The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  “No, it was odd. They were in reverse order, but still neatly folded.”

  Hugo nodded, processing the information. “Do me a favor. Have one more look through everything before you call the police.”

  “You think it’s worth me calling them? I mean, if nothing was taken . . .” He looked around. “I don’t really want people, the police, going through all my stuff. I feel like I’ve done nothing but answer questions for the past few days. Endless questions, and I don’t want any more if I can avoid it.”

  “You can do as you wish,” Hugo said. “But if anyone says anything, I’m telling you to call.”

  “Sure, right. I’ll think about it.”

  Which means you won’t, Hugo thought. “Do you mind opening the trunk?”

  “No, I guess not.” Reno pulled his keys out of his back pocket. He went to the trunk and put one of the keys into the padlock. “It’s not working.”

  “Whoever broke in swapped out the lock,” Hugo said. Unless you’re playing some game I’m not aware of. . .

  “What should we do?” Reno said, looking over his shoulder.

  “Nothing for now. But if you think of anything else, you have my number.” He turned to go but hesitated. “If you do call the police, do me one favor.”

  Reno smiled. “Don’t tell them I told you first?”

  “Don’t mention me at all, if you can help it.”

  “Right, no problem. Hey, don’t you know the lady they arrested?”

  “She’s not been formally . . . But yeah. I know her.”

  “You think she did it?”

  “I know she didn’t,” Hugo said firmly. “As surely as I know my own name.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Hugo left Reno to look over his room one more time, and rode down alone in the elevator. His thoughts were on Claudia, wondering how she was doing, and what more he could do to help her. And even though it was stupid, he felt guilty because if he’d not had that dinner with Alia, one of the pegs supporting Marchand’s theory of guilt wouldn’t be there. No dinner, no jealousy. Mostly, though, he felt frustration, much of it because he had no leverage with the police, since she was a French citizen. The best thing he could do, Hugo knew, the only thing he could do, was find the real killer.

  The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out into the lobby of the hotel just as the sliding glass doors opened and Rob Drummond stumbled through. At first, Hugo thought the man was drunk, but the blood coming from his nose and the swelling around his eye told of injuries, not alcohol. Hugo hurried forward, as did the two receptionists.

  “Rob, are you all right?” Hugo asked.

  “Yeah,” Drummond said, but leaned his considerable body weight on Hugo. “My legs feel kinda wobbly, though.”

  “What happened, monsieur?” one of the hotel staff asked. Hugo glanced at her name tag, which said Clarice. “Do you need a doctor, or ambulance?”

  “Some guys in a bar. They wanted my wallet.”

  “The police, then,” Clarice said.

  “No, no. Not necessary. I handled it, they didn’t get anything.”

  “If you are sure, monsieur,” Clarice said, sounding dubious. “Which bar was it? Most around here are safe.”

  “I don’t remember. It has a picture of sunflowers on the front. Shitty little place, not a sunflower in sight.”

  “Ah, you should have asked us for recommendations.” Clarice shook her head. “That place would not have been one of them.”

  “Not good for American tourists?” Hugo asked with a smile.

  “Not unless they want to buy drugs, gamble with dice, or pick up certain diseases.”

  “Or get mugged,” Drummond added, with a groan of pain.

  “I’ll help you to your room,” Hugo said. “You sure you don’t want to report it?”

  “Thanks, but no. What’re the police gonna do about it? I’ll hopefully be back in London by the end of the week, so even if they catch them, they can’t prosecute. I’m not coming back, that’s for damn sure.”

  “You don’t like Paris?”

  “I know it puts me in a club of one, but no. My sister is murdered and I’m beaten up in a bar. What’s to like?”

  “Fair enough.” Hugo put an arm around Drummond, and they started toward the elevators. “But look at it this way, if you do decide to come back, next time has got to be better.”

  “I guess,” Drummond grunted. He leaned against the wall, then shuffled into the elevator when the doors opened.

  “How many of them were there?” Hugo asked.

