The Sorbonne Affair

by Mark Pryor

  “That’s my plan. But if we take too long, or someone else finds out about the spy camera, she may not be able to wait. She knows she has an advantage when we’re involved, and she doesn’t abuse it, but she’s still has a job to do. Which means printing something if another journalist is beating her to the story.”

  “I understand that,” Lerens said. “I just hope Helen Hancock does.”

  “She won’t like it, but she’s been around long enough to know how the world works.”

  “That’s true.” Lerens nodded. “Alors, back to the case itself. We agree that the murder and the placement of the camera are almost certainly related?”

  “Yes. We should keep an open mind, but . . . Well, let me tell you a story. Back in my bureau days, we were chasing this truck driver who’d killed at least three women that we knew of, but almost certainly more. We’d managed to narrow the suspects down to two guys. Then one of them died in a traffic accident.”

  “Did the murders stop?”

  “We waited two weeks, and a body turned up. Looked to be the exact MO—he’d cut some hair off her head, bound her with duct tape, and staged the body in the same way along the side of a major road. That left us with one suspect, Gary Lee Miller, thirty-six years old. Problem was, he stopped showing up for work, went off the grid entirely.”

  “Did he know you’d identified him?” Lerens asked.

  “No idea. But he was gone. We put out a nationwide alert, of course, just in case, and then just had to wait. Two months later, Montana police pull over a car that has no license plates, and the driver gives his name as Lee Miller. No driver’s license or other ID on him. The trooper ran his name and, of course, got the shock of his life when a picture popped up of a late-thirties white guy named Gary Lee Miller, wanted for serial murder.” Hugo shook his head and smiled. “He had the driver out and on the ground in seconds, his gun in the guy’s ear, screaming that if he moved he’d blow his brains out.”

  “Why would he give his real name?”

  “Ah,” said Hugo. “That’s the point of this story. He didn’t.”

  Lerens cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Turns out, the guy knew he had no license to drive and had several unpaid tickets, so he made up a name. Said the first name that popped into his head, which was Lee Miller. Just so happened that he looked a little like Gary Lee Miller.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They cleared it up pretty quickly, but not before the poor fellow had been told he was a wanted serial killer. Must have been quite a shock.”

  “No kidding,” Lerens said. “Did you catch the real killer?”

  Hugo shook his head. “Never did. We figured that he’d gotten the job with that trucking company under a fake name and Social Security number, even paid taxes under his fake name. I would guess that he got arrested for something else, was properly IDed through fingerprints, and went to prison under his real name. Or possibly his grave. But the murders stopped after that last one, so something happened to him.”

  “A sobering story, every which way.”

  “For sure. But I think most cops have something like that happen, a moment that makes them stop and think a little harder about what they’re doing. Not you?”

  “Yes, actually,” she said. “Along those same lines, when I was a patrol officer in Bordeaux. I made a traffic stop. Totally routine, for speeding or something. I was backed up by a more senior officer who got to the scene a few minutes later, a man no one on the shift liked too much, kind of a loner who never really gelled with us. Oddly enough, now that I think about it, he was one of the least judgmental people when I was transitioning. Anyway, this businessman was waiting for me to write his ticket, he wasn’t being difficult or anything. I was halfway through writing it when this officer came up to the window and saw me typing something on the computer. He asked if I’d finished the ticket and I said no, I was just replying to a colleague’s e-mail about lunch plans.”

  “Important stuff,” Hugo said.

  “I thought so. I mean, we had to time our meals so they didn’t overlap too much—to keep as many of us on the street as possible.”

  “Of course,” Hugo said. “Makes perfect sense.”

  “Not to that other officer. He stuck his head right through that open window, put his face in mine, and said something I’ve never forgotten. He said, ‘The most important right any human has is freedom. Freedom to come and go, to be with family and friends, or just go wherever we want.’ Then he pointed to the guy I’d pulled over. ‘This might just be a traffic stop to you, perfectly legitimate and routine, but right now you’re depriving that man of his freedom. He is stuck where he is until you decide he can go. And you’re depriving him of that freedom so you can discuss lunch plans.’ Then he turned and walked back to his car and left me there.”

  “I think I like that flic,” Hugo said.

  “Yeah, I never forgot that lesson and definitely respected him a lot more after that.”

  “I trust you hurried up with that ticket.”

  “Non. Tore it up on the spot and went to apologize to the driver for taking more of his time than I needed to.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Hugo said. “So let’s you and I be careful about making assumptions, and curtailing other people’s freedom. Good reminders.”

  “Absolument.”

  “With that in mind, where do you want to go next in the case?”

  “I am taking a few officers and interviewing everyone at the hotel. We started that Tuesday and did more interviews yesterday, but it’s been hard catching everyone, with all those rotating schedules. I’m hoping we can finish today.”

  “Great. How can I help?”

  “Can you go talk to Helen Hancock?” she asked. “She trusts you and we need to make sure she’s told us everything she knows. Having lied about Silva, or at least hidden their little affair, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more to learn. Hopefully about any friendship or relationship with Baxter.”

