by Mark Pryor
“I’ve been poking around as best I can, but I don’t think it’d go down well if I start grilling people over the champagne and caviar.”
“I wasn’t talking about people in general.”
“Someone in particular?”
“Yes. Marc Lambourd.”
“Already had the pleasure of a chat with him. Anything in particular?”
“Yes. Turns out he has some nasty gambling debts, from a series of trips to Monaco.”
“How bad are they?”
“Bad enough for him to be selling his house.”
“Maybe he’s just downsizing,” Hugo suggested.
“Ever known anyone to get married and immediately downsize?”
“Fair point. Are you thinking maybe the people he owes money to might have Fabien?”
“He gets his kid back when he pays up?” Lerens was quiet for a moment. “Not the most original business strategy, but it can be effective.”
“And would explain why he doesn’t seem unduly worried about the boy’s disappearance. He knows once he pays, Fabien will be let go unharmed.”
“But what does that have to do with the attempted murder of Tammy Fotinos?” Hugo asked.
“No idea. Maybe nothing. But when you have two mysteries, it doesn’t hurt to solve one of them.”
“I don’t know—it just feels like they’re connected. The attack and Fabien’s sudden and unexplained absence.”
“Can you talk to Lambourd, maybe get him drunk and admit that’s what’s going on?” There was levity in her voice, but Hugo suspected she was only half-kidding.
“Do you know who he owes money to?”
“Not names, no. We’re still working on that.” She cleared her throat. “And Hugo, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.”
I know, but I have to pretend I don’t. “What is it?”
“The gun that asshole used. It was stolen from your embassy less than a week before the shooting.”
“My embassy?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“We log the serial numbers of every weapon that comes into the country. As best we can, anyway. All official weapons, and that includes those used by foreign embassy staff.”
“That’s not good,” Hugo said. “At all.”
“The ambassador said much the same thing.”
“I bet,” Hugo said. “I hope you broke the news gently.”
“Of course.”
“Should you even be telling me this?”
“I’m not passing on information, Hugo. I’m giving you a warning.”
Hugo didn’t like her tone. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll be getting a call from Adrien Marchand tomorrow, asking you to come in for your official interview.”
“I’ve been expecting that. I don’t know why it’s taken this long.”
“For officer-involved shootings the new protocol is to give the subject officer two nights of sleep before their interview,” Lerens said. “Something about how memory works. But that’s not my point.”
“Then what is your point, Camille?”
“That he’s now got some coincidences he wants explained, some very odd coincidences. And they all revolve around you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hugo texted Claudia for her to join him in the garden, and then took in the activity around him. Closer to where the lawn backed up to Parc Monceau a dozen men worked under portable lights, wires streaming down from panels, stretching across the perfect grass to the launch pad for the fireworks.
Hugo walked in the opposite direction. It was now close to ten, and the low light from the disappearing sun allowed him to see not much more than ten feet in front of him. The smell was what he noticed the most, of freshly cut grass and flowers, of soil that had been watered that afternoon. He looked up and was pleased that any clouds from earlier had disappeared, which would help the show come off better.
He wandered slowly through a rose garden, stopping in the middle of it to see whether Claudia had responded to his message. She’d not even read it. He started slowly toward the back door, intending to find her, when the figure of Édouard Lambourd stepped across the threshold onto the patio. The light caught his face for a second and Hugo thought he looked worried, an impression that remained when he saw how the man was hurrying across the lawn to the fireworks team. A problem? Hugo wondered. He decided to follow, head that way just in case—the artsy Édouard didn’t seem like the go-to problem solver for matters technical.
Hugo was thirty yards away from the fireworks setup, and he could see the men had stepped away from their equipment. They stood in a semicircle by the hedge, with Édouard Lambourd in the midst of them. Hugo quickened his step.
One of the workers spotted Hugo and put out a hand to tell him to stop, but the embassy credentials impressed the man enough to let Hugo pass by. He stopped by a kneeling Édouard Lambourd, who had peeled back a piece of clear plastic and was using a flashlight to study an object that had been hidden in the hedge.
“What is it?” Hugo asked, and waited for the surprise to leave Lambourd’s face and recognition to set in.
“It’s one of the paintings. One of the stolen paintings.”
“Are you sure?” Hugo asked.
“Absolutely. It’s the one of our grandmother.”
“That’s great news,” Hugo said. “But I need for you to leave it right where it is. That’s evidence in an attempted murder case.”
“It’s a family heirloom, monsieur,” Lambourd snapped.
“It will be, but right now it’s evidence.” Hugo was not about to be bullied. “Please leave it where it is.”
His phone was in his hand, and he moved away so he could speak privately to Lieutenant Lerens. He told her what they’d found, and asked her to send a crime scene unit to the house.
“Of course, Hugo, but the Lambourds are not going to be happy about having our people there in their crime scene overalls.”
“I don’t think the Lambourds are ever happy about anything,” Hugo said, checking to make sure Édouard Lambourd couldn’t hear. “So just add this to the list.”
