by Mark Pryor
“Yes, your almost closed case that needs one more arrest.”
“Yours, for wasting my time?”
“If I am, then feel free.” Hugo leaned forward and put the thumb drive on the desk in front of Marchand. “On that, you will find video footage of Arnaud Brodeur meeting with Michelle Hallee, one of just three women who had access to the firearms and the paperwork. Less than a week before the shooting in the Tuileries, she hands him a shoebox.”
“On the same day the gun went missing?”
“The very same day.” Hugo smiled, saving the best for last, or in case Marchand resisted what he was hearing. The detective digested the news for a moment, and then rubbed a hand over his face as the meaning of this dawned on him. “Merde. The husband of the only woman to die in the shooting had possession of the gun that killed her. It wasn’t a random shooting at all.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You’ve connected Brodeur with the shooter?”
“Normally I’d say that’s your job,” Hugo said. “But they made it easy for us. Victor Roche showed up at the handoff.”
Marchand held up the disk. “It was caught on this, too?”
“Yep, he steps up just moments after Brodeur takes the box.”
“Incroyable,” Marchand said. “How the hell . . .?”
“Those writings we found stashed under his bed about being a CIA agent, needing to bring chaos to Paris, sacrifice for the greater good . . .” Hugo grimaced at the thought of that twisted treasure trove. “Turns out Doctor Brodeur wasn’t a medical doctor but a psychiatrist. And he wasn’t retired—he lost his license two years ago for improper relations with a patient.”
“Michelle Hallee?”
“That’d be my guess. I couldn’t get that information because it violates patient confidentiality.” Hugo smiled. “But I imagine you have your ways. Anyway, I’d put money on Victor Roche having been a patient of Brodeur’s at the time he lost his license. From what I know from the investigation, the kid wasn’t very bright, was desperate for a father figure, and was extremely suggestible. I think Brodeur got inside his head and convinced the kid he was working with the CIA on some incredible mission. And think about that. As far as I know, the kid had no friends, no family, and not even an internet connection. So it had to be a person filling his head with these ideas. With one specific mission, one that required Victor to shoot people. Or shoot one person and aim randomly at anyone else nearby. Roche was brainwashed into living with some sick form of Stockholm syndrome, you might say.”
Marchand shook his head slowly. “If that’s true, what a monster.”
“A lot of that going around lately.”
“So I hear.” Marchand picked up a pen and made some notes on a pad in front of him. “What made you look into Brodeur?”
“Two things got my attention initially. I went to talk to him, at his apartment, and while I was there I looked into his medicine cabinet and, among other medications, I noticed Benlysta in it.”
“What is that?” Marchand asked.
“It’s an immunosuppressant, designed and most commonly used to treat lupus. We knew from the autopsy report that his wife had healthy joints, skin, and organs, which means she didn’t have it.”
“What about Brodeur himself?”
“Nine out of ten lupus sufferers are women so while that’s possible, it’s less likely and he didn’t seem to be having any issues when I was there. Anyway, it suggested the possibility to me that he had a lover.”
“That’s quite a leap.”
“Not really. I mean, there were also two wine glasses in his sink. Think it through. I knew he didn’t have kids, so the meds weren’t theirs. Most likely a woman’s, and who would keep important medication like that in a mere friend’s medicine cabinet? And there was a second bathroom, but it was in his. Also, this is just days after the shooting—no way he’s on the dating trail already, and even if he was, no way someone with lupus would store her meds in his apartment days after meeting him for the first time.”
“So he had a lover before the shooting. Michelle Hallee.”
“And she’s moved in since.”
“That’s an elaborate plan to kill your own wife, though.” Marchand looked dubious.
“It is. People can be devious, and smart people realize the best way to carry out nefarious acts is to get other people to do them. I mean, yes, complex, but clever and effective. The killer gets killed and why would anyone look further afield?”
“Jesus, he couldn’t just leave his wife?”
“Actually no. Since he lost his license she was the sole breadwinner. If he left her, he’d leave with nothing.”
“Makes sense. If you’re a twisted bastard,” Marchand added. “You said there was a second thing.”
“The diagram of the scene I asked you for. It shows Victor Roche entering the park more than two hundred meters from where he started shooting. That told me he had a reason to wait, to start shooting at the time and place he did. So, what was the reason? The first person he shot, perhaps?”
“Madame Brodeur.”
“Right. And the specific, close-up killing of her, three shots in fact, was then followed by random single shots at people further away. I remember seeing people much closer, easier targets, but he didn’t aim for them. Why not?”
“Because his only intended victim was already dead,” Marchand said. “The others he shot, they were just out of pure luck. Good for him, maybe, but bad for them.”
