by Mark Pryor
“Some documents. Stuff we found in Alia’s belongings at the museum.” He stuffed the Coke bottle back into a pocket and gave them both a bright smile. “Well, another time. Again, sorry to have brought you out here for just those photos. Oh, and just for the record, neither of you took these, right?”
“Not me,” said Drummond.
“Why would I?” Reno said.
“No idea,” Hugo said, still wearing his friendliest smile. “That’s why I needed to ask.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The next morning, Hugo dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a blue tie that was so dark it looked black from any distance. A car from the embassy idled on Rue Jacob, waiting for him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. A heaviness settled around his heart and, after bidding good morning to the woman who was his driver, he sat in silence as the car took him toward the embassy.
He gazed out of the window, his mind off the case for the first time in days. Instead his thoughts centered on the people he saw on the sidewalks and behind the steering wheels of their cars. Ordinary people, doing ordinary business. Teachers, lawyers, accountants. Safe jobs. Stressful, maybe, but ultimately safe.
His job at the embassy was supposed to be safe, too. Or safer than working for the FBI. But in the last couple of years he’d lost two colleagues, two friends who were dear to him and had no reason to die.
Too many bodies, he thought. Too much pain.
Both men had had families, and Hugo wondered for a moment about a world where a good husband and father got shot instead of a single man like him. Tom even.
Outside the embassy, they sat quietly with the engine running as they waited for the rest of the convoy to pass out of the gates and begin the journey to the airport. Ryan Pierce’s final trip home, where his wife and kids would be waiting to greet the most important man in their lives, lying dead in his coffin. Hugo’s throat closed, and he felt warm tears run down his cheeks. There was no shame in mourning a man like Ryan, a man who’d made the lives of everyone he met better, personally and professionally. A loyal friend, willing to give everything, including his life, to make others safe.
As they waited, Hugo felt the eyes of his driver, a young embassy staffer Hugo had met maybe once, watch him in the rear-view mirror. A moment later, the young woman offered him a box of tissues, which Hugo accepted.
“I heard great things about Mr. Pierce, sir,” she said.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’m sorry, remind me of your name.”
“Cecilee Walker, sir. From Austin, Texas, like you.”
“That so?”
“And my dad was a cop.”
“Me too.”
“I know, sir. FBI. You’re kind of a legend.”
Hugo smiled and dabbed at his eyes. “You ever see a legend cry before, Ms. Walker?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I saw my dad cry many times. And like he told me, for a lawman it often takes more guts to cry than not.”
“Smart man, your dad.”
“That he is.” She put the car in gear. “Here we go, sir.”
From out of nowhere, a dozen police cars appeared around them, half taking the lead and the other half tacking themselves onto the rear of the emerging convoy of six black embassy cars. They couldn’t bury Ryan, have a funeral for him, but they were sure as hell going to drive him to Charles de Gaulle Airport in style.
As they got close, Walker peered back at Hugo. “Can you tell me more about him, sir?”
“Who, Ryan?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hugo smiled. “Only if you stop calling me sir.”
“Yes . . . Mr. Marston.” Her eyes crinkled and he knew she was smiling, too.
“Take the next step. Call me Hugo. How old are you, Cecilee?”
“Twenty-five, s— Hugo.”
“I don’t even know how old Ryan was.” Hugo looked out of the window at the traffic as he talked. “Forty-something, I guess. He was one of those guys who look and act young, no matter how old or mature they might be.” He was quiet for a moment. “You know, it was his day off.”
“When he was shot?”
“Yes. He knew I’d been shot at in that cemetery before, and he insisted on coming. Acted like he was there for the adventure, but he’d been in combat before. He knew that gunfights are ugly, dangerous things, not movie-style action. He was there because he wanted to protect me.”
“You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. In the old days, maybe, but there’s only ever one person responsible for a murder, and that’s the murderer.”
“Why was that guy after you anyway?” She changed lanes expertly, the snaking line of cars whipping as one into the lane to exit the highway. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“A long story. One for another time, maybe.”
“Sure,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to pry—sorry if it came across that way.”
“Not at all. Please, don’t worry, it’s actually a pretty interesting story.”
“Just not one for today, I’m with you.” She gave him a reassuring smile, and they rode the last ten minutes in silence. Eventually the convoy pulled through a mesh gate at the east side of the airport and made its way slowly toward the C-130 Hercules aircraft that would take Ryan Pierce, and a squad of US soldiers, back to America.
The cars lined up in some preplanned sequence that Hugo hadn’t been told about, but when he climbed out of the back seat he saw his boss, Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor, at the rear of the black Cadillac that contained Pierce’s body. Hugo joined him, and with the silent assistance of six soldiers in dress uniform, they slid the coffin out and onto the conveyor belt that would take it into the belly of the plane. Either side of the conveyor, a line of soldiers stood to attention, joined by the black-suited members of the embassy who had come to say farewell.
Hugo and Taylor stood side by side close to the tail of the plane, both oblivious to the cold, but their eyes streaming anyway as the flag-draped coffin moved slowly past them. Every man in uniform saluted as the head of the coffin reached him, and Hugo and Ambassador Taylor did the same.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Hugo said, his words barely even a whisper as the coffin moved past him, and into the plane.