  “Three.”

  “And they mugged you inside the bar?”

  “As I was leaving. One of them asked for money, when I said no, he got pushy and two of his friends showed up out of nowhere. They waited until I was outside to really let me have it.”

  “You fought them off?”

  “Fought them off, ran away. A combination, you might say.” He winced as he shifted his weight. “One of them had brass knuckles, pounded me in the leg after I’d pushed him over. Gonna be some kind of bruise there tomorrow.”

  The elevator dinged as they reached his floor.

  “Here we go,” Hugo said. “Just lean on me.”

  “Oh, I will, don’t worry.” He groaned again as they started forward, but managed to say, “Thanks for this, by the way.”

  “All part of my consular duties.”

  They shuffled slowly down the hallway, and Drummond fumbled in his pocket for his key card. His phone and a set of keys fell out onto the floor, and Hugo picked them up as Drummond finally got the door open.

  “Thanks again, man, I appreciate it.” Drummond said, stumbling into the room and promptly collapsing onto the bed. “That’s better.”

  “I’m going to grab you some ice. You should put it on your eye and leg to reduce the swelling.” Hugo picked up the ice bucket from the desk. “You have a spare key? If not, I can prop the door open so you don’t have to get up.”

  “I do.” Drummond pointed to a pair of expensive brogues on the floor under the desk. “In the left one.”

  “You keep your spare key card in your shoe?”

  “Along with my passport, yes. Money and house keys in the other one,” he said. “That way I know where they all are, and no one else wants to touch them.”

  “Right,” Hugo said, wrinkling his nose. “I think maybe I’ll just prop the door open.”

  Hugo took the bucket to the ice machine, which sat opposite the elevators. It rattled and whined for a moment, then spat out ice as if it were angry and didn’t care how much made it into the bucket and how much went on the floor. When he got back to the room, Drummond was propped up on the bed.

  “Not the prettiest nurse I’ve ever had,” he said.

  “You get what you pay for.” Hugo popped into the bathroom and grabbed a hand towel.

  “Seriously, though, thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome.” He threw the towel to Drummond and put the ice on the nightstand beside him. “Wrap some ice in the towel, it should help.”

  “I will.”

  Hugo paused at the foot of the bed. “So if you don’t mind me asking, maybe not for the first time, how well did you know your sister?”

  Drummond shrugged. “Not very.”

  “I’m just struggling to find anyone who didn’t love her, even mildly dislike her, let alone want to kill her.”

  “No shit.” Drummond snorted, but when he laughed it was good-natured. “Story of my life, people telling me how wonderful she is. Apart from Reno, he may have changed his tune after she basically cut him off, shutting him out of the Dali exhibition. But otherwise, it’s true.”

  “I can believe it,” Hugo said. “Although it’s my understanding his exclusion from the museum wasn’t her fault at all. Be that as it may, I’ll leave you to rest. If you think of anything that might help, you have my number.”

  “I do.”

  Hugo took the stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator. He paused
by the reception area and asked Clarice a question. “What’s the name of that bar?”

  “Les Champs de Tournesol.’

  “I should have guessed,” Hugo said with a smile. “Thanks.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend you go there, though.”

  “Maybe a quick look. I don’t like my countrymen being abused by thieves.”

  “Just make sure they don’t get their hands on you, too.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

  He looked at his phone when it buzzed, and was surprised to see Claudia’s name on the screen. He thanked Clarice and moved away from the reception area.

  “Claudia? Are you OK?”

  A female voice spoke, but it wasn’t Claudia’s. “Is this Hugo Marston?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Nicola Dumont. I am Claudia’s lawyer. She wanted me to call you, since she’s not allowed to.”

  “Not allowed . . . what do you mean?”

  “She is out of jail. But there are certain conditions she must abide by, and one of them is not talking to any of the witnesses in the case. That includes you.”

  “I’m hardly a witness.”

  “That’s not your decision,” Dumont said, her voice brusque. “You were there that night, and you are on the list of people she cannot talk to. That is what matters.”

