The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “Oh. Shit. I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, you do now. They are more oriented toward sporting guns, but are trying to nudge back legislation restricting other firearms.”

  “Learn something every day, eh?” Tom chuckled. “Well, I hope you told them no. That’d be a terrible idea.”

  “No kidding, Tom, what do you thi—”

  “Well, gotta go, buddy. Oh, and you’re welcome for the help.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Ambassador Taylor raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “If your money was on an apology,” Hugo said, “you owe me.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t.” Taylor pursed his lips. “We need this figured out before even more shit hits the fan.”

  “No kidding. And you really can’t tell me how it’s going?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Well then, boss,” Hugo said. “You’ll forgive me if I do a little poking around of my own.”

  “No, Hugo, I won’t.” Taylor wagged a disapproving finger. “You have the Lambourd thing on your plate. Not only are you not allowed to investigate yourself, you don’t have the time. Solve that and be a hero again.”

  “Tough to do when I’m not allowed on the property.”

  “Oh, right, the old lady kicked you out. Well, you’ll figure something out,” Taylor said. “Apart from that, how is it going?”

  “If you must know, I have a nice little pool of suspects, one of whom is missing. A victim who’s already lied to me, and a fingerprint that led us to an innocent man.”

  “Not fantastically, then.”

  “I hope what your people are doing is progressing a little better.” Hugo smiled. “Maybe we should swap investigations.”

  “You’ll get there, Hugo. You always do.”

  “Although,” Hugo said with a smile, “I’d like to have been in the room when you were told the gun from the Tuileries shooting came from here.”

  The ambassador’s face darkened. “No, you wouldn’t have. That poor Marchand fellow almost regretted telling me, but I managed to pretend I didn’t already know, and he learned a few new swear words in English. I’ve ordered every single employee of this embassy to fully cooperate with Mari and with the French police on this. On pain of firing. I’m telling you, Hugo, this is very, very bad for me, for us. Every which way.”

  “I know, boss.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. Look, I know you love Paris and your job, but if things get any hotter around here, you need to know that one of my options is to ship you home and keep you out of sight. And if the people higher up the ladder need a fall guy, well, I will gladly offer to play that role, but they don’t like firing ambassadors.”

  “They’d rather can the RSO?” Hugo asked, his tone grim.

  “I imagine it looks better, yes.”

  “Boss, no, they wouldn’t.” Hugo shook his head. “I mean, I’m in the middle of an invest—”

  “You’re not the only detective in Paris, Hugo,” Taylor said, his tone firm. “And I didn’t say it was going to happen. But just know that it’s out of my hands, and so it might.”

  “I’d go kicking and screaming,” Hugo said. “And like you said, you’ll figure that part of it out, whoever took the gun.”

  “I won’t, but Mari Harada is on it. She better.”

  “She’s good, so I don’t doubt it for a moment. She’s working the shooting from this end?”

  “Yes, which means she’s off limits to you. Anyway, we shouldn’t be talking about it at all, so why don’t you tell me about your little pool of suspects?”

  “Cutting me off, eh?” Hugo gave a wry smile. “Sure, why not? First up is the missing young man, Fabien.”

  “Grandson of the witch-in-chief.”

  “Correct,” Hugo said. “I’ve not had a chance to talk to him yet. He disappeared before I had the pleasure. But from what I can gather, he’s quite the tearaway. His father’s an enabler, Marc Lambourd, probably because they’re a lot alike.”

  “Fabien’s your chief suspect?”

  “I don’t know I’d go that far. It implies I have evidence against him.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Not really. He was having a . . .” Hugo cast around for the right word. “I suppose you could say liaison with our victim, which she lied about.”

  “But they didn’t have a falling out, no reason for him to try and kill her?”

  “No. And even if they did, why let her walk down the hallway and do it where he could be caught, instead of just killing her in his room?”

