The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  She felt the way she did the last time this happened, exhilarated but also a little sullied. She really liked her lover and, in flashes, thought maybe she was liked in return, in the same way. But she also noticed moments of coldness, of remoteness, and couldn’t decide if they were a defense mechanism or signs of true disinterest. Her fingers trailed against the wallpaper as she walked, her eyes on the area of light ahead, but her mind giving her flashes of an imagined future, one where she was a part of a family like this, where she lived in a house with such history as this. A silly dream, yes, but no one fantasized about reality because what would be the point of that?

  The floor creaked beneath her feet and she paused, dreams dissolved by the surge of adrenaline that made her body quiver. If she were caught she’d be fired for sure, probably thrown out on the spot. She was a terrible liar, and if the old lady herself fixed those fierce blue eyes on her, no way she could come up with a story. She wasn’t supposed to be on this floor at all, ever, let alone . . . consorting with family members.

  And there was something about this family that scared her, even when she was following orders. Marc and his son Fabien were good examples. Both brooding but polite, charming but not warm. Fabien a chip off the old block with the gleam in his eye that said rogue. Édouard, who seemed to watch the world with a kind of timid disapproval, as if the people in it were too dirty and ignoble to warrant his good graces. Erika, the older sister, she was the one who gave Tammy her instructions when Marc wasn’t around, the one who decided on the details Marc didn’t care about, like which china to use and which napkins. But like the others, she was distant and acted almost as if she didn’t want to be there. Last of all was Noelle, the one Tammy found the most interesting. She’d heard Noelle was adopted but couldn’t imagine the old witch doing something like that, certainly not out of altruism. But it’d explain why of all the kids she was the most anxious, the one who alternated between trying to please and absenting herself from the family. Tammy had tried talking to her several times, frankly the only sibling she dared strike up a conversation with, but Noelle had never really responded. A polite reply, a distracted look, and then off about her business.

  And all of them, Tammy thought, even Noelle, exuded a deep intensity that seemed to come from their shared family history, from the traumas and secrets of the past, and from the rivalries of the present.

  She waited, holding her breath for a full minute before creeping forward. A sound from below, maybe a door but maybe nothing, pulled her toward the top of the stairs and she leaned over to stare into the darkness below. All quiet.

  Her room seemed miles away in the dark, and she started down the staircase that would take her to the second floor, then the ground floor and safety. She grew more confident step-by-step, the worn carpeting rough but reassuring under her bare feet. She reached the wide second-floor landing and paused to listen again. All was quiet, and she was just about to start down the final staircase when the sound of someone breathing right behind her made her freeze with fear. A second later she flinched and her heart leapt wildly in her chest when she felt something drop over her head, past her face, and loop around her neck. It tightened.

  A new necklace? was her last, and most ridiculous, thought, as the garrote tightened quickly, cutting into the delicate skin of her neck, squeezing so hard she couldn’t even squeal a protest. She felt her body arch as the wire bit into her flesh and pulled her backward, and she stumbled back onto the landing, her fingers fluttering at the white-hot band encircling her throat, digging into the skin too deep for her fingertips to find purchase. Within seconds, the blood vessels in her neck conspired with the garrote to starve her of oxygen and fill her head like an overblown balloon, clouding her brain with pressure and pain until she fell first to her knees, and then into total darkness.

  Hugo’s phone rang at six the next morning, Saturday, and it took him a moment to read the name on the display. “Cecilee. What’s up?”

  She cleared her throat and said, “Sorry to wake you, sir. But I’m on my way to your apartment. There’s been an incident.”

  “An incident?” A flash of terror as he pictured another mass shooting, a successful one this time.

  “Yes, sir. An American girl was strangled last night.” Walker paused, and then went on. “It was at Château Lambourd.”

  “Oh dear.” Hugo swung his legs out of bed. “That’s not good. At all.”

  “No, sir. That’s why I’m on my way to get you.”

  “What ever happened to my mandatory days off?”

  “That was before an American girl got herself strangled. And everyone else is working the Tuileries shooter.”

  “Ah, so I’m the last resort. I see how it is.”

  “You and me both. Anyway, the ambassador wants you there on site overseeing the investigation.”

  “The French police will love that,” Hugo said. “Do you know who the lead detective is?”

  “Yes, sir, and you’re in luck. It’s Camille Lerens.”

  “Thank God for small mercies.” Hugo felt the relief wash through his body. Lerens had become a friend over the past few cases they’d been involved in, having never shown the suspicion of foreigners the way other investigators in the Brigade Criminelle did. Hugo knew why that was. She’d faced enough barriers in her own life. As a black woman born into a man’s body, she’d once told him that a laser-like focus on the job was the key to winning people over, and she was most definitely good at her job, just as Hugo was good at his. What else mattered?

  “I’ll be at your place in three minutes,” Walker was saying.

  “Wait out front, I’ll be out as quickly as possible. And Cecilee?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If I have to tell you one more time, it’s Hugo, not sir.”

  “Yes, sir. Got it.” She laughed and hung up before he could respond.

