The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  Lerens holstered her weapon, then dropped the magazine out of the .32 and inspected it. “Empty. That’s odd, why would he go for an empty gun?” She pulled back the slide. “Ah, there it is. One left in the chamber.”

  Hugo, Tom, and Lerens left two men standing guard over Cofer’s body and hurried back toward Avenue Neigre, where a few officers lingered, huddled in small groups, talking and smoking cigarettes. Somewhere ahead of him, in the direction of Avenue de la Chappelle, Hugo heard an ambulance siren start up, and a stab of fear ran through him.

  “How’re Ryan and Paul?” Hugo asked. “Give me good news, please.”

  A voice behind him spoke up. “Ach, it’d take more than a flimsy .32 bullet to take me out.” Jameson stepped forward and shook Hugo’s hand. “Glad you’re OK, too, I heard you got him all by yourself.”

  “Oh, I had some help,” Hugo said, and nodded toward Tom. “But I thought you got shot, Paul.”

  “I did.” Jameson thumped his own chest, and winced. “Got hit in the sternum. That’s why we wear those vests, though, eh?”

  “Exactly. And thank heavens. You had me worried for a moment there.” Hugo was still deeply concerned, though. “What about Ryan?”

  “He took a round in the face,” Jameson said, suddenly somber. “It didn’t look good, but that siren was him on his way to hospital.”

  “Good. Is anyone—” Hugo began, but Jameson interrupted him.

  “Aye, one of my boys is with him, don’t worry.”

  Hugo turned to Lerens. “Can you have someone drive me to wherever they’re taking him?”

  “Of course,” Lerens said. “Paul, are you all right to do that?”

  Hugo and Lerens looked over at Jameson, who stood stock-still, one hand on his earpiece and the blood visibly draining from his face. He shook his head slowly, and his jaw clenched as he acknowledged the radio message. He reached out to put a hand on Hugo’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” the Scotsman said. “That was my man in the ambulance. Pierce didn’t make it.”

  Hugo closed his eyes, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He felt his legs give way, and Lerens guided him to the flat top of a moss-covered tomb behind him.

  He looked up at Jameson and asked the question that everyone asks. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid so. He didn’t make it out of the cemetery gates. My man tells me the bullet went straight into his brain.”

  Hugo lowered his head and sat there, his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. He felt as much as saw Tom sit down beside him.

  “I’m glad I put that bullet in that bastard Cofer’s head,” Hugo said quietly. He thought, but didn’t say: Thank you for making me do it.

  “Yeah,” Tom said. You’re welcome.

  After a moment, Hugo looked up at Jameson. “I’ll still take that ride, Paul, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. But why?”

  “Someone will have to identify him formally,” Hugo said. “And I’m sure as hell not going to make his wife do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hugo didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it anyway. He’d been sitting on his couch just staring at the walls since returning from the hospital, and it was from there that he’d called Louisiana, where Ryan’s wife, Katie, was visiting family with their three kids. He hadn’t known she was away, and it was the hardest call he’d ever made. Hugo sat there quietly, with tears streaming down his face, as this strong woman sobbed into the phone, and eventually her father had taken it from her. Hugo told him what had happened.

  “I’ll take care of her, of the kids,” the old man said finally.

  “Thank you. I can arrange for him to go home in the next couple of days; I’m assuming he’ll want to be buried there.”

  “He will. Mr. Marston, can you tell me something?”

  “Of course.”

  “The man who shot him, you said he was an American. Will he go to prison here or there in France?”

  “Neither,” Hugo said. “I killed him.”

  “Ah. Thank you. Thank you for doing that.”

  For the next two hours, Hugo grew increasingly restless in his apartment, and when his phone rang, he all but leapt at it. Hearing Claudia’s voice for the first time in days sent a new rush of emotion washing over him, a mixture of relief, joy, anger, and frustration.

  “I’m so sorry about Ryan,” she said. “I know you thought the world of him.”

