The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  Hugo looked around, trying to see where the killing had taken place, but it was impossible to tell. He presumed close to where the gaggle of cops had gathered.

  The gruff policeman turned to Hugo. “Wait here, please,” he said. “Lieutenant Intern Marchand is two minutes away. And don’t touch anything.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As he waited, impatient and unhappy at the lack of information, Hugo decided to reserve judgment on Lieutenant Intern Adrien Marchand despite what Lerens had said. That became somewhat harder when the polished shoes, three-piece suit, and carefully waxed mustache under a turned-up nose arrived and paused on the last step, the detective looking around like a king surveying his realm. His gaze settled on Hugo.

  “Who let a civilian into my crime scene?” He looked around, and the gruff flic looked at him with surprise on his face.

  “You told me to bring him in.”

  “Upstairs, for God’s sake.” He pointed back up the stairs. “The reception area.” The officer started to mumble an apology, but Marchand waved him into silence and spoke to Hugo directly, and in French. “I have men outside identifying everyone who was in the museum from the moment it opened until the moment the body was found. I have six officers taking statements down here, in a couple of the side rooms. That good enough for the FBI? Do you even understand a word I’m saying?”

  “I do, and that sounds good to me.” Hugo stepped forward and extended his hand, enjoying the surprise on Marchand’s face. Hugo continued in French. “If I can be of help, I’d like to be. Otherwise, I need to make sure my boss is all right, and then I’ll stay out of your way.”

  Marchand took his hand for one brief shake. “I have a lot of respect for Lieutenant Lerens,” he said. “I particularly appreciate the way she doesn’t interfere in my investigations. Usually.”

  Hugo smiled, using every ounce of self-control to not joust with the overly tailored man. “She is an excellent detective,” he said. “One of the best I’ve worked with.”

  Marchand smiled. “And let me guess. Even excellent detectives need help from time to time.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Of course you would.” He eyed Hugo for a moment. “Let’s go see our victim, shall we?”

  “I don’t even know who’s been killed,” Hugo said.

  “Well, it’s nice to know my men aren’t gossiping as well as inviting strangers in.”

  “Do you mind telling me?”

  “Why don’t you see for yourself?” Marchand turned and walked toward the back of the museum, letting Hugo trail behind in a wake of expensive eau de toilette.

  The body was in one of the small side rooms. A crime-scene technician handed Hugo a pair of disposable gloves, and Hugo snapped them on, steeling himself for what he was about to see. The victim was obscured from view; two men in scrubs were blocking Hugo’s sight. Then they moved apart and Hugo’s heart sank.

  She lay on her front, face down on a bench made of books, with one arm falling over the edge, her hand resting on the floor. He couldn’t see much of her, or how she’d died, but there was no mistaking who it was with that thick, lustrous hair and the webbed dress that shimmered under the overhead spotlight that was supposed to be highlighting her work, not her. A police photographer snapped pictures, the click-click of his camera the only sound in the room.

  “Killed at her own exhibition,” Marchand said quietly. “That’ll hit the headlines.”

  Hugo fought back the anger and the swell of sadness that surged inside him, that threatened to drown out his objectivity and undermine the investigator in him. He looked away, took a long, slow breath, and consciously refocused his mind.

  Access points, he said to himself. How did the killer come and go?

  He inspected the entrance he’d just come through, a sliding pocket door that looked to be the mirror image of one on the far side of the room. A simple latch could lock it from the inside. He tried it, and the door opened and closed silently on its runners.

  “Monsieur Marston,” Marchand said. He gestured toward the crime techs, who had finished their work. The photographer, too, turned away from the body and stowed his camera, letting Marchand and Hugo move closer.

  Hugo scanned the floor around the bench for anything the killer may have dropped, or for signs of a struggle. Marchand leaned over her and gently moved her hair, and his gloved fingertips came away covered in blood. Hugo pointed to her neck.

