by Mark Pryor
“Huh. Paranoia?”
“Maybe. If she lives in an imaginary world, I’m sure she occasionally sees things that don’t exist. Writers are supposed to be a little off-kilter, aren’t they?”
“I’m a writer,” Claudia reminded him.
“I meant novelists. But shouldn’t she be seeing comely maidens and muscle-bound millionaires?”
“That doesn’t sound very threatening.” Claudia smiled at him. “Maybe she just wanted your number.”
“Well, you can’t blame her for that.” Hugo signaled for the check. “What else do you know about her?”
“Not a lot. Bestselling novelist, used to be quite the socialite but has dropped off the radar a little.”
“Of her own volition?”
“No idea. Probably.”
Hugo’s phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it until it stopped. But five seconds later, it started up again, and Hugo knew it was either his best friend, Tom Green, or Ambassador Taylor. He shot Claudia an apologetic look and checked the display before answering.
“Tom, what’s up?”
Tom and Hugo had been roommates at Quantico, fast friends from the day they met, even getting postings together when possible. They were like magnets, opposites that attracted each other. Tom’s exit from the FBI had led him into the CIA, where his brashness and risk taking were more appreciated. He claimed to be retired but still took off from time to time on business he wouldn’t even tell Hugo about, coming back days or weeks later to crash at Hugo’s Paris apartment, where he’d made the second bedroom his own.
“You alone?”
“No, with Claudia. Late lunch.”
“Yeah, well, I’m about to ruin your appetite.”
Hugo straightened and Claudia gave him in inquiring look: What? He shrugged and listened as Tom continued.
“I want to talk about Rick Cofer.”
“He got paroled, I know. We talked about this.”
“I think he’ll come for us,” Tom said. “In fact, I’d bet on it.”
“You’d bet on two squirrels fighting. We have no reason to think he’d come all the way out here and do something stupid.”
“No reason?” Tom said, incredulous. “He has every reason in the world. And all the time in the world.”
“Even if that’s true, he’s on parole. There’s nothing he can do. He won’t be allowed to leave the county without permission, let alone the state or country.”
“Right,” Tom said. “Because if there’s one thing Mr. Cofer does, it’s follow the law.”
“And who’s going to give him a passport?”
“He’ll get one. You know he can.”
“Alright, Tom, I get that you’re upset by this—I am, too. But there’s nothing we can do about it, and there’s nothing he can do either.”
Tom said nothing for a moment, and Hugo knew his friend was deciding whether to blow up or hang up. “Fine,” Tom said eventually. “Bon appétit.”
Hugo put away his phone and answered the quizzical look on Claudia’s face. “You’ve asked me a few times about why I left the FBI. More specifically, how come Tom and I left at about the same time.”
Claudia nodded and gave him a gentle smile. “Should I get out my tape recorder?”
Hugo grimaced. “No. For this story I need a blood oath of secrecy and silence until the day you die.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Not really. Just trying to be dramatic.”
“Right now it seems like you’re trying to delay telling me a story.”
“Yeah,” Hugo conceded. “Kind of does, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER THREE
Fifteen years previously.
1600 hours, Houston, Texas.
Rick Cofer lay face down, mouth turned away from the weeds and dirt as his nostrils flared, dragging in air. His lips were drawn thin, but it was his eyes that Hugo concentrated on, black holes of hate and anger that bored into him and then swiveled and fixed on his partner, Tom Green, with even more intensity.
Every few seconds, Cofer’s hands twitched, fingers opening and closing, pinned behind his back in Hugo’s cuffs. The prisoner was six three and round in the belly, and Hugo would normally have considered using two pairs attached to each other to save the man some pain, to make breathing easier for him. But not with Cofer, not with what just happened. That sonofabitch was more than welcome to suffer the fate he’d brought on himself, be it the indignity of a face full of dirt or a cramping discomfort in his shoulders and arms.
