by Mark Pryor
Hugo looked up and saw the woman walking slowly to the bank on what must have been her lunch hour.
“Oh, shit,” Hugo said. “That’s not good.”
Tom jerked forward, his nose to the windshield. “Shit, Hugo, we have to stop her from going in.”
Hugo gripped the steering wheel and watched the woman push her way into the bank. “Too late for that. She’ll be fine, Tom, they haven’t hurt anyone yet.” Not seriously, anyway, Hugo thought. “She doesn’t carry a gun, does she?”
“No, she hates them.” Tom’s voice was a whisper. “Thank God.”
Hugo nodded. “That’s good. She’ll do what they say, like the others will.”
“And we just sit here? Fuck that.”
“No, we’re going to get closer, try to get eyes on them and be there to catch them,” Hugo said as he readjusted the visor to get a better view of the bank entrance.
They both stiffened as a sound reached them across the parking lot, the muffled but unmistakable Crack! of a gunshot. Hugo reacted first and opened the car door with his left hand, as his right grabbed the handset of his radio and held down the call button. “Shots fired, we’re going in.”
His feet hit the pavement, and a blast of hot air scorched his face, but all Hugo could think about was Tom’s sister. Sweet, funny Christen, who looked as happy and relaxed as Hugo had ever seen her, headed into the bank, wearing a pretty yellow sundress and cowboy boots, with her confident walk and not a care in the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Of course, that day, and every one since, Tom had blamed himself.
He was too slow to stop her from going in, too dumb to figure out that she used that particular bank, too uncaring to warn her not to use any bank until the robbers were caught.
Tom and Hugo both knew who was really to blame, who’s always to blame, but Tom’s already-volatile personality was given a nudge by whatever forces had steered his beloved sister into the path of the Cofer brothers; and despite their culpability, Tom punished himself. Then and every day after.
Sitting on that park bench, Hugo listened to his friend rattle on about how and why he went to Amsterdam, how he planned to get to Rick Cofer before Cofer got to him. But running through Hugo’s mind were the times he’d pulled Tom from a bar, from a fight, from the gutter. And, not too long ago, from a French jail cell. Good metaphors for his friend’s state of mind, because for a long time now Tom had fueled his anger and self-loathing with booze, which usually landed him in a worse place than he started, literally.
He’d reached an equilibrium, Hugo thought, just in the last year or so. The occasional drunken bender would be followed by a patch of relative sobriety, even teetotalling it a few times. But his sister was still dead, and one of the men who’d killed her was now breathing clean, fresh air again.
“Just one chance,” Tom was saying. “You know I’m good, and you know I’ll do it.”
“Yes, I do know, Tom,” Hugo said. Listening to the cold anger in his friend’s voice. Hugo realized that if Cofer had come to Europe seeking revenge, the man had made a serious mistake. He was on Tom’s home turf, without a lick of training, and probably with very few friends or contacts. And, sure, revenge is a powerful motivator, but Cofer was absolutely mistaken if he thought he was the only one looking for it. For closure, maybe, if such a thing even existed.
Cofer might be smart and could have been planning this for years, but he’d done so from a prison cell with few resources and a vivid imagination.
No, Hugo thought. If you’re here, Rick Cofer, I’ve been wrong. Tom’s not the one who needs protecting from a vengeful killer. It’s you who should be afraid, not Tom. Hugo smiled to himself. Good luck with all that, Mr. Cofer.
The next morning, Hugo woke early and began the long walk to the embassy. He didn’t mind working, even though it was Sunday, and he particularly enjoyed the relative emptiness and quiet of the city at this time. But he walked a little faster than he normally would on a weekend morning, wanting to check something on his computer at his office, a set of files Camille Lerens’s expert had couriered to him on a thumb drive. They were from Helen Hancock’s computer, turned over willingly by the author to the police so they could check whether someone had been plagiarizing her work.
As he stepped into his offices, he heard a noise; and when he poked his head around the door, he saw his secretary, Emma, peering at her computer screen.
She looked up and asked, “What are you doing here? And how’s your head?”
“Much better, thanks. Almost free of that headache,” Hugo said. “Also, I think the real question is, what are you doing here?”
“It’s my secret to being organized,” she said. “An hour or two on the weekend and Monday sails by without a hitch.”
“Really? But I’ve worked many weekends and have never seen you here, not once.” Hugo narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. Aren’t your brother and his wife staying with you this weekend?”
She gave him her most angelic smile. “Files. They don’t organize themselves, you know. If we’re going to be here a while, should I make coffee?”
“That would be fantastic.” He decided to let the other thing slide without further comment, because her family was her business, and if there was one person in the office who’d cover for him, it was Emma. And if she was making coffee . . .
Hugo slipped behind his desk and into his chair, going through the comfortable routine of firing up his computer. His e-mail inbox held half a dozen messages that could wait, so he opened a web browser and searched online until he’d found several provisions of French civil law. His eyes glazed over with boredom as he finished reading Article 9, so he switched gears to what he had initially come in for and took out the thumb drive Lieutenant Lerens’s expert had sent over. He plugged it into his computer, clicked on its icon, and ran his eye over the options.