  “Thank you, I did.”

  “You shot Cofer. Are you OK with that?”

  “Very much so. It’s about the only thing I’m OK with right about now.”

  “Hugo, please. If you’re worried about me, don’t be.”

  He laughed softly. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I know, but I’m telling you I’ll be fine.”

  “You shouldn’t even be talking to me,” Hugo said. “You could get in a lot of trouble for that.”

  “We’re not talking about the murder case, which is what they care about.” It was her turn to laugh gently. “Plus, they won’t know. I’m using a burner phone.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Untraceable.”

  “And why did you decide to do that?”

  “So I can talk to you.” She paused, then said, “Hugo, I don’t mean to put too much of this on you, but are you having any luck looking into my case?”

  “Some progress, but not as much as I’d like.”

  “I don’t understand how my DNA got on her—I really don’t.”

  “Me neither,” Hugo said. “You haven’t remembered any interaction, a chance meeting, anything between the two of you?”

  “No, I haven’t.” There was irritation in her voice. “I’m sorry, but we’ve been over that. And my lawyer keeps asking me, too. Should I make something up?”

  “No, don’t do that. I know it’s hard, but the truth will out, I promise.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it from here.”

  “Hang in there,” Hugo said. “I have a few ideas, things to check out.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ll let you know, if and when they work out. Now go put that phone under your pillow.”

  “You think they’ll search my house again?”

  “Wait, they searched your house?”

  “Yes, while I was in jail. You didn’t know?”

  “No.” It made sense, of course they would search the home of a murder suspect. But Captain Marchand hadn’t told him, not out of courtesy nor as an aid to the investigation.

  Which gave Hugo an idea. When they hung up, he typed a name into a search engine on his phone. That gave him an address and phone number, which he dialed immediately. He was put on hold for a few minutes, but then he finally got through to the person he needed.

  “Hello?” the woman said. “Is this Hugo Marston?”

  “It is,” he replied. “And I have a proposition for you.”

  By six o’clock, Hugo knew he had to get out of his apartment, needed to kick some life into himself and maybe get his brain back into gear to help Claudia. Tom had disappeared, as he was wont to do, despite having promised to buy Hugo a drink or two to celebrate his return to Paris, and to life.

  Hugo showered and dressed in a white collared shirt, dark-blue slacks, and an even darker gray jacket, and he was just about to grab his keys from the kitchen counter when his phone rang.

  “Tom, I thought I’d lost you again.”

  “Stuff to take care of. You ready for that drink?”

  “More than ready. But I get to pick the place—you promised.”

  “I was thinking Chez Maman, it’s been a while.”

  “I was just there with Ambassador Taylor,” Hugo said. “No, I was thinking somewhere a little more upmarket.”

  “Where?” Tom’s voice was laden with suspicion.

  Hugo told him, trying not to laugh.

  “Hugo, seriously? You trying to bankrupt me?”

  “You sai
d I could choose.”

  “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I’m banned from there.”

  “One way to find out. I’ll be there around seven. Don’t make me wait.”

  Hugo hung up and then called one of the cab companies he used, and by seven was walking into Les Ambassadeurs bar at the Hôtel de Crillon. Over the years, he’d sipped cocktails at many of Paris’s finest bars and restaurants, usually alongside the ambassador or Claudia, but the recent remodel at the Crillon had resulted in a place that felt more like a palace than a bar. The carpet was thick underfoot, and the muted beige and cream tones allowed the marble and gold décor to glow. A line of crystal chandeliers ran down the middle of the room, sparkling like diamonds. Maybe sparkling with diamonds, Hugo thought.

  Hugo started toward the bar itself, suddenly wondering if his credit card would stretch to more than one drink. Tom better hurry, he thought.

  “Mr. Marston, what a nice surprise.” The voice came from behind him, and he recognized it instantly. He turned to greet her.

