The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  “Careful, little man,” Tom growled. “This is mine, all of it. And you might want to consider your own place on the food chain. In Paris, Hugo would be eating you alongside a plate of fries.”

  The duck ignored him, but it flapped its wings and backed away when Tom reached for his buzzing cell phone. Brendon Fowler had sent him a text: He just checked into the Rijks Hotel on Sint Nicolaasstraat. BE CAREFUL.

  A hotel? Tom thought. Why would he risk making himself visible like that? Carelessness, or a trap?

  Tom sent Fowler a thumbs-up emoji and looked up the hotel on his phone. It was located in the heart of Amsterdam, and looked to be on a tiny street right where the action was, where the prostitutes and sex shops vied with the smoke shops and marijuana cookie sellers for the attention of the wide-eyed tourists. Tom had spent more than a few hours on those streets and knew what a rabbit warren they could be. An advantage for a local, maybe, but not for Tom. Although he had to assume that as a recent arrival, and recent convict, Rick Cofer knew that area even less well.

  Tom looked at the duck, which had turned its attention to a family nearby, and smiled. Speaking of Hugo. . . He dialed his friend’s number, wanting to update him and ask a question that was bothering him, but the call went straight to voicemail.

  “Marston, you ass. You’re supposed to have called me back, like five times. I’ve confirmed that the bastard is here, one hundred percent. He’s at a hotel in the red-light district, which I happen to know reasonably well, which will surprise you. I’m gonna check it out. And, yes, I’ll be careful. When you get this message, call me, jerk.”

  He checked how far the hotel was from his location, hoping it’d be far enough away to justify a taxi. He groaned when his phone assured him it was a mere fifteen-minute walk. He got to his feet, found a trash can for his plate and the few crumbs he’d not inhaled, and set off.

  The wind seemed to pick up as he walked, blowing into his face and sending angry ripples through the canals that he crossed. He wondered how to approach the hotel, or whether to at all. Cofer, he had to assume, would be looking over both shoulders all day every day, and using the internet as best he could to find out about Tom, and maybe Hugo. Tom had no idea whether Cofer knew of his time in the CIA. It seemed unlikely, since Tom was invisible, non-existent, on the internet, and the Company hardly publicized its employee list. But if Cofer had found out somehow, he’d be even more twitchy. And be more sure that Tom would be looking for him, and able to discover his location.

  Shit. I should assume he does know, and is luring me there, Tom thought.

  But he went back and forth because he knew that was a stretch. The meathead had just gotten out of prison, and there was no logical way he’d been tracking his and Hugo’s careers from behind bars. And yet he’s here, presumably looking for you, pal. Which means he knew you were here, or would come.

  Tom quickened his step, annoyed with himself and the puzzles running in circles inside his head. Around him, people drifted through the chilly afternoon with their heads down, wrapped up in wool coats and scarves, oblivious to anything except getting where they were going. The questions kept poking at him, and he wished Hugo would call him back. As much of a stiff as his best friend was, his mind was unique, and his advice, while frequently annoying and safe, was invaluable. Without slowing, Tom called him again, again going to voicemail.

  “One thing I want to know. Just text me if you know the answer, you don’t even have to talk to me. Why the fuck did Cofer come here and not Paris?”

  That was the biggest question he had. Why Amsterdam?

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Claudia Roux?” Hugo laughed. “Yes, I do know her, and take my word for it, you can cross her off your suspect list.”

  “Is that so?” Lieutenant Intern Marchand asked. “Maybe we should talk in my office.” He turned to a pale and exhausted Rob Drummond and spoke in slow, deliberate English. “Monsieur, I will have an officer drive you to your home. I thank you for your time, and am sorry for your sister.”

  “Thank you,” Rob replied.

  “We will be in touch with you again in the next day, maybe two.” Marchand gave a small bow and indicated with his head for Hugo to follow him. As they walked down the hallway, Marchand said, “So, Mademoiselle Roux. How do you know her?”