He hung up and walked back to the group.
Édouard spoke up. “Don’t tell me you’re canceling the fireworks. Not for just a painting.”
“No, sir, that’s not my plan. Some folks from the Paris police will be here soon, though. They’ll photograph the scene, the painting, exactly where it is. Then they’ll take it to their lab for processing.”
“Wait, what does processing mean?” Lambourd asked.
“They’ll look for fingerprints and DNA.”
“I don’t want the painting leaving this property!”
“I understand that, but there’s a process.”
“A process that will damage the painting, most likely.”
“They’re careful, Monsieur Lambourd. This isn’t their first time with a piece of evidence that’s valuable. Or delicate.” Hugo felt his patience ebbing. “I’ll have them out of here as soon as possible. It’s two hours until the fireworks, and I’m sure they’ll be gone long before then.”
“They better be.” Lambourd eyed him for a second. “I need to tell my mother.”
“That’s fine,” Hugo said. “If possible, it’d be good to just let family members know for now.”
Lambourd grunted what may or may not have been agreement, then turned on his heel and marched back toward the house. Hugo addressed the men.
“Who found this?” he asked in French.
There was a moment of silence, then a man with a beard and tattooed arms raised a hand, and Hugo was pleased to see he was wearing gloves.
“I did.”
“Well done,” Hugo said. “Did you know what it was?”
“I thought it was trash when I first saw it. Thought it’d maybe blown from the park and got caught in the hedge.”
“Then you took a closer look?”
“Oui. Used a flashlight. I kne
w about the theft—it was in the newspapers and online news. I wasn’t sure that’s what it was. It was wrapped up. But it looked like it could be, so I called my patron to come look.”
“Excellent. Did you touch it at all?”
“Non, monsieur”
“Not even the plastic wrapping?” The man shook his head, so Hugo turned to the rest of the men, some of whom had slunk to the back of the group, almost into the gathering darkness, as if afraid of what had been found. “Did anyone touch it?” A murmur of no. “Good,” Hugo said, “I will need to take all your names and contact information. I apologize for the intrusion but this is an important matter. I’m sure you understand.” Another soft chorus, this time of agreement. Hugo turned to the man who’d been identified as the boss of the crew. “Would you please do me a favor?”
The man nodded, eager to help. “Mais oui, of course.”
“Thank you. Just stay right here and make sure no one moves or even touches anything, just until the police arrive.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Hugo glanced toward the house and saw Claudia on the patio, waiting for him. He walked over and she slipped her arms around his waist.
“Something happen?”
“The firework guys found one of the stolen paintings.”
“Oh, wow, where?”
“Tucked in to the hedge where they were working.”
“Which one? And was it damaged?”
“One of their grandparents, Édouard said. And too soon to tell. I’m more worried about contamination than damage, since the painting’s not worth anything.”
Claudia grimaced. The memory of contaminated DNA was too fresh in her mind, an unfortunate fluke that had landed her in jail facing a murder charge until Hugo figured out how her DNA had been found at a crime scene, one she’d never visited.
“So how do you think it got there?” she asked.
“It’s possible the thief left it there right after stealing it the other night. Maybe stashed it to come back and get it later.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
Hugo shrugged. “Maybe he found out it wasn’t worth anything. It has sentimental value to the family, but that’s about it. Maybe he figured it wasn’t worth the risk to try to sell it, especially since the paintings were all over the news.”
“So he ditched all four there and when he came back, retrieved only the other three?”
“Possibly. Or he brought it back and left it there.”
“That strikes me as risky behavior,” Claudia said. “He could be spotted from either the park or the house.”
Hugo smiled. “You making mental notes for your story?”
“Yep.” She gave him a squeeze. “Only once you’ve solved, it though. It’s not much of a news story until then.”
“Then I better go wait for the crime scene team and get them back here as soon as possible. You mind hanging out here, to keep an eye on the guy keeping an eye on my crime scene?”
“Happy to. Just hurry back.”
Hugo kissed her, tasting the sweet champagne on her lips, and then walked into the house. He crossed the main hallway to the front doors, but was stopped in his tracks by an angry voice coming down from the second floor.
“Young man! Come here at once!”
Hugo turned to see the face of Charlotte Lambourd peering down at him, and seeing the fury in those eyes he couldn’t help but wonder again what had happened to her previous two husbands. He resolved to remain several feet away from her at all times, and never go into a room alone with her. Especially one that contained knives.
“Madame Lambourd, how can I help you?” he asked, and when she just stared back at him he started up the stairs with a sense of doom enveloping him like a shroud.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Hugo reached her, she seemed impossibly calm given T ▼ the rage that was clearly emanating from her small body. “What have you done?” she demanded in barely accented English.
“I’ve . . . not done anything.”
“I’m told the police are coming to my house. In the middle of my party. I would say that’s something.”
“Technically they will just be in the garden, and I will do everything to make sure they are both discreet and fast.”