  “Knocked unconscious and strangled?” Hugo asked quietly.

  “Looks like it.”

  A voice spoke up behind them. “That’ll be up to me, messieurs, if you don’t mind.”

  Both men straightened and turned. “Dr. Sprengelmeyer, good evening,” Hugo said.

  “Not for her it’s not,” Sprengelmeyer said grimly.

  Marchand looked back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”

  “Monsieur Marston appears at my crime scenes with some regularity,” Sprengelmeyer said. “What is this, the third? Fourth?”

  “Just the third,” Hugo said. “I think.”

  Sprengelmeyer grunted and gestured for Marchand and Hugo to give him some room, which they did. Hugo took that moment to appraise the rest of the room. The theme, as best he could tell, was seating constructed from books. There was a grand armchair, almost a throne, a foursome of small chairs for children, a chaise longue, and the simple bench that Alsaffar lay on now.

  “Good guess, Monsieur Marston,” Sprengelmeyer said after his brief examination. “At first look, I would have to agree that she was knocked out and then strangled to death. There is significant petechiae in the eyes and behind the ears. Even some on the cheeks. I can be more definitive after the autopsy, but it looks quite straightforward.”

  Straightforward, Hugo thought. What a way to describe the end of a life, especially a life as promising as this one. He had a sudden urge to go to her body, to touch her hair, to say something, anything, to make this better. But neither words nor gestures could change what had happened, could alter her “straightforward” death. Hugo clenched his jaw and, once again, pushed away the sadness and anger that Alia’s death was provoking.

  “If she was hit in the head, there should be more blood,” Marchand said.

  “There’s plenty of it.” Sprengelmeyer pointed to the bench. “The books have soaked it up.” He grimaced. “From work of art to biohazard. I suppose you’re going to ask me that annoying time-of-death question?”

  “No need,” Marchand said. “Within the last hour.”

  “Well, that’s just typical.” Sprengelmeyer waggled his thermometer. “The one time I can give you a good answer to that question, you already know it.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, doc,” Hugo said grimly, then he walked to the far end of the room, where a tech was dusting the sliding door for prints.

  “Was it locked when you started?” he asked.

  “Non, monsieur,” she replied.

  Hugo turned and looked back across the room. “And no one found any kind of weapon?”

  She shook her head no and went back to dusting.

  “He or she must have taken it with them.” Marchand had joined him at the end of the room, and was looking around. The room was clean and empty but for the art; even the walls were bare.

  “I suppose so. Who are they interviewing?” Hugo asked Marchand.

  “One of my colleagues will know, why?”

  “I need to check on my boss.”

  Marchand waved a hand at the door they’d come in. “Go see, if there’s nothing else you can tell me about this scene.”

  “Not right now there’s not,” Hugo said. He took out his phone as it buzzed. Claudia had sent him a text: All well, am with Jean. Who died?

  He tapped out a quick reply. Glad you’re OK. Will call later.

  He could’ve answered her, she wouldn’t print anything until he gave her the all-clear. But Claudia was a true journalist and, even though he trusted her completely, he knew her brain wou
ld go into overdrive and she’d probably bombard him with questions for when she could publish that information. But right now, she needed to rest and he had work to do.

  Hugo was about to dial Ambassador Taylor when a uniformed officer stepped into the room, breathing heavily.

  “Lieutenant Intern Marchand.”

  Marchand turned. “What is it?”

  “We found something outside. It might be the murder weapon.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A snow globe,” the officer said. “And it’s covered with blood.”

  They hurried up the stairs to the entrance, and on their way past the coat-check counter, Hugo grabbed his coat. Outside, two flics stood over the globe, and Hugo stopped to inspect it. Obviously from the museum itself, the globe was about four inches high, the glass ball maybe three inches in diameter, with silver numbers and glitter that were meant to swirl around the melting clock that was its central feature. A handful of people hovered nearby, trying to be subtle about their macabre interest but fairly obviously taking photographs with their phones. Everyone moved apart to let Marchand through, and Hugo followed him, glad of his warm coat, as the temperature seemed to have dropped even more over the last ten minutes or so.

