The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “No, I don’t think so. It all happened so fast, it’s possible he did and that I didn’t hear, or I just don’t remember.”

  “Of course. Do you remember seeing him pull the gun out of his backpack?”

  Brodeur thought for a moment. “No. I think I’d just put some trash into a nearby trashcan. That’s right, some food that was starting to attract attention from ants and flies. I was about twenty yards, less even, and just saw him standing there with the gun pointed at my wife.”

  “And I think you’ve said he didn’t try to shoot you.”

  “No, he just started waving the gun at everyone, me included, then kept walking, firing shots. Then you appeared and stopped it.”

  “Thank you, and I’m sorry to make you think about those events again.”

  Brodeur smiled. “Well, I did ask if you had questions, so that’s my fault.”

  “That’s the end of them.” Hugo stood. “Thank you for your time, I greatly appreciate it. And I’m sorry for your loss, truly.”

  “And the peanut thing.” Brodeur stood and winked to show Hugo he was joking. “You washed your hands?”

  “I did. But let’s play it safe and not shake.”

  Arnaud Brodeur nodded in agreement and walked Hugo to the door, locking it behind him as Hugo started down the stairs. His phone rang before he reached the next floor down, and Adrien Marchand’s name appeared on the display.

  “This is Hugo.”

  “Marchand here. I said I’d call and let you know what was in Victor Roche’s suitcase. The one under his bed.”

  “Thank you, absolutely,” Hugo said.

  “Where are you? Are you exercising?”

  “Walking down stairs. But I can listen and walk at the same time.”

  “Quite the treasure trove showing a paranoid and delusional young man, or so one of my colleagues with psychological training tells me.”

  “Like what?” Hugo paused inside the front doors, where it would be quieter than on the street.

  “He had quite a few identification cards. FBI, CIA, and MI6. All poor quality but real enough if you want to believe it. He had a map of the Tuileries, and a manifesto we’re going to have to release at some stage.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “When we release it.” Marchand paused. “Hugo, we’re not even supposed to be having this conversation, so I can’t be sending you things we’re keeping under wraps.”

  “Fine, I can wait.” Hugo tried to contain his frustration. “Can you tell me what he wrote?”

  “In short, no. It’s a garbled mess of delusional nonsense. The best I can say is, it was him against the world, and he needed people to see the real him. He talked about a grand gesture, or grand finale. Oh, and a lot about hating his mother, but I think we gathered that much already.”

  “Yeah, the head in the freezer kinda gives that away,” Hugo said. “Any mention of his father, or some kind of father figure from his past?”

  “Not that I remember. It might have been in there but I wasn’t looking for it. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Hugo thought for a moment. “The woman who was killed, Annabelle Brodeur. If I can’t see the kid’s manifesto can I at least see the medical examiner’s report on her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The better question is why?” Marchand said.

  “Well, now that you’ve declared me free and clear of any further investigation . . . you have, right?”

  “Look, not officially, but you know we have.”

  “Please make it official. Anyway, I’d like to see the medical examiner’s report and the map in the police report showing the locations of the victims.”

  “Wait, how do you know the latter even exists?”

  Shit, I’m not supposed to know about that, Hugo chided himself, but thought quickly. “It’d be a poor investigation if you hadn’t mapped the locations of the victims. How else would you account for all the shots fired and the trajectories of the bullets?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But the answer is no. Case closed.”

  “Adrien. It really can be if I can just see those documents.”

  Marchand hesitated, but Hugo knew the policeman’s curiosity would get the better of him. It did. “Why do you want to see those things specifically?”

  “I’ve had an idea. I need those to see whether it’s a good one.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Hugo took a taxi back to the embassy, enjoying the peace and quiet on the ride there. Some months earlier he’d decided to err on the side of caution and told his staff not to use ride-share transportation, despite its ease and convenience—what was safe for most people was a potential security threat for embassy staffers. There, Hugo was immediately summoned to Ambassador Taylor’s office.

  His face was dark with anger. “I thought I made myself very clear about your involvement in the shooter investigation.”

  “Boss, I was just—”

  “Ignoring explicit orders is what you were doing!” Taylor thundered. “Look at this.” He held up his tablet, which showed a photo of Hugo exiting the Roche house under a headline that read, Mastermind Caught Meddling?

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “Precisely my thought. What the hell were you doing there?”

  Hugo had thought the conspiracy angle was dead, along with Victor Roche, who was clearly not an American.

  “Marchand seemed to think I could help. Plus, as far as he’s concerned this conspiracy nonsense is dead and buried, so he was fine with me being there.”

  “That tells me a little about his judgment,” Taylor snapped. “And yours is well under review.”

  “Boss, it’s his investigation. We can’t pander to the crazies out there, and if I can help him wrap up that investigation sooner rather than later, that’s good, right?”

  “Did you?”

  “Not there and then,” Hugo admitted.

  “Well, what did you find out?” Taylor was calming down, like a kettle coming off the boil.

  “That before he went on his rampage he killed his mother.”