“People are already talking about it. I would suggest that discreet is no longer possible.”
“Well, then,” Hugo said, “we’ll concentrate on the fast part of that equation.”
“You do understand that you were invited as a respected member of the embassy staff, not as an investigator acting without directions or permission.” It wasn’t a question—it was a statement of fact.
“I wasn’t the one who found the missing painting.”
“And there’s some reason you can’t just rehang it and not disrupt the party?”
“Yes, as I explained to your son it’s an item of evidence for now.” He was pretty sure she knew this already and was just torturing him. “If we want to find out who attacked Tammy Fotinos and stole the other three pictures, this one might help us do that.”
“Someone told me you’re sticking to your theory. That the girl was sleeping with someone in my family.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“In which case, that would be a further disruption, meaning I have no real desire to know who did that to her. She’s fine now, isn’t she?”
This lady definitely could kill and not lose sleep over it.“She will be fine, physically. Emotionally, who knows?”
“Emotionally,” Charlotte Lambourd repeated, as if Hugo were trying to be funny. “Please. If she was sneaking around my house seducing members of my family, well, she may not have deserved what happened, but I can hardly be expected to be concerned with her emotional state. In my opinion, she put herself in harm’s way.”
Hugo bit his lip, desperately searching for words that weren’t rude, or just plain angry.
“Adult women don’t deserve to be punished for having sex,” was the best he could do.
“If they do it illicitly in my house, with a member of my family, I disagree.” She twisted her mouth in distaste. “Nevertheless, I strongly disapprove of you summoning the police without informing me first.”
Over her shoulder, Ambassador Taylor was approaching, a look of worry on his face.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, looking back and forth between Hugo and Madame Lambourd.
“No,” she said. “Ambassador, this man has invited the police into my home on the most important night of the year—it’s unforgivable.”
“It’s not unforgiveable, it’s necessary,” Hugo snapped. “And this might be the most important night of the year to you, but—”
“Hugo, what’s going on?” Taylor seemed genuinely perplexed by what was happening, and Hugo’s uncharacteristic loss of temper.
“One of the stolen paintings has been found, in the garden by the park. A crime scene unit is on the way to take custody of it and process it.”
“And none of this can wait until tomorrow,” Madame Lambourd said testily.
“Right, we should just leave the—”
“Hugo, if I may respond, please?” Taylor interrupted.
“Have at it, boss.” Hugo took a deep breath, exasperated but recognizing he wasn’t exactly helping matters.
“Thank you.” Ambassador Taylor turned to Charlotte Lambourd. “Unfortunately, these things can’t wait. But if you like, I can oversee the collection process and make sure no one comes into the house . . . Hugo, there’s no need for that, is there, someone inside?”
Hugo raised an eyebrow. “God forbid a mere police—”
“Right, thank you, so there you go. I can make sure all the activity is outside and minimally disruptive.”
“Your man here has already offered to do that,” Charlotte Lambourd said. “And I think I’d like to take him up on it.” She turned her steely gaze on Hugo. “Once that task is complete, you may escort them off the property and enjoy the fireworks
from the park like everyone else in Paris.”
Without looking back at the ambassador, she turned and walked through the large doors across the open reception area and into the busy living room.
“You know,” Ambassador Taylor began, “they say she might have killed both of her husbands.”
“I’ve heard. And I’m sure they’re both more than grateful.”
“Quite possibly.” Taylor turned serious. “So, Camille told you about the guns being stolen from the embassy. This is really, really bad, Hugo.”
“I know, boss. I almost don’t believe it.”
“She didn’t seem to have any doubt. Good of her to let us know, off the record.”
“For sure.” Hugo thought for a moment. “I assume you’ll have Mari look into this?”
“It’s the only thing she’ll be doing, until she finds out what happened.”
“Good. I know how bad this looks, but she’s good, she’ll figure it out.”
“She better.” Taylor took a long draught of champagne, emptying his glass. “Well, I guess you’re dismissed for the evening. Do you want to tell Claudia or should I?”
“I’ll do it,” Hugo said. “You mind chaperoning her if she wants to stay?”
“That’s been my cunning plan all along.” He stepped back. “Here she is. Good luck.”
Claudia drifted up to them and Taylor backed further away. “You were supposed to be right back,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“So . . . it’s not my fault, but I’ve been asked to leave the party.”
“What?”
“The old lady doesn’t like that the police have to collect evidence.”
“Hugo, you’re not making sense. Are you seriously being asked to leave?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. She’s upset because she doesn’t want the police here tonight. I don’t understand people sometimes. I mean what the hell does she expect when a piece of evidence is found?”
“Well, it’s not a piece of evidence to her, is it?”
“Maybe not, but I don’t have any discretion here—why can’t she see that?”
“Hugo, sometimes your job . . . it’s intrusive. You can’t help that fact, or the timing, I know, but not everyone sees the crushing importance of dusting a worthless painting for prints and scraping it for DNA.”