by Mark Pryor
“Very nice,” Lerens said. “I can confirm his name, and it’s on the crime-scene log because it is confirmed. He stays at the hotel—they have some rooms converted for employees, almost a dormitory. Anyway, we have his passport. Andrew Baxter from California. Been here four months, and you’re right about the double shifts. Hard worker, the manager tells me.”
“Did Dr. Sprengelmeyer suggest a time of death?”
“Reluctantly. Sometime within the last three hours.”
“And how many stab wounds?” Hugo asked. “Mind if I look?”
“Four. And go right ahead.” She turned and spoke to one of the officers, the one still wearing blue surgical gloves. “Turn him over, please.”
The officer did so and Hugo knelt to inspect the wounds. Lerens handed him a pair of gloves, and when he’d snapped them on Hugo probed with fingertips at the deep cuts in Baxter’s back. He tried to assess the angle and depth without damaging any of the already-slashed flesh.
“One of these must have pierced his heart,” he said, looking around.
“Right, otherwise there’d be more blood.”
“Precisely. And he died quickly, because he didn’t go up or even fall down the stairs,” Hugo said, turning to look around him. “But not before he grabbed at the wall, so the first blow didn’t kill him right away.”
“That tell us anything about his killer?” one of the cops asked.
“Maybe.” Hugo stood and peeled off the gloves.
“Drop them on the floor, we’ll clean up later,” Lerens said. “Any questions?”
“I think you know the first one,” Hugo said.
“Let’s talk upstairs.” She turned to the policemen. “Wait here, please, until the medical examiner’s people come to take him. You know the drill.”
Both men stood to attention and murmured acquiescence, an impressive show of respect. In the company of other officers, other people really, Hugo had often found himself protective of Lerens, but the more time he spent with her, the more he was coming to realize that she was accepted by the men and women of the Paris police, most anyway, for who she was. And he well knew that she didn’t need his protection, either; she could take care of any problems herself, but it was a mark of his respect and a measure of their friendship that he felt that way, so he didn’t chide himself for it.
Once in the hallway, they walked side by side toward the elevator. Hugo’s phone buzzed and he read the incoming text from Ambassador Taylor—which was just a question mark. He replied, typing, “Not HH, American hotel employee.”
“You want to know if this guy has any connection to Helen Hancock?” Lerens said.
“Other than the hotel connection, yes.”
“None that we’ve found yet. We can go talk to her right now, if you like.”
“We could if her room weren’t bugged,” Hugo said.
“Merde, that’s right.” Lerens paused. “Well, now we have to do this officially, Hugo; no more Tom sneaking around in the shadows. We need to move her into a new room and start an official investigation into that.”
“Let’s just see if the two things are related,” Hugo said.
“Non, absolutely not. Maybe we won’t find a connection now, but if we get deep into this murder investigation and discover there is one, that won’t look good. At all.”
“Fine. But let’s talk to her briefly now to establish an alibi. You know as well as I do that the sooner we do that, the better. We can talk in the hallway; it won’t take a moment.”
“I prefer to do my interviews at the police station.” Lerens frowned. “But I would like to check where she was at the time of the murder, and you’re right that we should do that soon.”
Hugo nodded and continued down the hallway, not waiting for her to change her mind. At the elevator, he pushed the up button and the doors opened immediately. Lerens followed him in and twenty seconds later they were in front of Hancock’s door.
Hugo knocked. Nothing.
He knocked again, and after a moment a weak voice came from inside. “Who is it?”
“Ms. Hancock, it’s Hugo Marston from the embassy.”
“Wait a minute, please.”
Hugo and Lerens swapped concerned glances but didn’t say anything, waiting until Hancock opened the door. When she did, Hugo was surprised by her appearance. She wore a white flannel robe wrapped tightly around her, and her face was pale and free of makeup.
“I hope this is important,” she said, turning and leaving the door open as she walked back into her suite.
“Ms. Hancock.” Hugo indicated with his head that he wanted to talk outside the room, not inside.
She sighed and shuffled toward him, picking up a room key from a side table as she went and dropping it into a robe pocket. She closed the door behind her and turned, a frown on her face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Are you feeling all right?” Hugo asked.
“I’m fine. Resting.”
“You’re sure? You look . . . a little under the weather.” Hugo kept his voice soft, so she’d know it was genuine concern driving his questions. He wondered whether she’d taken some medication, a strong painkiller or maybe an antidepressant, because this wasn’t the peppy, alert woman Hugo had talked to before.
Hancock looked at him in surprise, then smiled. “This is going in a book.”
“What is?” Hugo asked.
“You show up here and get all concerned for my welfare because I’m not made-up and I’m acting a little dopey.”
“Well, it is midmorning,” Hugo pointed out. “So I was just—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She waved a hand to silence him. “I’m not wearing makeup and I’m floppy like a noodle because I just had a facial, a mani-pedi, and then a ninety-minute hot-rock massage. Seriously, you try that and tell me how you are afterward.”
“Ah, that does explain it,” Hugo said, feeling a little sheepish. “Well, we won’t take up any more of your time. Those services were here in the hotel?”
