by Mark Pryor
Hugo flexed his cold fingers inside his gloves and adjusted the scarf that was failing to keep the chill breeze from his neck. Something tickled the end of his nose, and when Hugo glanced up at the gray sky, he saw that it had started to snow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After the memorial, Hugo tried not to glance around as he started his walk home. The women with the stroller had been replaced by a pair of businessmen, and the birdman . . . Hugo couldn’t tell. Maybe the priest? Cops did love to dress up when they got the chance, and Hugo was grateful that Camille Lerens had quietly commandeered a select group of officers to watch over him, more than a dozen police officers surrounding him as he walked. They either were on foot or looked down from strategic points higher up. And those guys watched through the telescopic lenses on their sniper rifles.
Despite the cold, Hugo was beginning to sweat. He wore heavy clothing to disguise the bullet-proof vest he was wearing, the same make as the one that had stopped three .32 rounds fired at his best friend. Tom would be sporting a giant bruise for a week or two, but no ribs were broken, which meant that that if Cofer jumped out of the shadows, and Hugo’s security couldn’t stop him in time, Cofer would still be wielding Tom’s relatively small-bore weapon, and once again aim for center mass. That was the dilemma: bring security in too close, and Cofer would know the gig was up, and either try something incredibly reckless or disappear into the ether. Hugo had requested his bodyguards err on the side of invisibility. A trap was good only if the mouse had eyes only for the cheese.
Hugo’s phone rang in his pocket, and he checked the display. It was Lieutenant Intern Marchand. Hugo knew better than to answer, though. He had to keep alert, not assume that the people looking out for him would do their jobs. Sure, Cofer had promised to kill Hugo at Tom’s funeral, and the memorial at least was over without incident. But Hugo knew better than to take Cofer at his word, even if the man thought he’d been talking to a corpse. Plans change, opportunities come and go . . . Until Cofer was in handcuffs or dead, Hugo wasn’t safe.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached his apartment building, and after he’d stepped into the lobby he leaned against the door for a moment.
“Monsieur Marston, are you all right?” Dimitrios, the building’s concierge, stepped out from behind his desk.
“Yes, thank you. Rough morning.” Hugo straightened. “Did someone come by and explain what’s happening?”
“Yes and no. A man, Monsieur Pierce, came from the embassy. He said to keep an eye out for someone, a Richard Colter.”
“Cofer,” Hugo corrected.
“Yes. He told me to call the police and then him if I see the man.”
“That’s right.”
“But he did not tell me,” Dimitrios started, a little huffily, “why this man is a problem. I am responsible for the people living in this—”
“I know, I know,” Hugo interrupted. “And I also know I can trust you.” That calmed the concierge and prompted a harrumph of agreement, so Hugo continued. “He was a bank robber in the United States. Monsieur Green and I put him in prison, and now he’s out, and he may be here in Paris looking for revenge.”
Dimitrios’s eyes widened at the story. “I had no idea. Is he truly dangerous?”
“Potentially. So do what Monsieur Pierce asked, and call the police the minute you see him.”
“I most certainly will,” Dimitrios said. “I will call the police, the embassy, and you if you are home.”
“Thank you,” Hugo said.
“By the way, where is Monsieur Green? I’ve not seen him in a while.” Dimitrios, like everyone in Tom’s life, held a powerful affection for the man, and, given the size of Tom’s personality, his absences never went unnoticed.
“He’ll be back soon,” Hugo assured him. “He’s on one of his trips.” Hugo winked to bring Dimitrios into an imaginary conspiracy, then he turned and walked up the stairs to his apartment. Once inside, he stripped off his layers, including the bullet-proof vest, and sank onto the couch. He thought about the next day’s burial service, going over the details in his mind, and then remembered the call he’d missed from Marchand. Marchand had left a message for Hugo to return his call, but said nothing else. Hugo hit Call Back and waited for Marchand to pick up.
“Allô, oui?” Marchand’s voice was gruff.
“Hugo Marston here.”
“Ah, yes.” His voice softened, and Hugo thought to himself, Here come the condolences. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for the loss of your friend. I know you were very close, and I have heard many great things about him.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Intern, that’s kind of you.”
“I know he was killed in Amsterdam, but if there’s anything I can do for you, either personally or on behalf of the Paris Police, please do not hesitate to let me know.”
Hugo was moved by the words and the obvious sincerity in Marchand’s voice. He would have liked to tell him the truth, and knew there might be some fallout if he didn’t, but Camille Lerens had sworn her officers to silence in case of another breach, in case some of Cofer’s dirty money had found its way into the prefecture.
“I’ll take the heat for this,” Lerens had said. “After all, if we manage to take Cofer down, or even out, I’ll get the plaudits for catching an international criminal mastermind.”
Hugo had laughed. “You’re giving him too much credit. He’d sure love to hear you call him that.”
Now Hugo asked Marchand, “Is there anything you can tell me about the investigation?”
“I would like to, really. But since you are so closely aligned to a witness, I’m afraid my hands are tied.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, I suppose I can tell you that we managed to obtain a copy of Mademoiselle Alsaffar’s will. It was with the lawyers of Monsieur and Madame Rollo in America.”
