by Mark Pryor
“Oh, no, thank you. I have a therapist back home. I’ve talked to her a couple of times. The miracles of modern technology.”
“Well, that’s good. I’m always available to listen, too, if you think I can help.”
“Thank you, that’s kind of you. Jill is a good listener, too, although she’s so busy all the time.”
“Have you spoken to her today?” Hugo asked. “I wanted to ask her a couple of things and she’s not answering, and not calling me back.”
“Oh, how odd. She and I spoke on the phone last night. I tried calling her once this morning, too, and she’s not responded to my message yet.”
“Well,” Hugo said, “like you said, she’s a busy woman. But I’m glad she’s your friend and a good listener.”
“She is.” Hancock hesitated. “On that note, and as a gesture of good faith, there’s another relationship I have to tell you about, though I am absolutely positive it has no bearing on what’s been happening. I also want you to promise me that you will be as discreet as humanly possible, because I don’t want to cause problems for him.”
Hugo was tempted to preempt her confession about his boss, but he wanted to make sure that was who she meant. His head was spinning with all of these secret liaisons cropping up throughout the investigation.
“You have my word that I will be as discreet as a murder investigation will allow me.”
“I suppose that will have to do.” She took a deep breath. “I have become close friends with the ambassador. If you know what I mean.”
“Thank you,” Hugo said, giving her a reassuring smile. “I needed to hear you say it, but he already told me.”
“Oh, he did?”
“Yes. You should talk to him.”
“I think he’s upset with me.”
“Nothing you can’t get past,” Hugo said. “And if he is upset, it’s only because he has feelings for you, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Listen to me, talking like I’m your shrink.”
“You’d make a good one, I’m sure.”
“I doubt it. I’m better at catching bad guys. To that end, I want to make sure we’re on the same page, that there are no more surprises.”
“None, I promise,” Hancock said. “Not from me, anyway.”
“Good.” A thought struck Hugo. “On that note, did you tell Ambrósio to stop seeing Buzzy Pottgen?”
“You won’t tell her, will you?”
“No,” Hugo said with a smile. “But did you?”
“I told you once before,” she said in a quiet voice. “When I want something . . . or someone . . . I’m not very good at sharing. At all.”
“You wouldn’t be the only one,” Hugo said kindly. He nodded to the folder between them. “Research, eh? I thought you made everything up.”
“Oh, goodness, no. I mean, the main story line, the characters, all that I make up. But let me tell you, as an author, if you get certain things wrong, you’ll hear about it from readers.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the big one is weapons. If you put a silencer on a revolver, or misname a gun . . . major no-nos.” She picked up the folder and handed it to Hugo. “Have a look, you’ll see the kinds of things I’m talking about.”
Hugo flipped open the folder. Sure enough, the first four pages were printouts of various handguns. He felt like he was being nosy, looking at someone’s diary, but Hancock gave him a reassuring nod. The next few pages were street maps of Paris, printed from her computer, and behind them some correspondence with a lawyer in Dallas dated the previous year, apparently answering some questions about French civil law. Hugo saw the words libel . . . Article 9 . . . damages, before he moved on to the next sheaf of papers, all relating to Marie Antoinette’s life and death.
“She’s featured in the book you’re working on?”
“Obliquely. My heroine is going to be obsessed with her, so I need to make sure I get my facts right. If I don’t, I’ll hear about it. History and guns, I’d say those are people’s sensitive areas, where they like their authors to get things right.”
“So how does it work—does your publisher approve a story line in advance?” Hugo grinned. “I’m such a big reader and I’ve been to book launches before, but I know next to nothing about your end of the business.”
“In my case, they just let me get on with it. After so many books, I guess they trust I’ll come up with a good story.” She grimaced. “Or they used to.”
“Things still rocky with your editor?”
“Yes, that’s one way to put it. I guess their marketing department is working overtime to make up for the damage of that tape.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Hugo handed the folder back. “Well, I should let you get back to educating your people.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By two o’clock, Hugo was hungry, but even more than that, he was worried. Camille had sent Paul Jameson to Jill Maxick’s apartment, but after ten minutes of knocking no one had answered the door. Lionel Colbert had mentioned that Jill needed to get a tetanus shot—something about cutting herself with a kitchen knife—but that was hours ago. She should have been either at home or at work by now. After getting no response at her apartment, Jameson called Hugo and explained that Camille Lerens’s phone was busy, and he wasn’t sure what to do next.
“You think I should kick the door in?” the Scot asked, half joking.
“Better not,” Hugo said. “We don’t have any evidence that she’s hurt or in danger, or that she has done anything wrong.”
“Aye,” Jameson said. “Wouldn’t look good, if that’s the case. And she might not appreciate it, either, if she’s just out at the movies or something.”
“Right. Did you talk to any neighbors?”
Jameson chuckled. “Several came out when I knocked on her door for the fifth time. No one’s seen her this morning, but that’s not unusual, according to them. One of those places where people have different schedules and don’t really know each other. Keep to themselves, and all that.”
“Of course,” Hugo said.
“She’s not answering when you call?” Jameson asked.