  “You think she was having an affair with him, too?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “It’s certainly a possibility,” Hugo said. “Baxter is sleeping with Hancock, finds out Silva is, too, and confronts her. She denies it but he’s sure, so he puts a camera in her room to prove it. Silva finds out, they have a confrontation in the hotel . . .” Hugo stopped himself. “No. That would require Silva to be carrying a knife at the time of the confrontation, and a regular kitchen knife, not one for self-protection.”

  “True,” Lerens agreed. “And those types of murders don’t typically evolve that way, the escalating confrontation.”

  “I know, in a stairwell you’d expect a fistfight or something closer to that.”

  “Maybe Helen lured Baxter there and Silva killed him?”

  “Maybe,” Hugo said. “It’s not like she stabbed him herself.”

  “Her alibi,” Lerens said, frowning with thought. “Even if she didn’t have one, we’d really be pushing the bounds of likelihood.”

  “Yeah, she doesn’t strike me as a stabby woman,” Hugo agreed. “But you’re right; she could’ve lured Baxter without being there herself, for Silva to kill him. Sent him a message to be there.”

  “But why? What’s her motive for having Baxter killed?”

  “It’s pretty far-fetched,” Hugo conceded. “She could easily end the relationship with him if that’s what she wanted, ended either relationship, no need for blood to be spilled.”

  “And that’s assuming there was a relationship between them.”

  “Agreed,” said Hugo. “And no one we’ve talked to has even hinted at one.”

  “That’s true. Which means that as of now I see no motive for Helen at all, but, if you don’t mind, talk to her and see if she can tell us anything new.”

  Hugo found Helen Hancock in the hotel’s plush restaurant, in a corner booth with her back to the world. She had a cup of coffee in front of her and sat talking to Jill Max
ick, who looked up as Hugo approached.

  “Mr. Marston, you look so serious; do you have news?” Maxick asked.

  “No, I just wanted another chat with Helen. Front desk said you guys were in here.”

  “They shouldn’t be telling people where Helen is,” she said. “I expressly forbade them.”

  “I think the guy recognized me,” Hugo said, “so don’t be too hard on him.”

  “Even so, they’re all supposed to check in with me first.”

  Trying to make amends? Hugo wondered. He turned to Hancock. “Do you have a few minutes? Lieutenant Lerens asked me to come by and talk to you again.”

  Hancock sighed and wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, as if she were suddenly cold. “Yes, of course.” She looked at Maxick, who slid out of the booth and gestured for Hugo to sit.

  “Can I bring you some coffee?” Maxick asked him.

  “No, thank you.” And no other interruptions, he wanted to say, but didn’t.

  Maxick hovered for a moment, then left them alone without another word.

  “I suppose you want to know why I didn’t tell you about Ambrósio,” Hancock began.

  “Yes,” Hugo said. “Investigators don’t like surprises during murder inquiries, especially very public surprises.”

  Hancock look at him and snorted. “You think you were the one who was surprised? You think I liked that particular surprise myself?”

  “I don’t mean to sound harsh, Helen, but you knew someone had been recording you and you must have known there was a chance your encounters with Silva might have been filmed. That was a gross invasion of privacy, and no doubt very embarrassing to you, but I’m not sure you can label it as a surprise exactly. You should have said something to us.”

  “I had to make a choice, to try and protect my privacy. So here we are, and which do you suppose is worse, me hiding that or being splayed all over the Internet?”

  “I think if we’re making comparisons, then the worst thing to have happened is probably the stabbing death of Andrew Baxter, don’t you?” Hugo softened his tone. “Look, I’m not here to argue with you, but Baxter is still dead and his killer is still out there. We know Baxter bought that spy camera, so it seems only logical that he was the one who installed it in your room. But he wasn’t the one to put that footage online.”

  “I was thinking about that. Is it possible that he uploaded it and set it to be published a few days later?”

  “No, I talked to Lieutenant Lerens this morning. They found the website it was first posted on, a pornography site, and it doesn’t have a delayed publishing option. And if you think about it, why would he do that? Blackmail, maybe, but we’ve seen no evidence of any plan to do that. I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “No, I guess not. I suppose I was just hoping . . .” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know. That there wasn’t someone else out there looking to hurt me.”

  “Helen, there’s a question I have to ask you. It’s a personal question, but it’s very important that you don’t lie to me or withhold information. You may think it’s irrelevant, or that we’ll never find out, but if you hide something else important from the police, you’re not only jeopardizing the investigation but you’re putting yourself in a French jail cell for obstructing justice.”

  “But I was trying to protect my privacy. Don’t I have a right to do that?”

  “I’m afraid that in a murder investigation a great deal of very private information comes out. Mostly the police can contain it, though, and if you’d told them about you and Silva, maybe they could’ve done something to help.”

  “Like what?” she snapped.

  “Helen, I came here because I don’t want you running afoul of the police. It’s my job to keep US citizens safe, and I want to do that for you. I also have to find out who killed Andrew Baxter; he deserves that. I promise you that I’ll keep anything you tell me as confidential as possible, but you do have to be honest with me.”

  She sat back. “What do you want to know?”