  “Mrs. Rollo, how are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” She took Hugo’s hand and looked him up and down. “You look very handsome.”

  “Thank you, so do you.” He smiled. “I mean, beautiful.”

  She wore her hair up in a French twist that somehow emphasized the fineness of her features, especially her eyes. Her dress was a deep burgundy color and slightly off the shoulder, hugging her body down to her knees. A four-strand pearl necklace wrapped itself close around her throat, the pearls the size of marbles.

  “I assume from your attire you are meeting a date?” she asked coyly.

  “No, actually. Just a friend. He’s rather uncouth, so I like to make him uncomfortable from time to time. How about you?”

  “Well, if any other man had asked, I’d say I’m waiting for my husband, but that would be a lie.” She put a hand on his arm. “He’s working in the suite, so maybe I can buy you a drink and flirt with you until your friend comes.”

  “That’s very kind, but I couldn’t—”

  “Oh, you’re so old-fashioned. I bet you’ve never let a woman buy you a drink in your life, have you?”

  He thought of Claudia immediately, the first person to challenge what he called chivalry and she labeled sexism.

  “One or two,” he said meekly.

  “Bullshit,” she said with a laugh, and steered him to the bar. The bartender waited attentively. “Champagne for me, please. Hugo?”

  “I’ll have the same, thank you.”

  “A bottle of Cristal, then.”

  The bartender gave a small bow. “Oui, Madame Rollo, if you care to find a table I will bring it to you immediately.”

  “And some olives and nuts, if you please, Jorge.”

  The bartender gave a small bow and turned to collect the champagne, glasses, and plates for their nibbles. Hugo led the way to a small table close by and pulled out a chair for Rollo.

  “This OK?” he asked.

  “You like to sit with your back to the wall,” she said.

  “Most law enforcement do.”

  “And how is that going, the investigation?” she asked. “I heard that they arrested someone, but no one’s telling us anything.”

  “They arrested the wrong person,” Hugo said. “So, in my opinion, the investigation is going very poorly indeed.”

  “Oh, really? How do you know it’s the wrong person?”

  They fell quiet as the bartender arrived. He put an ice bucket in a stand beside the table, and popped the bottle in front of them. The champagne hissed as he filled their glasses. He sank the bottle into the ice bucket with a satisfying crunch, and said, “I will be right back, excuse me.”

  Hugo raised his glass. “Santé.”

  “Bottoms up,” Rollo said with a wink.

  They sipped, and when they put their glasses down, Hugo said, “So how long will you be staying in Paris?”

  “JD keeps changing his mind. And the police haven’t said we can go.” Jorge appeared again and put two bowls on the table, one full of black and green olives, the other holding nuts of various kinds. “Merci, Jorge,” she said with a smile, and Hugo was sure the young man blushed.

  “Very welcome, madame.”

  When the bartender had returned to his station, Hugo took another sip and said, “Can I ask you some rather-direct questions?”

  “What about?”

  “Alia Alsaffar.”

  She pursed her lips. “I suppose so. I was hoping that my police interrogation was over, though. Or are you hoping to get me drunk and have me spill the beans?”

  “Are there any beans to be spilled?”

  “Oh, there are always some, don’t you think? Is there a person alive who doesn’t have at least one skeleton in his or her closet?”

  Hugo shifted in his seat, glad that his particular skeleton had been consigned to the grave. Or at least the mortuary. “True,” he said. “That was true of Alia?”

  “Yes and no.” Rachel Rollo picked out a few nuts with her delicate fingers, popped them into her mouth, and chewed slowly. She took a sip of champagne, as Hugo waited patiently, then she said, “But those are not my secrets to tell, are they?”

  “I don’t know. But if there’s something that can help me find out who killed her . . .” Hugo watched her carefully. Her body language had changed completely. She now sat hunched forward, with her legs crossed and her arms across her chest. She held her champagne glass in front of her like a shield. “Or maybe it’d help me rule someone out,” he said.

