by Mark Pryor
“Each shelf is a different genre of literature. Crime fiction on top, then romance . . . you get the idea.” She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Rachel Rollo.”
“Hugo Marston.” He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. Alia told me about you and your husband, supporting her work. This trip. She had glowing things to say.”
“She’s a sweetheart. And a talent, for sure. In fact, we didn’t need to financially support her for this exhibit, the Dalí museum did that.”
“You’re just here for moral support?” Hugo asked.
“Any excuse for a trip to Paris.” She winked conspiratorially. “My favorite city in the world.”
“Mine too. Where are you staying?”
“The Crillon. It’s expensive, but the service is amazing. So are the beds.”
Expensive would be an understatement, Hugo thought. “Alia mentioned you’re also an art critic.”
“I do that for the New York Times on occasion, yes.”
“You’re covering this show?”
“No. I offered, but, given my connection to her, they thought it might be a conflict of interest. Which makes sense; we’ve been with her from the beginning.”
“Of her art career?”
“Even before, I suppose. She took some anniversary photographs for us and we liked them so much we had her create a portfolio of her work. That was several years ago. Anyway, she wanted to branch out into other things and we encouraged her. Supported her.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Hugo said. “And it has obviously led to great things.”
“She’s very good.” Rollo looked around. “So do you like it?”
“In all honestly, I’ve never been a huge fan of sculpture, but since books are my thing, this is a nice compromise.”
“You should see this piece,” Rollo said. She put a hand on his arm and steered him away from Alsaffar and past several groups of chatting visitors. That included the ambassador, who raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Hugo ignored him. They wound up in front of a television screen showing what looked like a blank page on a computer.
“What is it?” Hugo asked after a moment.
“Have you heard of the concept of slow television?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I think it started in Scandinavia somewhere. Australia, maybe. Anyway, they put cameras on the front of a train, and a ferry, and just record what happens.”
“Not much, it sounds like.”
“That’s the point. Fifteen, eighteen, twenty-four hours of continuous television, with the landscape changing and nothing else.”
“Sounds a little boring,” Hugo said.
“It can be. It can also be mesmerizing. The idea is that with all other kinds of television, be it fiction or documentary, there is always something edited out. The finished product is manicured and refined. With slow television, you get to see everything.”
“So you just play it in the background or something?”
“You can. You get to choose when you watch.”
Hugo pointed to the television screen in front of them. “So what’s this?”
“Alia’s taking slow TV to the max with this piece. She recorded an author every time he sat down to write, put the camera not on him but on his computer screen.”
“Wait, so she recorded the writing of an entire novel?”
“From the title to The End,” Rollo said. “If you watched it, you could read the book as he’s writing it.”
“That’s actually pretty cool. How long is the recording?”
“I think it’s a little more than a hundred hours.”
Hugo laughed. “If only I had that much time to sit in front of a screen.”
“Good point. So what do you do, Mr. Marston?”
“Please, call me Hugo. I’m head of security at the US Embassy. Regional Security Officer, they call it.”
She leaned in, and Hugo caught a whiff of expensive perfume. “Do you carry your gun at all times, Hugo?”
“Not at all times, no. I find Paris’s museums to be pretty safe, for example.”
“Glad to hear that. And, if you’re unarmed, you can have a drink, yes?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then let me prove to you how captivating this piece is.” She gestured to the television screen, where the title of the book had appeared letter by letter: When I Was Old in the Mountains. “I’ll be back in a moment. Champagne suit you?”
“Very well indeed,” Hugo said. “Thank you.”
He looked around for Alia but didn’t see her, or Josh Reno. Talking privately and settling their differences, he thought. Hoped. He turned his attention to the screen and watched the cursor blink at the start of the story, found himself waiting with bated breath for the opening lines. They came slowly but surely, and Hugo hung on each one, his mind seeming to help the author, making mental suggestions for the next word or phrase, punctuation even. After a while, he felt a hand on his arm.
“Champagne," Rachel Rollo said, handing him a glass. “How long have you been watching?” She had a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe three . . .” He checked his watch and almost gasped with surprise. “Good grief, it’s been fifteen minutes. How is that even possible?”
“I told you,” Rollo said. “It’s captivating. Enthralling.”
“It really is,” Hugo said. He raised his glass. “Thank you for this, cheers.”
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses. “I should drag you away before you spend the entire evening watching this screen,” she said.
“Apparently that’s exactly right,” Hugo laughed. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it half out and glanced at the screen. “Would you excuse me a moment, Ms. Rollo? I need to take this call, I m sorry.”
“It’s Rachel. And, please, go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Hugo stepped away and answered his phone. “Claudia, what’s up?”
“Monsieur Marston?” It was a male voice, not what Hugo was expecting.
“Yes, who is this, please?”
“My name is Michel Prost. I am an emergency medical technician.”
Hugo’s heart skipped a beat. “Has something happened to Claudia?”
“Oui, monsieur. Can you come to her?”