“Of course. I just got back to my room. What did you need from me?”
“Nothing,” Hugo said. “It’s not important right now; you can go back to relaxing.”
“I wish I could,” she said. “Unfortunately, I have a dozen e-mails to respond to, from fans and bloggers.”
“Always working, eh?”
“It’s not just the stories that need constant attention. If I don’t write back to a reader within a few days, well, it feels rude to me. Although they always seem very grateful, even if I leave it for a week.”
“We’ll let you go then. . . . Oh,” Hugo said, “do try and stay out of sight of that camera.”
“I put flowers in front of it.”
“Excuse me?” Lerens said.
“I ordered a tall vase of flowers and put them in front of where the camera is. They may be able to hear me while I watch television or hum while I write, but they can’t see anything.” She held up an admonishing finger. “And before you tell me I’ve tipped them off, I don’t care. I’m not going to continue to act like I don’t know about it and be careful with everything I do in there. So I don’t care if they think I know, because I do.”
“That’s fine,” Hugo said.
“Have you decided what to do about it?” she asked.
“Pretty much. Can we come by a little later and talk again?” Hugo glanced at Lerens. “We’re kind of in the middle of an emergency right now.”
“Oh, really? Anything I need to know about?”
“No, it’s not related to this,” Hugo assured her. “You’ll probably find out about it soon enough anyway, and, if not, we’ll fill you in later.”
“Now I’m curious,” she said.
“Well, we have to run. Thanks for your time; we’ll call before we come by. Make sure you’re available.”
“I’m going out to lunch, but otherwise I’ll be writing or napping,” she said. “Either way, feel free to interrupt.”
Hugo fol
lowed Lerens down the hallway to the elevator bank, where they stopped to talk.
“‘Unrelated,’ eh?” Lerens said. “Why does that seem so unlikely to me?”
“Me too, but it’s certainly possible, isn’t it?”
“Bien sûr,” she said. Of course.
“Especially since she seems to have an alibi.”
“I’ll have Jameson check the spa to make sure she was there for that whole time period. If so, and if Sprengelmeyer is right about the time of death, then she most certainly does.”
“Exactly.” Hugo clapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Which means you guys now have two mysteries to solve.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hugo decided to walk with Lerens to the hotel’s spa to confirm for themselves that Helen Hancock was indeed at the spa for almost four hours. She’d arrived fifteen minutes early for her appointment, sitting in a robe in a comfy chair and reading over some pages of her manuscript, the receptionist said. At least, she’d assumed it was her manuscript. “After all, she’s a famous writer—what else would it be?”
That question answered, Hugo left Lerens to organize her investigations and stepped out of the hotel to stroll down Rue des Écoles, deep in thought. Early on in murder inquiries there was a temptation to try to figure out who did what and why, to want to catch the killer as quickly as possible. All well and good, Hugo knew, but his first task was always to gather information, not to point fingers. He’s seen good cops, and agents, decide too soon who the bad guy was and subsequently fail to investigate other aspects of their cases. Confirmation bias, but of a particularly pernicious nature—because at one end there was a dead person, and at the other, someone risked losing their freedom.
Facts before findings, Hugo’s mentor had told him, not the other way around. Hugo had followed this advice all his career and to his knowledge had never arrested, let alone seen convicted, an innocent man. His mind flicked past this case to an image of Rick Cofer, and he shook his head. Not that convicting the right guy necessarily guaranteed justice.
A rumble from his stomach guided him into a nearby boulangerie, and he stood inside the door for a moment to savor the sights and smells of the fresh breads and other baked delights. He selected a vegetarian brie and tomato sandwich, the baguette bread crisp and crumbly in his fingers, and he took a bite as he left the bakery and ambled slowly back toward the hotel.
Ten minutes later, as he dropped the sandwich wrapper into a trash can, his phone rang.
“Claudia, bonjour,” he said.
“Salut, handsome.”
“I just ate lunch, if you’re calling to take me out.”
“What is that word you Americans use?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Ah, yes, I think it is moocher.”
“A fine word,” Hugo said. “But a little harsh.”
“I’m joking, silly. Anyway, this is an official call. Newspaper business.”
“How interesting. What can I do for you?”
“A little bird told me an American employee at the Sorbonne Hotel was murdered today. Is that right?”
“You don’t cover the crime beat now, do you?”
“As you well know, I cover whatever story is worth writing. And stop avoiding the question.”
“Shouldn’t you be asking the police?”
“I did. They told me Camille Lerens was in charge, and she’s not answering my calls. Even if she did, she’d give me the party line, which would involve a lot of words but no information.”
Hugo smiled. “‘Can’t say much until the cause of death is confirmed,’ ‘looking into all angles,’ ‘will issue a press release in due course.’”
“Precisely. And since she’s involved, and the dead guy was American, I knew you’d have your nose stuck into things.”
“Delightfully put.”
She laughed gently. “Well, I am a writer. Speaking of which, isn’t Helen Hancock staying at that hotel, too?”