  “You’re right, that doesn’t make sense.” Ambassador Taylor frowned. “But he and the paintings both go missing? That seems like an odd coincidence, or something.”

  “It does, but I also have no reason for him to steal them.”

  “He might have thought they were valuable?” Taylor suggested.

  “I doubt it. Plus they were returned so quickly, whoever took them barely had time to try and sell them.”

  “What if he had a buyer lined up, and that person changed his mind?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Hugo said. “If that were the case, he’d have stolen what the buyer wanted. Either a specific piece for a specific reason, or the buyer would’ve told him which ones were valuable.”

  “True. Any theories at all?”

  “None I’m prepared to share,” Hugo said. “Camille has people talking to possible buyers for paintings, stolen and otherwise, but there are so many art shops and underground markets I don’t expect her to turn up anything.”

  “And Fabien himself?”

  “A mystery within a mystery. We found a stolen car with his phone inside it, but it all seems very convenient.”

  “Like he wanted you to find it?”

  “Right.” Or someone else did, Hugo thought. “I just hope he’s all right. No one in the family seems too concerned, though, which is somewhat reassuring.”

  “Anyone in the family with reason to do him harm?”

  “Maybe, it’s a pretty dysfunctional unit. His aunt, Noelle Manis, had some issues with him. Something happened between her and Fabien, but she’s not telling, so I have no idea how serious it was.”

  “Tight-lipped, eh? So, what about the boy’s father, Marc?”

  “Very French royalty, that one. Dresses the part, accessorized with shoes I couldn’t afford with a year’s salary, gold watch, and cologne made from the tears of fairies.”

  Taylor laughed. “The perfect gentleman.”

  “Now, yes. He’s put his wild days behind him and plays the doting son and loyal family member. Camille did find some gambling losses, which might have meant debt, but it didn’t come to much more than $50,000, which doesn’t seem too much for a Lambourd.”

  “Not as much as you thought, huh?”

  “No, which means my little kidnapping theory goes away,” Hugo said. “I guess he really is selling his house to downsize.”

  “People do that. Who gets the château when the old lady dies?”

  “Under French law, they all do. She can’t leave it to just one of them.”

  “That’s right.” Taylor snapped his fingers. “I knew that.”

  “But there’s nothing to stop her giving away all the other family treasures before she goes.”

  “You think Marc is playing a role for loot?”

  “Maybe, but I can’t see what it has to do with Tammy being attacked or the pictures being stolen.”

  “And returned,” Taylor said, nodding in agreement. “He’s cooperative, though?”

  “Marc?” Hugo nodded. “In his own way, yes. Like his mother he wants to protect the family name and have us wind things up as soon as possible, but he’s been willing to talk to us at least.”

  “Good. Who else is there?”

  “His younger brother, Édouard, who styles himself as an anti-American, asexual, art-loving recluse.”

  “Interesting. Any reason he’d want to kill Tammy Fotinos?”
/>   “I don’t think he hates America quite that much, and otherwise, no.”

  “Doesn’t he have a twin sister?”

  “Erika Sipiora. And she’s actually Marc’s twin, and looks the part.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Dresses well, very educated, polite. Everything you’d expect from French nobility.”

  “Without the wild past?” Taylor asked.

  “Not that I know of. No arrests, not even any wild stories about her. Married well, though, an Italian count who bought them a lovely house in Luxembourg, which she doesn’t like to stay in now he’s dead.”

  “Did she kill him?” Taylor winked. “Runs in the family, you know.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Hugo said with a chuckle. Then he remembered what she’d told him, and turned serious. “She had a child, you know. Died at age three, kidney disease.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was ten years ago, but she’s obviously still very affected by it. The polite but remote facade cracked a little when she talked about it.”

  “Hardly surprising,” Taylor said. “That’s not something you ever get over, I’m sure.”

  “Agreed. Anyway, no reason to think she had a grudge against Tammy, and she’s plenty rich by the looks of things so didn’t need to steal and sell paintings.”

