The Sorbonne Affair

by Mark Pryor

  “Tout est clair, madame.” He looked at Hugo. “There are some linens and clothes closets we left alone, but I listened, and no signs of anyone hiding in them. And nothing knocked over or broken.”

  Hugo saw the twinkle in the man’s eye and appreciated his sense of humor. He’d not liked being told to limit his search and was letting Hugo know it. “Merci,” Hugo said, “I appreciate your cooperation, really.”

  Lerens looked at Hugo as the rest of the intrusion team filed out of the small apartment. “Our turn.” She turned to Jameson. “Wait here, please, Paul. Make sure no one comes in.”

  Hugo followed her inside, curious to see the home of the woman he’d come to respect. Maxick had shown herself to be smart, efficient, and obviously very kind to Helen Hancock in her time of need. Inside, he checked the back of the door and found two coats hanging there, one light and the other of a heavy wool.

  To his right, the kitchen was clean and tidy, as he’d expect from Jill, likewise the living room ahead of them. Nothing obviously out of place or unduly disturbed. He and Lerens stood in the middle of the space and looked around them.

  “What are you seeing?” she asked.

  “No signs of a struggle, for one thing.”

  “It doesn’t look like she fled in a hurry,” Lerens offered. “Dishes are done, everything is neat and tidy.”

  “Someone who’s used to order and neatness might instinctively leave it like this,” Hugo countered. “Hang on.” He went to the small, low fridge in the kitchen and opened it. “She’s only been absent a couple of days, and if she’s on the run we don’t know when she decided to go.” He closed the door. “But the fridge is well stocked.”

  “What would have spooked her to run?”

  “That I don’t know. Maybe after hitting me with the bottle she realized she’d gone too far, or left some evidence behind?”

  “The latter, maybe,” Lerens said. “With all due respect to your head, I think killing Baxter and Silva are a little worse.”

  Hugo nodded. “True enough. You check the bedroom, I’ll look in the bathroom.”

  They split up and Hugo went into the small bathroom. Clean, tidy, with a toothbrush and toothpaste tucked into a plastic cup on the sink. He felt the bristles to see if it’d been used recently, but they were dry. A small wooden medicine cabinet hung to his right, and he opened it up. Various pots and tubes took up the shelves, along with a row of medicine bottles, all over-the-counter stuff.

  “Hugo!” Lerens’s voice was urgent but calm. “In here.”

  He went through the door into the bedroom and stopped short. To his left was Maxick’s queen-size bed, slightly rumpled. Clothes, still on their hangers, were stacked on top of it. To his right was a small walk-in closet, an unusual feature for an older Paris apartment, more common in newer builds and remodels. Shoes littered the floor of the closet, and above them a thick wooden bar stretched from side to side, where her clothes used to hang.

  There was a thin belt looped around the bar. The belt’s other end was looped, too, around the neck of Jill Maxick, whose blank eyes bulged out at Hugo from a pale, blood-drained face, which tilted slightly to her right as if she were about to make a polite inquiry about something.

  “Dammit,” Hugo said. A wave of sadness hit him, followed rapidly by a feeling of exhaustion. I’m not supposed to be doing this, he thought. This was FBI work, tracking down killers and uncovering bodies. I’m not supposed to be doing this anymore.

  “Looks like I would’ve lost that bet,” Lerens said. “And I’m very sorry about that.”

  Hugo turned on his heel and went to the broken front door. Behind him, he heard Lerens on the phone to someone, presumably requesting the medical examiner and a forensics team. He stooped and examined the locking mechanism before returning to the bedroom.

  “Find anything?” Lerens tucked her phone away.

  “No. Just curious about something.”

  “Care to share?”

  “The front door. This looks like suicide, but so did Silva’s death once we found that gun with the rock attached. His still might be a suicide. But I doubt both are. I wanted to see if someone could have locked the door as they left, or whether they’d need a key.”

