The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  “Oh, I didn’t think . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Hugo reassured him. “I’m probably being overly careful; it’s in my nature. Do you know who delivered it?”

  “No. One of the tenants brought it in from the doorstep, where it was left. I’m surprised it didn’t get wet out there.”

  Which means it wasn’t out there long, Hugo thought. “When did you get it?”

  “Maybe an hour ago.”

  Hugo thanked him and climbed the stairs to his apartment. Inside, Tom sat on the couch with his nose in a book.

  “I’ve heard that near-death experiences can do strange things to men,” Hugo said. “But you reading? This I find hard to believe.”

  “It’s true.” Tom grinned. “Not sure I’ve read a book since college, and then it was because I had to. Dickens, Faulkner, God knows what else. The more turgid it was, the more we had to read it. Oh, that Macbeth dude from Scotland.”

  “Really, that hack? Poor you.”

  “But this.” He held up Steve Goble’s novel, The Bloody Black Flag. “A murder mystery on a pirate ship? That’s genius.”

  “I know, and it doesn’t even have pictures in it.”

  “Funny. Very funny.” Tom sat up. “But you know what wasn’t funny?”

  “Do tell.”

  “That chick last night.”

  “If we’re talking about you and some chick, you’re going to have to narrow it down a little.”

  “The one you left me with at the Crillon bar. I’m for sure banned from there now, by the way.”

  “Oh, Tom. What happened?”

  “Well, she was so beautiful and friendly, I made a wrong assumption. Or two.”

  “No. You didn’t . . .”

  “I kinda did. Anyway, I can testify to the fact that she has beautiful hands that are much more powerful than they look.” He turned his face sideways. “You can probably still see the outline of one of them.”

  “No, but then if there’s a face that’s used to being slapped, it’s yours.”

  “First time in ages,” Tom said huffily. “Just so you know.” He nodded toward the envelope in Hugo’s hand. “So, what’s that, and why the forensic countermeasure?”

  “It’s an envelope, and just in case.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” Hugo took it to the kitchen and placed it on the counter. He took a knife from the butcher’s block and sliced the top of the envelope open.

  “Shout if you see a puff of anthrax,” Tom said, hanging back.

  Hugo threw him a dirty look and used the tip of the knife to widen the opening of the envelope.

  “No anthrax,” he said. “Looks like just photos.”

  “Of what?”

  “Bring me some gloves from my desk drawer and I’ll tell you. Top left.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tom said. “The only one you don’t lock.” He walked into Hugo’s room and appeared a moment later with a pair of surgical gloves. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Hugo snapped them on and, with his fingertips, pulled out two four-by-six glossy photos. They were color but not great quality, as if shot from a distance and enlarged. But what they showed was unmistakable.

  Tom sidled over and peered at them. “That’s the dead girl, right?”

  “Alia Alsaffar, yes.”

  “Beautiful. Who’s the dude?”

  “That’s her . . . benefactor, I suppose you might call him. His name is JD Rollo.”

  “They had a thing going on?”

  “Nope,” Hugo said. “At least that’s what I thought. What they told me.”

  “These photos . . . I dunno, man, they seem to indicate otherwise.”

  “Possibly,” Hugo agreed.

  The pictures were both taken outside, in a street Hugo couldn’t name. Narrow and cobbled, so maybe one in Montmartre, near the museum. Alsaffar and Rollo stood face-to-face, closer than friends usually stood. They seemed to be looking into each other’s eyes, and from the photo Hugo couldn’t tell if one of them was talking. It was a frustrating moment in time, a split second caught on camera. Maybe in the next moment they kissed; maybe one of them wanted to and the other pulled away. The only doubt in Hugo’s mind was whether friends stood that close to each other just to talk.

  The second picture was taken from behind, and they appeared to be walking along the same street. JD Rollo had his arm around Alsaffar’s shoulders, and their hips must have been touching.

  “Dropped off anonymously?” Tom asked.