  “You have a list of suspects somewhere?”

  Hugo tapped the side of his head. “Up here.”

  “And who have you ruled out so far?”

  “Just one person.”

  “And who is that?” she asked.

  “The person they arrested.”

  “You never did explain why you’re so sure that person’s innocent.” Rollo looked at him. “I’m pretty sure someone said they had DNA.”

  “Ah, yes, DNA.” Hugo smiled. “Those damned cop shows make it seem like DNA is the silver bullet for crime detection. You have DNA and that’s your man; you don’t and he walks.” He shook his head. “That’s just not how it works.”

  “It’s not?” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Tell me.”

  Hugo took a sip and let the bubbles fizz on his tongue. “Well, DNA usually just means someone was at a particular place. Or touched a particular thing. It can’t tell you when, and it certainly can’t tell the larger story, either what happened or who did what to whom.”

  “Right, it puts the murderer at the scene. That seems pretty huge to me.”

  “It can. Or it can mean nothing.”

  “How so?”

  “Let me tell you about a case I had. It was a cold case where the suspect had strangled his ex-girlfriend to death, twenty years previously. Long story short, we managed to undo his alibi and establish that he’d lied to police when first interviewed. We also had a witness who said he’d confessed to her, while drunk, that he’d done it.”

  “Sounds pretty convincing.”

  “All circumstantial, but yes, it was as decent a case as we could make it.”

  “There’s a ‘but’ coming,” Rollo said.

  “Right. And it’s to show you how people are getting this DNA thing wrong—not understanding it or even wanting to.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The case went to a jury trial, and I worked closely with the prosecutor. Dimple Malhotra, was her name. Great lady, cute as a button and sharp as a tack. Had a habit of wearing leather pants on Fridays, but without question, one of the best prosecutors I’ve ever worked with. They picked a jury on the Monday of trial, and she was asking the panel of eighty people the usual questions, you know, to see who’d be appropriate and who wouldn’t.

  “Dimple talked about DNA, because she knew jurors expected to hear about it in cold cases. Many of them have been proven that way, so it’s not surprising some
one would bring it up. But she explains that the prosecution can prove its case with other evidence, and that DNA isn’t required. This one lady puts up her hand and says, ‘Well, it’s a cold case, so I’d expect DNA evidence.’

  “Dimple takes a breath and explains why DNA isn’t always useful. The example she gives is a brother murdering his sister. Even if it happens in her bedroom, and some of his DNA is on her neck, her clothes, that doesn’t tell you much, because you’d expect it to be there. He lives in the house, his DNA is going to be in every room.”

  “I guess so,” Rollo said.

  “I know so. Thing is, this woman kept saying she’d expect the state’s prosecutors to present DNA evidence in every cold case. The judge even explained that the state got to choose what kind of evidence it put on, that prosecutors weren’t required to present DNA evidence, but she stuck to her guns and so, of course, she never made it to the final jury of twelve. The trial lasted two weeks and, sure enough, no DNA evidence was put on by Dimple or her colleagues. She explained, several times, that the defendant had lived with the victim, so his DNA would be all over the place, including any clothes that were preserved. Hence, there was no point testing for it. It wouldn’t have added anything.”

  “I can see where this is headed.”

  “I imagine so.” Hugo drank some of his champagne and ate two black olives. “Anyway, the jury deliberated for one day, then another day. On the third, the judge declared a mistrial and both sides, along with the judge, talked to the jurors about why they couldn’t reach a decision.”

  “Let me guess,” Rollo said. “The lack of DNA.”

  “Ten jurors wanted to find him guilty, but two wouldn’t convict without DNA evidence.”

  “Why didn’t they speak up before, like the woman?”

  “I don’t know,” Hugo said. “The defense team made it a big deal once the trial started, of course; maybe that persuaded them that the state hadn’t been thorough enough. Point being, it’s not a thing of magic that determines whether or not someone is guilty.”