  The globe was intact, having been dropped into a small nest of leaves in the crook of the road, between the cobbles and the sidewalk. The blood was hard to see in the dark, but it was definitely there.

  Marchand looked around. “Do you we have pictures of this yet? And if not, why not?”

  “I’m right here,” the photographer said. He adjusted the settings on his camera and started shooting. Hugo looked away as the flash cut through the dark. After a minute, the photographer stopped and Marchand stooped to pick up the globe.

  “Definitely heavy enough to do some damage,” he said. He held it up and, with his flashlight shining on it, showed it to Hugo.

  “Blood for sure,” Hugo said. A crime-scene tech held open a bag, and Marchand put it in carefully.

  “Make sure it gets fingerprinted and tested for DNA,” the Frenchman said.

  Hugo nodded his approval. “You’re thinking a crime of passion, where our killer didn’t have the time or inclination to wear gloves.”

  “Exactement.” Marchand said.

  Hugo turned and scanned the dozen or so people still waiting outside the museum, each waiting to give their names and contact information to the uniformed officers. And, Hugo presumed, be asked if they saw anything, heard anything, or knew anything.

  “Is that the official exit?” he asked Marchand. He pointed to a set of double doors not more than twenty yards from the entrance, and on the same side of the building.

  “It is.”

  Hugo shook his head. If this was a crime of passion, a murder in the moment, the killer had lucked out. A quiet place out of view, but in the hurly-burly of a busy event, and with two ways to leave the scene of the crime, and two ways to exit the museum. He walked over to the doors and pulled on them. Both opened outward to reveal a staircase leading downward. Also two ways to get in. The man who’d taken Hugo’s coat stood nearby, so Hugo turned to him and spoke in French.

  “These steps. Where do they lead to?”

  The man just stared and shrugged. “Je ne parle . . .” He shrugged again, and Hugo switched to English, asking the question again.

  “Oh, yeah. They take you to a hallway between some of the smaller rooms.”

  “Is one of them where the murder happened?”

  “Yes, I think so. Hey, can you tell me who was killed?”

  “I don’t think they’re releasing that information right now.”

  “It’s just that I’m waiting for someone to come out. I’ve been watching for her and asking, but I don’t speak much French and no one will tell me anything.”

  “I know they’re interviewing people downstairs, or at least collecting contact information.” Which reminded Hugo that he still needed to find Taylor. “At this stage they prefer to receive rather than hand out information, I’m afraid.”

  “What if it’s her, though? Can you at least tell me it’s not her so I can stop worrying?”

  “I can probably do that,” Hugo said. “What’s her name?”

  “Thanks, man. This is her event, and she’s actually my stepsister. Her name’s Alia Alsaffar.”

  Hugo stood there, not knowing how to respond. Finally, he said, “Wait here for a moment, if you don’t mind. Let me find the detective in charge. Can you tell me your name? I know he’ll ask.”

  “Sure.” The man nodded. “I’m Rob Drummond.”

  Hugo spun on his heel and headed back to Marchand, who was handing the now-bagged globe to another officer.

  “Do you have someone working on locating family?” Hugo asked.

  “Bien sûr,” Marchand said. Of course.

  “The gentleman by the exit doors, large fellow. You might want to start with him.”

  “Why is that?” Marchand peered past Hugo. “Who is he?”

  “He just told me he’s the victim’s stepbrother.”

  “Is that so?” The detective started forward, then stopped. “Does he speak French?”

  “He told me he didn’t, no.”

  “Of course not,” Marchand muttered. “I suppose you better come translate.”

  “Happy to help,” Hugo said.

  “And now that I think about it, since an American has been killed, your embassy will want to stay involved, right?”