  “And?”

  “Simple latch,” Hugo said. “Just close the door and it locks. Doesn’t tell us much at this point, but good to know.”

  “Bien. Forensics are on their way. They must be sick of us by now.”

  “Suicide, really?” Hugo stepped closer to Maxick. Her arms hung by her sides and her knees hovered just above the floor, her bare feet the only contact with the ground. Hugo didn’t touch her, but he looked for signs of a struggle, scratches or cuts on her arms and hands. He saw nothing, just the limp, dangling limbs of a dead woman leaving no clue whether she died by her own hand, or by those of another.

  Lerens seemed to sense his douleur. “Let’s wait outside, Hugo. Let the forensics people do their thing. We can look for a suicide note on the way out.”

  “What are the odds of finding one of those?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” Lerens said. “But either way I’m done making bets for today.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  They pulled on surgical gloves, and, on the way out of Maxick’s apartment, gave it a cursory search. Anything more thorough risked contaminating the place. Whatever was there would stay there for them to find later, but both Hugo and Camille knew that another death would have their higher-ups howling for a result, and standing by while the forensics people did their painstaking work was, well, painful.

  They left the bedroom completely alone, walking through to the living room, where Hugo stood in front of a bookcase. As expected, Maxick had a complete collection of Helen Hancock’s books. He felt that sadness again, this time at having to tell Helen that her friend was dead. Another friend.

  Hugo picked out the last book in the series and opened it to the acknowledgments page. He smiled to himself when he saw the kind words Hancock wrote about her friend. Many thanks to my friend and hostess, Jill Maxick, who gives me a place to stay, room to write, and the encouragement to discover ever more of Paris. Thank you for sharing this beautiful city with me.

  Apparently Hancock had forgotten to thank her for helping with research. Hugo picked up a file on the shelf below the books and leafed through it. Glancing at the photocopied pages, it looked like Maxick had done some looking into French civil law, presumably giving Hancock enough knowledge to ask sensible questions of the law firm. That made sense, considering Helen’s French was good enough to get around the city but unlikely to stretch to deciphering specific and technical legal terms.

  Under the legal papers were some printouts of information about exotic poisons, one of which had made it into the manuscript that Hugo had just perused.

  He put the folder back and pulled out a photograph album. Maxick had scrawled the date on the inside cover, almost exactly one year previously. A lot of the photos were artistic, and really quite good, shots of Paris, in both color and in black and white. Some contained Maxick herself, and friends Hugo didn’t recognize. Except one.

  “Camille, check this out,” he said quietly.

  “What is it?”

  “A photo. Several of them, in fact.”

  She started toward him from the kitchen. “Of what?”

  “Not what, but who.”

  Lerens reached his side and peered at the open pages. “Are they . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. They certainly look like more than friends.”

  “Turn the page,” she said.

  Hugo did, and they both stared at the top picture on the right page, a color shot of two people, arm in arm and smiling at the camera on Pont des Arts, bundled up in winter coats, their eyes shining with happiness. One of those people was Jill Maxick. The other was Lionel Colbert.

  “First time I’ve seen the guy smile,” Hugo said. “And, what a surprise, another relationship hidden from us.”

>   But it made sense. Colbert was the one covering her shift, despite not being a hotel manager. And she was the one helping him move into his new room. Lerens gave him another reason it added up.

  “You know she was kind of into you, right?” she said. “I mean, it wasn’t hard to see. That might explain his attitude toward you.”

  “No, I didn’t notice that,” he said. “But I suppose you’re right, that might explain Colbert’s attitude. Anyway, make sure to seize these albums.” He held up a hand of apology. “I know, I know, I don’t have to tell you.”

  Lerens gave him a look. “No, you don’t. And I’ll have the autopsy done as soon as possible, too.”

  “Sorry, force of habit.”

  “That’s OK.” She looked at the bookcase. “Is there anything else here that you’ve seen and think I should take?”