“Anything useful in it?”
“I don’t think so,” Marchand said, and Hugo could hear the smile in his voice. “That’s why I’m telling you about it.”
“Then tell me more. Who gets what?”
“There is no single beneficiary. Her brother gets her cash reserves, which her bank records indicate amounts to about five thousand dollars, and any real estate she owned, and we haven’t finished figuring out if that’s something or also nothing.”
“She got a flat in London from her stepfather; she told me that herself.”
“That’s not shown up yet, but if you say so, we’ll come across it. Anyway, Josh Reno gets some sculptures that might one day be valuable but aren’t now, and the same goes for the Rollo couple. Some other specific items are left to museums.”
“No motive for murder, then?”
“It doesn’t look like it. And, before you ask, there was no life-insurance policy.” He paused, then said, “I need to ask you something, and I would like the truth.”
“Ask me,” Hugo said.
“Did you advise the Americans not to cooperate? I know you are supposed to assist them, so I am wondering about this.”
“No, not at all. Quite the opposite. Why do you ask?”
“Not only did Rob Drummond refuse to give his fingerprints, but the Rollo couple did, too. In fact, they seemed outraged I would ask.”
The question got Hugo’s attention. “Did you find prints at the scene?”
“I cannot tell you that yet. Please answer my question.”
“I didn’t say anything to any of them about prints,” Hugo assured him. “If I had, I would have asked that they give them as a way of being eliminated from the investigation.”
“Which is precisely how I phrased it, and yet no cooperation.”
“Not my doing, I promise you.”
“Very well, I believe you. I know you Americans are very big on asserting your rights when it comes to it, even when it works to the detriment of a larger picture.”
“Well, I’m not going to argue with that,” Hugo said, smiling to himself. “But that’s a
discussion for another day.” He thought for a moment. “Can you tell me whether you are retesting the DNA that you say matches Claudia Roux?”
“It does match Mademoiselle Roux. And yes, I can, but only because that is normal procedure. We do not charge based on DNA unless it’s been tested twice, and both are positive.”
“When will that result be back?”
“Today or tomorrow. We submit specimens to two labs at the same time, and I asked them both to hurry, given the circumstances.”
“You mean, given that you’re holding an innocent woman?” Hugo kept his tone light, but the meaning was clear.
“Tell me. In my shoes, would you have done anything differently?” When Hugo didn’t reply immediately, Marchand went on. “DNA doesn’t lie. People lie, but DNA doesn’t.”
“And you think Claudia Roux is lying.”
“What else am I supposed to conclude? I gave her every opportunity to tell me she’d bumped into Mademoiselle Alsaffar outside the building, in the street, anywhere at all. I gave her every chance to explain it, yet she insisted she’d never met her, had never been in contact with her. So, if you can, explain to me which is more believable, her or the DNA?”
“I can’t. Not yet. But I can tell you she is innocent, so while I don’t necessarily blame you for pointing the finger at her right now, I am telling you point blank: do not stop looking for other suspects.”
“I gather you have been doing just that,” Marchand said drily. “Even after I told you not to.”
“A minute ago, you asked me to put myself in your shoes. So now put yourself in mine. Imagine you have a friend charged with a serious crime in another jurisdiction. You know with every fiber of your being that there’s no way that friend is guilty. What would you do?”
Marchand was quiet for a moment. “I hear what you are saying,” he said finally. “I don’t blame you for wanting to exonerate your friend, Hugo. Just do it without interfering with my witnesses or investigation.”
“Doing my best,” Hugo said. “You have my word.”
“Thank you. Again, I’m sorry for your loss; I hope tomorrow’s service brings you some peace.”
Me too, Hugo thought. Me too.
Hugo paced his apartment, wanting the afternoon to pass quickly but slowing time by looking at the kitchen clock every minute or two. He almost jumped when his phone rang, but he hesitated to answer when he didn’t recognize the number. Even a telemarketer would help pass the time, he thought, and he picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Marston, Josh Reno here.”
“Call me Hugo. And I’m glad you called, I meant to apologize for running out on you like that. I’ll pay you back for the check, too, of course.”
“Oh, sure, that’s OK. But I’ll take the money, thanks.”
“Of course. So what can I do for you?”
“I hesitated to call but . . . you know, figured I should.”
“About what?”
“Well, I went out this morning, took a walk and went by the museum . . . I don’t know why, I just wanted to. Then I took the metro down to the river, wanted to walk along it. You know, clear my head and see a bit more of Paris at the same time.”
“Sure,” Hugo said. “Did something happen?”
“Not while I was out. It was when I got back to the hotel.”
Hugo gritted his teeth. “What happened, Josh?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure someone broke into my room.”
“What makes you think that? Is something missing?”
“That’s why I hesitated to call. As far as I can tell, nothing is.”
“Why do you think someone broke in, then?” Hugo pressed.
“Because it’s obvious. My stuff has been moved, and a few bags gone through.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“No, should I?”
“Yes, you should.” Hugo thought for a moment. “But not yet. Where are you now?”
