by Mark Pryor
“You’re full of energy,” he said, sleep still blurring his vision despite the hot shower he’d taken.
“I get to have breakfast with my lover, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Fair enough. Where are we going?”
Six minutes later they pulled up in front of a café Hugo had never been into on the long and narrow Rue Saint-André-des-Arts, and when they went inside two of the waiters recognized Claudia, waving for her to take her pick of tables.
She chose one against the window and they settled in, watching each other and then the people wandering by on their way to work. Hugo ordered orange juice, two croissants, and coffee, and Claudia said she’d have the same. Their waiter, an older gentleman who greeted Claudia by name, bowed after taking their order and said sotto voce that their breakfast would be free, in gratitude for Hugo’s saving lives in the Tuileries.
Once they had their food, Claudia pressed him for details about the Lambourd case.
“Are you going to write about it?” Hugo asked.
“No, someone else has that assignment,” she said. “But I’m so curious—they’re such a well-respected family.”
“Psychopaths pop up in all walks of life,” Hugo said. “Rich or poor, it doesn’t much matter.”
“But to try and serve her own brother his son in a pie, I mean . . .” Her eyes were wide, almost imploring Hugo to explain something so monstrous.
“Don’t think of it as one act by her against him.” Hugo sipped his coffee. “Look, ever since she was a child, since she was born, basically, she’s resented him. And you have to understand that psychopaths not only have a limited range of emotions, but all those emotions are about them. Everything in their world is looked at through the prism of how it affects them. It didn’t matter that Marc loved Fabien, that he was family, that he was a slightly wild but basically normal teenage kid. All that mattered was that Erika’s daughter had been taken away by the one person she resented the most. Logic, law, reason . . . none of those things mattered.”
“But to go so far.” Claudia nibbled the end of a croissant. “It’s unthinkable.”
“Yeah, to normal people it is. It’s sickening. But she doesn’t think of Fabien as a human being, nor her brother really. And I don’t even think she’d have seen her own daughter as anything but an extension of herself. She would have been a terrible, awful mother, which is part of the irony of all this.”
“Yeah, I suppose if she’s capable of this she wasn’t likely to be nurturing, was she?”
“Not at all. But the one thing she had in common with humanity was that she wanted closure, or the closest thing to it she could achieve. And that meant maximum revenge.”
“Something worse than killing Marc Lambourd?”
“Yes. Then she’d have no target for her anger, no outlet for the evil. I’m guessing that she took photos of Fabien, either dead or dying, and somehow put them in the paintings. I think that’s something she would never have revealed, maybe on her deathbed, but otherwise, never.” He took another sip of coffee. “But the kidney in the pie, I suspect that at some point she’d have let him know, or hinted at it. Nothing he could allege that could be proven, and of course there’d be no evidence left at that point.”
“That’s so . . . horrific.”
“And would have been utterly devastating to him. I mean, that’s not something you can tell a therapist and have them make you feel better.”
They ate in silence for a minute, and then Claudia looked up. “Wait, what about the sister? She killed her, too? It wasn’t suicide?”
“Yes, I’m certain of it.”
“Why did she do that? Because she and Marc were close, so to make him more lonely and miserable?”
“Actually no, I think for her that was just a happy by-product of that murder.” Hugo wiped his buttery fingers on a napkin. It was a question he felt able to answer, but one that caused him considerable pain. The moment he’d realized why Erika Sipiora killed Noelle Manis, he knew it was partly his fault. He was logical and dispassionate enough to know that, in truth, only Sipiora was responsible for Noelle’s death. But it was something Hugo had said that triggered Sipiora’s awful plan.
“Hugo,” Claudia said. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I will be, anyway. Sometimes this job puts you close to bad people, and sometimes they’re bad enough that you start to blame yourself for things. And sometimes you’re right to, just a little.”
“Hugo, no!” She leaned forward. “What are you talking about, you’ve not done anything . . . how on earth could you be responsible for any of this?”