  “Assuming there’s just one of her, and we’re not talking about someone else. I suppose someone else could have the same name.”

  “But if it’s the one you know, you think we can cross her off the suspect list.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “This should be interesting.” Marchand stopped at an office door and opened it. “After you. Please, take a seat.” Hugo sat while Marchand rounded his desk and dropped into his obviously brand-new executive chair. He picked up a piece of paper and showed it to Hugo. “A copy of her driver’s license information. It is the same Claudia Roux?”

  Hugo glanced at the picture. “It is, yes.”

  “Tell me about her. How do you know her?”

  “She’s a journalist. The daughter of a prominent Parisian, Gerard de Roussillon. A count.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s dead now,” Hugo said. “No reason you should know who he is.”

  “I don’t spend much time with French royalty,” Marchand said. “Go on.”

  “Anything in particular you want to know?”

  “Yes. Your relationship with her.”

  Hugo smiled. “Complicated. But if you’re asking if we’re romantically entangled, I would say . . . from time to time.”

  “The details are not my business, but the fact that you are in a relationship most definitely is.”

  “Fair enough. But I can vouch for her on that night, as well as her character. The idea that she would be a suspect is . . . with respect, ridiculous.”

  “From where you’re sitting perhaps. But how many times have you seen someone shake their head and declare how shocked they are that so-and-so committed murder?”

  “I’m just telling you, it’d be a waste of your time to focus on her. What reason in the world would she have to hurt someone she’d never met?”

  “Who invited you to the sculpture event?”

  “Alia Alsaffar.”

  “That’s right.” Marchand nodded. “You had dinner with her the previous night.”

  “I did.”

  “Then I have my motive.” He said it playfully, but Hugo knew the Frenchman was wondering whether there might be a grain of truth in his statement.

  Hugo returned the small smile. “Ah, so your theory would be that Claudia, with whom I have a close friendship and occasionally more, kills Alia Alsaffar because I had dinner with her. Once.”

  “Did Ms. Roux know you had dinner with her?”

  “I should inform you,” Hugo said, “that I have dinner virtually every night of the year, frequently with other people. None of them have been murdered, that I am aware of.”

  “Mademoiselle Alsaffar was,” Marchand said matter-of-factly. “Please answer my question. Did Claudia Roux know you were dining with her? Either before or after the fact.”

  “We spoke on the phone right before, yes. And she didn’t mind in the slightest.”

  “She told you that? That she didn’t mind?”

  “Yes, she did. Because why would she?”

  “Women don’t always say what they mean, or what they are thinking.”

  “As true of men as it is women,” Hugo said. “Are you really saying you think she’s a suspect?”

  “You know how this works. Everyone is a suspect until they are not.” Still with that smile on his face and his piercing eyes. “Why did she call Alia Alsaffar?” Hugo said nothing, and Marchand nodded slowly, and said: “Ah, you didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t, so why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because she’s not here right now, and you seem to have an answer for everything. I thought you might enlighten me.”

  “Probably wanted to
interview her. She’s a journalist, remember.”

  “Alsaffar never called her back, though. Seems odd.”

  “Why is that odd?”

  “Every artist I’ve ever met has jumped at the chance for free publicity.”

  “I imagine Alia was very busy, it being the day of her show.”

  “Or maybe your friend was calling to warn her off,” Marchand suggested mildly.

  “If they were both teenage girls and this was all happening at a high school, that might be a possibility.”

  “She was there, though, Mademoiselle Roux. Wasn’t she?”

  “At the museum? No, she wasn’t.” Hugo knew he was splitting hairs, but Marchand’s smugness was getting to him.

  “Nearby. Did you know she was going to be?”

  “She was running. And, no, I didn’t know.”

  “Just happened to be running right past where you and Alia Alsaffar were sipping champagne together. The day after a cozy dinner together. And happened to call Alsaffar’s phone a few hours earlier. Why do you think she didn’t mention that to you, by the way?”