  “Fine. But how is she?”

  “Happy to be at home.”

  “I bet. Has she been charged with anything?”

  “Yes, with the murder of Alia Alsaffar.”

  Hugo felt a hot flash of anger. “That’s just so ridiculous, ludicrous.” “I tend to agree,” Dumont said mildly.

  “Well, since I can’t speak to her myself, please give her my love and tell her I’m doing everything I can to help her.”

  “I will. She tells me you are good at what you do.”

  “I’d like to think so. For her sake, I’d better be.”

  “Again, I agree.”

  “Well, thank you for calling,” Hugo said, “and please let me know if there’s any way I can help you.”

  “Wait, there’s one more thing,” Dumont said. “Claudia wanted you to know this.”

  “Know what?”

  “The police retested the DNA found on the victim.”

  “I know, they told me they always do that in . . . serious cases.”

  “Yes, and the results just came back,” Dumont said. “I’m afraid that the findings were the same as the first test.”

  “You mean . . .?” Hugo’s voice trailed off as the news sank in. He felt a band close around his chest, and his voice was thick with emotion. “Surely not. I mean, there must be some mistake. Can you have it retested as her lawyer?”

  “I can, and I will. But that will be a formality. We have to face the reality that it was most definitely Claudia’s DNA on the victim’s finger. I’m afraid there can no longer be any doubt about it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The snow was falling when Hugo stepped out of his apartment building on Rue Jacob, small flakes that shifted and danced in the light wind that blew down the street. A black Cadillac, his ride to the cemetery, sat idling by the curb, but he lingered for a moment, turning his face to the sky to feel the tickle of snowflakes on his skin, feel the chilly pinpricks of water sting his forehead and cheeks as they melted.

  He heard the whir of a window being lowered, and then his second-in-command, Ryan Pierce. “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Yep,” Hugo said, not moving. “Just a weird morning is all.”

  “Weird, sir?”

  “Burying a friend who’s not dead instead of getting to work to clear the name of another friend, one who’s been wrongly accused of murder.”

  “You can be thankful for one of those things.” Pierce was glancing around, subtly but noticeably. “Climb in, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  “There aren’t any snipers, Ryan,” Hugo said, amused. “And if I tell you one more time to call me Hugo instead of sir, I’m going to fire you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pierce said unapologetically. “Roger that.”

  Hugo rolled his eyes and climbed into the front seat of the car. “Do you know Tom well?”

  “I didn’t until last night,” Pierce said.

  “Meaning?”

  “I was on babysitting duty. And that one can be a big baby.”

  “He can.” Hugo buckled himself in, and Pierce pulled away from the curb. “What did he get up to?”

  “Well, first he complained about the lack of booze at the safe house, so I had one of the other guys go get a six-pack of beer.”

  “Just a six-pack?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pierce flashed a grin. “Of French beer.”

  “French beer?” Hugo whistled. “You sure like to live dangerously.”

  “He was pretty unhappy. Oh, and then he tried to get an escort.”

  “Yep, that sounds like him.”

  “I had to take his phone away.”

  “He probably had a spare,” Hugo said.

  “That was the spare. His phone was the first thing to go before they moved him to the house, and since he didn’t seem to mind too much, I figured he had another one.”

  “Smart guy,” Hugo said.

  “Those aren’t the words he used.” Pierce turned onto the boulevard Saint-Germain, where the traffic was light and the pedestrians on the sidewalk were wrapped up in wool coats and colorful scarves.

  “He didn’t try to sneak out?”

  “Nope.”

  “How’d you manage that?” Hugo asked. “I mean, no booze and no women, that’s not Tom’s idea of an evening.”

  “I took his pants away.”

  Hugo snorted with laughter. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. Once he realized we were serious, he settled down.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me you got him to read a book.”

  “I’m not that good,” Pierce said with smile. “But we played cards until midnight and then he went to bed.”

  “You know he probably cheated, right?”