Hugo looked up as the SWAT team surrounded the house, piling out of their armored vehicle like automatons, a fast-moving line of anonymous helmets, guns, and aggression. Twelve highly trained men looking for trouble but finding only Hugo and Tom standing over two bad guys; one dead, one alive and cursing, making threats and accusations with his mouth in the dust, telling a tale that no one cared to listen to, let alone believe.
The SWAT commander approached, wary but gun lowered. “Special Agents Marston and Green?”
“Yes.” Hugo said. He and Tom showed their credentials, and the commander nodded.
“You’re both Houston field office?”
“I’m with the BAU based up in DC, sent down to help with your robbery spree,” Hugo nodded toward Tom. “But he is, yeah.”
“I’m Sergeant Mo Siddiqui. You guys OK?”
“Yep, we’re fine,” Hugo said.
Siddiqui looked around. “So, this a planned op? We didn’t know about it.”
“Not planned, exactly,” Hugo admitted. He shot Tom a look. “We had to wing this one.”
“Happens,” Siddiqui said. “We need to clear the house?”
“Yes, of course,” said Hugo. “With the amount of noise we made, I’m pretty certain it’s empty, but you should make sure.”
“Ten-four.” Siddiqui spoke into a microphone on his chest. “Make entry, sweep for suspects and victims.” He looked at Hugo. “You want us to take this guy for you?”
Hugo glanced at Tom. His friend’s jaw was set and he radiated anger, almost quivering with it. “Yeah,” Hugo said. “Probably a good idea; we don’t have a secure vehicle for him.”
“Not a problem.” He eyed the house. “Let me keep an eye on things here until the house is clear.” He glanced at Cofer. “I’m sure he won’t mind chewing the grass a little longer.”
“Fuck you, pig,” Cofer snarled.
“I’m not the one wallowing in mud, shit-head,” Siddiqui said mildly. He moved closer to the house, a hand pressing his earpiece. “Ten-four.” He turned to Hugo. “House is empty. Apart from his dead buddy, of course.”
“Good, thanks,” Hugo said. “Although technically that’s not his buddy in there.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s his brother,” Hugo said. “His fraternal twin brother, to be precise.”
Hugo turned and walked toward the black sedan that had just pulled up to the curb. His mouth was dry, but he tried to remain calm, and he ran the events of the day through his mind, getting everything straight.
A tall, thin black man in a dark-blue suit and sunglasses climbed out of the driver’s side and walked toward Hugo. “Special Agent Marston.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got them?”
“One in custody, one dead.”
“How did that happen?” Ronald Fenwick was the new Special Agent in Charge, SAC, at the Houston field office. Three weeks and, according to pretty much everyone Hugo had spoken to, already making his mark—in some ways good and in some ways bad. One thing was certain: he was a man who stuck to the rule book and, as such, expected his agents to abide by policy and procedure to the letter, no exceptions. Not much of a problem for Hugo on this brief assignment, but less than ideal for his partner, Tom Green, who did his best to abide by the spirit of the bureau’s policies but thought less of the specific rules and procedures.
“They’re really just guidelines,” Tom had once told Hugo, “General rules of warfare not
designed to limit the field discretion of the agents.”
Which pretty quickly put him squarely in Fenwick’s bad graces, and soon after into the SAC’s gunsights.
“Well, sir.” Hugo cleared his throat and began. “We were set up outside the Bank of America on Bissonnet.”
“Why that one?”
“I’d looked at the pattern. There were three banks I thought they might hit next, based on date, time, and location. We just got lucky.”
“Fine,” Fenwick said. “But I thought we hadn’t identified any specific suspects.”
“We hadn’t. I had no idea it was them, which is why we had to wait. We watched twenty or so people go in and out of the bank before the twins arrived. They fit the profile, but I couldn’t be sure it was them.”
“Which is why you didn’t call in backup?”