  “She was a little busy collapsing from the run,” Hugo said. “We didn’t do too much idle chatter.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Home, I assume.”

  “A little late for a visit, but I’ll go see her tomorrow.” Hugo shifted in his seat. “Look, I know you’re going to want to say no to this, but hear me out.”

  “No. You may not come with me.”

  Hugo gave a wry smile. “I told you so.”

  “Think about it.” Marchand leaned forward. “If, just if, she becomes a good suspect, then that makes you a witness. And since I don’t know whether or not that’s going to happen, I would be a poor policeman if I let you interview a suspect with me.”

  “Fine. But when all this is over, I’ll be saying I told you so.”

  “I hope that is true,” Marchand said. “But in the meantime, I have another . . . request.”

  “Request or instruction?”

  “As long as you abide by it, call it whichever you want.”

  “What is it?”

  “I would ask that until I have spoken with Claudia Roux, you do not. Not in person, not by phone, not by text, not even email.”

  “You’re asking a lot, considering that she’s innocent, and not even a viable suspect at this point.”

  “Then think about this. If she becomes one, depending on what else I find out, a phone call from you might be viewed as obstruction of justice. And if she’s no more than a witness, then you might be tampering with a witness.”

  “And if she’s done nothing wrong?”

  “Then there is no harm in you not communicating with her for a few hours.”

  He held Marchand’s eye for a moment but saw he was deadly serious. The guy was being a jerk, but Hugo couldn’t fault his logic. “Fine. I understand why you’d ask that. But do me a favor. Talk to her tomorrow. Cross her off your list and start looking for the person who actually killed Alia Alsaffar.”

  Hugo was woken at seven the next morning by a clap of thunder that seemed to rattle the windows. He checked his phone and was reminded that he had messages he’d not even listened to from Tom. It’d been too cold to check his phone on the walk home the previous night, and he’d been too exhausted once he got there to do anything but brush his teeth and fall into bed.

  The phone buzzed as he was looking at it. His boss.

  “Ambassador, how’re you?”

  “I’m fine, how the hell are you?”

  “Too early to tell. Up late last night.”

  “You helping the police with their inquiries?” Taylor asked. “In a good way, I mean.”

  “I was until they decided Claudia was a suspect.”

  Ambassador Taylor was silent for a moment. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. Wish I was.” Hugo yawned. “To borrow a phrase from Tom, it’s fucking ridiculous.”

  “Why the hell would they think that?”

  “Because she was nearby, she’d called Alia’s phone, and I had dinner with Alia the night before.”

  “Oh, right,” Taylor said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That ugly jealous streak that Claudia shows so often.”

  “It’s OK, it’s so ridiculous that it’ll take about twenty minutes for them to figure out they’re wasting their time.”

  “Why was she close by? Had she decided to attend?”

  “No. That damn marathon she’s training for, one of the runs took her up to Montmartre.”

  “That’s funny,” Taylor said. “That it just happened to take her up there that night, and at that time.”

  “Jeez, boss, don’t you start.” Hugo stretched and climbed out of bed. “I kept trying to find you last night. What did they do with you?”

  “Stuck me in a closet. Rather sweet if you think about it. Once they found out I was present, they wanted to make sure I was safe. Kept me out of sight.”

  “Well, good. I like my job and don’t mind my boss; I’d hate to lose you and have to train up someone new.”

  “Thanks. I think. What’s on tap for you today?”

  “Well,” Hugo said. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to poke around a little. Alia was an American citizen, so I have reason to be asking questions.”

  “You do. Is Camille on this one?”

  “No. If she was, they wouldn’t be bothering with Claudia.”

  “Good point.”

  “It’s some captain called Marchand. You know him?”

  “No, but no reason why I would. What does Camille say about him?”

  “I gather there’s some tension between the two,” Hugo said. “She claims it’s on his part, and, knowing her, I’m guessing that’s true. And to begin with, he was a little buttoned up with me, resisted my charm for a while.”