  “Oh, yes, he absolutely cheated. But we let him, since that was a safer outlet than him getting wasted or bringing an escort to the house.”

  Hugo laughed. “I knew I hired you for a reason.”

  They drove in silence for a while, angling north across Pont de Sully as the snowflakes grew larger and filled the air around them, making the colorful lights over the boulangeries twinkle, and dusting the displays of Christmas trees that were for sale on the sidewalk here and there along the route. Somehow, though, Hugo couldn’t escape the chill that sat inside him, the cold and very real knowledge that Rick Cofer was out there waiting for him, and with one purpose in mind: putting a bullet in Hugo’s heart. Hugo was confident in the plan, but no plan was foolproof, and there was little room for error.

  They were headed to Père Lachaise cemetery, which had been picked because it was easier to surveil than anywhere else. The entrances were easy to watch, and the high walls surrounding it eliminated the risk of Cofer slipping in unnoticed. Or out. This time of year, the few tourists wanting to wander the cemetery’s cobbled streets would be easier to turn away, and the fewer disappointed visitors, the better.

  Not that Cofer would realize. The cemetery would have fifty officers in plainclothes, wandering singly, in pairs, and in small groups, all looking out for Cofer. And by the time Hugo was inside, Camille Lerens had promised they would have their man in their sights.

  “He won’t get close to you,” she’d assured him.

  “I’m wearing a vest just in case,” Hugo said, then smiled. “Although I trust you completely with my life.”

  A vest and Ryan Pierce, Hugo thought. And when they pulled up on Avenue Gambetta, he saw that Lerens had assigned him another policeman as a bodyguard.

  The flic opened Hugo’s door. “Good morning, sir.” His uniform looked new, newly pressed for sure, and he saluted as Hugo stepped out of the car.

  “Paul
Jameson, how are you? Good to see you again,” Hugo said.

  “And you, sir.” The r rolled softly off the Scotsman’s tongue, and they shook hands. Jameson was Lerens’s most trusted subordinate, a wiry and bald man about to hit fifty, but who looked ten years younger. He’d grown up in Toryglen, a rough-and-tumble section of Glasgow south of the River Clyde and east of Hampden Park. Famous, as Jameson liked to say, for the band Simple Minds and not much else. Jameson had served in the British Navy for several years, but said little about it other than his job involved “nukes.” Hugo never asked for details, understanding that often people had done things, in jobs or in their lives, they couldn’t talk about. That went for Hugo himself, Tom, of course, and even Ambassador Taylor. What Hugo did know about the Scotsman was that he’d talked his way into the police force many years ago and impressed since the day he’d hit the streets.

  “Snow seems appropriate somehow,” Hugo said. “Thanks for arranging it.”

  “Aye, you’re welcome.”

  “You hanging out with me today?”

  “Never more than two steps away. And jumping on top of you, if I have to.”

  Pierce rounded the front of the car. “That’s my job,” he said. “But if there are bullets flying, we may both have to do it.”

  “Paul, meet Ryan Pierce, my number two.”

  The two men shook hands, and Hugo felt a sense of security for the first time since finding out that Tom had been shot. He looked at the stone steps leading up to the cemetery gates, and said, “Gentlemen, shall we?”

  The cemetery was cold. Not just because the snow was settling, which it had started to, but because the narrow alleys and walkways funneled the wind so that when it hit, it hit hard. Hugo hunched down into his coat, and his eyes watered as he scanned the crypts around him. They’d commandeered a vacant gravesite a couple of rows off Avenue de la Chappelle, and Hugo stood shoulder to shoulder between Jameson and Pierce. About forty people, all police, surrounded the gravesite, even “Father Galvan,” who wasn’t there yet, would be packing a pistol under his frock. Ambassador Taylor had wanted to be there for authenticity, but Hugo had resisted, saying he couldn’t protect him, and that an ambassador missing the funeral of someone not even affiliated with the embassy would not raise any red flags with Cofer.