The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

“Definitely.” Lerens gestured to the waiter, who’d been hovering to give the old man time to count his stash. “Monsieur, please tell him his meal is paid for. Anything he wants.”

  “Including a bottle of wine,” Hugo added.

  “Oui, bien sur” the waiter said. Yes, of course.“But he drinks Negronis.”

  “Then a couple of those,” Hugo said.

  The waiter nodded and walked over to the man, bending to convey the offer. When he’d done so he straightened, and the old man turned slowly in his seat. He lifted a hand in thanks and gave them the slightest of smiles. In unison, Hugo and Lerens lifted their wine glasses and toasted his health: “Santé, monsieur.”

  Their pizza arrived a few moments later and, as they dragged hot slices onto plates, Hugo spoke. “We need to speak to Karine Berger, whether the old lady likes it or not.”

  “I know. And I have a plan for that.”

  “Which is?”

  “Madame Lambourd takes a nap at precisely two in the afternoon every day. Karine Berger waits for thirty minutes in case she needs something, and then lies down herself at two-thirty.”

  “So you’re going a-knocking at two-fifteen?”

  “I most certainly am.”

  “You think I’m allowed back in the house?” Hugo asked.

  “Good question. Why don’t you try talking to Édouard, see if you can get more information from him about his follower? Or reassure him he’s not about to be kidnapped, at least.”

  “Pick me up from the embassy tomorrow?”

  “Take an Uber.”

  “That’s not very professional. Plus, the red tape I have to swim through to get reimbursed . . .”

  “Fine,” Lerens said. “I’ll play chauffeur. Just give me a good review.”

  The next morning Hugo walked from his apartment on Rue Jacob, crossing Pont du Carrousel with the seven a.m. traffic before making his way to the gardens of the Tuileries, which were quiet this early. His boots crunched on the gravel pathway, and either side of him the grass glistened with dew. He smiled at the trails of paw prints where unleashed dogs had trotted across the manicured lawns earlier that morning. Hugo took this walk nearly every day. It was his commute, a peaceful yet energizing routine on every other day, but somehow not today. A slow anxiety rose in his chest, and instead of enjoying the cool morning air and the emptiness of the park, Hugo felt himself eying those who were there, checking to see what they had in their hands, if they carried backpacks, or whether they were walking alone. Just like he was.

  People were watching him, too. The city had upped the police presence in the Tuileries, and groups of three or four flics were doing just what he was, checking out the lone walkers, looking casual but on alert for anything out of the ordinary. And for the first time in a long while, Hugo felt the weight of his gun under his armpit, wondered what the policemen would do if they knew he was carrying.

  Shoot first and ask questions later? he thought, and tensed a little as two of the uniformed men, about fifty yards ahead, stared at him. He looked down at the pathway but noticed them exchange words and then move toward him. Hugo, dressed in a blue blazer, slacks, and a button-down shirt, didn’t have his credentials on display and didn’t much want to reach for them.

  The cops separated a little as they got close, blocking the pathway, and the one to Hugo’s right, the younger one, spoke.

  “Bonjour, monsieur. Where are you going this morning?”

  “Bonjour. I’m walking to work.”

  “And where do you work, monsieur?” The flic’s tone was friendly enough, but his body language told a different story: feet apart, squared up, his hand hovering close to his holster.

  “At the United States embassy. I am head of security there, so you should know I am carrying a gun right now.”

  The young cop immediately unclipped the strap on his holster and half-drew his gun, stopping only when his older colleague snapped, “Wait!” at him.

  “I know who you are,” the old flic said. “From the television. You’re the guy who shot the gunman here, right?”

  “That’s right. Hugo Marston.”

  “Well, then, let me shake your hand. I’m Alain Dupont. This is Mathieu Clement. He’s a little nervous after that event.”

  “Understandably,” Hugo said. He shook both men’s hands.

  “Sorry about almost pulling on you,” Clement said. “When you said you had a gun, that’s about all I heard.”