  “Afraid so.”

  “A little ambiguous, to be honest. Don’t tell you all that much.”

  “Quite the opposite.” Hugo gave Tom an enigmatic smile. “As long as Mr. Rollo himself didn’t drop them off, they tell me plenty.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Tom frowned. “You just agreed with me that they’re ambiguous as to whether or not they were doing the dirty.”

  “Correct.”

  “God, you’re frustrating.”

  Hugo took out his phone and photographed each a picture, then reached into a cabinet and pulled out a box of gallon-sized resealable plastic bags. With still-gloved hands, he pulled out the first two bags and set them aside, then he opened the third and slid the envelope inside. He made sure the bag was air-tight, then peeled off the gloves. He called Lieutenant Intern Marchand and filled him in, asking that the envelope and contents be forensically examined.

  “Of course, I’ll send someone to collect it from you now, and have it tested straightaway.”

  “Do me a favor,” Hugo said. “There’s one part of the envelope I’d like your tech to be sure not to miss.”

  “Absolument,” Marchand said, when Hugo told him. “I’ll make sure of it. So, what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About whether they were in a relationship.”

  “I’d say you have to ask him about it.”

  “I already did.” A note of frustration sounded in Marchand’s voice. “He said not.”

  “He told me the same thing.”

  “I’ll bring him in to the prefecture. He’ll tell the truth while in one of our little rooms.”

  “No, he won’t,” Hugo said. “He’ll clam up and ask for a lawyer.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s rich, powerful. You won’t be able to bully or intimidate him.” Hugo paused, then said. “Let me talk to him. I can play the embassy-approved role. People like JD Rollo enjoy thinking they have friends in high places, and they like to avoid trouble if they can. I just think he’s more likely to talk to a friendly American diplomat than a pushy French policeman.”

  “No offense taken,” Marchand said, humor in his voice.

  “And none meant, as you know.”

  “Inviting yourself back into the heart of the investigation team, I see.” The humor remained in Marchand’s tone.

  “If that’s all right with the lead investigator,” Hugo said.

  Marchand appeared to think for a moment before speaking. “In this instance, maybe you’re right. When will you talk to him?”

  Hugo looked at his watch. It was just after three. “Well, in America we have a saying: no time like the present.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rollo opened the door to his suite, and Hugo stepped past him.

  “I thought our business was concluded,” Rollo said. “And by that I mean with you and the police.”

  “Very nearly,” Hugo assured him. He followed Rollo and sat in a plush cream armchair as Rollo sank onto the sofa. “Your wife isn’t here?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not at all. I always talk to people however they are most comfortable. Some prefer their spouses to be present, some prefer not.”

  “I gather you were buying her a drink last night.” His tone remained neutral.

  “I was, but had to run.”

  Rollo smiled. “Your friend made quite the impression when he showed up.”r />
  “Tom? Yes, he wouldn’t give me many details, but I gather he mistook your wife’s politeness for . . . a different kind of interest. My apologies, on his behalf.”

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for. She can take care of herself—I’m not worried about that.” He cleared his throat. “Now, what exactly can I help you with?”

  Hugo took out his phone and pulled up the images of Rollo and Alsaffar that he’d photographed before bagging and handing the pictures to Paul Jameson. He’d been surprised to see the Scotsman, who explained his presence: “Since the Claudia Roux bad arrest, Lerens is keeping a closer eye on things. Through me.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Hugo told him.

  “Aye, but not everyone makes high-profile ones. He’s a good cop and he’ll go far, but right now he’s on a short leash.”

  “Is that why he’s letting me get more involved?” Hugo asked.

  “Partly. And because you’re good at what you do. Like I said, he’s a good cop and he knows who can help him solve a case.”

  Hugo had almost blushed at the praise.

  Now he passed his phone to Rollo. “There’s that one, and if you swipe left there’s another.”

  Rollo held the phone up and studied the first picture, then the second. He handed the phone back to Hugo. “What of them?” he asked.

