by Mark Pryor
“Oui,” he said. “Je suis Alain Benoît.”
We know who you are, Hugo thought, the only question right now is whether we have to chase you.
Benoît stared for a moment longer, then his shoulders relaxed, as if he recognized Hugo or realized that they knew who he was and where he lived, so running would be pointless. “What do you want?” he asked in French.
“I’d prefer to talk in private, would you mind?” Lerens stepped away from his front door, giving him a path to it. Benoît moved forward, sliding his key into the lock and opening the door.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
They followed him down a short hallway into a small apartment furnished with gray and white pieces, and too much stainless steel. Clean lines but not very homey, Hugo thought.
Benoît gestured for them to sit on the couch, and he perched on the edge of a low, white chair. “Well?” he asked.
Lerens pulled a digital recorder from her pocket and set it on the table between them. “Policy, I have to record this, do you mind?”
“Non, pas du tout,” he said. Not at all. “But please, tell me why you’re here.”
She switched on the recorder and spoke in French. “This is Lieutenant Camille Lerens along with Hugo Marston of the United States Embassy at the home of, and speaking to, Alain Benoît.” She looked at the display of her phone and read out the date and time, then paused and looked at Benoît. “We’re here about Sarah Gregory and Paul Rogers.”
“Sarah!” Benoît leapt up. “Where is she?”
Hugo and Lerens exchanged glances.
“When did you last see her?” Lerens asked.
“Last Tuesday. Where is she? I’ve been over there and tried calling, but she won’t return my calls. Is she OK?”
Lerens took a breath. “Sit down, monsieur. Please.”
Benoît lowered himself into the chair but leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a worried look on his face. “What is it?”
Lerens said, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Sarah Gregory is dead.”
Hugo leaned forward, too, knowing this moment was coming, his eyes glued to Alain Benoît. It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, the blood drained from the Frenchman’s face and his mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. “She was found on Wednesday,” Lerens continued, “at her apartment.”
Benoît shook his head, refusing to believe it.
“Right now it looks like suicide,” Hugo said gently, still studying Benoît.
“There’s no way,” Benoît said, his voice cracking. “She loved Paul, of course, but there’s no way she’d . . . she’d do that.”
“How can you be so sure?” Lerens asked.
“No, she was too full of life, she was . . . it’s just not her personality.”
“You realize what the alternative is, monsieur?” Lerens asked.
It took a few seconds, but Benoît eventually did. “But who . . . ?”
“That would be up to us to find out,” Lerens said.
“Everyone loved her, there’s no way she had any enemies,” Benoît said emphatically. “Absolutely no way. How did . . . how was she found?”
“In the bath, her wrists cut.”
“Non, ce n’est pas possible.” His eyes were wild again, his tone adamant. “She was terrified of anything to do with blood. Or needles. Paul made fun of her for being so scared, asked how’d they’d ever have kids if she couldn’t even get a flu shot.”
Interesting that you’d know that, Hugo thought. He sat back and let Lerens continue to question Benoît, saving his questions for the end.
“That’s good to know,” Lerens said. “You said it wouldn’t be her personality to commit suicide. How well did you know her?”
“Well enough to know that.”
“How long had you been friends?”
“A few months, maybe three.”
“And how did you meet?”
“I met them at the library. When they had an event related to the Severin collection.”
“That was three months ago?”
“They’ve had it for longer, of course, but the event was, yes. Something like that,” Benoît said. “It took a while for them to actually get everything. I think the old lady moving slowed things down.”
Lerens nodded. “So you met at the library and became friends . . . how?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Alors, do you speak English?”
“Yes, fluently.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t ask,” Benoît said.
A little defensive there, Hugo thought.
Lerens kept her tone neutral. “I was just wondering how a chance meeting at the library resulted in you three becoming close friends.”
“We had a lot in common. Liked the same books, movies. Sometimes people just get on well, become friends quickly. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”
“Not since I was a child, no.”
Benoît sat back and his eyes flashed with anger. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Non, absolutely not. But I do need to ask you some questions that in other circumstances would be considered impolite.” Lerens held up a placating hand. “Please understand, I am just doing my job, trying to find out what happened to your friends.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Again, I apologize for being forward. But were you and Mademoiselle Gregory having an affair?”
Benoît’s eyes widened, and he burst out laughing, but quickly stifled it. “Are you crazy?”
“A simple yes or no will do.”
“Then no. No. Why would you even think that?”
“I’m not sure that I do,” Lerens said. “But you can’t think it outrageous that I would ask. A handsome young man like yourself becomes friends with a beautiful girl like Sarah. She has an older fiancé or boyfriend who, as evidenced by that status, may not to want to commit to her. And this is Paris, after all. Would it really be so shocking that the two of you would fall in love?”
“I can assure you, Lieutenant, if that’s your theory, you are very, very wrong.”
“You were not in love with her?”
“I loved her.” His body slumped, and Hugo knew the news was only now sinking in. “Oui, I loved her. But not that way. I loved Paul, too.”