  “No problem,” Hugo assured him.

  “Is it true the gunman was an American?” Dupont asked. “I’m hearing all kinds of crazy rumors about that.”

  “I’m not part of the investigation,” Hugo deflected. “For obvious reasons. But to my knowledge, those things you’ve been hearing are nothing but crazy bullshit and rumors.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Dupont said, with a nod. “Well, Monsieur Marston, it was an honor to meet you, but we should let you get to work.”

  Hugo thanked him and shook their hands again, aware that their eyes were on his back as he walked away, aware, too, that if the shooter turned out to be an American after all, even men like Alain Dupont and Matheiu Clement might buy into a conspiracy theory that could spell the end of his time in Paris, and maybe his career with the foreign service.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  When he got to the RSO offices, Hugo was welcomed by the smiling face ofhis secretary, Emma, and the smell of coffee brewing.

  “Good morning. I wasn’t sure whether you were on administrative leave or working, so I put on a pot just in case.”

  “You’re an angel,” Hugo said. “And as for my status, I’m equally confused, don’t worry.”

  “Well, here you are. I feel like I’ve not seen much of you lately. Busy dodging the media?”

  “Very. Oh, that might be them now . . .” Hugo pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket. “Nope, even worse. Tom.”

  “I miss him, too.”

  “I don’t.” Hugo answered. “Tom, I didn’t know you were awake.”

  “I wasn’t, but I got a message just now from my police contact and now have eyes on the reports you asked for.”

  “Can you send them to me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tom, don’t be difficult.” Hugo poured coffee into a mug and stirred in a spoonful of sugar, and then winked at Emma as he retreated into his office.

  “I’m not. I gave him my word I wouldn’t show it to anyone else, had to. Tell me what you want to know.”

  “Jeez, Tom, I want to know everything.” Hugo pulled a new notepad from a desk drawer and picked up a pen. “Still no ID on the shooter?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then let’s start with the names of the people he shot.”

  “Okay, well, first up is Annabelle Brodeur. She’s the only one who died.”

  “Age and address?”

  Tom sighed as if he were divulging state secrets, but gave Hugo what he wanted. “Two people injured, neither of them seriously. Thank God. You want their details, too?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay, they’re grouped together so let me take a snap and text it to you.”

  “That’s not sharing?”

  “Hush, no, it’s not, I’m a man of my word.”

  “Of course you are.” Hugo chuckled. “Any progress on finding out who took the gun from the embassy?”

  “Let me check . . . No, doesn’t look like it. What else can I tell you?”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “I’m curious about the shooter’s path of travel. Anything in there about it?”

  Hugo heard the rustle of papers, then: “They found some CCTV footage of him right before he entered the Tuileries, southeast corner.”

  “Interesting. Is there a crime scene diagram showing where his victims were?”

  “Of course. Marchand is nothing if not thorough.”

  “Can you snap that and send it to me?”

  “I don’t know, Hugo. That’s a little too close to showing you t
he report itself. It’s not just names and addresses . . .”

  “Tom, come on. My name’s being smeared by a bunch of conspiracy theorists, and you certainly didn’t help in that regard.”

  “Fine, fine,” Tom said grumpily. “There, sent it to you. But it didn’t come from me, got that?”

  “Got it. Thank you.”

  “Welcome. I think,” Tom said. “So let me ask you something. Don’t you think it’s weird no one has come forward to identify the shooter? No friends, no family, no neighbors. No one.”

  “It is weird,” Hugo agreed. “Normally they’d release a photo, but they don’t have one of him alive, and because he is young, well, the police are reluctant to publish the photo of a dead kid.”

  “Fair enough, although the media’s been using shots of him from bystanders, after he was down. Maybe he was a recluse?”

  “That’d be my guess. They’ll figure it out, that I’m sure of.”

  “Yeah. So what are you gonna do with the information I just gave you?”