  “Who’s left, then?”

  “Of the household, the youngest sister, Noelle Manis, and Karine Berger.” Hugo sat back and crossed his legs at the ankles. “She’s the old lady’s attendant. Personal servant. Whatever you want to call her, I have no idea.”

  “And?”

  “I did speak to Noelle, who is less than enthusiastic about Marc’s fiancée, but I don’t think that’s more than a touch of jealousy or resentment. Not enough for a motive for murder. And Madame Lambourd still isn’t letting us talk to Karine. Too traumatized from finding Tammy at the top of the stairs.”

  “Too traumatized? Or protecting her for another reason?”

  “We’ll find out. But Marc confirmed she’s got some sort of learning disability so I don’t know that she’s sophisticated enough to fashion a garrote, attack Tammy, fake finding her, steal four paintings, and then return two of them, all without being found out.” Hugo checked his watch. “Still, I do intend to talk to her, or Camille will, more likely. Just to be sure.” He stood and stretched his back. “Well, I’m headed to my office, do a couple of things, and then I’m going home.”

  “Good plan. Let me know of any developments, yes?”

  “Of course.” Hugo let himself out and made his way down to his office. When he got to Mari Harada’s door he knocked, waited for her reply, then opened it and poked his head in. “How’s tricks? Investigation going well?”

  Harada smiled. “None of your business, as you well know.”

  “It’s okay, the ambassador said you could fill me in.”

  “Is that so?” She raised an elegant eyebrow. “I’ll just double-check with him how much I can share then.” She reached slowly for the phone, her eyes never leaving Hugo’s.

  “Okay, fine, so maybe he didn’t use those exact words,” Hugo conceded.

  “And what words did he use, exactly?’

  “Why is everyone around here so insolent?” Hugo asked. “I’m going to my office to pout.”

  “We get it from you,” Harada said, and laughed. Hugo couldn’t help but smile, too, and gently closed the office door as he left. Once behind his desk, he dialed Tom’s number.

  “Hey, pops. Still mad at me?”

  “Yes,” Hugo said. “I’m calling to cash in a favor.”

  “Yeah, you have a few of those tucked away. What’s up?”

  “Your contact within the Paris police. I need something from him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As soon as Hugo had hung up from Tom, his phone buzzed and Lieutenant Lerens’s number popped onto the screen.

  “Camille, what is it? Does everyone work on Sundays now?”

  “Why, where are you?

  “At the office. So are the ambassador and Mari.”

  “It’s an American thing, all this working nonstop. I’m in the hot tub with a few friends. Care to join?”

  Hugo laughed. “I don’t hear any splashing, so where are you really?”

  “I might be working,” she admitted. “A weird development, too.”

  “Those are my favorite developments.” He felt a rumble in his stomach and remembered the time. “Is this urgent? If not, how about some wine and pizza?”

  “That sounds good. I’m in the car, so same as before—pick somewhere close to you and I’ll meet you there.”

  Twenty minutes later an aproned waiter showed them to a small table in the shade of the awning at Le Boissy-d’Anglas on the street of the same name. Couples and families strolled past on the wide sidewalk in front of them, moving at a Sunday evening pace and occasionally throwing glances at the half-dozen occupied tables to see what people were eating and drinking. Lerens ordered them a decent bottle of red wine—like Claudia, she wasn’t one to suffer the house offering, although her brand of snobbery did not come from money, like Claudia’s. No, hers came from growing up in Bordeaux, where she’d sampled the best wines with her father and brothers from the age of thirteen until she left home at age twenty-five. But, just like Claudia’s, it was an affliction she couldn’t shake.

  They sat quietly as the waiter uncorked the bottle with a few deft movements, and as he directed an American couple to a table in his almost-perfect English. He poured a sample and Lerens poked her nose into the glass, gave a deep inhale, and nodded.

  “Merci,” she said, and the waiter poured a glass for Hugo before recharging Lerens’s glass.