  Hugo leaned forward and kept his voice low. “I want to know the full extent of any relationship you had with Mr. Baxter. Friends, lovers, enemies, I just need to know.”

  “And of those, you suspect lover.” A light seemed to come on in her eyes. “You think Ambrósio did it. You think I was having an affair with Mr. Baxter, then Ambrósio came along and replaced him and then, for some reason, killed him. Is that what you really believe?”

  “You have quite an imagination,” Hugo said with a smile. “That comes with being a writer, I suppose.”

  “But it’s what you think.” She wagged a finger. “If you expect me to be honest with you, then don’t try and sell me a pile of horse manure in return.”

  “Fine. I can’t tell you everything; but I won’t lie to you, I can agree to that.”

  “Then admit that’s what you think. That Ambrósio did it.”

  “Investigations don’t work like that,” Hugo said. “We don’t come up with a single theory and go with it. We look at the evidence and consider as many options as fit that evidence.” He held up a hand to silence her. “And, yes, that possibility did cross my mind. Of course it did; I’d be a pretty poor investigator if I didn’t consider that as a possibility.”

  “Do you consider me as a possibility?”

  “You have an alibi, and, even if you didn’t, I can’t think of any reason why you’d want to hurt Mr. Baxter, so no. Maybe that’ll change as we investigate more, but as of right now, you’re in the clear as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Even though I misled you about Ambrósio?”

  Hugo smiled. “Let’s call that an evasion rather than an outright lie, shall we?”

  “Thank you, I do like the sound of that better.”

  “Good. Now, how about my original question?”

  “I’ve forgotten what . . . Oh, right, the extent of my relationship with poor Mr. Baxter.”

  “Right.”

  “I do know him by sight, of course.” She frowned in thought. “And I’m sure I’ve spoken to him, chatted with him here at the hotel. But I don’t think I even knew his name until this happened. I absolutely wasn’t having an affair with him, nor did I have any kind of problem with him. The thing about me is, I kind of latch on to people whom I get on with. By that I mean, I prefer a small circle of people. I’m terrible with names, so it’s much easier that way.” She nudged him and smiled indulgently. “Plus, I have my favorites, and I’ve never been good at sharing. But poor Mr. Baxter, I wish I had known him, because I’m sorry that I can’t help more.”

  “OK, thanks. Is there anything else from our previous conversations that you need to correct or add to?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Good.” Hugo looked around the room, but the few people in the restaurant seemed to be ignoring them. “How are things going?”

  “You mean since the video was published?”

  “Yes,” said Hugo.

  “Not well.” She shook her head. “You have no idea how many ugly e-mails I’ve received. Some from people who are shocked I’d actually have sex with a man, which is pretty ironic if you think about the books I write. And that those same people read.”

  “Very ironic,” Hugo agreed.

  “And far too many e-mails from people wanting to . . .” she grimaced at the thought. “Well, wanting me to re-create what was on that video with them. Complete strangers.”

  “How delightful. Can you have your publisher intercept them?”

  “I’m doing exactly that right now, yes. Although they’re not very happy with me.”

  “They don’t blame you for this, surely?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes and no. They can’t say so, of course, because I didn’t do anything wrong, but me naked on the Internet isn’t exactly the image they’ve spent years cultivating. It’s one thing to be sexy and to have your characters make love behind a veil of euphemisms, but apparently the person who creates it all has to stay pu
re as the driven snow. All demure lipstick and floral dresses.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Maybe, but for the people who put out my books, it’s business.”

  “Have your sales been impacted?”

  “Far too soon to know,” she said. “But my editor seems to think they will be, at least judging from the way she’s acting about all of this. I’m sure they’ll let me know if there is a negative impact, no question.” She slurred the last word just a little, and Hugo wondered whether there was something other than just coffee in her cup. Not that he would blame her, necessarily. After everything she’d been though, a little noontime lubrication didn’t seem unreasonable.

  “Are they finding you a new hotel?” he asked.

  “A new hotel?”

  “Yes. I mean, someone was murdered here and your room was rigged with a spy camera.”

  “That’s the last thing I need, to move all my stuff to somewhere unfamiliar.” She shook her head. “No, I’ve been coming here for years. I know the place, the staff, the chef even.”

  “And Jill Maxick, of course.”

  “All of the managers, but yes, of course her. She’s been wonderful, and I think she feels a great responsibility for all this.”

  “Well, she’s not just the hotel manager,” Hugo said. “She’s also a Helen Hancock fan.”

  “I know, she’s been an absolute dear; I always sign a ton of books for her and people she’s bought them for.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “And since the incident with the camera, she’s stopped charging me for that room, said I can stay as long as I want to on the hotel’s dime.” She smiled. “I haven’t paid for a single drink at the bar since then.”

  “That’s kind of her,” Hugo said.

  “It’s good business sense, too. I mean, every business wants to keep their regulars happy, don’t they?”

  “And you feel safe and secure here?”

  “I do. The hotel is sweeping my room every single day, now, and with everyone on guard, it’s hardly likely to happen again.” She shrugged. “And if it can happen here where people know me and where I have such a long-standing relationship, it could happen anywhere.”