  “I was thinking I’d pay a visit to the home of the dead woman, express my condolences. Maybe visit the other victims, too.”

  “Seriously? You’re not supposed to go within a mile of this investigation. Marchand will have kittens if he finds out.”

  “Then let’s hope he doesn’t find out.”

  “What do you hope to gain from that?” Tom pressed. “I mean, seems like you risk getting in trouble for not much reward.”

  Hugo had put Tom on speaker and was staring at the mapped-out crime scene. “I don’t know exactly.”

  “I recognize that tone,” Tom said. “You have an idea but you don’t want to share it.”

  “Something like that. But it’s not much of an idea, to be honest.”

  “Be like that, see if I care. Hey, what’s the ambassador doing about the gun thing?”

  “He’s apoplectic,” Hugo said. “He’s ordered everyone to cooperate with the French police, and not play the diplomatic immunity card. Anyone who does gets fired.”

  “Tough but fair, if you ask me.”

  “My guess is it’s one of the locals who work here.”

  “You think?”

  “Why would someone risk their career with the State Department, not to mention a trip to a French prison, to smuggle a gun out of here?”

  “No clue, but I bet the conspiracy websites could tell you.”

  “Probably,” Hugo said. “But I’ll be steering clear of those for a while. Oh, one more question—do you have the autopsy report there?”

  “I do indeed. The shooter is definitely dead, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Thanks, Tom, super helpful. I was wondering about the tox report.”

  “Oh, right. Hang on.” Another rustle of papers. “Here it is. Nothing in his blood except ketamine, which would’ve come from the medics’ attempts to save him.”

  “Yep, sounds right. What about the victim, anything unusual about hers?”

  “Yes, Hugo. The three fucking bullet holes in her chest.” Hugo heard the rustling of paper. “Seriously, though, other than that, she was hunky dory, pretty much perfect health.”

  “Okay, thanks, Tom, I appreciate the help.”

  “Let me know when you can share your bright idea.”

  “Will do.” Hugo hung up and sat back, gesturing Emma to come in when she poked her head around the door. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, just want to be clear that you’re not talking to the media. Had three calls this morning already and I’ve basically been hanging up on them.”

  “That’s perfect, saves me from having to do it. Thank you.” He looked down at his phone as a text came in from Camille Lerens. Meet me at Château Lamb. Urgent. “Is Cecilee around?”

  “I think so. Need a ride somewhere?”

  “I do indeed.” Hugo got up, texting his subordinate as he moved to the door. “Something’s afoot at the Lambourd place.”

  Twenty minutes later, Hugo stepped out of the car and thanked Cecilee Walker for the ride.

  “You need some help in there?” she asked. “Or I can wait if you’ll need a ride back.”

  “Thanks, I’ll let you know if I do. And I can get a ride back with Camille. I think.”

  “Gotcha. Call if you need me.”

  Hugo nodded and started toward the house, noting the white crime scene unit van parked on the gravel on front of the main doors. As Hugo stepped into the downstairs foyer, a uniformed officer intercepted him and asked for identification.

  “Of course.” Hugo showed his embassy credentials.

  “Merci, Monsieur Marston,” he said. “Lieutenant Lerens is expecting you in the main living room. You know where that is?”

  “I do, thank you.” Hugo trotted up the stairs and found Lerens, a couple more uniformed men, and two crime scene techs in white coveralls. They were gathered around a table looking at something, and as he got closer he could see it was a large and opened cardboard box.

  “Camille, what’s all the excitement about? You said it was urgent.”

  “Ah, Hugo, bien. I wanted you to see the evidence before it went to the lab for testing.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Two things,” Lerens said. “First, the other missing paintings.”

  “Someone returned them?” Hugo heard the surprise in his own voice.

  “Yes. With a little addition.” Lerens nodded toward the box. “Have a look for yourself.”

  Hugo stepped up to the table and peered down into the box. “A couple bags of peas? Frozen peas, and . . . Oh. That’s not good.”