“I believe she might be,” Hugo said. “No connection, though, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
“How can you be so sure? Especially this soon.”
Hugo paused. “Fair enough. So far there’s no evidence of a connection; how’s that?”
“Not much better. Come on, Hugo, give me a little something I can use.”
“Now who’s mooching?”
“Not me, I’ll make it worth your while for sure.” She softened her voice. “Maybe tonight if the information is good enough.”
Hugo’s smile broadened. “I think I should get paid in advance.”
“Hugo—”
His phone buzzed. “Let me call you right back. Camille’s trying to reach me.”
“Fine, but you better. Ciao for now, sexy.”
Hugo clicked over to Lerens. “Any news?”
“You could say that. Where are you?”
“About thirty steps from the hotel.”
“Good. Take the elevator to the top floor. I’ll be waiting.”
When the elevator doors opened, Hugo stepped out and looked to his right. Camille Lerens and Paul Jameson, carrying a black bag, stood outside an open door, talking in quiet voices. They both looked over at Hugo and waited for him to join them.
“Found something interesting?” Hugo asked.
“Understatement,” Jameson replied. He turned to Lerens. “I’ll get right to it.” He nodded to Hugo and started down the hallway toward the elevator.
“Where’s he going?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Lerens said. “First, I have something to show you.”
Hugo followed her through the open door into a large hotel room that had been converted into a sleeping space for four people. A single bed was tucked into each corner, a shoulder-height metal locker beside each one. The rest of the space was taken up by armchairs of various sizes, none of them matching.
“Sleeping quarters for some of the staff,” Lerens said. “There’s a kitchenette down the hallway, bathrooms too.”
“Very cozy.” He nodded to one of the beds. “That’s Andrew Baxter’s, I assume.”
“Correct,” Lerens said, but she cocked her head as if to ask how he knew.
“Oh, too easy. Each bed has storage for private items, those lockers. The other three are padlocked shut, only that one has no padlock. I assume you already removed it, searched his locker, and found something interesting.”
“Correct again, Sherlock.” She turned and walked to Baxter’s locker, and Hugo followed her. She opened its door and moved aside so Hugo could look inside himself. “Forensics and the photographer are done; put these on and touch whatever you want.” She handed him a pair of blue surgical gloves. “I wanted you to have a look before I bagged it all for evidence.”
The locker had three shelves in the top half, leaving the bottom open for larger items. Baxter had used this lower space for shoes and to hang a heavy winter coat made of wool, one that had seen better days. On the top shelf, Hugo saw several books, and he took them out. The first was a winner’s guide to online gambling, or so the title proclaimed.
“Looks like you were right about his hobby,” Lerens said.
Hugo nodded and looked at the other two books, both novels. And both by Helen Hancock. He took out his phone and photographed the front covers, then inspected them more closely.
“These don’t look like he’s read them. Pristine covers, no grubby pages. I’m not sure he’s even opened them.”
“And never will.”
“You’re not thinking this is enough to bring our favorite writer into the investigation, are you?” Hugo asked.
“Not by itself, no. But we found more than just the books.”
Hugo looked into the locker, running his mind over what was there and, more important, what wasn’t. “His laptop,” Hugo said.
“You’re good at this,” Lerens said with a smile.
“Been doing it a few years now. This empty shelf and the lack of any laptop or tablet tell me you already took it and went t
o work on it.” He smiled. “And Paul Jameson was carrying a computer bag when he left.”
“I took a quick look myself. Not even password protected.”
“No?” Hugo rapped his knuckles against the metal of the locker. “Maybe not too surprising; it’s not like anyone’s busting into this thing easily.”
“True.”
“Which reminds me. How did you get into it?”
“The key. Paul Jameson found it under his bed.”
“In what way?” Hugo asked. “Like he’d dropped it there, or like he’d put it there on purpose?”
“It was in a shoe.” Lerens pointed to a pair on the floor beside the locker. “More like a slipper, I guess, but it was tucked into one of those. And no doubt you’re about to ask me which one, left or right, for some reason.”
“Nope,” Hugo said. “I don’t think that matters.” He stooped and looked at the worn leather slippers, picking them up one before the other, inspecting the top and the sole of each. “I assume you checked inside them both? Given the odor, I’d prefer not to reach inside even with gloves on.”
Lerens smiled. “We did. Rather, Paul did. I happen to agree with your assessment of them.”
“Smart woman. Anyway, back to the computer. Find anything interesting on it?”
“I thought you’d never ask. ‘Yes’ is the short answer.”
“And the long answer?”
“Is that we found evidence, well, proof really, that our friend Andrew Baxter was the one who set up the camera in Helen Hancock’s room. Video clips of the room and also the software he used to record her. It’s a probably a formality, but I have my people taking out the camera right now, and when they’re done we’ll match the camera itself with the unique ID number on his computer.”
“Well, well,” Hugo said, relieved that he needn’t go through the hassle of setting up countersurveillance in Hancock’s room. “How interesting. Any clue why Baxter would do something like that? Was it for the manuscript?”