by Mark Pryor
They started in that direction, and as they walked Hugo said to Lerens, “I thought you decided she didn’t need a cop at her door.”
“I did. Until Fabien went missing. Until we’re sure he wasn’t the one who put her here in the first place, I’m taking all necessary precautions.”
“I’m very impressed. And in agreement.”
“Two good ideas in two days,” Lerens said. “Glad I can make you proud.”
The flic standing guard nodded his recognition of Lieutenant Lerens, and took a cursory glance at Hugo’s credentials before stepping aside. Hugo tapped on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.
Fotinos was sitting up in bed, poking at her cell phone. She looked startled at their sudden entry and looked nervously between them. “Hi,” she said. “I . . . I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Expecting someone else?” Hugo asked lightly.
“No. Who would that be?”
“Whoever you’re texting maybe.”
“That’s my mother. Back home. Letting her know I’m fine.” She cleared her throat gently and stroked it, as if by habit now. “Is she coming over?”
“She can’t afford to,” Fotinos said, her eyes dropping. “So I just told her I was in an accident and am fine. There’s nothing she can do anyway.”
Hugo nodded and waited as Lerens clicked on her recorder and set it on the tray table that hovered over the foot of the bed. “So,” he said. “We have a few more questions.”
“Like what?” Fotinos said, her voice scratchy and dry.
Camille Lerens placed a photo in front of her, and asked: “Do you know this man?”
Fotinos studied it for a moment, then shook her head no.“Who is he?”
“Auguste Pierre Rabin. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Thank you,” Hugo said, and handed the picture back to Lerens. “Now, about what happened the other night.”
“I don’t remember any more than I told you,” Fotinos said.
“Okay, that’s fine. But it’s what you didn’t tell us that I want cleared up.”
“Like what?
“You get one chance to lie to me, Tammy. And you get one chance to correct it, no questions asked, no consequences.”
“I didn’t lie—”
“Just wait,” Hugo interrupted. “You need to know that Fabien Lambourd has disappeared.”
Her eyes widened. “Disappeared?”
“Yes. And he’s my best bet for being the person you were visiting that night, am I right about that?”
Fotinos held his gaze for an admirably long time, then dropped her head and gently nodded. “I couldn’t tell you before,” she said.
“Why not?”
“He didn’t want people to know.”
“And?” Hugo pressed.
“Sometimes we did stuff that’s . . . different.” Fotinos shot a glance at Hugo and then looked down. “You know. They call it breath play.”
“You mean, sexually?” Hugo asked. “Like choking?”
“Technically, it’s strangling as you cut off the blood flow, not the air,” Lerens said. “So, you thought maybe he did this, and it went wrong?”
“I mean, it doesn’t seem likely. But who in the world would actually want to hurt me?”
“Someone stole paintings that night,” Hugo said. “Whoever it was maybe thought you’d seen them.”
“Oh. I didn’t know about that. Why?”
“A good question, but one we can’t answer at the moment.”
“But you are looking for Fabien, right?”
“Yes, of course,” Lerens said. “You have no idea where he might be? Has he been here?”
“Here?” Fotinos laughed. “I don’t know him that well, but I’m pretty sure he’s not the type to bring flowers to someone in the hospital.”
“Do you know if he was into anything?” Lerens asked.
“What do you mean?”
“His phone was found in a stolen car. So, I mean, do you know of any mischief he was planning?”
“No, it’s not like we were friends or talked very much. It was just a fun thing.”
“And did anyone else know about it?” Hugo asked.
“No, that’s why I was sneaking about like that—he made me promise to keep it a secret, that no one find out. He would’ve gotten in trouble with his family, and I would’ve been fired, so we made sure no one else knew.”
“You have your phone,” Hugo said. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call. Day or night.”
Fotinos took the card and nodded. “I do have one question.”
Hugo paused. “What is it?”
“You said someone stole some paintings that night. They might have done this to . . . you know, shut me up, I guess.”
“It’s possible.”
“But why would a burglar be carrying a weapon like that?”
“I don’t know,” Hugo said. “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Auguste Rabin was less welcoming. No one answered the door of his small duplex in a working-class suburb of the city, on its southeastern edge. Lerens rang the bell a third time, and Hugo wandered around the side of the building. He tried to peek through a window, but the dirty glass made it impossible to see inside, so he kept walking. Through the slats of an old wooden fence he saw a man working in the back garden. Hugo went back for Lerens, and together they let themselves through the unlocked gate. The man was on his knees with a trowel in his hand, and he turned at the sound of the gate opening.
“Bonjour,” Lieutenant Lerens said. She and Hugo had their credentials in their hands as they approached, but the man barely glanced at them. Which told Hugo plenty. “Auguste Rabin?”
“Oui.”
Lerens introduced herself and Hugo, but Rabin stayed where he was.
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, monsieur?” Lerens asked.
“You’ll ask them, whether I mind or not.” He was surly, Hugo assumed, thanks to too many encounters with the police that ended with him wearing handcuffs.