“Bon,” Lerens said. “I have another difficult question. Do you know if there were ever any physical altercations between Paul and Sarah?”
“Physical . . . ?” Benoît looked confused for a moment, then said, “Are you asking if he abused her?”
“Did he?”
Benoît laughed again, a short, sharp sound. “That’s even more ridiculous, he worshipped her. And believe me, if he’d laid a hand on her, she’d have beaten the hell out of him and then left him for good. She was tough, and there’s no way she’d put up with that.”
“Can you tell me where you were on Wednesday?” Lerens asked. “That afternoon.”
“I was here, at home. I’m a freelance writer . . . I was working on a piece about the next rugby world cup.” He sighed. “I imagine you want to know if anyone saw me.”
“Yes, please.”
“I doubt it. I had lunch here around midday and didn’t leave until around six.”
“Did you use your cell phone?”
Benoît frowned with thought. “I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”
Lerens looked down at her phone as it rang. “Excuse me, it’s the lab. Hugo, if you have any questions, go ahead.”
“Merci. In case you’re wondering, monsieur, I’m the RSO at the embassy and am involved because two Americans died.”
Benoît nodded. “I remember meeting you at Paul and Sarah’s. But what’s an RSO?”
“Regional Security Officer.” Benoît said nothing, so Hugo continued. “Do you know other people at the library?”
“A little. But mostly I heard about them from Paul and Sarah.”
“Any one in particular?”
“Michelle and Michael, mostly.”
“What about them?”
“May I ask why?”
Because if Paul and Sarah were murdered, Hugo thought, and you happen to be innocent, then someone who knew them is guilty. Most likely, someone at the library. But he smiled and said, “Just trying to get as full a picture as possible of all the people who knew them.”
“Paul liked them both a lot. I don’t think they’d been at the library long, but I know he was impressed with them. And liked them. I met Michelle a few times and always thought she looked a bit like Paul’s mother, with all that red hair and fiery personality.”
“I hadn’t thought of that similarity, but you’re right,” Hugo said. “What about Michael?”
“Paul liked him. Was grateful for the work he did at the library and thought he was very diligent.” He paused. “Sarah wasn’t such a big fan.”
“Why’s that?”
“I wasn’t sure. I thought at first she was worried that he was trying to undermine Paul. But it’s a library, not a multinational corporation, so I can’t imagine there was any kind of power struggle, not really. No, I think it had more to do with Harmuth wanting to move in to Paul’s mother’s apartment.”
“There was conflict over that?”
“That’s putting it too strongly. It may have been nothing more than Sarah preferring to have the ground-floor apartment, and Michael wanted it, too. I gather he has a bad leg, or back or something, he probably didn’t want to walk the stairs every day.”
“Fair enough. Why did Sarah want the ground-floor apartment?”
Benoît shrugged. “We really didn’t talk about it in any depth, I’m sorry.”
What about Nicole Anisse, do you know her?”
“A beautiful girl,” Benoît said. “I’ve spoken with her a few times, but I wouldn’t say I know her.”
“Did she get on well with Paul and Sarah?”
“Yes, as far as I know, they had no problems with her at all.”
Hugo looked up as Lerens came back into the room, a frown on her face.
“All done?” she asked.
“I think so,” Hugo said.
Lerens bent over the table and put her hand on the recorder. “Terminating interview.” She clicked it off, and put the device in her pocket as she straightened up. “Monsieur Benoît, thank you for your time. If we have any more questions, may we come back?”
Hugo stood and Benoît followed suit, and said, “I guess so. Or call me, either one.”
They walked down the hallway, and Lerens pushed open the door. They shook hands with Benoît, but Lerens had one more question.
“This may sound odd, and I could check independently, but it seems easier to just ask. Have you traveled lately?”
“Traveled?”
“Oui. Out of the country.”
“Not for a couple of years, no,” Benoît said. “Why do you ask?”
“And you’re not planning to?”
“No, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“And would you consent to a search of your computer by the police?”
Benoît bristled. “My personal computer? What for?”
“Would you consent?” Lerens pressed.
“No, I certainly would not. I have private information on there, bank information, and . . . personal stuff.”
“I understand,” Lerens said. She gave him a tight smile. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything. Thank you for your time.”
Hugo followed her out of the building, and as soon as the front door closed behind them, he said, “Paul Rogers was poisoned, wasn’t he? The curare.”
“He most certainly was. Let’s talk in the car.”
She unlocked it remotely and Hugo sank into the front passenger seat as Lerens got behind the wheel. He turned to her. “So, what did Sprengelmeyer say?”
“The initial test for curare was positive. He’s sending a second sample for independent testing, just to make sure. But right now . . .”
Hugo shook his head. “That’s crazy. Wait, did he test Sarah, too?”
“He did. No curare in her system.”
“But positive for Paul. I just don’t see how or why.” Hugo frowned, deep in thought. “The water bottle, did he test that? The water in it?”
