The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “Swabbing, not scraping,” he said sulkily.

  “You know what I mean. She lives for this party, and God knows it may even be her last one.”

  “This damned party. Someone was almost kill—”

  “I know, Hugo, I know.” She put a calming hand on his arm. “I’m just saying, not everyone is as personally invested in solving every crime as you are.”

  Hugo looked at her for a moment. “Does that include you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My investigations, do you find them intrusive?”

  “Hugo, you saved my life in the last one. Well, saved me from prison, but it may have come to the same thing.”

  “Don’t be evasive—I really want to know.”

  She pursed her lips in thought. “Well, sometimes, I suppose so. But you’re my . . . whatever you are, so I understand that. I know what I signed up for, and I have no complaints.” She smiled. “Except for tonight, getting thrown out of the fanciest party of the year, that kind of sucks.”

  Hugo smiled. “Well, it’s me getting thrown out. You’re welcome to stay—the ambassador said he’d take care of you.”

  Claudia rolled her eyes. “Because I couldn’t possibly make it through a party alive on my own.”

  “Right, yes, sorry.” Hugo all but blushed. “I’ll go back to my apartment in the 1950s and keep quiet.”

  “As you should.”

  At the sound of voices below, they both looked down the staircase, across the entrance hall to where two of the footmen were blocking the path of the crime scene team.

  “That’s your cue?” Claudia asked.

  “It is.”

  “Then go.” She reached up and kissed him. “I love what you do for a living, and how good you are. The old witch may be angry, but I’m not. Call me later.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE KILLER

  So far, so good.

  Part of the pleasure of all this is doing it right under everyone’s noses. But it turns out that the Lambourds are all so self-involved that they can’t see much beyond the end of that particular facial feature.

  Getting the paintings where I needed them to be was the trickiest part. Well, not being seen doing it was, technically, the hard part. But that’s the glory of the Bastille Day party chez nous—those who aren’t wrapped up in their own petty dramas (my family) are so busy getting everything prepared that they pay little attention to anything or anyone else.

  And the party went off without a hitch, as far as my planning was concerned. It’s quite amazing how a place as quiet and staid as the château every other day of the year can come so alive for just one evening. Every room in the house flourished and took on a personality to entertain our guests. Even the large landing outside the main living room smelled like heaven, with explosions of color and scent welcoming people at the top of the staircase. Funny how we take something so beautiful and kill it, just to give ourselves a few hours of pleasure. They don’t look already dead but they are, all of these flowers, their heads cut off somewhere along their long necks. That’s not what we see, though, is it? We don’t see that they’re already dead—we just see their beauty.

  Well, I do.

  Flowers aside, the living room and parlor, normally staid repositories for furniture, antiques, and questionable family art, positively brimmed with people, and along with the flowers you could smell the champagne in the air. I made the rounds, of course, charming those I could and ignoring those I couldn’t. Which meant steering clear of my family for the most part, but they’re doing the same thing.

  The one downside was that people kept asking about Fabien, so I had to make something up about him being detained by business and likely to arrive any minute. I told my siblings to say the same thing, and that did the trick. Anyone who knows Fabien can understand how he’d screw up being at his own family’s most important night of the year. He’s a grown man, as good as, though, and someone who likes to find his own path. Yes, sometimes at the expense of others, but aren’t we all selfish that way? Another Fabien escapade, that’s all any of us needed to say.

  I did have to keep an eye on that American, though. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, there’s something about him. He’s different from other cops. Not that I’ve had a lot of experience with them, but you can just see how he looks at people. It’s like he looks into them. Someone told me he used to be in the FBI, like one of those profilers you see on television. It makes perfect sense, too. I can absolutely believe he was.

  Which means I will need to be careful around him. He will have dealt with a lot of people with my particular emotional disability. If I trip up around most people, my family or even the regular cops, they’ll either miss it or I’ll be able to cover it up. I’m not so sure about him, though, and I certainly don’t want to underestimate him that way.

  I suppose, if it comes to it, I can always kill him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “How’s the Lambourd investigation going?” Lieutenant-Intern Adrien Marchand placed a plastic coffee cup in front of Hugo, and then took his seat across the small table between them. Hugo had been in a hundred interview rooms in his career, maybe a thousand, but this was the first time he hadn’t gotten to choose which side of the table to sit behind.

  “Slowly but surely,” Hugo said. “I need to go interview the victim again when I’m done here.”

  “I gather they retrieved some of the stolen property.”

  “Two paintings, yes.” Lerens had called him late the previous night, to let him know both of the family portraits were in the wrapped package. Two valueless paintings abandoned by a money-seeking thief? Or something different? Lerens had asked Hugo that question, but he wasn’t ready to answer it, so didn’t.

  “That’s good news. Any prints or anything?”

  “They’re working on that right now,” Hugo said. “You’ll forgive me if I answer my phone during this . . . interview.”