He double-clicked on the document that was her manuscript in progress, then sat back to think. The smell of coffee wafted in from Emma’s office, along with the sounds of her bustling about and clinking cups. Truth was, his office was as much home to him as his apartment. He loved the people he worked with—Emma; his second in command, Ryan Pierce; and even his boss, Taylor, was more his friend than his superior. And that was good, because he did his best thinking when he was comfortable and free of distractions.
Emma walked in, two coffee mugs in her hands, and put Hugo’s in front of him.
“Anything I can help with?”
“Sure,” Hugo said. “Have a seat. You said before that you have contacts in the publishing business?”
“Over here, yes, not back home. You planning to write a book, or is this Helen Hancock–related?”
“The latter.”
“Well, unless it has something to do with her books over here, you’re out of luck.”
“Actually, it is. If I send you a list of questions, do you think you can get answers?”
“I know I can try,” Emma said. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”
“The sooner the better, if you don’t mind.”
Emma cocked her head. “I know that tone, and that look. You have an idea.”
“I have the inkling of an idea. A seedling, perhaps.”
“And of course you won’t deign to share it until you’re sure,” Emma said.
“Correct.”
“Not even a hint?”
Hugo thought for a second. “Two hints. One from Sherlock Holmes, one of my favorite sayings of his, and the other from Michael Rice.”
“Ah, then let me try. Something like, ‘if you’ve examined all the possibilities, then it must be one of the impossibilities.’”
Hugo smiled. “Something like that. And clue number two?”
“I don’t even know who Michael Rice is. Another author?”
“Working to be one. He’s a student of Helen Hancock’s. He told me that if you look for connections and can’t figure out what they are, maybe they don’t exist.”
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Emma frowned, obviously unimpressed. “Sounds like one of those wise but rather obvious statements, if you ask me.”
“Sometimes those are the best ones.” Hugo opened up a new e-mail and filled in Emma’s address. “If you find out what I think you’re gonna find out, I’ll try to come up with something more profound.”
“Deal.” Emma rose and on her way out of the door said, “Now I can tell my visitors I have important investigative work to do. Thanks, Hugo.”
He typed up a list of questions and sent them to Emma, then spent the next thirty minutes scrolling through Helen Hancock’s newest manuscript. He didn’t read for the story but for the elements, a way to assess both the subjects Hancock included, factual stuff like locations, points of law, even historical events. He wasn’t sure why, necessarily—if she’d made a mistake, so what?
One thing he didn’t want to do, though, was read the book with an eye to inputting the traits of her characters onto Helen Hancock herself. He’d talked to enough writers to know that one question they get a lot, and don’t particularly care for, is whether a character’s trait is their own. At one book launch Hugo had attended, someone in the audience had asked whether an author’s cutthroat businessman character reflected the his own approach to getting ahead. Everyone there had thought it a rude question, given the reaction of people around him, but the author had smiled and said, “We get those questions, sometimes. But let me turn it around and ask you something. Hundreds of authors are out there writing murder mysteries. Are they all killers? And if I wrote a transgender character, would you assume I was myself going through that process? No, I didn’t think so. It’s the same with the smaller things, too, so please never assume that just because you see something in a novel, it reflects the author’s own personality or interests.”
The manuscript file Hugo had access to was 62,017 words long, a few chapters from completion. But there was something missing from the story, something he’d expected to see in there. He scrolled back through the manuscript, and then he spent ten minutes crafting word searches to make sure he was right.
He e-mailed Emma one more question to ask her publishing contact, then drained his coffee cup. Beside him, on the desk, his phone buzzed to life.
“Hugo, it’s Camille.”
“I know,” he said. “Your name pops up.”
She laughed. “Technology, a wonderful thing.”
“Unless you’re trying to surprise someone.”
“True enough. Are you busy?”
“At the office doing a few things. What’s up?”
“I want to send a car and Paul Jameson to you. Assuming you have time for me,” she added hurriedly. “I know it’s the weekend, so if you have plans, let me know. I just thought you’d want in.”
“Stop being coy, Camille. In on what?”
“Jill Maxick missed her shift at the hotel. Didn’t show up. First time she’s done that. Ever.”
“You have a search warrant for her apartment?”
“I do.”
“Based on missing one shift at work?”
Lerens chuckled. “Well, that’s part of it. The other part was based on the fact that the piece of wood found nearby wasn’t what was used to knock you out. At least, that’s my theory since Tom’s people found no DNA on it, but did identify yours and someone else’s on a piece of the broken glass I found at the scene.”
Hugo nodded. “OK, well, that’s good. So we know for sure now that I was hit with a bottle. But what does this have to do with Jill and the warrant?”
“Since we have voluntary samples of DNA from the relevant people at the hotel, as well as Helen Hancock and her merry group of writers, we now know who was wielding it. I’ll give you one guess who it was.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
They didn’t talk much on the way over, what with Paul Jameson focusing on the traffic and getting Hugo to Maxick’s apartment in the Thirteenth Arrondissement as quickly as possible.
“You got any theories on why she attacked you?” Jameson asked as they got close.
