by Mark Pryor
Camille Lerens held up both hands, letting Hugo know that if he wasn’t prepared to name the killer just yet, she was going to direct the flow of information.
“How do you know it’s someone inside the family?” she asked. “Let’s start with that.”
“Lots of reasons,” Hugo said. “The superficial ones, like no signs of a break-in or intruder, no obvious reason anyone would want those paintings, and no real motive to harm either Tammy or Fabien from outside the family. Plus, burglars don’t usually carry garrotes.”
“True. And the gambling thing didn’t go anywhere,” Lerens conceded. “Not to mention, Fabien might have been a difficult kid, but we couldn’t find any real enemies.”
“Right, with no ransom note, kidnapping was never the likely answer. And then there were the signs that pointed toward the family.”
“Like what?”
“The paintings. They were returned to a place where they’d be found, where they wouldn’t be harmed, and at a time when whoever returned them wouldn’t be seen.”
Lerens nodded her agreement. “Only the family would be able to find out the gardeners’ schedule and have access to the return site.”
“And no one would bat an eyelid at a member of the family taking a stroll through the garden. And remember, I talked to the head guy about when the edging was done. That told me the rough time the paintings were stashed and again suggested someone in or very close to the household put them there.”
“Hang on,” Lerens said. “What was the motive, money?”
“Revenge. Pure and simple.”
“That surprises me with this family,” Lerens said. “I thought everything was about money and status. And who was it that said, a man who desires revenge should dig two graves?”
“I don’t know,” Hugo said. “But in this case it’s not a man, it’s a woman.”
“Seriously? You mean . . .”
“Erika Sipiora.”
“I said it before, Hugo, and I’ll say it again. You better be damn sure about this before accusing her of murder. No, not just sure. You better be right.”
“Ten years ago Erika had a daughter called Alice, named after the little girl’s great-grandmother. She’d have been three years old. Ten years ago to this very day, that daughter died. I wanted the medical records because I think that Erika found someone who . . .” He stopped himself and thought for a second. “Look, I don’t have any proof yet. I think we need to have this discussion in the kitchen. There are some secrets those people have been keeping from each other and I think you need to put on your camera phone, the video, and we need to go in there and confront them. That’s the only proof you’re going to get right now, and without it Erika may well go free tonight. And with her resources, maybe we never see her again.”
“I need more than that, Hugo. What possible motive could she have to kill her nephew and her sister, and basically destroy the family forever?”
“Revenge, pure and simple.”
“Explain,” Lerens insisted.
“You remember we couldn’t figure out why the paintings and the finger were in the box. We knew they were a taunt, but we were wrong about who was being taunted.”
“Not the police?”
“Not the police,” Hugo said. “She was taunting Marc. Including the paintings was another distraction, and a successful one for a while. We bought into it. But the finger, that was for Marc and only Marc. Until he saw that, he was barely concerned about his son’s disappearance. He and everyone else figured it was the usual Fabien mischief.”
“But the finger changed that,” Lerens agreed. “What else?”
“Come on, Camille, we’re wasting time out here.” Hugo was impatient, the pieces were assembled in his mind, and he knew a confrontation was necessary to getting Lerens on board.
“Almost. A little more to make me believe.”
“Look,” Hugo said, leaning forward. “Erika was the one who immediately pointed to Fabien as the one sleeping with Tammy Fotinos, making him our number one suspect, or so she hoped. And I don’t know if you noticed, but she was the one who pressed hardest for the paintings to be returned.”
“So what?”
“They were key to her plan. The point of it, which I’ll get to.”
“What else?”
“It was nothing at the time, but I overheard a conversation, an argument, between her and Marc, and part of it had to do with her having a printer delivered here.”
“For the suicide note.”
“And the note on the box that had Fabien’s finger on it. Only she didn’t need the suicide note in the end. She got lucky with Noelle’s unlocked computer. Maybe if you scour the house you’ll find it. Look in every trashcan and recycling container, if these people even believe in that.”
“So she’s seeking revenge against Marc. Why?”
“She blames him for her daughter’s death.” Hugo stood. “I’ll explain more when we’re in there, but let’s get on with it.”
“Merde, Hugo. And you get mad at Tom for pushing the envelope.” She threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “It’s on you if this goes wrong.”
“Agreed.”
“No, I mean it. If this fails, it’ll be you I lead out in handcuffs. I may take them off in the driveway but not before I’ve introduced your delicate areas to the tips of my boots.”
“Duly noted.” Hugo took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
Camille Lerens stood and led the way back into the kitchen, and when they entered, all eyes fell on them. Hugo admired her in that moment, the way she commanded the room and held herself like the strong policewoman she was, speaking only when she was ready to. When she did, everyone in the room hung on her words.
“Hugo Marston is the most intelligent man and finest investigator I have ever known. He has made some allegations to me in private about one of you, and he expects me to arrest that person. I will do so, unless the person has an explanation for some of the evidence that, at this moment, seems very incriminating indeed.” She glanced at Hugo, and he knew he was the only one to see the twinkle in her eye. “And I have assured him that if there are valid answers to his questions, I will arrest him for trespassing. I will take him out of here in handcuffs myself.”
