by Mark Pryor
“That sounds reasonable enough,” Hugo said.
“What’s going on, Hugo? Will you please level with me?”
“I can’t right now, I’m sorry.” Hugo thought for a moment. “Do you know Alain Benoît?”
“No, I don’t think so. Why, is he suspect number one right now?”
Hugo chuckled. “I’m not at liberty to say. Just, if you run into the guy, and there’s no reason why you would, be careful. I’m not accusing him of anything, but . . . enough people have been hurt, I’d prefer folks to be careful.”
“Sure,” Harmuth said. “Will do.”
“Thanks for the help, Michael. I’ll come see you on Monday morning; we should have more information to share then. Oh, if we need to go into the library during off-hours, do we have your permission?”
Harmuth hesitated. “Why would you need to do that?”
“I don’t know that we would. But if we do, and we don’t have permission, it might invalidate any evidence we find.”
“I guess so, then. Can’t see why not. You need a key?”
“Not right now, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“Okay, sure thing. Let me know how else I can help.”
When Hugo hung up, Lerens was on her phone, a serious look on her face. A moment later she disconnected but held the phone in front of her, looking at the screen. “That was my tech guy. They got some footage from the surveillance cam; he’s forwarding it to me now.”
“Could he tell who it was?”
“No, he doesn’t know the players. But you were right, it was a man, and from the description, I think I know which one.” She glanced up at Hugo, a mischievous smile on her lips.
“You’re gonna make me wait, aren’t you?” Hugo said.
“Wouldn’t want to make wild accusations and defame someone’s good name, now would I?”
“No,” Hugo said, resigning himself to wait, “That wouldn’t be very nice at all.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When the video came in, Hugo and Camille Lerens hunched over the screen with Paul Jameson edging in behind to look over their shoulders. The action began with the opening of the apartment’s front door, but for a full minute they could see nothing, just the vague shapes of furniture in the room. The time stamp in the bottom left corner told them the break-in happened at around 7:15 that evening, but even though it was still light outside, the apartment had been shuttered up after Sarah’s death and the August sun was all but blocked out.
Hugo shifted, his eyes glued to the little screen.
“There,” Lerens said, and he saw it, too, a figure moving into the room, nothing more than a silhouette. “Come on, turn on a light,” she muttered.
The figure didn’t, just moved carefully between the pieces of furniture, slow and sure.
“If he gets up close, we’ll be able to see his face,” Hugo said.
And then the figure moved forward, finally coming into view, a tall and handsome man, eyes darting left and right as if looking for trouble, finally settling on the camera, a look of surprise on his face turning to dismay when the penny dropped. He turned his back the moment he did, but it was too late. The backward walk to mantelpiece and the shirt pulled over his face were good countermeasures, but they were too little, too late to save Alain Benoît from being captured by the little device that cut off a moment after he reached it.
Hugo spoke first. “No great shock there.”
Jameson cleared his throat gently. “May I ask, who is that?”
“Alain Benoît. Freelance journalist and friend of Paul Rogers and Sarah Gregory. Perhaps especially Sarah Gregory.”
“They were having an affair?” Jameson asked. Hugo liked that Lerens didn’t shut the uniformed officer down, put him in his place as some senior officers might.
“No direct evidence of that,” Hugo admitted.
“We should get over to the library,” Lerens said. “He was here almost two hours ago, I doubt he’d wait to let himself in.”
“He might if he thinks about the camera,” Hugo said. “Better to be busted for one break-in than for two. Maybe none—if he had a key from either Paul or Sarah, he’ll be free and clear for letting himself in here.”
“I’m not counting on him being that smart.”
“One way to find out,” Jameson muttered, fishing his car keys from his pocket. “I’ll get you right over there.”
They rode to the library in silence, Hugo in the back seat behind Jameson. Half a mile away, Lerens had the marked police car withdrawn from the front of the building, an inducement to Benoît if he was lurking nearby. They parked at the western end of Rue de Général Camou, facing east toward the library entrance. The Eiffel Tower glittered behind them, its gray girders sparkling in white lights, a spectacular watchman to keep them company.
Hugo dragged his eyes away from the beautiful structure and looked along the dark street. “I’m worried the police car out front may have scared him off,” he said.
“Maybe,” Lerens said. “But if he was desperate to take that key, maybe he’ll be desperate to get into the library.”
“I assume there’s an alarm he’ll have to turn off or disable?” Jameson said.
“Only in the basement,” Hugo said. “Which he might know, as a friend of Paul and Sarah’s.”
“He may also know about that secret door you told me about, and get in that way,” Lerens said.
“Maybe, but then he’d also need a key to access the university building to get down to that door. I think it’s a risk, but not much of one.”
Lerens shifted in her seat. “The more I think about this . . .”
“What’s wrong?” asked Hugo.
“We need to be very careful here. Not to screw up the case, I mean.” She turned to look at Hugo. “Say he had a key to Paul’s apartment and claims permission to come and go as he pleases. We can’t disprove that.”
“True. Go on.”
“What if he claims, also, he had Paul’s permission to go into the library at will? It doesn’t need to be true, remember. If he realizes that and we bust down the door after him, take him away in cuffs, then . . .”