  “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.” Marchand gave him a friendly smile, which may or may not have been genuine. “I like to treat all my sus—, I mean subjects, the same.”

  “Slip of the tongue there? Have you decided the outcome of this already?”

  “Not at all. And after our last investigation, I’m sure you can understand why I’m being even more careful with this one.”

  “Makes sense.” Our last investigation was when Marchand had arrested Claudia on suspicion of murder. Ignoring Hugo’s protestations of her innocence, but finally listening when Hugo used science to undermine the only, but compelling, piece of evidence Marchand had against her. Marchand had seemed grateful for the proof of innocence, wanting to catch the right person, not just close the case. But now Hugo wondered if the young lieutenant had received any blowback for arresting the wrong person, especially someone as well connected as Claudia.

  “So, shall we start?” Marchand said.

  “Yes, sure.”

  “As you know, this is being recorded by the two cameras in those corners, audio and video. For the record, you told me before you are willing to give a voluntary statement and have no wish for a lawyer to be present.”

  “Correct, and I do not.”

  “The door is shut for privacy and no other reason. You’re free to leave at any time, and if you want to take a break just let me know. Also, because we’re doing this in French, if you have any doubt at all about what I’m asking, I can repeat it or we can find a translator.”

  “Thank you, I’m fine with all of that.”

  “Bien. So, why don’t you take it from the beginning, tell me what happened?”

  Hugo did so, starting from the moment he left the embassy to when he stepped away from the gunman’s lifeless body, leaving the paramedics to do their thing.

  “Before the shooting, anything unusual at all happen?”

  “No, not that I can recall.”

  “And you didn’t recognize the man you shot?”

  “No.”r />
  Marchand opened a folder that was in front of him and slid a photo over to Hugo. It was the young man he’d shot, the picture taken by the coroner most likely. How old are you? Hugo wondered. Here, pale and his eyes half-open, he looked even younger than when Hugo had seen him in the flesh.

  “Have you seen this man before?” Marchand asked. “Man? You mean kid.”

  “Yeah, he’s young for sure. That’s why we’ve not released this picture. So, have you ever seen him before?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Hugo pushed the photo back to Marchand. “Do you know who he is yet?”

  “You know I can’t answer that.”

  “Yeah, you can. I think I have a right to know who I killed, don’t you?”

  Marchand pondered that for a moment. “I suppose you do. Thing is, we’re not certain.”

  “Either you know or you don’t,” Hugo said.

  “We don’t. Yet.” Marchand looked down at his notepad, and then up at Hugo. “Did you know he was using a gun from your embassy?”

  Hugo feigned surprise. “Really? How did that happen?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I’m afraid not. But a lot of people will be very unhappy about that, myself included.”

  “A lot of people are already very unhappy. People a lot more powerful than you or me, which means I need to figure out how that happened, and as quickly as possible.”

  “If I can help, just let me know.”

  Marchand nodded. “Are you involved in the process of decommissioning firearms?”

  “Only the decision-making process.”

  “So it was your idea to change weapons? Put those out of service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “All of the people who are armed prefer the nine mill. Most of them own one. It made sense to me to have people carry what they prefer.”

  “I see. And the timing of the switch?”

  “What about it?”

  “Why then?”

  “Budget reasons. It’s been in the works for months but . . . government, you know how it can be.”

  “I most certainly do. So the timing was just a coincidence.”

  “I guess. Or maybe if he’d gotten his hands on those guns three months ago, or in six months’ time, he’d have gone shooting in the Tuileries then.”

  “Quite possibly. Is that your usual route home, by the way?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And you always carry a loaded firearm when you’re not at work.”

  “Not always. I would say not even usually. If I’m on my way there or on my way home, though, I do, yes.”

  “I’m sure you know this, but a lot of people are less than thrilled that a man carrying an American passport shot at people in the Tuileries, and that an American carrying a gun shot him.”

  “Would they have preferred it if I hadn’t?”

  “It’s not the shooting part that bothers people—it’s the carrying of a loaded gun.”

  “Pretty hard to shoot someone without one.”

  “Yes, exactly. The general perspective is that neither of you should have been armed, that both of you were, and that whether he turns out to be an American or not, he was carrying a gun that you people provided.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of the ludicrous rumors and conspiracy theories. I have to assume you’re just going to be dealing with facts, though, right?”

  “Doing my best, Monsieur Marston, but you’re not really giving many I didn’t already know.”

  “I think that’s how being innocent works.” Hugo resisted the urge to make a crack about Marchand arresting innocent people. As he’d learned the previous night, antagonizing his host was counterproductive.

  “Four shots, right?”

  “Yes. Two missed, two hit.”

  “We recovered all four shell casings and two of the projectiles from the body. The two misses . . . we never found those.”

  “In the dirt,” Hugo said. “He was kneeling and I was shooting from a standing position, so the bullets would have angled down into the ground. Come to think of it, I could swear I saw one of them kick up dirt.”