Lerens ignored the comment. “Where were you on Friday night?”
“Here.”
“From when to when?”
Rabin shrugged. “Six to about seven the next morning.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Look, I’ve been going straight for years. Whatever you’re trying to pin on me, forget it. The only car I drive these days is the one out front that I paid for.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s always the same with you people. Someone commits a crime and you have no idea who, so you go bother people who fit your profile and find one who doesn’t have an alibi. And then bam, on go the handcuffs.”
“That’s not what we—”
“And hey, doesn’t matter if it’s the right criminal, does it, because once you’re guilty of one thing, no reason why you can’t be guilty of something else.” He stabbed the trowel into the earth in annoyance. “But I’m off that roulette wheel, like I said. I have a job, and if I want something, I don’t steal it. I save up and I buy it.”
“You’re working?”
“Yes. Construction, electrical, whatever I can get. It’s not easy with a criminal record, you know.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” Lerens said. “You have a side business that involves selling art or antiques?”
“Art . . . look if it’s about that painting, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Apparently you do.”
“Merde.” Rabin looked down and shook his head slowly, knowing he’d given himself away.
Hugo pressed him. “Just to be clear, what painting are you talking about?”
“I saw it in the news, that girl who got strangled and the paintings stolen. I assumed that’s what you were talking about, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“You said that pain
ting though,” Hugo said. “Singular. Which painting were you referring to?”
“I meant paintings.”
“Monsieur Rabin,” Lerens began. “Your fingerprints were found on the wrapping when two of the paintings were recovered. You want to explain that to me?”
“Actually,” Hugo interrupted, “I think I can.”
Both Rabin and Lerens looked at him. “Meaning?” the lieutenant asked.
“Well,” Hugo said. “When we found the pictures, we thought it was just one. That’s what everyone was saying at the château, right?”
“Right,” Lerens said.
“Monsieur Rabin here, he just said painting, as we noticed. He wouldn’t have said that if he’d stolen them, and he wouldn’t have said that unless he was there when they were found.” Hugo looked at Rabin. “You were part of the fireworks crew, am I right?”
Rabin looked up at him, not speaking for a moment. Then he said, “Oui, that’s right.”
Hugo remembered the scene, the handful of men who stepped back into the darkness when he started asking questions. He must have seen Rabin, but not well enough to recognize him.
“Why didn’t you just say so?” Lerens asked.
“Plenty of reasons,” Rabin said.
“Such as?”
“I’m on probation. I can’t be around explosives.”
“That’s all?”
“No. The family, the Lambourds, the guy they hired to do the fireworks is a friend of a friend. They told him everyone working at the house had to be clean, no criminal records. If they found out, he’d have lost that job and he did me a favor letting me work it. I need the money.”
“When did you touch it?” Hugo asked. “The wrapping around the painting.”
“I was the one who found it. Didn’t know what it was so I left it there and told my friend. Let him take credit for finding it. I didn’t want any attention.”
“Did you see who put it there?” Lerens asked.
“No, it was already there, tucked under the bush.”
“And if we pull your cell phone records, they will show you were right here at home two nights ago when that girl was attacked?”
“Oui. Go ahead and do it, they will.”
“Thank you for your time, monsieur,” Lerens said. “Happy gardening.”
Hugo followed her out through the gate and to the car, where she paused. “Two dead ends in one trip. Not what I was hoping for.”
“But we got some answers,” Hugo said. “That’s always a plus.”
Lerens smiled. “Ever the optimist.”
“I have to be. I live with Tom.”
Hugo had Lerens drop him at the embassy. A cryptic text from the ambassador had requested his presence there immediately. Hugo assumed it had to do with the shooting in the Tuileries, but when he got to Ambassador Taylor’s office he saw he was only half right. The other half, he discovered, reflected the truth of his words to Camille Lerens in the car about Tom.
“Sit,” Taylor said, switching on a flat-screen television on the wall. “Allow me to present a performance by your best friend.”
“What’s he done now?” Hugo asked, settling into an armchair beside Taylor. “And what do you mean by performance?”
“Apparently some members of the media have been camped outside your apartment hoping for an interview with you.”
“Yes, I know. Wait—” Hugo stared at Taylor in disbelief. “He didn’t.”
“Yes, he most certainly did.”
Hugo closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself, and opened them to look at a television screen showing Tom on the sidewalk outside their building on Rue Jacob. Taylor pressed the play button and they watched in silence as Tom was interviewed in English, French subtitles scrolling beneath his cheery face.
“. . . many, many years,” Tom was saying. “We roomed together at the FBI. He had some trouble with a few classes, so I helped him out where I could.”
“And he was a good shot back then?” the young woman interviewing Tom asked.
“Oh, yes. The best. Well, not actually the best, I was, but he was second best. Very quick on the draw, very accurate.”
“So you are not surprised he shot the gun from that man’s hand?”