  “Not at all.”

  A plastic sandwich bag was wedged between the two bags of peas, and it contained a single object that the sender had obviously intended to preserve as much as possible: a human finger.

  “Tell me what we know,” Hugo said.

  “The box was left on the sidewalk, in front of the house and not on the property,” Lerens said. “A printed note said, This box belongs at Château Lambourd. Reward for delivery. Some kids brought it to the front door and Karine Berger gave them a few euros.”

  “When was this?”

  “Not even an hour ago, but we have no idea how long the box was in the street. The peas are still pretty frozen so probably not long.”

  “No cameras or anything out there?” Hugo asked.

  “No, none. I have people canvassing the area, but I’m betting no one noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Do we think it’s . . .?”

  “We don’t know. The family certainly think it’s Fabien’s, and to be honest I don’t know who else’s it would be.”

  “No distinguishing features?”

  “Like what, exactly?” Lerens arched an eyebrow. “It’s a finger.”

  “I don’t know. A ring, a wart.” Hugo smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, dumb question, sorry.”

  “No ring and we didn’t inspect for warts. I have a better idea.”

  “His prints are on file from the recent arrest.”

  “They are, and not just from that one.”

  “Can you tell if it was removed pre- or postmortem?” Hugo asked.

  “No, I’m not even sure the pathologist will be able to say for sure.”

  “Either way . . .” Hugo shook off the chill that ran down the back of his neck. “So, anything to know about the returned paintings?”

  “Nothing obvious. We’ll check for prints, but I don’t have high hopes.” She frowned and stepped away from the table after nodding for the techs to carry on packing up the evidence. “What do you make of it?”

  “You go first.”

  “I’m confused, to be honest,” she said. “What is this person trying to achieve?”

  “Cutting a finger off is pretty extreme,” Hugo conceded. “You don’t do that unless you have a damned good reason.”

  “Like making sure a ransom gets paid.”

  “Well, that’s true.” Hugo stroked his chin in thought. “B
ut let me guess, no ransom note?”

  “Correct. No ransom note, or any other type of communication.”

  “Interesting,” Hugo said. “Very interesting indeed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Lieutenant Lerens was right that the package had affected the Lambourd family. When Marc Lambourd walked into the living room he was pale, and the arrogance and bluster had left him. This was no longer a jape involving his son, another scrape with the law that money and the Lambourd name would get him out of. If that finger was Fabien’s, this was something entirely different and, unless he was an incredible actor, Hugo could see that realization etched across the man’s face.

  “We don’t know anything for sure,” Lerens was assuring him. “You opened the box when it arrived?”

  “Yes, Karine brought it into the kitchen while I was there. Since it was addressed to the family and no one in particular, I opened it.”

  “Did you touch the contents?”

  “No, I . . . I reached in but then stopped. I saw what it was, and . . .”

  “That’s good.”

  “You can check to see if . . . if it’s his?”

  “I think so, yes. We’ll do what we can.”

  Lambourd sank into an armchair and sighed.

  “What does it mean? Who would do this?”

  “I don’t know,” Lerens said. “Does it mean he’s . . . dead?”

  “No,” Hugo said. “It most definitely doesn’t mean that. Let me ask you something. The paintings, did any of them have any special meaning?”

  “We’ve been asked about this before,” Lambourd said. “No. Not to me, anyway.” He shook his head. “In the first set that got returned my mother said I look like my grandfather, but I couldn’t ever see it. So, no is still the answer.”

  “That’s the one that hung over the main fireplace,” Hugo said.

  “Right. Of no value and questionable quality.” He sat back and looked between Hugo and Lerens. “So what happens now? You have to find my son, please. Whatever it takes.”

  “We’ll need your help to begin with,” Hugo said.

  “Anything, just tell me.”

  “Your mother was less than thrilled with having me around. I need to have access to the house, the grounds, and everyone here.”