“I get blinders sometimes, when I’m chasing someone. I don’t see what the collateral consequences might be because I’m so focused on what I’m doing.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice was firm, and he knew he had to tell her.
“When Camille and I were with the family, after I’d realized that the pictures were at the heart of this, I said something. I said it because I knew it’d provoke a response from whoever the killer was. The trouble is, I didn’t know who it was or what they’d do.”
“What did you say?”
“I told the family that the paintings were evidence. That, because of that, they wouldn’t be returned until the case was solved. That the pictures could stay in our custody for years.” He sighed. “I knew that the person wanted the paintings back in the house. And I was right. Erika wanted them there looking over her devastated brother. I just didn’t predict how far she’d go to get us to close the case.”
“She hung her own sister?” Claudia seemed incredulous. “How does someone even do that?”
“No, I think she used the garrote. It was hard to tell, and may be hard to prove, but I think she used a pillow case to make the mark around Noelle’s neck look more consistent with a hanging suicide.”
“My God, she’s evil.” Claudia had tears in her eyes, and Hugo knew they were for him and not for any member of the Lambourd family.
“Evil presupposes some moral direction, albeit a bad one. She doesn’t have that. She just cares about survival and her own immediate needs. She’s a reptile. Nothing more than a calculating, cold-blooded reptile.”
“That’s kind of how I thought of the mother, Charlotte.” Claudia smiled. “Horrible thing to say, but she does seem a little like that, no?”
“Oh, I agree. I wondered for a long time if she had a hand in this, given her history.” Hugo grimaced. “Turns out I was focused on the wrong widow.”
Claudia signaled for two more coffees, and they sat and watched out of the window. Eventually, she spoke. “You don’t want to go to the prefecture, do you?”
“Wow.” He smiled, for the first time since they’d sat down. “That’s very perceptive of you.”
“I know you, Hugo. You have a huge capacity for dealing with this awful stuff, for putting it in one compartment or other in your brain.” She tilted her head and looked at him with kindness in her eyes. “But sometimes even you have had enough. Of someone, or something. And that’s totally fine, Hugo. If you’ve had enough of this awful woman, don’t go.”
“I’ve had more than enough. I don’t want to be around anything to do with her. But it’s my job.”
“It’s your job?”
“Yes.”
“No. You’ve done your job on this case. You identified the murderer and she’s in jail, right?” When he nodded, she went on. “Let me ask you this. Whatever is happening at the prefecture, will your absence affect that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, can they physically achieve what they need to achieve without you there?”
“Well, I don’t know.” He sat back and thought for a moment. “They’re taking apart those paintings, and if they find something, when they find something, they’ll keep it as evidence.”
“You’d just be watching.”
“Correct.”
“And subjecting yourself to seeing more terrible shit that
this woman has done.”
“Again, correct.”
“Good, then I’ll call Camille and let her know you won’t be there.” Claudia pulled out her phone, and then paused. “I should give her a good reason, though.”
“I’ve got one for you: I’m busy.”
“Yeah, she might need more than that. Busy doing what?”
“You asked me about it last night. The Tuileries shooter.”
“Right, of course. You have something to do on that case. I’ll tell her that.”
“Thank you.” He drained his coffee. “And it has the added benefit of being true. And since we’ve finally gotten to see each other, would you care to join me in catching another conniving murderer?”
Claudia looked over the top of her phone at him, and then smiled. “Oh, Hugo. You’re such an old-fashioned romantic. Why not?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Emma gave Claudia a big hug when they wallked into the RSO offices at the embassy, following it with a wink to Hugo, which he ignored.
“You’ll be needing coffee, my dears?” Emma asked.
“Not for an hour or two,” Hugo said. “And then your strongest brew.” He turned to Claudia. “Come meet the new kid on the block.”
