by Mark Pryor
Not to mention they spoke the sexiest language on the planet, and had given him the opportunity to learn it. He smiled at that thought, and decided to put his skill to work. He dialed Lieutenant Lerens, who answered immediately.
“Camille, it’s Hugo. Can I send you a document and ask you to assign a technician to see whether it’s being plagiarized online?”
“Madame Hancock’s new book?”
“The one she’s writing here, yes.”
“I can get two or three people to work on it; that way we’ll know something more quickly.”
“I told her we’d use just one person. And the same person all the time, if he or she runs multiple searches.”
“Why?” Lerens caught herself. “Oh, she’s afraid we’ll steal or lose it, right?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Understood. I’ll have a tech e-mail you directly so it doesn’t even have to come through me.”
“Merci,” Hugo said. “Any news from you?”
“We have a little more on Baxter, but not a lot. It’s more what we haven’t found that’s interesting. No cell phone and no laptop.”
“Wait, we have—”
“Turns out the computer we found really does have nothing else on it, just the spy stuff. No e-mail, no Internet history, nothing. It looks like he bought it for one purpose only, which means I’d expect to find something else for his personal use. A tablet or laptop, certainly a cell phone.”
“Maybe he was old-fashioned.”
“Maybe, but I’m not betting on it.”
“Which reminds me,” Hugo said. “You’re absolutely right that he’d have another device.”
“What makes you say that?”
“If I’m right about him being a gambler, and working two jobs to pay for it, then he must have been doing it online.”
“Good point. We’ll keep looking, of course. And there are a couple of illegal gambling places near here; we’re checking those out, too.”
“Good, but I don’t think this is about gambling. Too much of a coincidence. Did you go through all the footage from the camera yet?”
“Yes, and there’s a lot of it. It looks like he activated it manually, as opposed to just leaving it running.”
“Are you thinking it’s for blackmail?”
“I would be, but she’s not really doing anything. There aren’t even any clips of her naked, so I can’t imagine what he would blackmail her with.”
“Maybe he’s just a voyeur and got off on it,” Hugo suggested.
“Then why choose her room specifically? She’s attractive enough, but that hotel is always brimming with young and beautiful women. And who gets off on watching someone type on a computer?”
“Hey, it takes all sorts.”
“It does, but I’m sure he targeted her specifically,” Lerens said. “I just don’t know why, or who else is in on this.”
“I agree that she was targeted, and I’m guessing if we found out by whom, we’d have our killer.”
“Hugo, let me call you back—I’m getting an incoming call from the hotel and should answer it.”
“Sure, let me know if it’s something important. Or even unimportant.”
Lerens ended the call, and Hugo started the long walk through the Seventh Arrondissement back toward his apartment in the Sixth. He distracted himself en route, stopping to look in the windows of agencies selling apartments in the city, imagining what his permanent place might look like. The beamed-ceiling apartment in Rue de la Huchette, just a stone’s throw from his favorite bookstore, Shakespeare and Company? Or maybe the modern place on Rue de Monceau, on the other side of the river and by the park of the same name. No, too far from the action, he thought, and sighed with pleasure at the idea that he might one day be able to make such a choice. With a little more lift in his step he started walking again, and he had just crossed Rue Malar when his phone rang. He checked the display and saw it was Lerens.
“Hi, Camille, what did they have to say?”
“Salut again, Hugo. Ready for this? They called to let me know that they found another spy camera.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning, Hugo walked the mile from his apartment to the Sorbonne Hotel, stepping out of his building onto a sidewalk that was wet from a light rain that had stopped an hour before, leaving the air smelling fresh and clean.
As he left Rue Jacob, Hugo passed a man and his son, maybe nine years old, sitting on a pink blanket against the stone wall of a bank. They didn’t look homeless—both were clean and seemed well-fed, and in fact the man’s large, round belly was his most distinguishing feature. His son thought so, too, because he kept poking it to make them both giggle, over and over, each attuned only to the other, laughing in their own world and seemingly oblivious to the passers-by who glanced down but ignored the paper cup at the edge of their blanket.
At the hotel, Camille Lerens was waiting in the lobby, talking to a woman in a blue business suit. She had dark, curly hair, and when she turned to look at Hugo, he saw large, dark eyes to match. Lerens introduced her as Jill Maxick, one of the senior hotel managers.
“She’s got the device in her office,” Lerens said. She smiled at Hugo. “I need to make a call, you go ahead and ask her all the questions I just did.”
“Thanks, I will,” Hugo said. He turned to Maxick, who was smiling.
“Lieutenant Lerens said you probably would, but I don’t mind,” she said in English. “Shall we go to my office?”
“Sure. So you’re an American?”
They walked side by side around the end of the reception desk into a roomy and modern office. “Yes, but I’ve lived here for fourteen years. Please, sit.”
“Lucky you,” Hugo said, taking one of the chairs opposite her desk.
“Lucky is right. I started following Depeche Mode around when they went on tour back then. One of the band members fell for me, and me for him, and he brought me here.”
“I was a fan back in the day. Which band member?”