“Not at all,” Tom said. “I am surprised he missed three times, but he’s been out of the Bureau for a while, let himself go, if you know what I mean.”
Twice, Hugo thought. I missed twice, you bastard.
“I’m not sure I do . . .”
“I mean, he used to be in great shape, fit, athletic, and deadly with his gun. Not much of a fighter, you know, with fists. Anyway, with this State Department job, he’s lost a little of his edge. And gained a few pounds at the same time.”
Coming from you . . . Hugo shook his head.
The ambassador chuckled. “He’s pretty entertaining, though. Hard to be mad at him sometimes.”
“No,” Hugo replied. “It really isn’t.”
“Did you know if the man he shot has a connection to the embassy?” the interviewer asked Tom.
“I do not. You mentioned he was an American?”
“Yes,” said the interviewer, who looked more and more to Hugo to be in her late teens. “Is it possible Monsieur Marston knew him?”
Say no, Hugo willed. For once, do the right thing and say no.
Tom hesitated at the question, as if intentionally drawing out Hugo’s anxiety. “I mean, anything’s possible. Hugo meets a lot of people in his job, especially Americans who come into the embassy for one reason or another. He’s a friendly guy, what can I say?”
“Some people are saying this is what you Americans call a false-flag operation, that your government set it up to make him a hero.”
“That’s . . . ridiculous.” Tom was shaking his head emphatically. “Why would they do that?”
“To help with Franco-American relations, maybe?”
“No way, that’s crazy.” Tom was chuckling now. “I’m retired now, but worked for the government for more than twenty years. Getting someone to send a fax at the right time to the right person is a challenge of breathtaking proportions.”
“What is a . . . fax?”
“Not the point. The point is, well, first Hugo Marston is the most honest man on the planet, so he’d never do anything like that. But even if the government wanted him to, ordered him to, there’s no way a bunch of bureaucrats could pull this off logistically, or without someone spilling the beans.”
“What beans?” asked the interviewer, confused.
Tom sighed dramatically. “Without someone leaking the plan, telling you, the media. No way.”
“And it would involve sacrificing another human being,” the interviewer added.
“Precisely! Ridiculous idea.”
“Although you people do that all the time.”
“Do what?”
“You assassinate foreign leaders, and you sacrifice your own people every day.”
“What?” Tom was getting flustered, finally realizing maybe he was being outplayed. For Hugo’s part, he wished Tom would just walk away, cut it off before doing even more damage. “We most certainly do not.”
“You do. What steps did you people take after all those children got killed by a mad gunman?”
Tom frowned. “Which time?”
“Exactly!” The interviewer was almost giddy with excitement at this point. “People die every day from gun violence. And you make people pay for healthcare they can’t afford, so they die.”
“Which crazy media outlet are you from?” Tom asked.
“So it would make perfect sense to sacrifice just one man, maybe someone mentally ill, to make a difference in international relations.”
“Actually, it makes no sense at all,” Tom said. “I mean, it’s more probable that some pro-gun group here set this up, that’s how—”
The interviewer leaned in. “You have some information about that?”
Hugo groaned. Just leave. Walk away, Tom. Now!
“What? No! I’m just saying, your theory is ridiculous.”
“Is Monsieur Marston a member of any pro-gun group that you know of?”
“No. I have no idea.”
“Either here or in America?”
“Look, I wasn’t saying that was a poss—” Tom made a show of looking at his watch. “You know what, I have to go.”
“Better late than never,” Hugo muttered.
“My thoughts exactly,” Taylor said. They watched as Tom strode back into the building, ignoring shouted questions from the interviewer.
“Well then,” Hugo said after a moment.
“Yeah. I need to give that guy a job here, just so I can fire him.”
“When did this air?”
“Two hours ago. More to the point, it’s online.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Hugo said. He looked down as his phone rang, and then he laughed gently.
“Who is it?” Taylor asked.
“The man himself. You wanna take bets on whether he called to apologize, or to brag?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“You’re an idiot, Tom. A prize-winning, twenty-four-carat, gold-plated, moron-infused idiot.”
“Hang on a moment,” Tom said, defensively. “I know things went a little off the rails for a moment, but I got that train back on track.”
“Is that what you think? Because from where I was sitting it smashed right through the station and exploded into a million pieces.”
“With the whole pro-gun lobby thing, you remember that, right?”
“Oh, I do, yes. Very well indeed.”
“Stroke of genius,” Tom said. “Even if I say so myself.”
“Right, because now I’m part of two conspiracies, and that’s so much better than just one.”
“Easy, Mr. Sarcastic. With that little gem, not only did I point out the stupidity of the original conspiracy theory itself, but by introducing the second, even more stupid one, I’ve pitted them against each other and they will crash head-on and boom, all done.”
“Right, that’s exactly how conspiracies work.”
“There isn’t even a pro-gun lobby in France!” Tom was almost yelling.
Hugo sighed. “There is, Tom. They called and want me to speak at their conference in a month.”