and recording while you two were together.”
Taylor leaned forward, his head in his hands. “Can you imagine?”
“Yeah, that one’s hitting the headlines,” Hugo said. “Ambassador’s big white ass all over the screen, making love to his hero, a romance writer.”
Taylor looked up, surprise on his face. “You’re not taking this seriously. Jesus, Hugo, this could end my career.”
“I am, and it could. Look, if that film is out there, then there’s nothing you can do about it. I mean, maybe we’ll come across whoever put up the Silva footage and snag it before anything happens, but it’s not looking promising. So, if it does happen, the best thing you can do is hold your head up and say, ‘Yes, I was having a relationship with a beautiful woman, in the city of love. So damned what?’”
Taylor thought for a moment. “Easy for you to say.”
“And easier for you, I would suggest, than making excuses or being defensive about something you did that wasn’t wrong.”
Taylor took a slug of his scotch. “Damn, Hugo. You’re a good man and you give good advice. I think.”
“Have you spoken to Helen about this?”
“We haven’t talked in a few days. Ever since I found out about Silva.”
“OK, do me a favor and don’t speak to her yet. Definitely don’t tell her that you’ve told me about your relationship.”
“Sure, that’s fine, I won’t.”
“This does add one more technical complication,” Hugo said.
Taylor looked at him, confused for a second, and then his eyes widened with worry. “Shit, if Silva was murdered, this makes me a suspect.”
“Can you establish your whereabouts for the whole of today?”
Taylor’s shoulders relaxed. “You know I can. Hardly ever get a moment to myself in this damn job.”
“Well,” said Hugo. “In that case, on this occasion you should be grateful to your entourage.”
“You’ll need to tell your lieutenant friend.”
“I will, but I imagine she’ll want to interview you herself.” Hugo saw the worry on his face. “Please don’t worry; she’ll be discreet.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Hugo gave him a reassuring smile. “If there’s anyone on this planet experienced with, and sympathetic to, public judgment, it’s Camille. Trust me on that.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Taylor straightened his back and raised his glass. “After all, I don’t have much choice at this point, do I?”
“Not really.” Hugo started to raise his own glass, but his phone buzzed into life on the table in front of him. Camille Lerens, the display said. “Mind if I get this?”
Taylor shook his head. “Not at all. I’ll get us another round.”
Hugo answered. “Camille, what is it?”
“Divers found a gun. We recovered the bullet, so ballistics will run some tests to confirm, but it’s got to be the murder weapon.”
“It’s the gun from the library?”
“It is, yes.”
“Do you have any good suspects in that theft?”
“Non,” she said. “We have a lot of them but not many good ones.”
“What do you mean by ‘a lot’?”
“Well, everyone who used that conference room between the last time the real gun was seen in the cabinet and when it was discovered missing.”
“How much time is that?”
“Several days, we’re not even sure about that.”
“How many people?”
“All the people in the writing group, including Helen Hancock herself, all ten of the library’s staff, plus four volunteers, and twenty-three library patrons. And you.”
Hugo smiled. “True. That is a lot of people. Including Silva himself.”
“Oh, yes,” Lerens said. “So, like Juneau told you before, there’s no camera inside the room, but we did find that one outside of the room does catch the door, so we may be able to figure out who was in there alone during our flexible time frame. I have officers looking at the tape and doing interviews, but it’s going to be hard to prove who took that gun unless someone saw it happen.”
“Which no one did, or else they would have come forward already.”
“Exactement. And just so you know, Hugo, you and your boss are both on the list of people who’ve used the conference room this past week.”
Hugo looked at Taylor, who was leaning on the bar and telling Maman a story with a drink in each hand. “Is that right?”
“It is. And one more thing. The gun was tied to a rock with a long piece of string.”
“Well, well,” Hugo said. His thoughts immediately went back to Claudia’s father and his untimely demise. “Then we have either a suicide or a killer with literary tastes.”
“Right,” Lerens said. “Which might normally be good information to have, but not when we have a library full of suspects. Literally.”