  Taylor paused, clearly surprised. “Is that unusual?”

  “Not for a mass shooter, no. It’s pretty common for them to kill someone close to them, especially if they feel like there’s unfinished business between them.”

  “You think there was in this case?”

  “I’m gonna have to say yes to that. A big fat yes.”

  “How so?”

  “He chopped her into several pieces.” Hugo grimaced. “Head in the freezer, which scared the crap out of Marchand’s partner when he came across it.”

  “Jeez, I bet.”

  “That’s unusual, if you ask me, the dismemberment.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  “Come on, Hugo, you must have some thoughts.”

  “I do, but I need to get my mind back on the Lambourd case. The boy Fabien is still missing, and whoever’s behind this is now taunting us.”

  “The finger in the box,” Taylor said.

  “Precisely. And I have to confess, it doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Explain that.”

  “Okay, sure.” Hugo took a deep breath. “For one thing, it brings added heat to the case. We’re now a hundred percent sure that whoever did this has committed one, and maybe more, acts of violence. That means more police, more scrutiny, and more chance of being caught. So why do it?”

  “Good point. But I assume for the same reason every criminal taunts the police. He thinks he’s smarter than them and he likes to see a reaction.”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it. But why return the paintings, too? They would have been a taunt if sent by themselves, but along with the finger they don’t do much in terms of provocation.”

  “Why, then?”

  “I don’t . . .” A thought hit him. “Hang on a sec, boss.” He pulled out his phone and dialed Lieutenant Lerens. When she pi
cked up, he spoke hurriedly. “Camille, it’s Hugo.”

  “Oh, the amazing disappearing Hugo?” Her tone was sarcastic, not joking, and Hugo remembered that he’d left her in the lurch. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. But you probably saw in the news they identified the Tuileries shooter.”

  “I did. Some French kid. But the news didn’t explain why my investigative partner disappeared on me without a word.”

  “Oh, right,” Hugo said. “Sorry about that, a rush of blood to the head.”

  “I assumed something like that.” Her voice softened. “Just don’t do it again.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Anyway, the news also said nothing about what you found in the house, or the kid’s motive. Religious whacko, I presume?”

  “No real evidence of that,” Hugo said. “It appears his mother was extremely religious, but of the going-to-church and praying-all-day kind, not the violent kind.”

  “The kid too?”

  “Less so, if anything.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’re still working on it,” Hugo said.

  “We? The ambassador has pulled you off my case for that one now?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like—”

  “Some warning would’ve been welcome, Hugo. And polite.”

  “Camille, no. Lambourd is still my priority, that’s why I’m calling. Where are the four paintings?”

  “Still being processed.”

  “Good. When they are, what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought about it. If we don’t find anything, return them, I guess.”

  “That’s what you’d normally do?”

  “Yes. If they have no evidentiary value there’s no point keeping them. Obviously we’ll take photos in case they’re needed for any kind of court case, but the pictures themselves can go back. Why do you ask?”

  “Just an idea that they are more important to this little mystery than we’ve previously thought.”

  “In what way?”

  “Still working on that.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Yes, let’s talk in person at the Lambourd place. And make sure the family is there. I have something to say to them.”

  “So do I. We’ll know who owns that finger by then, and I’ll need to share that information. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning work for you?”

  “What about . . .?” Hugo checked his watch and was surprised to see that the working day was at an end. “That’ll do just fine.”

  The next morning, the family gathered in the living room, and Hugo watched from one side while pretending to be on his phone. The lady of the house, Charlotte Lambourd, sat in a chintz armchair reading the morning newspaper, apparently oblivious to the presence of anyone else, including her caretaker, Karine Berger, who fluttered about her like an anxious butterfly.

  Édouard Lambourd sat on one end of the long sofa in the room, slowly stirring a cup of coffee that perched on a delicate saucer. He threw occasional glances toward his mother, as if wishing he’d thought to bring something to read, too. He was dressed in a cream cricket sweater and gray slacks, and was studiously ignoring both Hugo and Camille Lerens. The other end of the sofa was occupied by Erika Sipiora, wearing a flowing white summer dress and matching white sandals. Her attention was on her twin brother, Marc, who was pacing in front of the fireplace. All of them had been affected by the finger in the box—it was clear from their faces—but Marc appeared shaken to his core. He’d gone from thinking this was another Fabien jape to fearing that his only son might now be dead.

  “Can we get started?” Marc Lambourd asked, stopping to look at Lerens and then Hugo.

  “Your sister Noelle isn’t here,” Lerens pointed out.

  “She’s not feeling well, again.” There was something in the elder brother’s voice that gave Hugo pause.

  “I guess you could say the real Lambourd family is here,” Edward said quietly. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Adopted as a baby doesn’t qualify her?” Hugo made an effort to hide the disdain in his voice, but only because of the news they were about to deliver.

  “She’s part of the family.” Charlotte Lambourd spoke up, and her tone was firm. “My son has a strange sense of humor—ignore him.”