“Ride with me,” Taylor said, as the C-130 turned slowly away from them and toward the runway. “I want to know what’s going on with you.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you just lost a good friend, almost lost another, and had the only woman in the world who’ll put up with you arrested for murder.”
Hugo nodded. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”
“I do.” Taylor started walking toward the giant Cadillac that had brought him. “Just because you’re a tough-guy, profiling, FBI agent, doesn’t mean you can’t crack. And that’s something you definitely don’t need to happen. Nor do I.”
When they reached the car, Hugo gave Cecilee Walker a wave to show he was riding with the ambassador. She gave him two thumbs-up to acknowledge the message, and Hugo climbed into the back of the car beside Taylor.
“Take us home via the Champs, please, Mike,” the ambassador said to their driver. Then he turned to Hugo. “Well, that fucking sucked.”
“Yeah. Losing good people seems to get harder and harder, not the other way around.”
Taylor nodded. “And he sure was good people.”
“That he was.” Hugo looked over at his boss. “Did you know he was a great baseball player? Starred for LSU back in his college days. Could’ve turned pro, but I think an injury ended his career.”
“I knew he loved the game, didn’t know he’d played at that level.”
“That was Ryan for you, too modest for his own good.”
“Yeah, I got that impression.” Taylor looked at Hugo, then asked, “There’s no shame in talking to someone if you need to do that. To relieve the stress, vent, whatever you need.”
“Really, I’m fine. Not at my best thi
s morning but, larger picture, I’m good. I promise.”
“Not about to crack up on me?”
“No. I’ll give you advanced warning if that changes.”
They exchanged tight smiles, then Taylor asked, “So who killed our artist, figured it out yet?”
“Getting there.”
“Who looks good for it?”
“Well, let’s see. We have a limited pool of suspects, so I suppose we can start with Rachel Rollo. Beautiful, wealthy, and maybe ten or twelve years older than the talented artist she and her husband have been patronizing.”
“Anything between her husband and Ms. Alsaffar?”
“No. Admiration, friendship, but no real evidence of a sexual entanglement.”
“So possibly she’s jealous, but probably not.”
“Right,” said Hugo. “But things are complicated by the fact that, supposedly, Alia was about to leave them behind.”
“As in?”
“As in not take their money anymore.”
“That sounds like cause for celebration, not motive for murder.”
“You’d think so,” Hugo agreed. “But I’ve done some reading on the art scene. For a lot of those benefactors, their identity is strongly aligned with the people they are supporting. One older gentleman committed suicide when his protégé found success and left him behind. Although one article about Alia and the Rollos did suggest maybe there was a love affair, so who knows?”
“That’d be a reason for the husband to kill her, too, then.”
“In theory, it would.”
“What about the murder itself?” Ambassador Taylor asked. “Crime of passion or premeditated?”
“Can it be both?”
“Stop being coy, Hugo. No one reads a crime scene better than you, and you’ve made up your mind which one it is.”
“I have,” Hugo admitted. “But we’ve not finished going through the list of suspects.”
“Fine.” Taylor sighed heavily. “What about the brother?”
“Rob Drummond. Afraid of germs, didn’t know her very well, and with no eye for art.”
“Jealous of her talent, maybe?”
“Oh, I’m sure. But everyone was. And in theory he stood to gain from her being alive, because if she gets rich, maybe she helps him out. A rising tide lifts all the family boats.”
“Does he have a temper, maybe?”
“That would only matter if the crime was one of sudden passion . . .”
“ . . . which you’re not prepared to tell me yet,” Taylor finished. “Damn you, Marston.”
“Which leaves us with Josh Reno, who certainly seems like our best candidate.”
“How so?”
Hugo stared out of the window as the car turned onto Avenue des Champs-Élysées. “Well, he devotes years of his life to helping Alia make it big. He shows his artwork at her shows, gives up any semblance of a life to travel with her. If anyone’s hitched a wagon to her train it was him.”
“And now she’s making it big, he’s out.”
“Right. And there can be no doubt that he was mad about it—he yelled at her in a busy restaurant.”
“But mad enough to kill her?” Taylor asked. “And yelling at your intended victim in public is not the act of a premeditated killer, either.”
“So that’s your analysis of the crime scene?” Hugo asked with a wry smile. “It showed premediated murder?”
“I was a spy, not a profiler, so I’d just be guessing. I want your opinion.”
Hugo stroked his chin exaggeratedly. “Wait, so you’re telling me that you, a spy, were at the museum where an American woman was murdered . . .” Hugo grinned, enjoying the moment, this crack of light in their dark moment of bereavement. “How very peculiar that you’re not listed as one of the suspects.”
“Oh, very funny—”
“I bet you pulled rank at the crime scene and acted all outraged that you, the United States Ambassador to France, were so improperly detained. Trying to deflect attention from yourself, no doubt.”