“I’m in the hotel lobby. I figured it was better not to touch anything, to talk to you first.”
“Good thinking. Is the room secured?”
“Well, it’s locked if that’s what you mean. But if they got in before, I guess they can again. What should I do?”
“Sit tight,” said Hugo. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
It took him thirty-five, but ten of those were spent arguing with Lieutenant Lerens about leaving his apartment.
“I put together a team to get you there safely,” she said. “Now you want to take the metro to Montmartre?”
“No, silly,” Hugo said. “I’ll take a taxi.”
“Oh, much safer.”
“Look, I’ve told you when he’ll make his move.”
“You gave me your opinion, you mean.”
“I’m right, Camille. Trust me on this.”
“Why wouldn’t he shoot you the way he did Tom? Surely he’d get more satisfaction watching you die up close.”
“No. If it wasn’t today at the memorial, it’ll be tomorrow. He’s not going to hit me in some back alley or in a taxi cab. This guy wants to go out in a blaze of glory in front of as many people as possible. Where’s his satisfaction in shooting me when no one’s watching?”
“But that’s what he did to Tom.”
“Right, because he didn’t have a choice. He had to lay low until he could get to me. Tom was his primary, sure, because he killed Cofer’s brother, but he’s being practical in his psychopathy. In other words, he couldn’t go all out with Tom, because then we’d catch or kill him. With me, he plans to die. He’s not going back to prison, Camille, so this is his grand finale.”
“You’re assuming he’s being logical.”
“He is, sort of,” Hugo insisted. “He’s a maniac and on his way out of this world, but he’s intent on doing it on his terms.”
“That’s your profile?” Lerens asked.
“Pretty much. Like I said, blaze of glory, maximum impact.”
“Well, I can’t stop you, Hugo. But if you get yourself shot while you’re up there, I’m going to have some explaining to do. And a budget shortfall, for that security team.”
“Send Ambassador Taylor the bill. Better yet, send it to me and I’ll bequeath it to you in my will.”
“Funny. But I’m serious,” Lerens said. “Keep an eye out, Hugo. We need you in one piece tomorrow.”
“Just tomorrow?”
“And ever after,” she said. “Stay safe.”
Hugo stood in the doorway of Josh Reno’s room. Reno stood behind him, peering over his shoulder as if he’d never seen his own room before.
The bed was made, and the room was tidier than Hugo would’ve expected for an artist on the road. A few framed paintings were stacked against the wall beside the bed.
“Your work?” Hugo asked.
“Yep. I’d hoped to display them, but . . . you know.”
“I do.” Hugo stepped inside and wondered whether he was imagining the resentment in Reno’s tone. “You’re a hundred percent sure nothing was taken?”
“I mean, I looked pretty carefully. Nothing important, for sure. None of my art, or Alia’s. No money or credits cards.”
Hugo pointed to a white travel trunk. “That’s yours?”
“Alia’s stuff is in there. Right after it happened, the hotel wanted her room because there was a big party of people coming, so they put some of her stuff in her trunk and gave it to me. I guess they changed their mind and gave the room to Drummond, but I kept the trunk.”
“Why didn’t you give it to him, since it’s hers and was in her room?”
Reno shrugged. “Because he’s an asshole, I don’t know.”
“Could something have been taken from it, and you not notice?”
“No. I locked it with a padlock as soon as I’d filled it and moved it in here. My keys were with me when the person broke in, and the locks are intact, as you can see. And why would someone want any of that stuff of hers?”
�
��No idea,” Hugo said. “But if there’s one thing I know, just because I can’t come up with a reason for someone to steal, that doesn’t mean the thief doesn’t have one of his own.”
“I guess.”
“Maybe he was looking for something he thought you had, but it wasn’t here.”
“Such as?”
“Art is the obvious answer.”
Reno frowned in thought. “Nothing comes to mind. She just brought stuff for the exhibition.”
“Show me how you know someone was in here.”
“OK, so.” Reno moved to the table beside the trunks and pointed to a canvas shoulder bag. “This was closed up and hanging off the back of the chair, that’s how I left it. But I get back and it’s here on the table, so I’m betting someone went through it. Also, the lamp on the desk was unplugged, and my passport was visible when I opened the desk drawer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d put it in there, I always do, put I put things on top of it so it’s not obvious.”
“Why not use the room’s safe?”
Reno snorted. “Last time I did that, it got stuck closed. Even the hotel people couldn’t open it, so no thanks. I figure if I keep my room locked and the passport in the drawer, that’s as good as a safe.”
“Apparently not,” Hugo said. “What else was touched that you know of?”
“You’re thinking fingerprints?”
“Not at this stage, necessarily.”
“Then what?” Reno asked.
“He or she looked in your bag and the desk drawers. Now we know that whatever they were after is small enough to fit into both.” Hugo shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“Some clothes were moved, too.”
“What exactly? And from where to where?”
“I put a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers on the chair. Sweatshirt on the top.” Reno pointed to a floral armchair in the corner of the room. “They were on the floor when I got back.”
“Just thrown there?”