He led her to Mari Harada’s office and knocked on the door. “She keeps it closed so she can control the temperature. Cooler than we have the rest of the office is better for her condition.”
Claudia nodded, and when Harada opened the door and beckoned them inside, Claudia quickly closed it behind them. Hugo made the introductions, and while Claudia went to shake her hand, Harada winced.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Claudia said.
“Not you,” Harada said through gritted teeth. “We call it an MS hug. A cute name for a steel band closing around my chest and making breathing painful. Like calling a broken foot a toe tickle.”
“Anything we can do?” Claudia asked, exchanging worried glances with Hugo.
“Nope, it’ll pass.” Harada let out a hiss of air and dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Hurts like hell but see, all gone. The bastard of it is, there’s nothing wrong in the chest, it’s the wiring in my brain and spinal cord mixing up signals and making it happen.”
“I’m sorry,” Claudia said. “How awful for you.”
“Well, life can be awful,” Harada said, matter-of-factly. She jerked a thumb at Hugo. “I mean, you have to put up with him without being paid, so my sympathies for that.”
Hugo smiled. “How do you know she’s not getting paid?”
They laughed and then Harada retreated behind her large desk. “You’re here for the video files, I assume. And nice idea to bring some backup.”
“I was told we were catching a killer,” Claudia said. “Not watching videos.”
“Same thing,” Hugo assured her. “Assuming I’m right, of course. Otherwise a massive waste of time.”
“In which case,” Claudia said with her sweetest smile, “the murderer will be me.”
“I was actually planning to offer my assistance, too,” Harada said. “Knocking on doors is a little beyond me these days, but my eyes are working well, as of right now.”
“The more the merrier,” Hugo said.
Harada’s office had space for a second desk, which had a pair of monitors and another computer on it, and a pair of plain swivel chairs that she offered to Claudia and Hugo. “I’ve set it up for just the two of us, Hugo, but if you each take one screen and I use my laptop every angle will be covered. It’s all ready to go—you just need to hit play.”
“Wait, I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” Claudia said.
Harada rolled her eyes. “Nice work, boss. Bring in an unpaid intern and give her no direction or guidance.”
“She’s a volunteer, not an intern,” Hugo said. “And enough of your cheek.”
Harada ignored the remark and opened her desk drawer. She pulled out a photo and handed it to Claudia. “It’s not a what that you’re looking for—it’s a who. Whom. Whichever. This guy.”
“He’s a killer?” Claudia studied the photo. “He looks like everyone’s fifty-year-old neighbor.”
“You’re still fooled by appearances?” Hugo asked. “That’s cute.”
“Hush, you know what I mean.”
“We have a twelve-hour period, so play it double-speed but don’t take your eyes off the screen,” he said. “Or if you do, pause it first.”
“Yes, sir.” Claudia sat down opposite the double monitors, each of which showed the view from four different cameras high up on the embassy’s outer walls. Hugo took the chair beside her, and she put the photo on the desk in between them, for reference. “Probably not the worse date we’ve been on,” she said quietly, trying not to smile.
“You’re very welcome,” Hugo replied, before Mari Harada hushed them both with a strict look over the top of her reading glasses.
Hugo spent a moment looking at the screen, familiarizing himself with the views he’d be scanning. Two of them looked out over the quiet Rue Boissy-d’Anglas, a narrow street running north-south on the embassy’s east side. It was quiet thanks to gendarmes stationed along it, keeping vehicular traffic out, and foot traffic to a minimum. The other two screens looked out over Avenue Gabriel, a much busier street separating the embassy from the popular Jardin des Champs-Elysees. Heavily trafficked by tourists and Parisians alike, spotting their man would be much harder, but Hugo was relying on that common downfall of so many criminals—a combination of laziness and overconfidence. The cameras had actually been placed in the line of trees that sat along the broad sidewalk in front of the embassy, trees that would have blocked any view of the street had the cameras been on the building itself. This wasn’t something Hugo knew about, or had even thought about, and he briefly wondered if the local government knew the Americans had security cameras in their trees. But he had more important things to worry about.