“Ah, that would be telling,” Maxick said with a wink. “And I don’t kiss and tell. Anyway, he brought me here and I guess he left me here, too, not that I’m complaining now.”
“It’s a great place to live,” Hugo agreed. “And you like working at the hotel?”
“As good as any job I’ve ever had. It’s still work, don’t get me wrong, but yes, I do.”
“I’m not sure I’d be wild about dealing with rich and picky customers all day.”
“Most of them are very nice, actually. The Americans and the Russians tend to be the worst, which may or may not surprise you.”
“It would not,” Hugo said with a smile. “So, to business. Let me first ask, who found the camera?” It sat in a plastic bag between them, and as he listened he picked it up and inspected it. It looked, to his inexpert eye, just like the one from Hancock’s room.
“One of the maintenance men. I asked a couple of them to check every single room. You know, after finding out about the one in Ms. Hancock’s room.”
“Very sensible,” Hugo said. “Whose room was it in?”
“The room was empty. Had been for two weeks; we’d remodeled the bathroom, which promptly sprung a leak and needed re-fixing.” She pulled a face. “Lucky for us, we’ve not been at full capacity; otherwise we’d have needed that room.”
“Were you about to use it?”
“Yes. It went back online, so to speak, yesterday. Leak fixed and everything in good shape. We had a guest scheduled today, so as you can imagine we’re relieved to have found the camera.”
“Have you checked all the rooms?”
“Yes, we finished that task last night. No others found.”
“And who is the person checked into that room?”
“It’s a couple. Italians in their fifties. They’ll be here for five nights.” She gave a wry smile. “Assuming they don’t find out about the cameras.”
“Well, if you’ve cleared the rooms now, you shou
ld be fine.” Hugo wasn’t sure what she’d told the French police about the dead man in the stairwell, and it wasn’t his case, but he was curious about him. “Did you know Andrew Baxter well?”
“Yes, I did. I already told the lieutenant all of this but, if it helps, I don’t mind repeating myself. He’d worked here two years, which is a fairly long time for hotel staff.” She sighed. “He was quite a character. Fun, funny, and big into his sports. During the soccer season he’d take the train to London to watch his team play, Chelsea. I never understood it, but it was his passion.”
“He have any other hobbies?” Hugo wanted to ask about Baxter’s gambling but didn’t know if Lerens had mentioned it to Maxick, or if she wanted it made public.
“You probably already know, but he did gamble a bit. And when I say a bit, I mean a lot.”
“Did he owe money to anyone?”
“I have no idea. I knew he gambled, but we never talked about it.”
“Was he addicted?” Hugo asked.
“I don’t know that either, sorry.”
“Does Lieutenant Lerens have the names of the people who shared his room?”
“Yes. Just two right now, and both speak English fluently. Lionel Colbert, who he’s friends with, and Thomas Prehn, who he’s not.”
“I see. Did he have some problem with Prehn or they just don’t get along?”
“The latter, I think. Partly it’s because Tom’s German, and not just in the sense that he’s from there. He tends to exhibit a few of that country’s stereotypical traits. Andy found him a little . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know. They just didn’t see eye to eye, and rooming together probably didn’t help.”
“You couldn’t put one of them somewhere else?”
Maxick frowned. “I could have, yes. But they’re grown-ups, not children, and I have plenty of paying guests to worry about. I have neither the time nor energy to be mommy to boys who don’t play well together.”
“Fair enough.” Hugo said, and stood. “One more question, do you guys have surveillance or security cameras in the hotel?”
“No,” she said. “Our clientele isn’t the kind that calls for those kinds of precautions, and I suspect they would be less than happy to be filmed in the hallways and more public spaces. One of the things we try to offer our guests is privacy.” She grimaced. “And, yes, I’m well aware of the irony of that statement, given recent events.”
They both turned as Camille Lerens tapped on the door frame and walked in. She looked at Maxick. “Could Monsieur Marston and I use your office to talk for a couple of minutes?”
“Sure thing.” Maxick got up and shook Hugo’s hand. “I hope you find out who killed Andy, and whoever’s behind this crazy spying business.” She paused. “Are they connected?”
“Good question,” Hugo said. “We’ll let you know when we figure it out.”
Once she’d gone, Lerens signaled for Hugo to sit, and she did the same. “Maxick tell you anything useful?”
“Not really. Same stuff she told you, I’m sure.”
“Well, I have Thomas Prehn waiting for us in his room, their room, I suppose.”
“Good. What about this Colbert guy—anyone spoken to him?”
“Not yet,” Lerens said, “but we have a call into him, waiting to hear back. I did look into keycard usage but it looks like whoever accessed Madame Hancock’s room either was a maid or used a maid’s key. And they don’t have cameras in the hallways, so that’s a dead end.”
“I asked about that too.”
“One interesting development,” Lerens said. “Andrew Baxter’s computer, the one we found with the spy software on it. Well, it had no fingerprints on it.”
“None of his or . . . ?”
“None at all. Wiped completely clean.”
Hugo sat back and thought for a moment. “You’re right, that is very interesting.” He sprang to his feet. “And on that note, should we head upstairs?”