  “Quite possibly. We looked but didn’t find them. Why four?”

  “Because the first two missed.”

  “Of course. And you only needed two more to finish the job?”

  “I don’t like the way you phrased that.” Hugo wondered if it was intentional, but he wanted to register his disapproval just in case. “I shot and the threat was obviously over after the fourth shot. As you know that’s what we’re trained to do, shoot until the threat is nullified. Then stop.”

  “Same for us, yes, of course.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Hugo said. “The two people he wounded, I was told at the time they weren’t badly hurt. Is that right?”

  “Yes. One person is still in the hospital but will make a full recovery.”

  “Did either of them know the shooter? What about the person he killed? A woman, I heard.”

  Marchand smiled. “There you go again, with the questions.”

  “Put me in an interview room, I can’t help myself.”

  “Well, I think that’s all I have,” Marchand said. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

  “When will I know the results of your investigation?”

  “You’ll be one of the first, I promise.”

  “When you slap handcuffs on me?”

  “No, no. I’d let you turn yourself in discreetly, don’t worry.” He saw Hugo’s face and held up a hand in apology. “My attempt at humor, I’m sorry. I’ll let you know as soon as I can, I promise.”

  Marchand stood and let Hugo out of the room ahead of him, and they walked together to the public area of the police station.

  “Let me know if I can help in any way,” Hugo said.

  “I will, and thank you for coming in. Oh, on the gun issue. Please let us look into that. If you start asking questions or poking around, it will look . . .”

  “Like I’m tampering with your investigation. I know.”

  “Thank you.” They shook hands.

  Hugo walked toward the entrance, out into the warm July air. He took out his phone to call Claudia. She’d been a little too tipsy to talk for long the previous evening, but just before he hit her number, Lieutenant Lerens’s name popped onto the screen. He answered.

  “You all done with Marchand?” she asked.

  “Yep, just finished.”

  “How was it?”

  “He didn’t arrest me, so there’s that.”

  Lerens laughed. “I’m glad about that.”

  “You have news?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She paused for effect. “We got a print hit off the plastic wrapping.”

  “Great, who is it?”

  “Are you still near the building?”

  “Yes, want me to come back in?”

  “No. I want some coffee. Pick somewhere close by and we can talk there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Who the hell is that?” Hugo asked. He was staring at the front of a manila file, reading and rereading the name August Pierre Rabin.

  “He’s a reformed criminal,” Lerens said. “Or so it seemed.”

  Hugo waited until the waiter had dropped off their coffees before opening the folder. “Check fraud, car theft, car theft, car— . . . wow, he likes cars. Six of those.”

  “He does. But the last one was seven years ago, nothing since.”

  “What’s he been doing? And where?”

  “No idea what, but the last address we had puts him here in Paris three months ago. I guess he’s been behaving himself, did for a while anyway.”

  Hugo furrowed his brow and dropped a sugar cube into his coffee. “Seems odd, no?” he said finally.

  “What does?”

  “He has a history of petty crime, all of it nonviolent from what I can see. Then he does absolutely nothing for seven years, and returns as a wannabe murder
er and art thief?”

  “That’s why he chose paintings with no real value.”

  “Maybe,” Hugo conceded.

  “Or maybe he’s been escalating and we just haven’t caught him until now.”

  “I doubt it.” Hugo tapped the file. “This guy is no genius. He was caught, what, a dozen times in three years for various dumb stuff?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And then somehow stays off our radar for almost a decade while committing increasingly violent crimes?”

  “When you put it like that . . .” Lerens nodded in agreement. “But it’s definitely his print.”

  “Then let’s go talk to him.” Hugo stared at the photo and frowned. “Maybe he has one of those faces, but I feel like I know him.”

  “He looks like the henchman in every police show ever made.”

  “Yeah.” Hugo put the picture back in the folder and closed it. “I also want to talk to Tammy again. Hopefully her voice is better. And her willingness to cooperate.”

  “Let’s do that first,” Lerens suggested. “Maybe she’ll recognize our friend Auguste Rabin.”

  Lerens drove them to the hospital, and they both spent the trip in silence. Hugo tried to focus on why someone like Rabin would go dormant and then escalate, but he was also feeling the pressure of the Tuileries shooting. He was used to the stress that comes with hunting dangerous criminals, but not at all used to being so prominently in the public eye, especially while so many made him out to be the villain of the piece.

  Two uniformed nurses stood at their station, and watched them approach. The older one examined their credentials before telling them that Tammy Fotinos had been moved to a new room.

  “Was there a problem?” Hugo asked.

  The nurse frowned as she looked down at some paperwork. “Someone called . . . A lieutenant named Lerens requested she be moved every two days for her safety. Do you know who that is? If so, take it up with him.”

  “I do, thank you,” Hugo said with a smile. “Good thinking by that lieutenant.”

  The nurse grunted in reply and pointed down the hallway. “Second door on the right. The one with the policeman standing outside it.”