“Very true.”
Lerens sighed. “Well, I’m tired and going home. Coffee in the morning?”
“Yes. I’ll text you first thing.” Hugo disconnected as Taylor returned to the table, a little unsteady on his feet.
“News?” the ambassador asked.
“You could say that.”
“Can you share?”
“I’d like to.” Hugo gave him a wry smile. “But I probably shouldn’t, what with you being our newest suspect.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On Friday morning, Hugo met with Camille Lerens in a quiet café off Rue Jacob. They sat at the back of the small space and talked as the breakfast crowd ebbed and flowed around them. Hugo gave in and ordered two croissants with his coffee, remembering Oscar Wilde’s comment about being able to resist everything except temptation.
Sitting across from him, pastry-free and her hands throttling a tiny coffee cup, Lieutenant Lerens was less than happy.
“He should have told me,” she said. “He should have told me the moment that camera was found, and if not then at the very least the moment a murder victim was identified as the person who was monitoring Helen’s room.”
“He should, you’re right. But I hope you can see why he didn’t.”
“Yes, I do, but one day you Americans will realize that having sex is quite normal and not something to be ashamed of.” She shook her head. “Merde, this complicates things a little.”
“A lot, and he’s sorry about that. He’ll be in his office all day today. I told him you’d take his statement yourself, and I assured him how discreet you are.”
“Bien sûr,” she said. “And as long as his alibis check out, this will be the end of it. Unless a new tape surfaces.”
“Wait, alibis—with an ‘s’?”
“Oui. For the Baxter murder and Silva’s.” She held his eye for a second. “We agree that they are connected, don’t we?”
“Yes, of course. Somehow an ambassador being questioned about two murders seems worse than just one, but I get your point.” Hugo changed tack. “What news on the gun?”
“Ah, yes. Our ballistics people confirmed it was the weapon that killed Silva. Other than that, nothing useful. The water and mud took care of any fingerprints or DNA, and the string is the kind you can buy at any tabac in the city.”
“Tabacs sell string?”
“Don’t they? Anyway, you know what I mean—easily available and untraceable.”
“And the rock?” he asked with a smile.
She threw
him a dirty look and sipped her coffee. “You’re in a hilarious mood this morning. Claudia spend the night or something?”
“Nope. Just slept like a baby and had a nice walk here. Why’re you so grumpy?”
“Hormones. One of the joys of being me, they fluctuate without warning me first.”
Hugo said nothing, painfully aware of the superficiality of his knowledge when it came to Camille and transgender issues in general. He felt her watching him but still couldn’t find anything to say. Finally she spoke.
“I’m sorry, Hugo, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” She gave him a reassuring pat on the hand. “But I’m curious why you never ask me about my transition. About any of it.”
“Well,” Hugo said. “The truth is, I feel like I don’t know as much about this stuff as I should, and I sure as hell don’t want to say something dumb and offend you.”
“That’d be Tom’s job,” she said with a smile.
“Precisely.”
“Then let’s do this,” she said. “If you have a question, or want to know something, you have carte blanche to ask. If it’s a stupid question, I might let you know, but I’ll never be offended.”
“You’re sure about that? I can be pretty oblivious.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Look, I know how different my path has been, especially compared with that of someone like you. Think about it this way, I’m fairly certain that in your shoes I’d be curious and end up asking dumb, and possibly offensive, questions.”
“OK. And you can ask me about being a Texan any time you like.”
“Deal.” She looked at her watch. “Well, I better pay your ambassador a visit.”
“Got your tape recorder?”
“Always. What are you going to do?”
“Well, with Silva’s death our suspect list got shorter by one, so I thought maybe I’d go and chat with each of the others. Starting with Andrew Baxter’s roommates.”
“Good plan,” Lerens said. “You have appointments with them?”
Hugo grinned and shook his head. “You know me better than that. I prefer the element of surprise.” He pictured Lionel Colbert’s pinched, angry face. “Especially when it comes to people who don’t like authority.”