“That would make us all very happy,” Charlotte Lambourd said. But the venom had gone from her words, drained away by tiredness and, perhaps, the knowledge that one of her children was to be revealed as being as cold-blooded as she was.
“Princess Erika, am I right that today is the ten-year anniversary of your daughter’s death?”
Sipiora sat stiffly in her chair, watching him closely, only her lips moving. “It is.”
“And am I right in thinking that her death was not necessary, not inevitable?”
“She had kidney disease,” Sipiora said. “Incurable kidney disease.”
“You’re not answering the question.” Hugo’s voice was gentle. He didn’t need tempers flaring right now. “She could have been saved, right? Ten years ago today, she could have been saved.”
“This is ridiculous,” Marc Lambourd said. “What are you doing?”
“And monsieur.” He turned to Marc Lambourd. “Am I right in thinking that you’re the one who could have saved her?”
“How?” Édouard Lambourd spoke up for the first time. “What is he talking about?”
“I wondered if you knew,” Hugo said. “I assumed the whole family was tested to look for a match, but I have no idea who had access to the results.”
“Well, yes, I was,” Édouard said. “And yes, we were tested, but no one matched.”
“Not true,” Hugo said, looking at Marc Lambourd.
“Wait, Marc.” Édouard managed to look both confused and outraged at the same time. “You were a match for Alice?”
“No,” Marc Lambourd said, his eyes down. “I was not.”
“Not him,” Hugo said. “Fabien was a match, right?” Hugo chanced a bluff. “I mean, that’s what th
e medical records indicate.”
“Only in theory. He was too young to donate,” Marc Lambourd said hurriedly. “The law did not allow it.”
“The law,” Erika Sipiora snorted with derision. “Wasn’t that the year you off-loaded two yachts and an apartment in Dubai to avoid paying taxes? The same year your girlfriend permanently disabled a man because she was driving drunk, I believe. Are you still paying for that one, or did the poor wretch die finally? I do know that she never saw the inside of a jail cell.”
“So, I was right, it was Fabien, not Marc,” Hugo said.
Sipiora’s head snapped around. “You said you had the medical records that showed that.”
“Tomorrow,” Hugo said mildly. “I’ll have those tomorrow. I was going with my theory. Shall I continue?”
Charlotte Lambourd was looking around the table as if she were in the wrong house, tired and confused, and mumbling something no one could hear.
“You had the means and ability to have Fabien donate a kidney to save Alice,” Hugo went on. “You chose not to.”
“For God’s sake,” Marc Lambourd sputtered. “He was a small boy. How could I make him do that?”
“I didn’t know about this,” Édouard said, almost as lost as his mother. “But you could have saved Alice? No one needs two kidneys. He’d have been fine.”
“I wasn’t going to risk it,” Marc Lambourd said emphatically. “I’d lost my wife, his mother, and there was no way I was going to lose him, too. Not for something that wasn’t my fault. And by doing something that was against the law. It was too risky.”
“It wasn’t risky at all,” Sipiora said. “I had the surgeon, the hospital, all of it ready and you were told how low the risks were. You chose your son over my little girl. No, you chose a tiny piece of your son’s flesh, one he didn’t even need, over my daughter.”
“It wasn’t my fault, or his, that Alice had kidney disease,” Marc Lambourd said, indignant.
“It’s your fault she died of it, though.” Sipiora’s voice was cold and hard. “And for what? Fabien was a selfish, craven, even more cowardly version of you. He was a worthless human being who did nothing for anyone except himself. For someone like that, my daughter dies.” She glanced at Hugo. “This isn’t a confession, by the way. Everything I’ve said is true, and none of it means I did anything wrong.”
“It’s a pretty good motive,” Hugo said. “The ten-year anniversary.”
“And nothing happened on the previous nine, so what’s your point?” Sipiora said.
“Ah, but this one’s different, isn’t it?” Hugo stared at her. “This is the first time your little brother started playing happily families, the first time he’d managed to hold together what you could never have.”
“He’s my older brother.” Sipiora’s eyes narrowed. “Which you already know, so—”
“Another thing I realized.” Hugo held her gaze still. “Another resentment. His special treatment as the firstborn when you were actually Baby A, weren’t you?”
“What does that even mean?” Édouard Lambourd asked.
“When someone has twins, they designate Baby A and Baby B. Baby A is always the firstborn, but Charlotte had complications during the Cesarean section and Marc was taken out first.” Hugo had wondered more than once whether, as traditional in mindset and controlling in nature as Charlotte Lambourd was, she’d decided in advance there would be this “complication.” He went on. “Another reason to resent him, especially as you found out about all those trinkets and heirlooms going his way. Ending up with Fabien, no doubt.”
“So, all you have is this silly motive,” Sipiora said. “You said you wanted me to answer some questions, and so far I’ve not heard any.”
“Ah, yes.” Hugo noted how cool she was still. Impressive. And scary. “The robbery in the Parc. One thing was stolen, right?”
“A broach, I already described it to you.”