“Yes. He’s sending it for retesting, too, but not only was it clear of curare, but apparently it’s not effective when ingested. If you eat or drink it, or just touch it for that matter, you’re safe. It’s not that kind of poison, it has to be absorbed into the blood more directly. Basically, straight into the blood stream.”
“Like a poisoned dart.”
Lerens laughed gently. “I don’t recall seeing one of those at the scene.”
Hugo nudged her with his elbow. “True, but I bet you’re glad we had the crime-scene unit go to work there.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll let you have credit for that. But you got lucky. Every cop on the planet would have called that natural causes.”
“Yeah.” Hugo sat back, his mind working. “But it wasn’t, was it?”
“Non. And I know what you’re thinking; I’m wondering the same thing.”
“That’s the million-euro question, isn’t it? The big mystery we’re now left with,” Hugo mused. “As unlikely as it seems, did Paul Rogers commit suicide? Or, almost as unlikely, did someone murder him?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lerens drove them back into Paris, the weekend traffic flowing like the Seine, a slow but steady roll toward the city center. They didn’t talk much, and Hugo assumed his lieutenant friend was doing the same thing he was: processing what Alain Benoît had told them, and trying to get a grip on the toxicology finding.
She parked the car in front of a café on a street Hugo didn’t know, and waved a hand distractedly when he pointed out it was a no-parking zone. “You think someone will ticket my police car?”
“You’re setting a bad example,” Hugo said.
“I’m leaving a regular parking space for someone else, is what I’m doing.”
“Hadn’t thought about it that way.”
“You’re welcome.”
Hugo gestured to the café. “You know this place?”
“Non. But anywhere will do for an omelet, which is what I want right now.”
“Fine with me.” Hugo unbuckled his seatbelt.
“We need to talk about what the hell happened to Paul Rogers, because if he was murdered . . .” her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “I don’t know how, why, or where it leaves us with Sarah Gregory’s death. Did she kill him somehow and then commit suicide out of remorse?”
“I agree. We need to start with Paul.” They climbed out of the car and walked to the café door, which Hugo held open for her. They made their way to a table in the corner, by a large window overlooking the street. They sat quietly as a waiter arrived with menus and a carafe of water, pouring out two glasses.
“Quelque chose à boire?” he asked. Something to drink?
“Un café, s’il vous plaît,” Lerens said.
Hugo nodded. “Moi aussi.”
They looked at the menus, and Lerens mused over the ham-and-mushroom omelet, tempted, too, by a chicken-parmesan sandwich. When the waiter returned with their coffees, they both went with the omelet, then made small talk until the food arrived, Hugo picking at the basket of bread even though he wasn’t very hungry.
“Even though it seems ridiculous, it has to be suicide,” Lerens said when their meals arrived.
“Go on.”
“He was definitely poisoned. Curare is quick-acting and, thanks to those cameras, we know he didn’t come into contact with anyone before his death. There’s no way anyone else poisoned him.”
“I’d have to agree so far.”
“The water wasn’t poisoned, and even if it was, that’s not how curare works, you can ingest it without harm.”
“Did he have any
injuries on him at all, places where the poison might have gotten into his blood?”
“No, Sprengelmeyer insisted he didn’t. Not even a bruise.”
“It’s possible the good doctor missed a pinprick, something he could inflict on himself in a hard-to-spot place, but it’s less likely the doc would miss an injury someone else gave him while administering the poison.” Hugo took a bite of his omelet and washed it down with a sip of water. “So if no one else did it, he must have done it himself. But I honestly can’t see why he’d commit suicide. That seems so far-fetched, I mean who kills himself with a rare, South American poison?”
“I agree, but you knew him, I didn’t.”
“And then there’s Sarah. I find it hard enough to believe that Paul killed himself, but when you add Sarah’s death into the mix . . .”
“Remember, we have his computer searches.”
“Someone else could have used his work computer; that’s not very persuasive to me.”
“But who? And why?”
They ate in silence for a while, both mopping up the remains of their food with hunks of bread.
“Another coffee, I think,” Hugo said, when he was done.
“Agreed.” Lerens ordered them when the waiter came to clear their plates. When the coffee arrived, Hugo unwrapped a sugar cube and dropped it in.
“What’s your plan now?” he asked.
“I want to check in with the detective looking into the unexpected visitors to Madame Severin.”
“You think that was connected to Paul’s death?”
“Don’t you?”
Hugo shrugged. “Maybe. Paul was in charge of her collection. He’d likely have known if there was stuff being held back.”
“He and Michelle Juneau, I agree.”
“The younger version of Paul’s mother,” Hugo said with a smile. “I already talked to her, but unofficially, so maybe you’ll have more luck.”
“Another working weekend,” Lerens said with a wry smile.
“So no dinner with us tonight?”
“I’m occupied this evening, remember? But thanks anyway. You have afternoon plans?”
“Yes, I’m going to do some research. On curare and whatever else pops into my mind.”
“Now you’re being coy.”
“You know me,” Hugo said. “I don’t like to show my cards until I’m sure they’re good ones.”