He looked at the controls on the screen, and played with them for a moment, zooming in and out as the footage rolled. He glanced at Claudia’s large screen and saw she was doing the same.
“Mind some music while we work?” Harada asked. When Hugo and Claudia nodded assent she picked up her phone, hit a few buttons, and Handel’s Water Music began to play.
“I expected something more exotic,” Hugo said.
“That’s because you’re a closet racist,” Harada said, unable to conceal her smile.
They sat in silence, eyes roaming their screens, looking for the man in the picture. After thirty minutes Hugo groaned and stood up, stretching his back as he watched.
“Maybe we should rotate,” he suggested. “That way we won’t stagnate.”
“You two can,” Harada said. “My chair is too expensive for your butt, and my butt is too delicate for those chairs.”
“Playing the sympathy card, are we?” Hugo rolled his eyes. “Damn straight.”
Hugo and Claudia swapped places, and did so again after the next thirty, fruitless minutes. Soon after, Emma tapped lightly on the door and brought in a tray of coffee mugs, a much-needed jolt of focus for Hugo. Fifteen minutes later, Claudia sat upright in her seat, then grabbed the photo, and held it up beside the screen.
“You got him?” Hugo asked.
“I believe so. What do you think?”
Hugo leaned over. “That’s him, all right. Keep watching. If I’m right about this then in the next five or . . .” Hugo clapped his hands. “Right on cue. There she is.”
“Who is that?” Claudia asked.
“Her name is Michelle Hallee,” Harada said. “One of the local admin staff, she was on the shortlist of suspects.”
“A rendezvous,” Claudia said. “Prompt people, I like that about them. What’s she handing him, the guns?”
“That’s what my money is on.” Hugo watched intently, and then pointed to the screen as another figure appeared. “Holy shit. There you have it, proof positive.”
“Isn’t that . . .” Claudia shook her
head in disbelief. “That’s him. He’s the Tuileries shooter, right?”
“It most certainly is,” Hugo said. “Victor Roche himself.”
“Give me the camera number and the date and time,” Harada said. “I wanna look. I’ll also burn that clip to a thumb drive so you can take it to the real police.”
Hugo shot her a look. “Oh, you heard about what the old lady said, eh?”
“I did,” Harada said. “But don’t worry, hon, I’m sure she meant Camille Lerens and not you.”
“Probably not,” Hugo said mildly. “But they’ve not been real enough to solve this part of the puzzle, have they? So yes, they’ll need probably a good five or ten minutes either side of the handover. It increases the tension.”
“Aye-aye, cap’n,” Harada said.
Claudia read out the date, time, and camera number and, with a few clicks of her mouse, the footage was on a thumb drive that Harada handed to Hugo.
“Here you go, guard it with your life,” she said. “And if you agree, I’ll have Michelle Hallee watched until Marchand buys in, and then he can have her picked up and questioned.”
“I do agree.” Hugo shook his head slowly. “Well then, Doctor Brodeur. It seems your moment for the spotlight has come, you murderous bastard.”
Adrien Marchand’s office was even smaller than Hugo’s, with just enough room for a cheap desk, an expensive office chair behind it, and two wooden chairs opposite it for visitors.
“You buy that chair yourself?” Hugo asked.
“Excellent deduction,” Marchand said, his eyes wary.
“Not really. Doesn’t go with the state-provided décor.”
“I’m a relatively young and somewhat athletic man, Hugo. But someone forgot to tell my back.” Behind Marchand hung a print of soccer star Kylian Mbappé celebrating a goal in the national jersey, with the words in French: “I find the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have—Thomas Jefferson.”
“You’re an admirer of Thomas Jefferson?” Hugo asked.
“I’m an admirer of Mbappé.” He paused for a moment. “Is this about my closed case?”