“What you described was a mourning broach. One you’d worn since the death of Alice.” Hugo pointed to the ceiling. “Almost every photo of you in the living room has you wearing it, which made me wonder when you said it didn’t mean anything.”
“You’re saying I wasn’t assaulted?” It was Sipiora’s turn to be indignant. “You saw the injuries!”
“I did. I would bet you paid someone, a beggar or someone in need, to rough you up. Their reward was cash and a broach to pawn. A broach you no longer needed, because you were closing your account on Alice’s death by taking out Fabien.”
“I’m still not hearing any questions,” Sipiora said.
“Where is he?” Hugo asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. Where is he?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Why did you do this?” Marc Lambourd’s voice was a whisper, but it drifted across the table, chilling everyone in the room like a ghost. “Did you hurt Fabien?”
Sipiora didn’t reply, but Hugo spoke up. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Monsieur Lambourd. But it wasn’t Fabien she was out to hurt. It was you.”
“Me?”
“He was the tool she used to do that. To her, he was expendable, a means to an end.”
“By killing him?”
“You were supposed to wonder. To not know. I think she wanted to torture you by having you live every day hoping for his return, wondering if he was alive somewhere out there.” Hugo took a steadying breath, because what he had to say next was perhaps the most horrific accusation he’d ever made. But, so far, Erika Sipiora hadn’t cracked and he had to give Lieutenant Lerens a reason, or maybe just the confidence even, to put handcuffs on the woman and put her in jail until more proof arrived. “Tomorrow we will take apart the pictures that we’re keeping in evidence, and I think behind the canvas we’ll find photographic evidence of your son’s death.”
“What?” Édouard Lambourd was as white as a sheet, and his eyes were wide with confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does to her, I’m afraid,” Hugo said calmly. “With those pictures hanging in the family home, your son would be looking down at you every second you were in the room, and you’d have no idea. He’d see you, but you wouldn’t see him.”
“Oh, my God.” Marc Lambourd slumped forward over the table and his face was ashen. “I can’t believe that would be true.”
Hugo looked at Sipiora. “You made a comment to me that struck me as odd at the time. About looking at something but not really seeing it.” Sipiora inclined her head as if to acknowledge, even appreciate, Hugo’s perceptiveness, but she said nothing. “I’m afraid there’s something more,” Hugo continued. He felt sick himself, unwilling to say the words but needing Sipiora to give some indication of guilt. Anything. “Something even worse.”
“What?” Édouard and Marc Lambourd asked at the same time.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you need to know. It’ll come out at the trial, if there is one. I think that your sister wanted to make you commit the ultimate sin against your son, do something that if you found out about it later could never be undone.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“There’s a reason she offered to cook for you tonight, and it had nothing to do with sympathy. And there’s a specific reason she chose this dish.”
Lambourd stared at Hugo and stammered. “You mean, steak and—”
At the same moment, Marc Lambourd made a choking sound and then slumped sideways out of his chair and onto the tile floor. His brother, Édouard, leapt up, threw his napkin onto the table, and strode to the door. Hugo nodded to the policeman to let him pass. Charlotte Lambourd also rose to her feet, but immediately sank back into her chair where she sat, catatonic beside her caretaker, Karine Berger, who rocked gently back and forth in her own seat, repeating a prayer in a terrified whisper, her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her, seemingly oblivious to anything or anyone else in the room.
Erika Sipiora watched it all happen with a smile t
hat spread slowly across her face, a smile of derision and amusement, a smile that never reached her eyes, which she finally turned on Hugo. She said nothing, just held the smile in place and then extended her arms, a polite invitation for Camille Lerens to adorn them with handcuffs.
Lerens did so, handing her off to the two flics in the room, and Hugo watched as Princess Erika Sipiora was led from the family kitchen, her head high, her eyes staring straight ahead, and that ghastly smile still playing on her lips.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It was almost midnight when Hugo finally called Claudia to explain exactly what happened. He’d found a moment to text her, to call off their rendezvous, but didn’t get to explain until they talked on the phone.
“Hugo, that’s just monstrous,” she’d said. “How do you explain something like that?”
“I could try,” he said, and then yawned. “But can it wait until the morning?”
“Don’t you have to go to the prefecture for the execution of the search warrant, for the paintings?”
“Not before breakfast, no. If you want to meet early, we can eat something before I head over.”
“I’d love that.” She paused and he heard the humor in her voice. “Unless you’re gonna cancel on me again.”
“If something happens overnight, I may. Assuming I even hear my phone ring, which I won’t.”
“How about I get Jean to drive me, and we pick you up? Then he can drop you at the prefecture afterward.”
“I’m not going to argue with that plan.”
“Are you still doing something on the Tuileries shooter?”
“Claudia, I need to sleep. But yes, that’s not quite a closed book just yet.”
“I don’t know how that can be, with the shooter dead, his mother dead, and nothing to indicate another person involved.”
Hugo yawned again. “I never said that last bit.”
“Seriously?”
“At breakfast. Good night, beautiful lady.”
Jean’s Mercedes was idling in front of his apartment building at seven the next morning, with Claudia looking beautiful and alert despite the early hour. She threw open the back door and patted the seat beside her.