“Working on it,” Hugo said, and sank back into silence. The few ideas he had were like tendrils of mist, without real form or definition, and constantly shifting.
The address was Rue du Moulinet, and when they got close Jameson swore under his breath at the construction that spilled onto the narrow roadways and slowed traffic. A large woman in a colorful print dress and headscarf stepped out in front of them, staring at her phone and oblivious to the proximity of the police car’s bumper to her knees. They eventually passed Square de la Montgolfière and made it onto Rue du Moulinet, where the construction had reduced the street to one very thin lane. Several police cars sat on the sidewalk up ahead, and Jameson bumped their car up behind one of them. Lerens was perched on the hood of one car, and Hugo got out and walked over to her.
“Thanks for waiting,” he said.
“Pas de problème. Wouldn’t want you missing the show, assuming there will be one.”
Hugo looked up at the apartment building in front of them. It was modern, all straight lines and white and off-white colors, with none of the ornate stonework or ironwork of the older buildings. Function over form, the emphasis on cost not appearance. A shame, from Hugo’s perspective, but then he didn’t have to pay the rent.
“How do we do this?” he asked.
“Knock on the door first, and if there’s no answer I have a large gentleman who’s very good with a battering ram. Ready?”
“I am,” Hugo said.
Lerens already had the code to the building, and she led the way up the stairs to the third floor. A central corridor ran down the middle, leading to four apartments on each side. Lerens seemed to read his mind.
“Ugly building and small apartments,” she said. “Doesn’t seem like a fair trade-off.”
“Close to work, though, and the center of the city.”
She nodded to the first doorway. “They’re all one-bedroom units. Small hallway with a kitchen on the right, then a living room with a bedroom off to the left. Bathroom is next to the bedroom, accessible from the living room too. Want to see a floor plan?”
“Not unless you’re sending me in first,” Hugo said.
Lerens smiled. “Not a chance. You’d pull a muscle or get shot or something, and I’d have a lot of explaining to do to my superiors.”
“And mine.”
“Aye, we’re the expendable ones,” Jameson said from right behind Hugo. “Foot soldiers.”
“Very true,” Lerens said. “Although I prefer to think of you in particular as cannon fodder. Anyway. It’s the farthest door on the left, so let’s see if she’s home.” Lerens looked around at the six men behind her, four dressed in tactical gear in case of forced entry, and, satisfied everyone was ready, she started down the hallway.
They were marching as one unit when a door opened up on their right. A young man with floppy blond hair and wearing a red backpack stood in his doorway, his mouth falling open at the sight of the entry team closing in on him. Lerens waved him back into his apartment and, Hugo thought, he looked only too happy to comply.
At Maxick’s apartment the team separated, lining up on either side of the door. Once they were in place, the tactical officers switched on their helmet cameras and nodded to their leader, Lerens, who stood to one side of the door, reached out, and rapped loudly.
No response, so after thirty seconds she tried again. “Police, open the door!”
Still silence.
A third knock, and this time several of the team shifted as if they’d heard something from inside. Hugo strained to listen but heard only distant voices, from other apartments or maybe the street outside.
“Policy requires three, so I give it four,” Lerens said to Hugo, and she knocked one last time, loud and hard.
“Police! Jill Maxick, open the door; we have a search warrant.”
Ten seconds later, Lerens checked her watch and stood back, gesturing for the burly officer with the
battering ram to step forward.
“You couldn’t get a key from her landlord?”
“We tried, briefly. We got the DNA back from Tom about two hours ago, so I focused on getting the warrant. Jameson identified her landlord but couldn’t get hold of him, and I’m not inclined to wait.”
“Look, if something’s happened to her, or she’s run off like Thomas Prehn, sending those guys in will disturb and maybe destroy evidence.”
“I just told you, we don’t have a key.”
“So let them knock it open, then we’ll go in and look around.”
“That’s not procedure.”
Hugo smiled. “Now you’re starting to sound like me.”
“Sorry, but these men have to go in first.” She thought for a moment. “But we’ll compromise.” She turned to her team. “Go in and take a quick look around. Don’t touch anything, don’t open anything, and don’t you dare break or smash anything.”
The men looked at each other, then the big one with the ram nodded. “You’re the boss,” he said.
“Merci,” Hugo said, but fixed the officer with a stern look. “A broken door, nothing else disturbed.”
The flic nodded. “You can buy him a new one tomorrow.”
“Maxick can do that, if she’s still around,” Lerens said, and looked at Hugo with a wry smile. “Want to bet she’s packed up and fled?”
“I think you might win that wager, so no thanks.”
“Unless she can explain her blood on that bottle, it might be her best move.” Lerens looked at the big flic, nodded, and gave him the go-ahead. “Allez.”
The man set his feet, lined his battering ram up with the door handle, and gave it one hard punch, putting the weight of his entire body into it. A loud bang rattled Hugo’s already-sensitive head as the jamb splintered and the door crashed open. Four armed men moved quickly into the apartment, guns at the ready, a hand on the shoulder of the man in front, a chain of security whose one job was to clear the place of any danger.
It didn’t take long. After a minute, the lead officer came out of the apartment, his gun over his shoulder.