  “As involved as you’ll let us be,” Hugo said. “Like I said earlier, I’m available to you in whatever capacity you need me.”

  “Very kind.” The corner of Marchand’s mouth twitched into a smile, and Hugo wondered if his own passive demeanor had warmed the lieutenant intern toward him a little. Thawed, might be a better way to put it. “Let’s start with translator.”

  Hugo introduced the detective to Rob Drummond, who wore a worried look as Marchand and Hugo led him to the upstairs office, commandeered from the museum staff as a temporary, and cramped, headquarters for the police.

  “Give us ten minutes, will you?” Marchand said to the half dozen uniformed officers in there. The most senior, a whip-thin man with the single stripe of a brigadier, ushered the others out into the reception area, at the top of the stairs down to the museum proper. Marchand closed the door and turned to Hugo, his voice soft and calm. “Please tell Monsieur Drummond what has happened, and extend my sincere condolences.”

  Hugo nodded and gestured for Drummond to sit in one of the four blue, plastic chairs. Hugo and Marchand did so, too.

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Rob, but the person killed was your stepsister. Lieutenant Intern Marchand here would like you to know how sorry he is, too.”

  “Jesus, it’s Alia? Really?” Drummond leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, staring down at the floor. “Oh, my god. I don’t believe this. I can’t believe this.”

  “I know it’s a shock,” Hugo said. “And again, I’m very sorry.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I am. I saw her myself.”

  “Do . . . did you know her?” Drummond asked.

  “A little. We had dinner last night, actually.” Beside him, Marchand straightened in his chair, and he looked at Hugo with a question in his eyes.

  You can ask me your questions later, Hugo thought. Right now, this man needs some time, space, and attention.

  “So, there’s no mistake, no chance . . .” His voice trailed off and he sat there, slowly shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, there’s no chance of a mistake. It’s definitely Alia.”

  “But why? She’s such an amazing person,” Drummond said quietly, not bothering to correct himself this time. “And I don’t just mean as an artist, I mean as a human being. Sweet, thoughtful, kind.”

  “I didn’t know her well,” Hugo said. “But she sure seemed that way. How close were you two?”

  “Not as close as either of us would l
ike,” Drummond admitted. “I’ve been living in London for the past few years and was looking forward to her moving there, seeing her more. I guess we saw each other once a year, maybe even less. It’s so easy to keep in touch via social media, you know?”

  “Definitely,” Hugo said. “That serves me well, being so far from home. What was the age difference between you two?”

  “That’s why we weren’t really close. And have different names. My father met her mother after I’d left the house, what, fifteen years ago? I’m forty-six.” He shook his head. “This is all so unbelievable. Who would want to hurt her? Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure that’s a question Lieutenant Intern Marchand here would want me to ask you. Can you think of anyone she had a run-in with? Even something that seemed minor?”

  “No, I really can’t. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do her harm. It’s insane.”

  “Let me fill the detective in on what we’ve said, just a moment.” Hugo turned to Marchand and summarized his conversation with Rob Drummond.

  “Merci,” Marchand said. “I understood some of that. Including, I’m quite certain, the part where you had dinner with our victim last night?”

  “I did, yes. She was supposed to attend an embassy function and my boss sent me to pick her up, but she decided she didn’t want to go.”

  Marchand raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And you decided that dinner with a beautiful woman was more important than your embassy function?”

  “Not a hard decision,” Hugo said. “Embassy parties are not my thing.”

  “And it was just dinner?”

  “Yes, we ate and I . . . merde, Josh Reno.”

  “What? Is that a person?” Marchand asked.

  Hugo ignored him and spoke to Drummond directly. “What about Josh Reno?”

  “What about him?”

  “Didn’t he and Alia have a falling out?”

  “Yeah, kind of, I guess,” Drummond said. “But I don’t think it was that serious, and there’s no way he’d do something . . . like this. No way in the world.”

  “What makes you so sure?”