  “Oh, hang on, I need to record this conversation, if you don’t mind.”

  “I suppose not,” Rollo said, but suspicion lurked in his eyes.

  Hugo started the record function on his phone, and announced the date and time, along with his presence and that of JD Rollo. “So, these photos,” Hugo said. “Do you know when they might have been taken?”

  Rollo held Hugo’s eye for a moment. “That seems like an odd question.”

  “It does?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask if I was having an affair with Alia?”

  “No, because you weren’t. I just want to know when the pictures were taken.”

  Rollo smiled, amused by Hugo’s certainty. “You’re pretty confident of that. Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Let me guess. Because my wife is so beautiful, I couldn’t possibly be sleeping with Alia.”

  “Not at all. Beautiful women, and men, too, find their spouses in bed with other people all the time.”

  “The age gap, then.”

  “These days?” Hugo laughed gently. “I hardly think the decade or so between you qualifies as a prohibitive age gap.”

  “Whatever your reasoning, assuming you have one—”

  “I do.”

  “—you’re right. We were close, like brother and sister. Or father and daughter, depending on your view of that age gap.”

  “So can you tell me when the photos were taken? From the clothing, location, and lighting, both at around the same time.”

  “If I remember right,” Rollo began, his brow furrowed in thought. “Yes, I think the only time she and I went out by ourselves was the day before she . . . you know.”

  Hugo nodded. “About what time?”

  “It would’ve been around lunch. Afterward, I think.”

  “And where did you walk, do you remember?”

  “Not really,” Rollo said. “We were near her hotel, and we just kind of wandered hither and thither. She was upset about Josh, the way she’d handled things. And the way he’d reacted, of course.”

  “I don’t blame her.”

  “Me neither. But we were both surprised by how angry he was. Anyway, I wasn’t paying attention to where we were going, I was more focused on trying to make her feel better the day before her big exhibition.”

  “Quite naturally, of course.”

  “That reminds me, for some reason. I heard that the woman they’d arrested is now free. You don’t think it could’ve been Josh, do you? Given how angry he was. Or did they release her but expect to charge her still?”

  “Oh no, she’s in the clear. As in, wrongly arrested and completely innocent.”

  “How awful for her.”

  “She’ll be fine. But, yes, not much fun while it was going on.”

  “So are you officially part of the investigation?” Rollo asked. “I’m just wondering whether the Paris police will be hammering on my door asking about those photos, and coming up with a different conclusion about our relationship.”

  “No, that’s why I’m recording this interview. I’ll hand it to the police so they can add it to their case file. Unless I forgot to ask you something they want to know about, I don’t think they’ll bother you. Not about the photos, anyway.”

  “Good. Any idea whether we can leave the city yet?”

  “Not just yet, I don’t think.” Hugo looked around. “This suite must be burning a hole in your pocket, though. I can facilitate a change to a more reasonably priced room, if you like.”

  “No, no need for that.”

  Must be nice, Hugo thought. He stood. “Well, thank you for your time, I do appreciate it.”

  “Hang on.” Rollo stood too, a worried look on his face. “Do those photos make me a suspect now? I mean, I can see how someone would look at them and assume they mean something they don’t. I promise you, there was nothing going on between Alia and me.”

  “Like I said, I know that,” Hugo reassured him. “And I’ll make sure the detective in charge understands that, too.”

  “Thank you, really. I’d hate for them to go down the wrong rabbit hole, especially if it leads to me. Those photos . . . I just worry they’ll put me in the frame.” He grimaced. “If you’ll excuse the pun.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that these photos cut two people off my suspect list.”

  Hugo decided to walk to the Dalí museum. It was probably three miles away, and mostly uphill, but there was a picture forming in Hugo’s head, and he knew that a long walk was the best way to help the puzzle pieces fall into place. And the best way for him to figure out what to do next.