  “So, what’s the news?” Hugo asked, once the waiter had bustled off into the restaurant.

  “I got a call from Édouard Lambourd a couple of hours ago. He wanted to meet me.”

  “A confession by any chance?”

  “No, sadly not.” Lerens slowly swirled the wine in her glass to let it breathe. “Remember, I said it was weird news. I didn’t say it was good news.”

  “Very true.”

  “He wanted to meet in a public place, so we got ice cream in the Tuileries.”

  Hugo smiled. “Nice to know he got over his silly little aversion to the twenty-first century. From not knowing what to call you to inviting you on an ice cream date, that’s quite the change of heart.”

  “Right. But it wasn’t exactly a date—he was scared.”

  “Scared?” Hugo’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “That’s new.”

  “He said someone was following him all morning.”

  “Seems unlikely.”

  “That’s what I thought. But he showed me photos, and the same person appears in each one, three different parts of the city.”

  “Who is it—anyone we know?”

  “Look for yourself.” Lerens pulled out her phone and opened the photo app. “Last three pictures.”

  Hugo took the phone and scrolled through the images. One looked to have been taken in Parc Monceau, one on an unidentifiable pedestrian street, and the last in the Tuileries, with the entrance to the Louvre in the distant background. He went back to the first and studied it, and then the others, more closely. It was definitely the same figure in each picture. Hugo squinted, and then enlarged each photo until it blurred, but however he tried to see the person, they were far enough away to remain anonymous.

  “A baseball cap, sunglasses, and a beard are about all I can see of his face,” Lerens said. “Wearing a blue track suit that you can get anywhere, and from the people and objects around him, I’d say close to six feet.”

  “Is that a beard, though, or shade?” Hugo squinted again. “Hard to tell.”

  “My money is on a beard, but who knows if it’s even real. I’m having our crime scene people take a look, see if they can enhance the image, but I’m inclined to believe Édouard that the guy was following him. He said he saw him f
ive times, only thought to get photos on the third sighting.”

  “Yeah,” Hugo agreed. “Spotting him twice or even three times might be a coincidence. But not in five different locations.”

  “Agreed. What do you make of it?”

  “No idea,” Hugo said truthfully. He finally took a sip of wine and was grateful he’d let Lerens do the choosing. Fresh fruit rolled like velvet on his tongue, and the musty taste of Bordeaux barrels gave the wine a fullness that Hugo relished before swallowing. “Whoever the follower is he’s not very good, that much I can tell you.”

  “Is it possible the family is being targeted by very amateur kidnappers?” Lerens asked. “The finding of Fabien’s cell phone after his disappearance, maybe that was clumsy and not intentional. Then this poor example of following . . .”

  “It’s certainly possible. They have money, have no bodyguards, aren’t popular enough to garner much publicity, and therefore police interest, like a movie star would.” Hugo eyed the menu and settled on a ham and garlic pizza. “You may be on to something. Objectively speaking they’re almost ideal targets for kidnap.”

  The waiter returned and they ordered, the same thing as it turned out, and then they sat back in silence to watch the world go by for a few minutes, and to let the wheels turn at their own pace in their minds. An old man walked slowly past them, leaning on a knobbled cane with every step, his worn blue beret tipped back on his head. Despite the warmth of the evening he wore a long trench coat, and Hugo watched as the man came to a gradual halt past the restaurant, turn as if in slow motion, and then walk back toward them. He settled behind one of the small tables to Hugo’s right, a sigh of relief escaping the man’s lips as he got off his feet.

  “I know him from somewhere,” Lerens said. “He’s a World War Two veteran.”

  “Not many of those left,” Hugo said. The man dug into his pants pockets, first the left one, then the right, pulling out loose change and piling it on the table. He counted it with care, a shaky forefinger pulling one coin at a time away from the pile.

  “That’s not right,” Lerens said.

  “No, it’s not,” Hugo agreed. “Split it?”