  Hugo dressed as quickly as possible, pulling on his cowboy boots with one hand and brushing his teeth with the other. He clattered down the stairs to find Cecilee parked right outside his door on Rue Jacob.

  “Morning,” he said, sliding into the front passenger seat.

  “Sorry about the early start,” Walker said.

  “Not your fault. So tell me about the dead girl. Why was an American at the château?”

  Walker pulled away from the curb and accelerated down the street toward Rue de l’Université. “She was working there. In the old days, I suppose they’d refer to her as a servant.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, hired to help out with the family dinner last night, and the party tonight.”

  “Right, the party. They going to cancel that, I assume?”

  “No clue, si—, Hugo. Anyway, she’s Tammy Fotinos, twenty-two years old, originally from California. Literature student in Paris to study or work on a novel or something. Worked at the château punching tickets for museum visitors, then hired by a temp agency to work the dinner and the party. You know, since she knows the place. Did so last year, too.”

  “Tell me about the crime scene.”

  “She was found at the top of the stairs, on the second floor. Three floors in the house, her room was on the lowest, so she was either coming up or going down.”

  “When was she found? And do we know roughly when the attack happened?”

  Walker signaled left and they crossed the river at a speed that would get them pulled over, if any cops were awake and alert at that time on a Saturday. “She was found by one of the family members. Can’t recall which one, but it was right after the attack.”

  “And she was strangled?”

  “Technically, garroted.”

  “Good lord.” Hugo looked out of the window as Paris flashed by, catching fleeting glimpses of the city’s early birds, opening up their cafés and bakeries, the little tabacs that sold cigarettes and other essentials to those who’d run out overnight.

  “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”

  Hugo turned his attention to the ro
ute Walker was taking. “The house is on the east side of Parc Monceau,” he said. “This way we’ll end up on the west side.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.”

  Hugo raised a quizzical eyebrow, letting the “sir” go but unclear on why she was headed to the wrong side of the park. “Is there traffic blocking the other way?” he asked.

  “No idea.” She flashed him a smile. “We’re not going to the house.”

  “You said the ambassador wanted me on scene.”

  “He also said you never take anything for granted, never make any assumptions.”

  “Cecilee, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “He said I should give you a minute to think it through.”

  Hugo wasn’t a fan of puzzles on an empty, and uncoffeed, stomach, but he was even less happy about the ambassador pulling a fast one on him. He turned his mind back to the phone call and all they’d discussed since. Then he smiled.

  “I don’t think I’ll need the full minute,” he said.

  “No? You sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure, yes.”

  “So, you know where we’re going.”

  “I do.”

  “You have to tell me before we get there, or it doesn’t count.”

  “I should remind you, young lady.” Hugo gave her his sternest look. “That at this precise moment you work for me, and not the ambassador. This kind of treacherous undermining—”

  “You have about thirty seconds, Hugo.”

  Hugo gave up the pretense at annoyance and sat back. “She’s not dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Tammy Fotinos. You never told me she was dead. Strangled, attacked, garroted, yes. But not dead. So, we’re going to the hospital to try to talk to her. The Clinique du Parc Monceau, I assume?”

  Walker just smiled, and then turned a hard left onto Boulevard de Courcelles. They raced in silence past the historic park on their left, toward a young lady who was either very lucky or very unlucky, but who, without doubt, would be scarred for life, if not physically then emotionally.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hugo recognized the policeman standing guard outside Tammy Fotinos’s door.

  “Well, well, Paul Jameson, how are you?” Hugo said, shaking his hand. Hugo didn’t know Jameson’s full history—there were some shady parts in there about a woman and a job on nuclear submarines— but Hugo did know that his bald friend was the only Scotsman in the ranks of the Paris police. Always ready with a smile, and always crisply dressed, Jameson had quickly become Lieutenant Lerens’s go-to man. Hugo introduced him to Cecilee Walker, and then nodded at the closed door.

  “The local hero,” Jameson said with a grin. “You did a great thing out there, my friend, saved a lot of lives.”

  “Well, thank you,” Hugo said. “But you of all people would have done precisely the same thing had you been there.”

  “Ay, but I wasn’t there and I didn’t, so take some credit.”

  “I can try,” Hugo said. “So how’s our patient doing?”

  “Not great,” Jameson said. “But I’m told she’ll live.”

  “Glad to hear that at least.”

  “So the boss just called, wanted me to fill you in on a bit of a twist.”

  “Lerens?” Hugo asked.

  “Yeah. She said she called you but it went to voicemail.”

  “Must have missed it.” Hugo pulled out his phone and saw the notification. “So, do tell.”

  “Turns out there were two crimes committed at the château last night.”

  “Is that so? Someone else get assaulted?”

  “No. Four paintings were stolen from the main living room. No one noticed until now because of all the other excitement.”

  “That’s . . . interesting.”

  “You think it’s related? I mean, has to be, right?”

  “I would certainly think so,” Hugo said. “Way too much of a coincidence.”

  “Right. The guy probably stumbled across her in the middle of the night and, afraid she’d seen him, tried to top her.”

  “Plausible,” Hugo nodded. “You think I can talk to her?”