Hugo nodded. “I think if you search his place you’ll find more evidence of the affair, and also something linking him to Victor Roche. And, more likely than not, a fairly recent and impressive life insurance policy.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The next morning, Hugo was woken by a ray of sunshine slanting through the bedroom window. He rolled over, away from it, and looked at the face of his sometime-lover, Claudia. A wisp of hair lay across her cheek, and he brushed it lightly back into place with his fingertips. Behind him, his phone buzzed on the bedside table and he sat up as carefully as he could to answer it. Claudia stirred and opened her eyes.
“Morning, handsome,” she mumbled.
“It is.” Hugo looked at his phone, which showed a text message from Lieutenant-Intern Adrien Marchand: Call me. Hugo would, but not yet. “Coffee?”
“Not if you’re making it.”
“Want me to kick you out of bed so you can?”
“No, I want a cuddle before this day starts. Get back in here.”
Hugo slid back under the covers and Claudia draped an arm and a leg over him, and then nuzzled her face into his neck.
“Sleep well?” he asked, caressing her arm.
“Like a baby. You?”
“Same, for once.”
“I worried the case would keep you up.” Hugo laughed softly. “Which one?”
“Either one. But I’m glad they didn’t.” She gave him a squeeze. “Was that someone trying to get hold of you already?”
“Marchand. Hopefully letting me know they picked up Arnaud Brodeur.”
“You need to call him back?”
“At some point. Keep cuddling for now, though.”
“With pleasure.”
They lay in silence for a while, and then Claudia gave him one big squeeze before sitting up. “How about I make the coffee while you call Marchand? I’m kind of curious myself.”
“Deal.” Hugo watched her climb out of bed, still naked, and head to the door, where she paused.
“Is Tom here?” she asked.
“I have no idea. He comes and goes like a specter.”
“Better safe than sorry,” she said, and grabbed Hugo’s robe from the back of the door. She slipped it on, blew him a kiss, and let herself out, closing the door behind her. Hugo took a deep breath, then picked up his phone and called Adrien Marchand.
“Oh, you found my cherry jam,” Hugo said. “Where was it?”
Claudia sipped her coffee, and then said, “In the fridge. At eye level.�
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“Ah. No wonder I missed it.”
She’d made coffee but also put three croissants into the oven for a few minutes to heat away the burgeoning staleness from them, and then served up the humble spread on the coffee table, forcing Hugo to get out of bed, put on some clothes, and shuffle into the living room.
“So, what happened?” Claudia asked, before taking a bite.
“Well, they got him.” Hugo spread a dollop of jam onto the bitten end of his croissant. “And then he faked a heart attack and tried to escape from the hospital.”
“Seriously?”
“He actually managed to unlock his handcuffs, the one attaching him to the rail of the hospital bed.”
“Impressive.”
“That’s what I said.” Hugo took a bite and chewed for a moment. “Marchand didn’t seem to find it as amusing.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Anyway, they spotted him sneaking down the hallway, so he didn’t get far.”
“Did he confess?”
“No, not yet. But the fake heart attack and escape attempt say plenty by themselves.”
“For sure,” Claudia agreed. “What else did Marchand have to say?”
“Apparently someone who was in the park that evening turned in video footage from their phone that caught the shooting, specifically of his wife. Brodeur just happened to have left her alone and was standing by a trash can looking at his phone when the shooting started. An overflowing trash can that no one in their right mind would want to be standing beside.”
“Unless they were making sure they were out of the line of fire,” Claudia prompted.
“Exactly. Not exactly a smoking gun, but I think we have that with the handover from Michelle Hallee. Who, by the way, is singing like a bird to save her skin.”
“But not a peep from Brodeur?”
“Marchand says Brodeur thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and is talking but not giving them anything useful. No admissions, that is.”
“Maybe he is smarter than them.”
“Maybe.” Hugo nudged her with his elbow. “I’d sure love a crack at him—then we’d see how smart he is.”
“You’d tie him in knots,” Claudia said. “Be fun to watch.”
“It’d also be against every rule in the book.”
“I’m sure. I’d love to interrogate Erika Sipiora, too, but they found photos of Fabien, dead or dying, behind each canvas, as I knew they would, and per her lawyers she’s not talking to anyone. Anyway, talking of books, you should write one now you’re an internationally famous hero.”
“Me?” Hugo was surprised at the suggestion, partly because it was something he’d thought about a lot, but never mentioned to anyone.
“Not one of the mysteries that you like to read. Although I guess you could. I was meaning about your cases.”
“Maybe I will.” Hugo polished off his first croissant and tore the remaining one in half.
“You have it,” Claudia said. “One’s my limit.”
“Well, thanks.” Hugo ladled more jam onto the pastry. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Your writing. Book? Articles?”