Lerens nodded and rose, picking up the bag containing the camera. Hugo followed her out of the office and to the elevators, and three minutes later they were sitting opposite Thomas Prehn in the room he’d shared with Baxter and Colbert. He was a stocky man in his midthirties, with wavy black hair and watchful eyes. He was dressed in a white shirt tucked into jeans, as if he couldn’t decide whether to be formal or casual today, and he perched on the edge of his bed as Hugo and Lerens pulled up chairs to face him. It was an uncomfortable, almost formal, setting and not the relaxed one Hugo would’ve preferred, but at least the man was on home turf.
Lerens placed a digital recorder on the floor between them and spoke in French, introducing everyone present for the recording, as well as the date and time. This was her investigation, so Hugo knew she would ask the questions. Plus, having Lerens take the lead allowed him to focus on their subject’s nonverbal responses.
“Monsieur Prehn, let me start by making sure I am pronouncing your name correctly.”
“You are,” he said. Even though he replied in fluent French, Hugo immediately detected the staccato of his German accent. “It’s like prayn, not prenn.”
“Thank you. So, how long did you know Andrew Baxter?”
“I’ve been working here for almost a year, so ever since I got here.”
“What do you do at the hotel?” Lerens asked.
“Reception. I sometimes double up as the concierge when needed, but mostly I’m at the desk.”
“Did you two get on well?”
“Not especially, but I expect people have told you that already. To begin with we had troubles; he didn’t seem to respect my space and he was very loud. Like all Americans, perhaps?”
“Not all,” Hugo assured him. “Just like not all Germans are humorless.”
“No matter. When you share a room, you have to be respectful of the others in that room.” Prehn shrugged. “After a while, I think we got used to each other. He was working a lot and when he was off, it seemed like he was on his computer most of the time. And it helped when I bought some large headphones.”
“When did you last see him?”
“The night before he was . . . found.” Prehn shook his head. “He wasn’t my favorite person in the world, but I can’t believe this has happened.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”
“No, no one. Even if he was loud and annoying sometimes, that was all. He wasn’t a bad person.”
“Did he have any hobbies?” Lerens asked.
“Just his computer games.”
“What kind of games?”
“I don’t know, never asked.”
“Did Andrew know many of the guests? Like, for example, Helen Hancock?”
Prehn smiled. “Everyone knows Helen; she’s been coming here for years and is,” he paused, searching for the right word. “If the hotel had a personal treasure, she would be it. We all know her to say hello, but I don’t think Andy knew her more than anyone else.”
“What about his other friends. Girlfriends, boyfriends . . .”
“We didn’t hang out together, so I don’t really know,” Prehn said. “You should ask Lionel; he was Andy’s friend. Best friend, probably.”
“We will,” Lerens said. “Is there anything else you think we should know, about Andrew, or anything else that might be good for us to know?” Lerens smiled. “Sometimes we don’t find stuff out because we don’t ask the right questions, so if there’s anything you can think of that might help . . .”
Prehn shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Lerens handed him a business card. “If something occurs to you, please call me.”
“I will.” He watched as she leaned down and clicked off the recorder. “Do you think anyone else is in danger?” He cleared his throat nervously, and his eyes flicked between Hugo and Lerens. “I mean, was this a one-time thing, or should I worry that whoever did this could come back and do it again? You know. To me.”
Hugo gave him a reassuring smile, and both
he and Camille shook their heads. But, as Hugo well knew, someone with murder in their heart and blood on their hands was unlikely to stop killing until they were caught or their mission was complete.
And since we don’t know what that mission is . . . Hugo kept the thought to himself, instead saying, “No, we have no reason to think that you’re in any danger.”
A text from Tom Green as they waited by the elevator reminded him that you could never really be too sure, and Hugo felt a chill run down his spine. He needed to find Andrew Baxter’s killer, to bring justice to the dead man and to make sure people like Thomas Prehn were kept safe, but also so he could focus on the man who, quite possibly, would be heading his way. A man who’d already killed and whose heart, if Tom was right, was not only murderous but filled with a desire for vengeance.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fifteen years previously.
1545 hours, Houston, Texas.
Hugo wiped the sweat from his brow with his left sleeve, then took a firm grip of his gun with both hands and edged toward the corner of the house. The deck wrapped all the way around, at least as far as Hugo could see, but it was old and its paint was mostly gone, burned off by the Houston sun or peeled away by the humidity that draped itself over the city day after day, summer after summer.
He took one more look at the front door, then stepped onto the deck and into the shade. The shouting had come from the back of the house, and Tom wasn’t responding on the radio. Not to him or the dispatcher, which was a bad sign.
The shade felt good and Hugo strained to hear the sirens of either the local police or the FBI SWAT team that was supposed to be on its way. Nothing. He readjusted his grip, the sweat making his gun heavy and awkward in his hands, and edged closer to the corner of the house, conscious of every footfall, every creak in the boards beneath his boots.
Two shots rang out from the back of the house, and Hugo started forward. Speed took over from stealth, but he stopped at the corner of the house to confirm that the deck extended to the rear of the building, and that it was safe to access. His gun swept through the thick air in front of him, and he strode along the side of the house. He could see the large oak tree behind which Tom had been stationed.