  “A doctor came out of her room about five minutes ago, and she made sure to tell me not to bother the lass.”

  “Not surprising. She has a job to do and doctors can be as jurisdictional as cops.”

  “Ay, well, here she comes, so best of luck to you.”

  Hugo turned and found himself looking into the eyes of a woman wearing a white coat and a grim expression.

  “Bonjour, docteur, je suis—”

  The doctor raised a hand to cut him off. “We can speak English. That is one of the reasons I am her doctor. I married a Scotsman named Fergus.”

  “Ay, look at that, we’re everywhere,” Jameson joked, getting a smile out of Hugo and a frown from the doctor.

  “Ami Roberston, how can I help you?”

  “Thank you, Doctor Robertson. I am the regional security officer at the American embassy, and I am assisting the police with their investigation into the attack on Miss Fotinos.” Hugo dug out his badge and showed it to the doctor. “I would very much like to speak to her, if at all possible.”

  “She is in poor condition right now—talking hurts her already-damaged throat. I would recommend that you come back tomorrow.”

  “I would love to do that, truly,” Hugo said. “But time is of the essence here. There is a murderer out there, and I would like very much to find them before they decide to strangle someone else.”

  “Not a murderer, surely. After all, she is alive.”

  “That much may be true.” Hugo nodded. “But in my experience, someone who is willing to strangle a young woman and leave her for dead is already a murderer in their heart of hearts. That a trail of bodies has yet to be laid down doesn’t change who they are, or minimize our need to catch them.”

  “I see. Well, I will need to accompany you in there and would ask you keep your questions to a minimum. As you can imagine, talking is physically difficult for her. Reliving the experience may be a lot more problematic.”

  “Of course.” Hugo moved aside and let the doctor open the door to the room. Hugo and Cecilee Walker followed.

  “Tammy, these people are here from the embassy,” Doctor Robertson said. “They want to ask you a few questions, but I have told them to be brief. And if it becomes too painful, please let me know. The most important thing is your quick recovery.”

  To you, maybe, Hugo thought. I’m okay with slowing the recovery a tad to catch a potential killer.

  The doctor stepped aside and Hugo sat in the chair by the bed. He was pleased to note, out of the corner of his eye, Walker bringing out a tape recorder and setting it on the table close to them. Tammy Fotinos saw it, too.

  “Much easier and more accurate than taking notes,” Hugo said, reassuringly. “And I’ll be as brief as possible. I can come back as many or few times as need be.”

  Tammy nodded, large brown eyes locked onto Hugo. “Okay,” she said, and Hugo heard the rasp even in that one word.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said gently.

  “It was late, and I was going to my room.” She stopped and rubbed her throat, and then reached for the cup of water on the table. She took a sip and carried on. “I was on the second floor, about to go down to my room, when I thought I heard something downstairs. I looked over into the hallway but couldn’t see anything. Then suddenly this . . . thing looped over my head and I was pulled backward.”

  Hugo nodded. “Do you know who did this?”

  “No.” Tears filled her eyes. “I couldn’t breathe, and it hurt so much. After a few seconds I felt like my head was going to explode, I couldn’t see or hear anything, and then . . . I guess I blacked out.”

  “You’re doing great.” Hugo handed her the cup of water and waited while she drank. “Is there anything at all you can tell me about the person. Height, a smell, anything they said . . .”

  “He didn’t say anything at all. And
I didn’t smell cologne or anything.” She looked down. “I’m sorry, it all happened so fast. So fast.”

  “That’s all right,” Hugo said, “I totally understand. You just said ‘he’—was there something that made you think it was a man?”

  “I mean, no. Not really. I just assumed because he . . . they, seemed so strong. So fast.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you, Tammy?” Hugo asked. “Even if it seems like a stupid reason to you, it might not be to them.”

  Tammy shook her head and winced. “No. I really can’t. I’m sorry.” She put a hand to her mouth and coughed, a dry, hacking sound that got the doctor’s attention.

  “I think that’s enough for today,” Robertson said. “Tammy has swelling and tissue damage that will worsen if she talks, or coughs, too much. You can come back tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Hugo stood and picked up the recorder, but didn’t turn it off. “Sorry, one last question. This was well after midnight. And you were found in your nightclothes, your robe. What were you doing up on that floor at that time?”

  “That’s another weird thing about all this.” Fotinos shook her head slowly, and winced. “I’ve been wondering that myself, because I honestly can’t remember.”

  They were in the car before either of them said anything, and it was Cecilee Walker who spoke first. “You know she was lying, right?”

  “What about?”

  “Not remembering.”

  “And what makes you say she was lying?” Hugo asked.

  “Two things.” Walker started the engine and steered them out of the parking lot, toward the château. “The way she looked down before answering, and how she clutched at the blanket as she said it.”

  “Very observant, I noticed that too.”

  “Plus, she remembers the attack but not why she was up there?”

  “Doesn’t make sense, I agree, but trauma does strange things to the memory. I’m not ready to call her a liar just yet. Was anything found on the landing near her?” Hugo asked. “Seems like that’d maybe help answer the question for us.”

  “I don’t know, but we can ask Lerens.”