  The sky was already darkening when he walked out of the hotel, the chill of dusk settling over an already-cold Paris. She responded, though, by turning on her lights—the streetlamps that lit the way for drivers, the spotlights that kept her monuments alive and glowing, and the storefronts that jollied their entrances with strings of colored or ice-white Christmas strands.

  Hugo headed up Rue Royale, where Bentleys and sleek Jaguars swept slowly past him on the cobbled road, chauffeurs easing off the gas to let their wealthy passengers eye the store fronts of L’Oréal and luxury jeweler Heurgon, and perhaps contemplate dinner at Maxim’s. Hugo slowed as he passed a boutique shop selling crystal vases and ornaments, and it gave him an idea. He stopped to text Rob Drummond and Josh Reno, separately but with the same message: Can you meet me in an hour at the Dalí museum?

  He continued on his walk, buttoning up his coat and pulling his hat down as the wind buffeted him. He put his leather gloves on, too, and, five minutes later, Drummond replied: Sure. Why?

  Hugo ignored the question, waiting for Reno to respond, which he did just as Hugo turned into Rue Blanche: At 5pm? We getting a drink there??

  Hugo smiled, and thought, Kind of.

  The wind died down a little as the sky greyed into evening, and Hugo smiled at the couples and family units who were out looking for a place to eat, lingering at the menu stands in front of the bistros and restaurants that had just started to grill. Hugo breathed it in, too, the tempting aromas of steak, garlic, and simmering wine.

  Close to the museum, he stopped at a small grocery store and bought an old-fashioned glass bottle of Coca-Cola, tucking it into his coat pocket and being careful not to let it slip from his gloved hands.

  Josh Reno was already leaning against the stone wall opposite the museum when Hugo turned the corner onto Place du Calvaire.

  “It’s closed,” he told Hugo. “Is it still a crime scene, or something?”

  “No idea,” Hugo said. “It could just be that there’s no replacement for Alia’s exhi
bition. Maybe it’s out of respect for her, I don’t know.”

  “Well, it’s cold out here, should we go find someplace warm to sit?”

  “I wasn’t planning on staying long, just wanted to show you guys something.” He looked up as the burly figure of Rob Drummond approached.

  “Fellas.” Drummond rubbed his hands together and eyed Reno warily. “We not going in?”

  “It’s closed. But we can talk out here; I won’t keep you long.” Hugo took his phone out and pulled up the photos of Alia Alsaffar and JD Rollo together. “Josh, do you recognize these pictures?”

  Reno glanced at them, then at Hugo. “What do you mean by ‘recognize’?”

  “Well, any idea where they were taken?”

  “How should I know?” He said it a little too sharply, and his eyes wouldn’t meet Hugo’s.

  “Let me see,” Drummond said. He peered at the screen, and swiped to the second one when Hugo told him to. “Somewhere in Montmartre, I’d guess. Narrow streets, cobbles. But this is your city, not mine.”

  “Yeah, Montmartre is what I thought.”

  “You didn’t show these to Rachel, I hope,” Drummond said.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it looks totally harmless, but out of context . . .” He shrugged. “Seems like she can be kinda fierce, but then what do I know? Maybe it’s fine.”

  Hugo nodded. “You agree, Josh?”

  “With what?” His tone was more subdued now.

  “That they look like they were taken in Montmartre?”

  “Sure, I guess. But, like he says, you know Paris better than we do.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You really brought us out here just to see those?”

  “Partly,” Hugo said. “Something else I wanted you to see, too.” He put the phone into his inside jacket pocket, then patted the outside of his coat. “Somewhere in here.” He pulled out the Coke bottle and handed it to Drummond. “If you don’t mind, I think it must be . . .” He dug deep into the vacated pocket, then frowned. “I guess not, dammit. Well, shoot, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I seem to have drug you out into the cold for nothing.”

  “What was it you wanted us to see?” Drummond asked, handing Hugo the bottle back and blowing warmth into his ungloved hands.