  “Yes,” Hugo said, tapping the folder. “This research for Helen Hancock, just in case.”

  “Maxick helped her do research?”

  “With technical stuff written in French, yes.” He turned and stared at Lerens, a thought flowering in his mind. “Merde, Camille, I need to get back to my office. Can Paul take me?”

  “Bien sûr. What’s going on?”

  “Just an idea.” Hugo held up a quieting finger. “And yes, one of those I don’t want to share just yet, sorry.”

  “Well, as soon as you do, I’d better be the first to hear it.”

  “If it amounts to anything, yes, you have my word.”

  Lerens nodded, walked to the door, and called out. “Jameson, vous êtes là?”

  Jameson’s voice came back at them. “Oui, je suis là. I’m creating the crime-scene log.”

  “Give that to someone else. Our genius here has an idea he doesn’t wish to share, and he needs you to take him back to his office.”

  Hugo joined them in the hallway. “Now, Camille, you know how I work.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she said.

  “I’m ready,” Jameson said. He winked at Hugo. “And I can get the information out of him on the way, if you like, boss.”

  “Beat it out of him?” Lerens asked.

  “Ach, no. I’ll drive really slowly unless and until he coughs it up.”

  They were all joking, of course, a dash of levity at a moment it was needed, and there was no question that Jameson would get Hugo safely to the embassy as soon as possible, but Hugo was pleased when the policeman activated the lights on his car to cut a swathe through the dawdling weekend traffic.

  When Hugo got to the security offices, Emma was gone. Presumably home, but if Hugo had to guess, she’d have taken a circuitous route to delay her arrival. He woke up his computer and clicked on the e-mail she’d sent him.

  Hugo, here’s all I found out, no clue if it’s helpful or not. If you have more questions or need different information, you can always order me back to the office, I’ll forgive you . . .

  Hugo shook his head and smiled. I’m sure you would. He kept reading.

  Looks like Helen was right, her sales have been dipping in recent years, and her publisher has no idea how to handle this new scandal. My contact said she was going to get a new contract but a smaller advance, which some writers don’t mind because it means they start earning royalties sooner. (If you don’t know how all that works, I can explain. Either tomorrow or call my cell. Bottom line: a smaller advance can be a blow to the ego, but not necessarily to the pocketbook.) But even though it might still do so, the video has not led to an explosion in sales. As you can imagine, it’s been quite the topic in the publishing world. Some people bought into the “no such thing as bad publicity” idea, but that’s not been the case. Poor Helen, that could’ve been one silver lining for her in all of this.

  Oh, and the answer to the last question you sent me is yes. It should be on the thumb drive Camille Lerens’s expert gave you, I’d imagine.

  Like I said, holler if you need anything else, I’m at your disposal . . . ;)

  Hugo picked up his desk phone and called Ambassador Taylor. It rang five times before Taylor answered, and he was less than happy.

  “Dammit, Hugo, I told you to stop working on weekends; you make the rest of us look bad.”

  “Lazy is as lazy does, boss. Even Emma was in here today, you know.”

  “I don’t care, and you’re not getting raises, either of you. Now, what do you need?”

  “A favor. A big one.”

  “Get Tom to do it.”

  “He’s out of pocket right now. Plus it’s legal, so he wouldn’t really be interested.”

  “Legal, well that’s a start,” Taylor said.

  “Yes, literally.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I want you to sue someone,” Hugo said.

  A moment of silence. “OK, so now I’m following you even less than I was before.”

  “It’s pretty straightforward. I’ll give you the name of the law firm I want you to use,” Hugo said. “And then first thing tomorrow I want you to sue Helen Hancock.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Hugo hated waiting. Technology was amazing, forensic medicine was incredible, and the officers of the French police and Brigade Criminelle were among the finest he’d ever worked with.