“No. I tried calling earlier; so has Helen Hancock. And I texted her, too, but . . . nothing.”
“And no one at the hotel has seen or heard from her?”
“Nope. Not since early this morning, when she had asked Colbert to cover for her while she got a tetanus booster. Which is unusual. She’s normally very diligent—checks in at the hotel regularly, even if she’s not on duty. I was going to ask Camille if we could ping her phone.”
“Good idea. Want me to take point on that?”
“Let me talk to her first, if that’s OK. I’m worried that we don’t have a good-enough reason. I mean, back home, we make sure to have probable cause and then get a warrant. I assume it’s the same here, or close to it.”
“And since all she’s done is not answer her door or the phone . . .”
“Exactly,” Hugo said. “She’s not a victim, not a suspect, none of that.”
“Aye, you’re right. You can call Camille, but I’m betting we’re out of luck. Next course of action?”
Lunch, Hugo thought, but he said, “Not sure. I’ll call you when I figure it out. Let me get a hold of your lieutenant, and then one of us will get back to you.” He disconnected and decided to find himself a comfortable seat, a few more aspirin, a sandwich, and maybe a coffee while he worked. It didn’t take long for him to settle into a small chair under an awning on Rue de Condé. He ordered an espresso and a salmon-and-caper sandwich, then he dialed Camille Lerens.
“Thought we should talk about where we are,” Hugo said. “Because I’m at something of a loss.”
“My main concern right now is finding Maxick,” she said. “I don’t have enough to get a warrant to go into her apartment, or to ping her phone.”
“That’s what I told Jameson. Are you really worried for her safety?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. The w
ay things have been developing, anything could happen at any minute. I feel like we’re behind in this investigation and not catching up.”
“OK.” Hugo flipped open his notebook and readied his pen. “Then let’s forget about Maxick for a minute and talk about some of the others,” Hugo said. “I mean, we do have a limited pool of suspects.”
“And it’s getting smaller,” Lerens said. “Buzzy Pottgen, Mike Rice, Thomas Prehn, and Lionel Colbert. Maybe even Helen Hancock herself, despite that alibi and just because she’s in the middle of all this. Who else?”
“I hate to mention it, but did you talk to my boss?”
“Yes, and he has an alibi for both murders.”
“Good, so we can cross him off.”
“And we’re assuming our killer is working alone,” Lerens said.
Hugo paused and sat back in his chair. “That’s true. If only we could figure out a motive, some reason for both Baxter and Silva to have been killed.”
“The sole connection is Helen Hancock,” Lerens said. “Baxter was spying on her, and Silva was sleeping with her. I don’t know why or how, but I get the sense that somehow she’s the key to this.”
“Which makes me wonder if she’s in danger.”
“You want her in protective custody?”
“She wouldn’t do it,” Hugo said. “She won’t even leave the damn hotel, get a room somewhere else.”
“Stubborn lady, I can admire that.”
“Not if she gets herself killed.” Hugo signaled for another coffee. “OK, so it looks like the ambassador is in the clear. What about our other folks? Let’s start with Buzzy Pottgen.”
“She had a motive to do in Silva. Two of them, in fact. First, he cheated on her, and later he hit her.”
“She admits to having a temper.”
“More than that,” Hugo said. “At her apartment, I looked in her bathroom cabinet. She’s taking Prozac. It’s an antidepressant, but it’s also prescribed for people with anger-management problems.”
“Oh, really?” Lerens said. “And yet Silva’s murder doesn’t seem like a spur-of-the-moment killing, does it? At least given the Sherlock Holmes aspect.”
“We’re agreed on that, I think. Silva’s murder seems premeditated. But what reason would Pottgen have for killing Baxter?”
“That one’s harder to explain,” Lerens admitted. “Maybe he made some unwanted advances in the stairwell, she overreacted and stabbed him. Or maybe they were more than advances; maybe he tried to force himself on her and she was genuinely defending herself.”
“And she just happened to have a kitchen knife on her, stabbed him to death, and decided she’d be better off not reporting it?”
“People make rash decisions, bad decisions, in the heat of the moment. And we know she has already lied to the police.”
“Maybe, but Baxter’s murderer seems more . . . cold-blooded than she is. And it still doesn’t explain why she would have a kitchen knife on hand.” Hugo nodded his thanks to the waiter who dropped off his coffee. “Let’s keep her as a maybe in the Baxter murder. Who else?”
“Michael Rice. You told me he has a cold-blooded approach to this writing business, to making money.”
“A lot of people do. Doesn’t make them remotely capable of killing.”
“We’re all capable of killing, Hugo. You know that as well as anyone.”
“Fine, but you know what I mean. What specific reason does Rice have to murder Baxter or Silva?”
“Well, remember how he reacted to the video going online? He was very angry at Silva, blamed him.”
“True, he thought it was a callous act of self-promotion.”
“And it may have been.” Hugo heard Lerens sigh; then she said, “But enough to kill him?”
“Doesn’t seem likely, I agree. And that still leaves us with our friend Andrew Baxter.”