“I don’t know—nothing worth talking about right now.” She got up from the couch. “More coffee?”
They both started at the sound of a crash from the spare bedroom, otherwise known as Tom’s room.
“I guess he is here,” Hugo said. He got up and went to the bedroom door. “Tom, you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” said a muffled voice. “But what the fuck is this?”
“No clue, I can’t see through doors. You want coffee?”
“Hell yes. Hang on . . .”
Hugo stayed by the closed door, but put a hand on the knob when he heard what sounded like wood splitting.
“Tom, what are you doing in there?”
A moment later the door opened and a bedraggled Tom stepped out into the living room. Behind him, Hugo saw a two-foot-long piece of floorboard sticking up into the air.
“Check this out.” Tom headed straight for the sofa and plonked himself down on it, grabbing the last half of the remaining croissant and stuffing into his mouth as he sat. Next to the empty plate he put down an object wrapped in a worn and very dirty rag.
“What is it?” Hugo sat down opposite Tom, in an armchair, and leaned over the table. Claudia appeared behind him, putting three mugs of coffee on the table.
“So I lost my balance as I was getting up,” Tom began.
“Hungover?” Claudia asked.
“Of course, stupid question,” Tom said. He reached for a mug and took a slurp of coffee. “Fuck, that’s hot. Anyway, I fell into the tall lamp that you stupidly put too close to the bed. The lamp then fell over and hit the floor, and right where it hit a piece of the board popped loose. I was trying to fix it when I noticed this rag stuffed under the board. Look for yourself.”
Hugo reached out and opened the rag. Wrapped inside it was a square, silver case, about the thickness of a smart phone. It was dull and needed a good polish but it looked to be expensive, with intricate patterns engraved on it. Hugo picked it up and rubbed his thumb against what he thought might be an emblem or symbol of some sort.
“Can you read it?” Claudia asked, leaning over.
“It looks like someone’s initials. Yeah, it is. HVL.” Hugo turned it over gently. “It’s a cigarette case. Heavy, probably silver.” He found a small release button and the case popped open when he pushed it. A tight row of cigarettes lined the inside, their once-white paper slightly yellowed with age. “Complete with antique smokes.”
“Why would they be under a floorboard?” Claudia asked.
“No clue.” Hugo studied the cigarettes. “But that’s odd.”
“What is?” Tom asked.
“They’re Lucky Strikes. American cigarettes, stashed in a Paris apartment.”
“Can you tell how old?” Claudia asked.
“No, but if there’s other stuffhidden under the floor that might give us a clue.” Hugo stood, and Tom did too. “And a fun mystery to solve.”
“Yeah, so let me clean up a little in there first, if you don’t mind.” Tom ran a hand through his mussy hair. “And make sure my screens are all off. Don’t want to frighten the lady.”
Claudia rolled her eyes. “It’s not 1950, Tom. I’ve seen whatever you’re watching before.”
“I doubt it.” Tom rounded the coffee table and went into his room, closing the door behind him.
“He’s so old-fashioned,” Claudia said. “And not in a cute way.” She took the cigarette case from Hugo. “So, what do you make of this?”
“I don’t really know. But funny to think it’s been hiding under the floor the entire time I’ve been here.”
“I wonder who HVL was.”
“You’re a pretty decent journalist. I bet you could find out.”
“Why thank you, handsome.” She planted a kiss on his cheek and handed the case back. “I bet I could. And if there’s anything else under there, maybe I’ll have something to write about.”
“Like a body?”
“That might be a little much,” she said. “Unless it’s a thousand years old. Now that’d be a story.”
They laughed, and then turned as Tom opened his bedroom door.
“All safe,” he said cheerily. “Grab a flashlight and let’s see if there are any other goodies to be found.”
“Will do.” Hugo turned to Claudia. “Just to be clear, after this last week I’m all tapped out on the clue-solving front. Whether it’s just the cigarette case or more treasure, this little mystery is all yours.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As usual, the help and support of many people made this book possible. I would like to thank the slew of friends and readers who offered up their names for use in the book, you all know who you are! Much gratitude, also, to Jacquie Wiesner for her assistance with French corrections and other edits. Thanks again to James Ziskin, not ju
st a good friend and fabulous author, but the creator of the family tree graphic in the book. Appreciation to Rachel Miner who inspired me to continue to represent the people of the world in my books, especially those who don’t normally get a look-in. And thanks to my newest editor, Nicola, who spotted typos and helped me translate from English into American.
And, as always, I am indebted to my fantastic agent Ann Collette, and my long-time and best ever editor, Dan Mayer. Finally, to my long-suffering family, who give me the support, encouragement, time, and love that allows me to stay calm and carry on writing.