“Then he knows we’re onto him and will lay low,” Hugo finished her thought. “What do you suggest?”
“Merde,” she muttered. “I think we need to sit tight and see if he goes in. Make it up from there.”
Hugo chuckled. “You’ve been learning investigation techniques from Tom.” The thought seemed to hit them at the same time, and a smile spread across both of their faces.
“It might just work,” Lerens said.
“I didn’t . . .” Jameson began. “I feel like I’m missing something.”
“You said you were in naval intelligence, right Paul?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ever come across those guys who did things for you without filling in too many requisition forms, without filing too many after-incident reports?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, not officially, and I couldn’t name them, of course, but we all knew they were out there.” He grinned. “Somewhere.”
“I happen to have one living with me,” Hugo said.
“Och, is that right?” Jameson glanced at Lerens, who shook her head.
“I’ve no idea what he’s talking about,” she said emphatically. “I’ve never met anyone like that, don’t want to, and wouldn’t ever endorse any kind of police activity that didn’t result in reams of paperwork and numerous reports.”
Hugo pointed to the café two blocks down on their left, its tables spilling out across the sidewalk and lit under an orange canopy. “I bet they have a bathroom in there, if you guys need one.”
“I’m fine,” said Jameson.
“No, you’re not.” Lerens opened her car door. “We both need a restroom. Hugo, text me . . . in a while. We may take a break and get coffee while we’re there.”
“Bien,” Hugo said, his phone already in hand. “See you guys soon.”
“Ri
ght,” said Jameson, following Lerens out of the car. He handed Hugo the car keys. “Just in case. Sorry for being so dense just now, a piss and some coffee will fix things.”
Hugo laughed. “No worries. Enjoy both.” When they’d gone, he dialed Tom. “Hey, you sober?”
“As a judge. What’s going on?”
Hugo listened hard for slurring in Tom’s voice but heard none. “I mean it. Can you help me out with something?”
“Are you with Camille?”
“Kind of.”
“Need some black ops, eh?”
“I need you to focus and be serious.”
“Seriously, I’m fine. Hanging with Miki and Merlyn, but sober. I promise.”
Tom had many issues, Hugo knew, but he was always happy to admit it when he’d been drinking. Or drinking too much. It was like a badge of honor, regardless of what Hugo said.
“OK, then,” Hugo said. “Grab an Uber and make your way to the corner of Rue de Monttessuy and Avenue de la Bourdonnais.”
“By the Eiffel Tower?”
“It’s real pretty tonight, you’ll appreciate that. When you get out, walk south along Bourdonnais until you get to me. Black Peugeot.”
“Gotcha. What’s the job?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here. Oh, if you see Camille and a bald cop in the café as you go by, keep walking. They don’t know you and you don’t know them.”
“Story of my life. See you soon.”
Tom opened the passenger door a split-second after Hugo spotted him.
“Impressive,” Hugo said.
“Huh? Taking an Uber isn’t impressive, there were about fifty of them hovering like flies outside the restaurant.”
“No, you sneaking up on me. Didn’t know your stealth gene was still operational.”
“Oh, I’ve still got it, you better believe that. By the way, I think I was followed here.”
“You think? Suddenly I’m less impressed.”
“Well, a taxi was behind me from the restaurant, with a driver and someone in the back seat. They slowed when we slowed but drove around the corner when I stopped, so I don’t know if whoever it was got out or not.”
“Were you follow—”
“Dude, I’m not an idiot,” Tom interrupted. “Of course I wasn’t followed to this car. Now what are we doing here?”
Hugo filled him in on the new burglary, the identification of Alain Benoît, and Lerens’s concern that there may be a technical defense to the man’s entry of the apartment and the library.
“We just want to know what he’s doing at this point. We have Harmuth’s permission to go into the library, so if you can get in without being seen, I’d like for you to just watch.”
“Watch?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why Benoît took the key, whether it has to do with the Severin papers, the deaths of Paul and Sarah, or something totally different.”
“But he’s up to something.”
“He is. Late-night reshelving perhaps, but we need to know.”
“Got it.” Tom rolled his eyes. “If I can get in unseen. Please.”
“Remember, just watch, don’t confront. If there’s enough light and you can get close, maybe film whatever he’s doing. But don’t interfere unless he’s murdering someone in there.”
“The place should be empty, right?”
“Should be. And I’ll be out here. Reception inside is a little suspect, nonexistent away from the circulation-desk area, but I’ll try to text you if he shows up.”
Tom slipped out of the car and made his way along the street to the front door of the library, inset slightly from the street. He knelt and within two minutes was inside, the door swinging gently shut behind him.
His phone buzzed, and Hugo replied to a text from Lerens, saying, “Enjoy your coffee a little longer.” Then he put the phone on the armrest beside him and turned his eyes to the quiet street. Night had settled in now, and the few people who used Rue du Général Camou were headed to or from a watering hole, couples or clusters of friends too preoccupied, or tipsy, to pay attention to a man sitting like a statue in his car.