  And yet he was still waiting. Tom, Ambassador Taylor, and Camille would be calling anytime, but until then . . . Yes, he was tired, but even so it wasn’t the calm he wanted, but the storm. It came just after noon on Monday, a deluge onto the streets of Paris, heavy raindrops pounding the pavement and all but cutting off the view from his top-floor apartment. The rain made him feel even more claustrophobic, more anxious, and the weather app on his phone promising sunshine that afternoon was only a slight comfort.

  Finally, at two o’clock, Camille Lerens called. He snatched up his phone, which he’d left plugged in for fear the battery might somehow drain itself.

  “Camille, hey. You have news?”

  “The autopsy. You want me to e-mail the report?”

  “Just give me the highlights.”

  “D’accord,” she said. “Let me just pull it up on my screen. OK, cause of death was combined asphyxia and venal congestion. The noose part of the belt was high up on her throat, hence asphyxia as well as the blood flow being cut off. She died quickly where we found her, Hugo, and Dr. Sprengelmeyer says everything is consistent with suicide.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the head congestion, the petechial hemorrhages in the eyes, and the fact that he’s never seen a case of murder by hanging. And if he did, he’d expect to see signs of a struggle, which he didn’t.”

  “I’d expect to see that, too,” Hugo conceded.

  “The only odd thing he found were some pink fibers. There were some on the floor of the closet, and several on her forearms.”

  “I don’t remember any pink blankets or . . . anything else pink in her apartment.”

  “I know,” Lerens said. “She didn’t seem the girly, pink-dresses kind of woman. And when we went back and looked, we didn’t see anything that would have produced them.”

  “So where did they come from?”

  “Sprengelmeyer had no idea.”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “You know, I might,” he said. “Can you e-mail me the report?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Does it have a diagram? In fact, are there photos from the autopsy?”

  “Yes to both questions,” Lerens said. “Now can you tell me what you’re thinking?”

  Hugo checked the display of his phone when it buzzed. “Later. My boss is calling, I gotta take this.”

  “I’ll send you the report and photos,” Lerens said testily. “Then I want some answers.”

  “You got it.” Hugo disconnected from her and connected with Ambassador Taylor. “Hey, boss.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Why do people keep asking me that?”

  “Because you have these hare-brained ideas that s
eem to come out of nowhere, and you run off after them leaving everyone else to try and catch up.” Taylor sighed. “And, most annoying of all, you’re usually right.”

  “In that case, let me guess. They wouldn’t do it.”

  “What the . . . How did you know that?”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “The law firm said that they already represent her. I guess they run what they call a ‘conflicts check’ for every new client and every new potential defendant, so they don’t end up suing someone they represent, or representing someone they’re suing. All law firms do it, apparently. Anyway, when they did that, her name popped up as a client, so they can’t help me sue her. Although, frankly, I still have no idea why you want me to.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What?” Taylor sounded truly annoyed now. “Then why the hell would you make me go to the trouble of—?”

  “Because I needed to know what you just told me,” Hugo said. He was clicking on his computer, bringing up a video.

  “Why?” Taylor demanded. “And what the hell is next?”

  “Why will be made clear very soon. And as for what’s next, well, it’s me watching porn on the State Department’s laptop.” Hugo leaned forward to study the clip of two people having sex, his eyes not on the action but on the periphery. “Bingo,” he said.

  “Hugo, I’m starting to lose patience with being treated like a mushroom.”

  “Mushroom?”

  “Being kept in the dark and fed a load of horse shit.”

  Hugo chuckled and sat back in his chair. “I have to think a few things through,” he said. “But how about we do this old-school?”

  “Do what?” Taylor said, exasperation plain in his voice.

  “Well, this is all about Helen, right?”

  “I don’t know, is it?”

  “It is, and that gives me an idea.”

  “Hugo, if there’s a killer out there, if you know who it is, we can’t be playing games. I’m serious, call Lerens and have him or her arrested. Then we can sit around while you tell us how smart you are.”