“Right, too soon. So, anyway, we were sitting there, watching. They arrived and went in.” Hugo paused, choosing his next words carefully—some things Fenwick didn’t need to know. Couldn’t know, not yet at least. “We were about to go in for a closer look, figuring it might be them, so we got ready. Then we heard gunshots.”
“Why did they start shooting? They haven’t done that before.”
“I’m not sure, sir. I honestly don’t know what happened, why they started shooting.” Hugo shrugged. “But they did.”
“OK, I’ll read your report on that later. Right now, I want to know why one of them ended up dead in this house.”
“We got lucky. When they ran out of the bank, we followed, and even though they got a head start we caught up to them barely a block from here. As I was calling it in, they pulled into the driveway and ran into the house.”
“Just two of them?”
“Right. Originally I was trying to get some local units to help, to pull them over. But as soon as they went to ground, I canceled the locals and just talked to FBI SWAT.”
Fenwick nodded, grudgingly acknowledging that Hugo had done the right thing. “Then what?”
“I posted out front, Special Agent Green went around back. Watching brief, sir, that’s all we were doing. Waiting for the guys with the body armor to flush them out, do their thing.”
“So what went wrong?”
Hugo didn’t like that his boss, and Tom’s, was starting with the position that something had gone wrong, assuming that his men screwed something up. The most valued boss in law enforcement was the one whose first reaction to a bad situation was to back you up, look for the things you did right. Fenwick wasn’t that. He was more interested in making sure any mistakes were hung around the necks of his subordinates, and if he had to do the hanging, so be it.
“Nothing went wrong,” Hugo said, then he measured the terseness in his voice. “I heard shouts, then shots. I ran around the back to help and . . .”
“Saw Tom Green standing over a dead man?”
“A dead murderer,” Hugo reminded him.
“We don’t get to decide that; the courts do. And we’re supposed to bring the bad guys in alive, unless you’d forgotten.”
“We’re also supposed to make sure they don’t get away and kill more people,” Hugo said, his jaw clenched. “And no one ever trained us to stand there and get shot.”
“But you didn’t see the actual shooting here?”
Hugo shook his head. “No, sir, I didn’t.”
“So you believe what Special Agent Green told you about what happened immediately beforehand? Taking his word?”
“Damn right,” Hugo snapped. “You should try it.”
Fenwick’s face tightened. “Don’t . . . Watch your attitude, Agent Marston.”
“My attitude is fine. Sir.”
“We’ll see about that.” Fenwick pointed to where Tom was talking to Mo Siddiqui. “Have Green come talk to me, will you?”
“It’s not a closed crime scene, sir,” Hugo said mildly, to disguise the sarcasm. “You’re welcome to walk over there.”
“Now, please, Agent Marston.”
CHAPTER FOUR
On Monday morning, Hugo got to the office just before eight to find a hot cup of coffee on his desk and the little red light on his telephone blinking.
“Bless you, Emma,” he called through the open door to his secretary. He had no idea how she knew when he was arriving, but every morning she did. And that mug of hot coffee was a sign of her ruthlessly efficient regime, a matter of pride for her and pleasure for Hugo.
He pressed the Messages button on his phone, punched in his passcode, and picked up a pen to make a note of who’d called.
“Mr. Marston, this is Helen Hancock, the author. Please, I don’t want you to think I’m crazy, but I think I found something in my hotel room. I think someone’s spying on me. No, I’m sure of it, positive. I’m outside right now, it’s Sunday evening and I don’t dare call from the hotel phone. What if it’s bugged? I’ll call again Monday morning, I don’t have your cell number. Please, I just want to know if you can help me.”
Hugo took a sip of coffee, then dialed the number she left.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Hancock, this is Hugo Marston.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Yes, of course. Are you in the office?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I’m in my room.” She emphasized each word, making her message clear enough for a toddler to get it. “Can I call you in ten minutes?”
“Of course, I’ll be right here. Whenever is convenient for you.”
“Ten minutes it is,” she said, before disconnecting.
Hugo got up from his desk and wandered out to talk to Emma.