He stayed there for an hour, sending Tom a test message and getting an obscenity in return. Hugo let his eyes wander every time the street was completely empty, knowing that if he stared nonstop at the library entrance, he’d risk nodding off. After an hour of nothing, he gave Lerens and Jameson the go-ahead to come back.
Hugo gave up the driver’s seat to Officer Jameson, who handed him a small to-go cup. “Probably cold, but it’ll wake you up.”
“Thanks,” Hugo said. “Never known a Paris café to serve to-go coffee, though.”
“They don’t to the public—you’ll get a nose in the air if you ask. But for cops, they will. They know sometimes we have to take off pretty quickly, or need something to keep us awake and alert while we patrol.” Jameson grinned. “Now you know the secret, you’re sworn to silence.”
“Scout’s honor.” Hugo returned the smile, then took the lid off the paper cup and tested it with his lip. Still warm, so he knocked it back with one slug. “Just the jolt I needed.”
“No action?” Lerens asked, as Hugo let himself into the back seat.
“Not outside or inside,” he said, giving her a knowing look.
“Eh bien. I suppose that’s good.” Lerens looked out of the window at a couple who’d stopped to look up at the Eiffel Tower, arms locked together. “You want to take shifts? No point in all three of us spending an uncomfortable night out here.”
“I don’t think any of us need to,” Hugo said. “If he’s not here by now, I doubt he’s coming.”
Lerens looked at her watch. “It’s eleven. He may be waiting, wanting to do it later, when there’s no one around at all.”
“Even if he does,” Hugo countered, “unless we catch him in the act or detain him afterward, we likely won’t know what he was doing in there.”
“Wait, I thought—”
“I said we wouldn’t know,” Hugo went on, hurriedly. “Whether we’re sitting out here or not, someone else will know exactly what he’s up to.”
“I see,” Lerens said. “Then I suppose we should drive you home. You want to . . . let anyone know that you’re leaving? Might be a little rough to just disappear.”
“No. A night in a library couldn’t possibly do anyone any harm.” Hugo smiled. “All those books, all that peace and quiet.”
“And maybe a murderer,” Lerens cautioned.
“That’s the thing about libraries. So full of potential, aren’t they? Anything can happen, and does, between those walls.”
“Very philosophical, Hugo, but I’m serious,” she said. “I don’t like leaving someone alone in that situation.”
Jameson coughed. “Lieutenant. Why don’t you let me stay? I’m working the night shift and I just drank enough coffee to float a battleship.”
“You sure?” she asked.
“Aye, absolutely.” He looked around and then pointed to a plane tree surrounded by shrubbery. “I even have my own restroom, what more could a man want?”
“Works for me,” Lerens nodded.
“How will I know . . . . who to look for? And I don’t mean Benoît.”
“Ah,” Hugo said with a smile. “He’ll be the one appearing on the sidewalk at dawn, using some very bad language when he finds out I’m no longer here to hold his hand.” Hugo took out his phone. “Give me your cell number.” When he had, Hugo flipped through the photo album on his phone, selected a picture, and sent it to the Scotsman. “Do me a favor. When you see him in the morning, be sure to tell him what time I knocked off. Oh, and ask him to be nice and quiet so as not to wake me when he lets himself into the apartment.”
“Right,” Lerens laughed, “and then call for an ambulance. Hugo’s going to need one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hugo slept late the next morning, Sunday, later than he meant to. When he rolled out of bed just before nine, he checked his phone and saw a text fro
m Camille Lerens letting him know Benoît hadn’t shown up at the library. He also had several texts from Tom saying the same thing, but using different words, and expressing extreme disapproval for being left alone at the library while Hugo went home to a comfortable bed.
He padded through to the living room, surprised Tom hadn’t brought the house down to wake him earlier, wondering if his friend had even come home. But Tom’s door was closed and Hugo heard the not-so-soft sound of his friend snoring.
Hugo made coffee, as best he was able to, and sat at his desk. He turned on his computer and stared at the home screen. He felt stymied. He didn’t know which way to turn and felt like he was letting his friend, Paul Rogers, down.
In the past when he hit a brick wall in an investigation, he’d stepped outside of his immediate suspicions to get perspective, a fresh look. He’d done it many times, to make sure he wasn’t missing anything and to keep his mind actively engaged in the case without pressuring himself to come up with the final answer there and then.
So he opened a Google search page, wondering which people, places, or things to start with. He typed Isabelle Severin and smiled at the list of a million-plus results. He’d already plowed through many of them in a hunt for the secret Severin collection, but he had found that most just repeated the same stories and rumors. He tried adding keywords like American Library, and dagger, and Alain Benoît but learned nothing new.
He tried Sarah Gregory next and was surprised by how little information there was about her online. Most of it connected her to Paul Rogers, so eventually Hugo found himself reading more about his friend, and his mother, Claire Rogers. Hugo reread the story of Paul’s brother and wondered whether he’d been affected during his life by the tragedy of his brother’s death. In Hugo’s experience, the lack of a body often made it harder for the family to get closure, and there was every chance that Paul had lived his whole life in the shadow of his mother’s grief, a sorrow that would never go away as long as there was some slight hope, no matter how ludicrous and far-fetched, that her only biological child would come back home.