“Yes, Hugo, that’s exactly—”
“And here you are, trying to pry information from me, to find out which poor sap will be taking the fall for your homicidal inclinations . . . Very clever, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Are you quite finished?”
Hugo chuckled. “I think so.”
“Good. Now you can tell me whether it was a crime of passion or premeditated, and who you think did it.”
“I would, sir, I really would.”
“But?”
“I’m not big on sharing ideas or theories until I’m sure about them.” Hugo’s phone rang. “Excuse me.”
“Monsieur Marston. Hugo. Marchand here.”
“Lieutenant Intern, what’s going on?”
“Where are you right now, are you free?”
“I’m in a car with the ambassador, heading to the embassy.”
“Would you be so kind as to ask His Excellency if he would mind a brief detour?”
“Where, and why?”
Marchand explained briefly, and when Hugo hung up, he made the request.
“Sure, I guess,” Taylor said. “What’s going on?”
“He didn’t give me all the details, but said a fisherman pulled a bag of personal belongings out of the river.”
“Personal . . . so what?”
“He thinks maybe there’ll be a body floating somewhere nearby. He wants me to take a look at the scene.”
“All right then, let’s do it,” Ambassador Taylor said. “Rather fun to be involved in the action again.” He leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Lights and sirens, Mike, activate the lights and sirens. We should make the most of it!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The bag had been pulled out of the River Seine opposite Parc de Bercy, which lay on Paris’s right bank, in the Twelfth Arrondissement, southeast of the city center. It took them twenty minutes to get there, with Hugo’s curiosity rising by the second. Eventually, they pulled off Quai d’Austerlitz and drove down beside the water. Four police cars sat silent in front of them on the narrow bricked quayside.
Marchand opened the Cadillac’s rear door, and when they’d stepped out, Hugo reintroduced him to the ambassador. The two men shook hands, and Taylor said, “I would say it’s my pleasure, but under the circumstances . . . I know you have work to do, so I’ll let you get to it. I’ll just hang back and watch.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Ambassador.” Marchand led Hugo to a picnic table that was covered with plastic sheeting. A large, see-through and sealable bag sat closed on top of it. Two crime-scene techs hovered nearby, and, toward the water, a dozen policemen and women in uniform wandered along the riverbank.
“You’ve opened it already?” Hugo asked.
“Opened it, catalogued, photographed, and inspected the contents. Dusted for prints and swabbed for DNA, then put back as it was found, as best we could.” Marchand handed Hugo gloves and a surgical mask. “Put these on, and look for yourself.”
“Are you going to tell me whom it belongs to?”
“Someone who was at the museum the night Alia Alsaffar was murdered.”
“Clearly, otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” Hugo said. “Keeping me in suspense on purpose?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Marchand smiled. “These items belong to the brother of Mademoiselle Alsaffar. Rob Drummond.”
“Well.” Hugo stared at the bag. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“We’ve not located a body, but as you can see we’re looking up and down the riverbank, and will be dragging this part of the river.”
“Makes sense.” Hugo put on the gloves. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
Hugo didn’t answer him, instead circling the table, his eyes on the bag. “A fisherman found it, you said?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t open it?”
“Non, he saw the passport, and what he thought was blood, and called the police.”
“
Good.” Hugo pulled up the surgical mask, reached for the bag, and opened it. He tipped it on one side and slowly pulled out the contents, spreading them on the plastic sheeting. He then picked up each item and inspected it. “Half a passport,” he said, opening it. “With blood smeared on several pages.” He moved onto the next objects. “Bright yellow scarf, looks new. Red, wool sweater, also new-looking. A novel.” He flicked through the pages, but it contained nothing except an inscription from the author to “J.S.” and the innocuous bidding that authors always seemed to write: Best wishes! He put it down and picked up the next object. “Ah, what’s this, a gold necklace?” He held it up and it glinted in the sunshine. “I don’t remember seeing him wearing this, but it’s very thin, so maybe I just didn’t notice.” He turned to Marchand. “You already collected photos from people at the museum, right?”
“From the night of the murder, yes we did. Several hundred in all.”
“Can you have someone look through them and check the ones that have Drummond in them? I want to know if he was wearing this necklace.”
“A step ahead of you.” Marchand smile at him. “The same thought occurred to me. I already have people looking to see if they can spot any of the clothing or the necklace.”
“The sweater is too casual, and I don’t recall him wearing such a gaudy scarf that night. Our best bet is definitely the necklace.”
“Hey, you never know.” Marchand glanced at his phone. “Ah, they’ve finished. No sweater, no scarf, and no necklace in any of the photos.”
“He wore an open-necked shirt that night. No tie. So if he’d worn it, your people should have seen it.”
“Maybe he just didn’t wear it.”
“People don’t usually take off their jewelry for fancy events. Quite the opposite.”
“True,” Marchand conceded. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, that lot was all double-bagged, one clear bag inside another. I sent the outer one to the lab already, figured you didn’t need to see the same bag twice.”
“Double-bagged?”
“Oui. Both sealed tight. That tell you anything?”
“It does. A hell of a lot, actually.”
“Do you mind sharing?”