“How’s your morning?” he asked genially.
She raised a manicured eyebrow. “Fine. I got up at the same time as usual, ate the same yogurt breakfast as usual, walked the same path to work as usual, and here I am answering banal questions from my boss.”
“As usual,” Hugo finished for her, smiling.
“No,” she wagged a finger. “He only does that when he wants me to do something and he’s not sure whether or not it’s outside my job description.”
“You should have been a profiler.”
“I am a profiler, I just don’t get paid for it.” Her voice softened. “What do you need me to do, Hugo?”
“I know you abhor gossip but are a literate and well-read person,” he began. “This little task will therefore be pleasant.”
She leaned forward. “I’m intrigued.”
“Can you do a little digging and find out what you can on a writer named Helen Hancock?”
Both eyebrows went up this time. “The Helen Hancock?”
“You’re familiar with her?”
“Well, of course,” Emma said. “I have a friend who’s in publishing here in Paris. I met Helen once at a party. And, of course, she’s huge in the romance world, although she’s not put a book out in a couple of years. And her last one kind of tanked, but that was because she went away from her usual formula, which has always been along the lines of a beautiful, strong, powerful woman suddenly finding herself . . .” Her voice tailed off and she colored slightly.
“Well, what do we have here?” Hugo said. “And I thought your reading consisted of the Economist and maybe a little Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky.”
“Are you making fun of me, Hugo Marston?”
Hugo laughed. “Absolutely not. No. Never. I’m just mildly surprised—”
“That I like a little light reading?” Emma harrumphed. “I also enjoy fast food on occasion, you know, and I’ve even been known to watch soap operas and cartoons. And wear slippers during the day.”
“Emma, you’re ruining your superhero image, please, stop.”
She bristled, but Hugo knew it was for show, like a grandmother trying to be strict with a child who was making her laugh.
“Go back into your office, Mr. Marston, if you please. I have work to do.”
“Yes, ma’am, right away.” Hugo backed away from her desk, hands up in surrender, and retreate
d into his office and behind his desk. He had time to turn his computer on and start reading the weekend’s e-mails before Helen Hancock called, but only just. As it was, he’d read four of the waiting eleven when his phone rang.
“This is Hugo.”
“Helen here. I’m at a café; it’s safe to talk.”
Glad to hear it’s safe, Hugo thought, then chided himself for being uncharitable. A writer is bound to be a little melodramatic. “Has something happened, Ms. Hancock? Your message said something about being spied on.”
“Please, call me Helen. And yes, most definitely. I found a camera, a hidden camera. At least, I think that’s what it is; I’m pretty sure. It’s in a painting over my desk. I think someone’s trying to steal my work.”
Hugo paused. “Is that a thing? I mean, forgive my ignorance, but do writers steal each other’s work?”
“It may not be a writer. In fact, it probably isn’t. It’s probably a fan, or someone who thinks they can sell my work before it’s published. Maybe someone who wants to turn it into fan fiction, I don’t know. I really have no idea, but I don’t like it one bit.”
“Well, we can worry about the why later,” Hugo said. “Let’s make sure it is what you think it is, first. Have you told the police?”
“No. I’m not sure I should call them. I mean, I’m sure I can trust them to find out, do a good job, but there’s the whole language barrier.”
“You don’t speak French?”
“Yes, of course I do. Some. Enough to get around. But I have no idea what the French for ‘secret camera’ is, that’s for sure. And I don’t fancy getting grilled by a French policeman who’s more interested in protecting the reputation of one of his city’s hotels than finding out what’s going on.”
“My experience has always been that the police here are very pro—”
“I’m sure your experience is valid, Mr. Marston.” Her voice was curt. “However, the French have a reputation for the way they view women, and my experience has been more in line with that. You see, I’m treated as a woman at first, and then I get all the respect in the world when they find out I’m a writer. Until they realize I’m a romance writer, then it’s back to square one.”