  “Alors, that’s fine, we can begin.” Lerens cleared her throat. “The first thing is not good news, I’m afraid. The finger in the box definitely belongs to Fabien.”

  Marc Lambourd closed his eyes for a moment and paled even more, steadying himself with a hand on the mantle. “You’re absolutely sure?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, I’m so very sorry,” Lerens said. “His print was a definite match. I had three different fingerprint analysts do the work, and they all reached the same conclusion.”

  “What does this mean exactly?” Marc Lambourd asked.

  “I wouldn’t want to speculate,” Lerens answered. “I don’t think that would do any good at all.”

  Lambourd shook his head and muttered something under his breath. It was clear the family was giving him this moment to gather himself or to take the lead on asking questions. When he remained quiet for a minute, Erika Sipiora spoke up.

  “Are you any closer to finding him?” she asked.

  “We’re doing everything we can, I promise,” Lerens said.

  “That’s not very specific,” Sipiora replied.

  “When I know something, when I have something I can share, I promise I will.”

  “Which means that right now . . .” She glanced at her twin brother and didn’t finish the sentence.

  Hugo knew how the rest of that sentence was about to go: Which means that right now, you’re NOT closer to finding him. He was glad Sipiora had the decency to cut herself off. Marc didn’t need a reminder of that particular truth.

  Lerens looked over at Hugo. “Monsieur Marston had something for you all, I believe.”

  “Oh, yes,” Hugo started. “It’s not much but I wanted to let you know about the paintings.” He held up an apologetic hand. “I know that may not seem like the most important thing right now, but we like to keep you informed of even the smaller things.”

  Lerens had picked him up from his apartment that morning, and he’d laid out what he was about to tell the Lambourd family. He’d not told her why, which had irritated her, but she knew how he worked, and it was a personal rule that he didn’t share a theory until it had taken on a more solid form. He’d seen too many times on the job an investigator come up with or be told a theory of the case, and have that theory drive the investigation rather than the facts. Theories are easier to come up with than facts, most of the time, and a whole helluva lot easier to use as fuel for a case. He couldn’t even recall who’d told him that, but it was true, and as much as Tom, the ambassador, Lerens, and even Claudia could push him to share an embryonic theory, he wouldn’t do it.

  “We’ll take any news we can get,” Édouard Lambourd said, still staring into his coffee cup.

  “Two of the four paintings have been processed, the first two that were returned. I’m afraid nothing came of those tests, no DNA or fingerprints that help us.” Just ones that didn’t, Hugo thought.

  “So you’re returning them,” Édouard said matter-of-factly.

  “No. Not yet. Same for the other two once testing is complete.”

  “Why not?” Erika Sipiora asked. “If they’re not evidence why can’t we have them back?”

  “Technically, they are still evidence,” Hugo assured her. “They were the items stolen. Just because they didn’t produce usable evidence, that doesn’t change anything.”

  “So how long will you keep them?” Sipiora gestured to the empty spaces on the walls. “They may not be valuable or great works of art, but they have sentimental value to us and give the room balance.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll need to keep them in the police evidence locker until the case is resolved,” Hugo said.

  “Resolved?” Sipiora asked. “What do
es that mean exactly?”

  “It means they stay with the police until the perpetrator is caught and prosecuted.”

  Édouard shook his head with disappointment, but his sister wasn’t about to let it go. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You’re punishing us for the sins of some stranger. How is it even legal for you to keep property like that?”

  “I’m afraid that—” Hugo began.

  “What if you never figure out who did this?” Sipiora pressed. “You’ll keep the paintings forever?”

  “I’m sure after a few years maybe the police would relinquish them, right, Lieutenant?” Hugo turned to her for help.

  “That’s possible.” Lerens frowned. “But I’ve never seen that done. Evidence is evidence, whether it’s a gun or a painting.”

  Hugo noticed Charlotte Lambourd watching the interaction over the top of her folded newspaper, her eyes on Édouard and then Erika, and occasional glances toward her oldest child, and—it was obvious to Hugo from the way her eyes softened—her favorite child. As Erika fumed at the information she’d just received, the old lady finally spoke.

  “My suggestion, detectives,” she said, her voice firm. “Is that for the sake of my son and grandson, you stop dithering here, find the person responsible for this outrage, bring Fabien home, and return our property to us the moment that’s done.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  They were walking out of the Lambourd house when Édouard scurried up behind them.

  “Excusez-moi,” he said. “Have you found the person who was following me?”

  “Not yet,” Lieutenant Lerens said. “But we’re hard at work, I promise you. Have you seen that person again?”

  “Non, are you joking?” Lambourd seemed incensed by the question. “I haven’t left the house since that happened, and don’t plan to. So I would very much appreciate it if you finished your investigation and caught that person. Soon.”

  “We will do our best, Monsieur Lambourd. And as I told you before, if you do go out into the city and you see him, call the police immediately.”

  “As I just said, I have no desire to hang myself out as bait, so will remain here.”

  “As you wish, monsieur.” Lerens turned and walked to the car, Hugo close on her heels. They got in and Lerens asked him, “Where to?”