  “He must be uptight, then.” Taylor was quiet for a moment. “Well, dang, Hugo. I thought it was Camille in charge; but if it’s not, maybe you better stand down until Claudia’s in the clear and he invites you in to help.”

  “Which could be lunchtime today or weeks from now. And you know as well as I do, every minute counts in a murder case.”

  “In his murder case,” Taylor reminded him. “Hugo, I mean it. My job is to maintain good relationships with the French authorities, not screw up their homicide investigations.”

  “That’s OK then,” Hugo said. “You won’t be screwing anything up.”

  “Nor will you,” Taylor said sternly. “Any inquiries you make will be subtle and outside any official sphere. And sure as hell outside his line of sight.”

  “But you’ll back me up if Marchand finds out and loses his cool.”

  “Hell, no, I won’t. He has every right to exclude you from the investigation, especially when Claudia is a suspect. No matter how nonsensical that might be.”

  “Right, which is precisely why I need to get involved,” Hugo said. “It’s completely nonsensical.”

  “Keep your head down, Hugo. Speaking of that, what news from Tom?”

  “Shoot,” Hugo said. “I owe him a call. Several, now that I think of it. Let me do that now, and I’ll fill you in later.” He hung up and dialed Tom, but it went straight to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. Sorry I keep missing you, caught a new murder case here. Someone I knew, too, so I’m a little busy. Anyway, I don’t know the answer to your question, but I’ll think about it. There must be some reason he’d go there; we just have to figure out what it is. We can talk when you call me back.” A surge of fear rose in Hugo, maybe because Alia had been killed and Claudia was in the police crosshairs but, whatever the reason, he was suddenly afraid for Tom. “Call me back, even if it’s just to let me know you’re OK. OK?”

  He stood in front of his bedroom window and watched the heavy raindrops fall, listened to the hiss of the rain as it went past him, and looked at the people in the street below as they scurried out of its way, into doorways and nearby stores. He felt very far away
from his friend at that moment.

  “Damned weather,” he muttered, and put the heavy feeling that sat in his chest down to just that—the low clouds, the incessant rain, and a Texan’s need for a little more sun than he’d been getting recently.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In recent weeks Hugo had shied away from working on weekends. It was a good time to catch up with paperwork and duty rosters, or to do some advance planning ahead of the next dignitary’s visit. But a few months ago he’d noticed himself breathing a little heavier after his walk to work, and again on the way home. And a couple of his favorite pairs of pants seemed to have shrunk in the wash, which they’d never done before.

  So, since that unhappy revelation, weekends had been about taking long walks through Paris, and even the occasional jog when he could persuade someone, usually Camille Lerens, to join him. He’d seriously considered Claudia’s offer to run that marathon with her, but he knew himself too well, knew he couldn’t realistically commit to the training sessions. Not just because work at the embassy kept him so busy, but also because he detested running and would find every excuse to back out of the training. And that would’ve been unfair to Claudia.

  Today was different, though, a Saturday that he needed to work. Today Claudia was being eyed as a murder suspect, ludicrous as that was, and whether Lieutenant Intern Marchand liked it or not, Hugo would be looking for the real killer. And not just for Claudia’s sake, but for Alia’s, too.

  He went to his desk, turned his back to the rain, and dialed the Hôtel de Crillon, asking for Rachel Rollo’s room. A man answered, sounding surprised, or maybe suspicious.

  “Mr. Rollo, my name is Hugo Marston. I work at the US Embassy, head of security. I’m helping the Paris police with the inquiry into Alia Alsaffar’s death.”

  “Not death. Murder. Call it what it was.”

  “Her murder, yes. I was hoping I could come over and speak to you and your wife this morning.”

  “When exactly?” His tone remained curt. “We’ve not even had breakfast yet.”

  “I’m available all day. What time suits you?”

  “I suppose nine thirty would be fine.”