“Where are you? What’s happened? Is she all right?”
“We’re on Rue Norvins, monsieur.”
“Rue . . . that’s right here. You’re outside the Dalí museum?”
“That’s correct. Can you come now?”
CHAPTER SIX
Hugo raced up the stairs, not bothering to get his hat and coat, and ran out onto Rue Poulbot, following the bricked street around to the right. It had grown dark, and lights flashed ahead of him, bouncing off the walls and the road itself, telling him exactly where to go.
The ambulance was parked to one side of the narrow Rue Poulbot, with its nose toward Hugo and two wheels parked on the sidewalk, so other traffic could get past. But as Hugo rounded the corner, he saw no other cars, just an elderly couple standing behind the ambulance, with concerned looks on their faces. Hugo slowed as he reached the vehicle, and a paramedic appeared from the back of it.
“I heard footsteps,” the man said. “Are you Monsieur Marston?”
“Yes, where is she?”
“In the back.”
Hugo hurried to the open rear doors. Claudia lay on a gurney with an oxygen mask covering her face. He hopped up into the ambulance and nodded to the paramedic monitoring her.
“What happened?” Hugo asked.
“She passed out on the street,” the young woman said. “The couple out there found her and called us.”
Claudia propped herself up on one elbow and used her other hand to pull down the mask. “Hugo, I’m fine. I’m so sorry to be a pain, really.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “What happened?”
“I was attacked by three large men. I managed to kill two, but th
e other one got away.”
“Claudia . . .”
“Oh, fine, you can have the boring, real story. I was running. My ten-mile training run, one of the routes is up to the Sacré-Coeur.”
“You’re still sick, though,” Hugo chided. “You shouldn’t be running at all.”
“I felt better, I really did. Anyway, I was puffing a bit and suddenly felt light-headed. Next thing I know . . .” She waved a hand. “Here I am.”
“Are you going to the hospital?”
“No. That’s why I had them call you. I knew you were close, and they don’t want to release me to my own devices.”
“Quite right.” Hugo turned to the paramedic. “Thank you for taking care of her. Is she OK to be released to me?”
“Oui, monsieur,” the young lady said. She unclipped the oxygen monitor from Claudia’s finger and helped her patient sit upright. “She seems fine, heart rate is normal, oxygen levels good, no sign of concussion. She’s all yours.”
Hugo stepped out of the ambulance and helped Claudia down. “Thanks,” she said, “but I promise, I’m totally fine.”
“I’ll call us a cab,” Hugo said. Claudia shivered in the cold, damp air, and he held her close as he reached for his phone.
The male paramedic, Michel Prost, stood a few feet away and was about to light a cigarette when his colleague shouted to him from the back of the ambulance.
“Michel! No time for that, we have another call.”
Prost groaned. “Someone else can take it, non?”
“Non, we’re up.” She turned to Claudia. “You are quite sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“I’m fine,” Claudia insisted. “Someone else needs you more than I do.”
“I’ll see that she gets home safe and sound,” Hugo said. “Thanks again for your help.”
Hugo helped Claudia to a nearby wooden bench, and they sat. He took her hands and they watched the ambulance leave, its siren and flashing lights reflecting off the stone walls and dark, damp road. When it had rounded the corner, Hugo squeezed Claudia’s hands and said, “Some pretty steep hills to try running up when you’re not feeling your best.”
“I noticed,” she said.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” he chided. “Get better and then resume training.”
“This is my first marathon, Hugo. I can’t just skip a week and then pick right back up.” She gave him a smile. “Not at my age, anyway.”
“I hear you,” he said.
“Plus, I thought I was all right. I thought maybe a run would clear out my lungs, get my system back in order.”
“Is that what you thought, Doctor Roux?”
She swatted his arm and sat back. “Shut up and call us that cab.” Hugo took out his phone, but before he could dial, the display lit up with Ambassador Taylor’s name. Hugo answered.
“Boss, what’s up?”
“Someone told me you’d run off suddenly. Is everything OK?”
“Claudia. But she’s fine, or will be. Fainted while running; nothing more than a light head in the end. But I’m taking her home just to keep an eye on her. Can you make it back solo?”
“Well, in theory I could, yes.”
Something in the ambassador’s voice alerted Hugo. “What’s wrong?
“I’m not sure exactly, but if there’s any way you can swing back here, I think it’d be a good idea.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I don’t know exactly. But they’re saying someone is dead. The cops are all here, and they’re saying someone has been . . . murdered.”
Hugo told Claudia what the ambassador had said.
“Then you need to go. It’s all right, I’m fine.” Claudia watched him, obviously sensing his need to return to the museum. “I’ll get that cab and go straight home.”
“I’m not leaving you out here alone. Are you OK to walk?”
“Of course, Hugo. I just ran six miles.”
“And then collapsed.”
“I told you, I’m fine now.”
“Then walk with me to the museum. We can find somewhere comfortable for you, and when I figure out what the hell’s going on, I’ll take you home.”
“OK, sure. Thank you.”