“Whom no one seems to have a reason to kill. Or even dislike, that we know of.”
“Nothing fruitful on the gambling angle?”
“Yes and no,” Lerens said.
Hugo sat up in his chair. “Camille, have you been holding out on me?”
“I’m not sure. But we’ve been going through his bank records, and the history on that computer found in Colbert’s belongings. We’ve also got some of the records from the online sites where he was spending his hard-earned money. And yet we’ve found no credit cards, and he seems to have been spending more than he was making.”
“How is that possible?” Hugo asked. He watched as a grubby teen in a red cap paused at the row of tables fronting the café. He was eighteen years old, maybe, and all but genuflected as he asked café patrons for a spare cigarette, a broad smile never leaving his face. A woman in her fifties handed him a half-empty packet and shooed him away, glancing around as if worried people might judge her.
“Maybe he had a third job, cash only. But then how does he convert that to money to spend online without it going through his bank account?”
“You think someone was lending him money?”
“The only way I can think of is if someone gave him prepaid credit cards to use. Which amounts to lending him money, yes.”
“You can’t tell by looking at the website records?”
“We’re going through it now; I have a forensic accountant doing it.”
“So the question is,” Hugo began, “who would be lending him money, and why?”
“It has to be one of his roommates. Or possibly Maxick?”
“I think we can rule out Thomas Prehn; he wouldn’t give Baxter the time of day, let alone money to gamble with.”
“Unless he disliked Baxter so much that he wanted to put him in a financial hole so deep he couldn’t climb out,” Lerens suggested. “I mean, if you were Baxter and you owed a bunch of money and couldn’t pay it back, what would you do?”
Hugo thought for a moment. “I’d up sticks and move. Just disappear.”
“Prehn might have been shooting for that.”
“Seems like a convoluted way to get rid of someone.”
“Easier than murder, though,” Lerens said. “Unless it turned into that in the stairwell.”
“And Silva?” Hugo asked. “Why kill him?”
“I’m starting to wonder if Silva witnessed Baxter’s murder. Or knew something about it. Maybe he was blackmailing the killer and got himself murdered for it.”
Hugo ran a hand over his face, frustrated at the amount of speculation they were making. “Thing is, Camille, all these scenarios are possible, but they seem like too much of a stretch. It’s like we can explain one murder, maybe, but the second one we’re shoehorning into place.”
Lerens laughed. “What is it you tell me, from Sherlock Holmes?”
“Ah, yes. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
“Précisément!”
“But what have we eliminated?” Hugo said, hearing the exasperation in his own voice. “Basically nothing. We’ve created a whole bunch of scenarios, all of which are improbable but not impossible. We’re doing the exact opposite of what Sherlock suggested.”
“If it’s any help, we have solid alibis for Lionel Colbert, for both murders.”
“Tell me.”
“Starting with Silva’s death, he was working. Several people vouched for him, said there’s no way he was gone long enough to get to the bridge and back without being missed.”
“And Baxter’s murder?”
“Same thing. He was working in the lobby at the time Baxter was killed. He took one bathroom break and one cigarette break, and while no one had eyes on him those times, of course, he came back inside after the latter smelling of cigarettes; and with all that blood. . . . Several people assured Jameson they would have known.”
“I’m glad, and not surprised,” Hugo said. “The kid doesn’t like authority, but Baxter was his friend and I see no reason he’d kill him. Or Silva. And Silva didn’t kill himself, the GSR tells us
that.”
“The GSR indicates that very strongly,” she corrected. “Although I’m inclined to agree with you. But what makes you so certain?”
“I just know.” Hugo realized how that sounded. “Look, I’ve been dealing with people close to the abyss a long time.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he wasn’t one of them. He was mentally and emotionally stable, and other than being exposed on that tape, he had no reason to harm himself.”
“Public humiliation isn’t enough of a reason?”
“Not when you’ve already got pornography out there, no, I don’t think so.” Hugo frowned into the phone. “I just know he didn’t kill himself.”
“Oh, well then,” Lerens said, with humor in her voice. “I’ll be sure to put that in the report for the investigating magistrate.”
“Are you really thinking it might have been suicide?” Hugo asked, disbelieving.
“No. I’m messing with you; I agree with your assessment, and the gunshot-residue test.”
“What about Michael Rice?”
“We have a statement from him but haven’t had a chance to double-check his alibis. I think Jameson is having someone do that right now.” Hugo heard a beep, then Lerens said, “I have a call coming in from the hotel; can you hold a moment?”
“Sure.” Hugo waited patiently, setting his pen down and turning his attention back to a half-empty cup of mostly cold coffee, slugging it back and imagining the shot zipping caffeinated energy, and maybe inspiration, into his veins—not to mention his still-pounding head. Lerens was back in less than a minute.
“Interesting turn of events,” she said. “I need to go. Call you later?”
“What happened?”
“It’s Thomas Prehn. Looks like he’s taken off.”
“Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Yes. Or as Paul Jameson might say, he’s ‘done a runner.’”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Hugo signaled to the waiter for his check. “Tell me how I can help, Camille.”
“If I figure that out, I will.”