They set off, more slowly than Hugo would have liked, and he dialed Ambassador Taylor as they walked, wanting more details. He tucked his phone away when, two times, he was sent straight to voicemail. Five minutes later, they were at the entrance to the museum.
So were the police. Four cars with their lights flashing, and four men in uniform trying to corral the art show’s guests as they came out of the museum, some milling aimlessly around and talking in quiet voices, while others stood there looking shocked. He looked around for the ambassador but didn’t see him. He couldn’t see Alia Alsaffar or Rachel Rollo, either, but he knew they might be inside talking with the police.
Hugo led Claudia to the front door, but they were stopped by a uniformed officer.
“Sorry, monsieur, police only.”
“Of course,” Hugo said. “Can you please tell me who has been killed?”
“Non, je m’excuse, I cannot give any information at this time.”
That was the answer Hugo was expecting, but it still left him frustrated. “Then can you tell me who is in charge?”
“Oui, monsieur, it will be Lieutenant Intern Adrien Marchand.”
“Will be? He’s not here yet?”
“Correct, he’s en route.”
Hugo gestured toward Claudia, who was still very pale. “My friend here just fainted in the road while running. Do you think she could sit down inside the reception area?”
The flic hesitated, but then waved another officer over and asked him to add Claudia’s name to their list of people present, and then escort her inside. The large glass windows of the museum afforded Hugo a view of her settling into a couch and closing her eyes as she relaxed into the soft leather.
“Fine, indeed,” he mumbled to himself. Hugo thanked the policeman and stepped back, phone in his hand. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for. She answered quickly.
“Hugo, how’re you?”
“A little chilly, but in general I’m good, Camille. You?”
Lieutenant Camille Lerens was a well-respected member of the Brigade Criminelle, the unit of the Paris police whose job it was to investigate the city’s most serious crimes, including murder. She also had the distinction of being the highest-ranking black detective in the unit, and she was most certainly the only transgender one. She was also a close friend.
“Enjoying my evening off,” she said. “Something going on, or is this a social call?”
“I was hoping you were working.”
“Not a social call then.”
“There’s been a murder in Montmartre,” Hugo said. “At an art exhibition that I was attending.”
“Wow, Hugo, you really do attract trouble. No one you know, I hope.”
“That’s the thing. I was here with Ambassador Taylor but had to run outside for a moment. Now they won’t let me back in, so I have no idea who the victim is.”
“We get like that with crime scenes,” Lerens said.
“Yeah, well, I’ve attended a few myself. I want to make sure my boss is OK. Can you call the lead detective and get me in? I may even be of some use.”
“I hate to admit it, but you usually are. Do you know who the lead is?”
“Yeah, Adrien Marchand. You know him?”
“Of course.” Lerens was quiet for a moment. “I can try, Hugo. But Marchand is not one of my biggest fans.”
“Old guy, is he?”
“Quite the opposite. Only been in the unit a year. Young, very eager, and has a chip on his shoulder.”
“About you?”
“I’m not sure whether it’s my skin color or gender that bothers him the most. Maybe both.”
“What a shame.” Hugo thought for a second. “Hang on, the office
r who gave me his name said he’s a lieutenant intern. You outrank him.”
“I do, but I’m not his supervisor, and it’s frowned upon to mess with someone else’s investigation.”
“We’re not messing with it, we’re offering to help.”
“Help, right.” Lerens chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll see it that way.”
“Camille, please. Can you at least try?”
“I’ll try, Hugo, but no promises. Call me later, let me know what’s going on.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Hugo shuffled in circles to keep warm but stayed close to the main doors, glancing through the glass to check on Claudia and to see if anyone might be coming to get him. After five long minutes, a burly officer appeared at the top of the stairs and pushed his way out into the cold. He looked around for a moment, then his eyes settled on Hugo.
“Monsieur Hugo Marston?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Can I see some form of identification, please?”
Hugo showed him his embassy credentials, noting with pleasure the surprise in the man’s eyes as he caught sight of his badge.
“Follow me,” the officer said, and he turned to the flic with the clipboard. “Add his name. Hugo Marston.”
Hugo hurried to keep pace with the large policeman who wasn’t going to wait for him. They went into the warmth of the museum’s reception area, and Hugo looked over at Claudia.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ve called Jean to come get me.” She gave him a wan smile. “I kind of figured you’d be stuck here a while.”
“Good thinking.” Jean had been her father’s driver, and a good friend to Claudia since childhood. Hugo gave her a wink and started down the stairs. “And you may be right about me being here a while. Call me later, when you feel up to it?”
“I will.” She blew him a kiss and settled back into the couch.
Downstairs, a handful of policemen and women eyed him as he reached the main floor. He could feel the tension down there, the sense of urgency and excitement that always hung around a crime scene like an invisible but ever-present fog. Alsaffar’s pieces dotted the floor as if they’d been abandoned, and they seemed like follies in that situation, extravagancies, totally out of place at a murder scene.