The Book Artist Page 13

  “What do you think had happened?”

  “That’s the funny thing,” Reno said. “I honestly couldn’t tell. JD might have been annoyed or embarrassed as he went by me. And Alia might have been angry or . . . something else.”

  “You didn’t talk to her about it?”

  “When I saw her later on, I asked if everything was OK.”

  “And?”

  “She kind of brushed me off. Acted like nothing had happened, like I’d not seen anything. So I opened my mouth, and I remember this distinctly, I literally opened my mouth to ask about JD and she gave me this look, and said, ‘Everything’s fine, and I don’t want to talk about it.’”

  “Did you ask her later?”

  Reno chuckled. “You didn’t know Alia that well. She was a force sometimes. If she told you to leave it, you left it. I did, anyway.”

  “This happened several years ago?” Reno nodded so Hugo went on. “You know them both pretty well, right? JD and Alia. As well as anyone.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Alia, for sure.”

  “So give me your gut instinct. What happened in there?”

  “Oh, man, come on. I have no idea. Really.”

  “Well, seems to me it was one of two things,” Hugo said. “Would you agree with that?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And since you’re guessing, which of the two things was it?”

  Reno puffed out his cheeks and then exhaled. “This is just a guess, mind you. But I’d say he put the moves on her and she turned him down.”

  Hugo nodded. “And since then, any incidents like that between them?”

  “No. Not that I saw, anyway. Whatever happened, they got over it.” Reno gave a wry smile. “Or she did, at least. Like I said, in my opinion he had a thing for her. Why else would he spend his own money to promote her?”

  “Rich people do that sometimes,” Hugo said. “Patron of the arts and all that.”

  “Maybe. I just can’t help but think that if Alia had been Alan, a hairy, ugly dude, JD might not have been so enamored with the work.”

  It was Hugo’s turn to smile. “Maybe. What about Rachel?”

  “What about her?”

  “Did she know about that early incident, whatever it was?”

  “No idea. I doubt it.”

  “Does she think her husband had the hots for Alia?”

  “You’d have to ask her, but I doubt that, too. I mean, if she did, why would she go along with all this, sponsoring her, spending money and time, traveling?”

  “To keep an eye on her husband, maybe.”

  “She doesn’t strike me as the jealous type,” Reno said. “She’s a pretty tough lady in her own right. Plus, she was close to Alia—they were friends.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, then Hugo asked, “Another coffee?” When Reno nodded, Hugo signaled to the waiter for two more.

  “What about Rob Drummond?” Hugo asked. “How well do you know him?”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “So you know him pretty well?”

  “Well enough. I met him for the first time a few days ago, and we got on OK to begin with.”

  “And then?”

  “I think he thinks I’m responsible for his sister’s death. Not that I killed her but . . . I don’t know. He’s just angry at me, and I can’t see why.”

  “He lost his sister.”

  “Stepsister.” Reno snorted. “And he barely knew her.” “Is that so?”

  “To my knowledge, he’d been to precisely one show of hers prior to this one.”

  “Where was that?”

  “East coast—Washington, DC, I think.” Reno paused as the waiter put two more coffees on the table and cleared the dirty cups. “And if I remember rightly, he was there already on business, so it’s not like he made a special trip.”

  “What business is he in?”

  “No clue. Some marketing thing or other, I really don’t know or care.”

  “You sound kind of angry at him,” Hugo said, watching carefully for a reaction.

  “Look, do you know who her real brother is?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Her real brother is me. Not in a blood sense, I know that, but I’m the one who’s been with her all this time, helping her and supporting her. Making her smile when she’s feeling sad, making her laugh, carrying her shit from museum to art space, being thrilled when she does well and feeling like crap when no one shows up. And then he appears out of nowhere and treats me like the fucking help, like her servant. And then, when this happens, he’s in a rush to . . .” Reno waved a hand. “I don’t know, make sure I don’t steal all her stuff, I guess. As if I would ever do something like that.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because he doesn’t know me. Because he’s a materialistic ass who has no clue what I’ve done for Alia these past few years.”

  “I get the feeling there’s something specific, though.”

  “Then I guess there is,” Reno said, nodding. “Yesterday, last night, I wanted to go into her room to get some things.”

  “What things?”

  “A book she’d borrowed. And two paintings that she liked, two of my paintings.”

  “Ones you gave to her, as a present?”

  “Yes and no. She liked them, I let her keep them in her room.”

  “And you wanted them back.”

  “They’re not worth anything,” Reno said. “Sentimental value only.”

  “I see. So what happened?”

  “I knocked on her door; I know Drummond is staying there now. He wouldn’t even open it, and when I asked about the paintings, he said they were hers and I couldn’t have them. Like I said, he wouldn’t even open the door to talk about it. The big jerk.”

  “That sounds like something you might be able to resolve in a day or two,” Hugo said, trying to sound conciliatory. “So let me ask you this, how did you feel about not being able to show your work here?”

  “You know how I felt.”

  “Angry, yes, I remember,” Hugo said. “The kind of angry that the French police might want to call a motive.”

  “Call it what you like. You saw me the evening of the show, I’d gotten it out of my system. I was fine.”

  “I saw a lot of people that evening,” Hugo said. “Everyone seemed fine, and yet someone killed Alia.”

  “How do you know it was one of the people who was at the exhibit? I mean, someone could have snuck in and done it.”

  “Extremely unlikely,” Hugo said. “This was her first trip to Paris; she didn’t know anyone in the city. Everyone she knew was at that event. Anyone and everyone who loved, admired, and hated her was in that small space, which means the person who killed her almost certainly had a ticket to get in.”

  “You can’t be a hundred percent sure of that.”

  Hugo’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, and he took it out, hoping to see Tom’s name. Instead, it was Lieutenant Camille Lerens.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Hugo said to Reno. “I need to take this call.” He stood and made for the exit, connecting with Lerens as he stepped outside. “Camille, what is it?”

  “You have a sixth sense, Hugo?” she asked.

  “I do sometimes, yes. You’re not on this case, and you’re not calling to invite me to dinner, so I’m assuming you have news. Probably bad news.”

  “I do. But first of all, you have to know that I didn’t see this coming. If I had, I’d have told you beforehand.”

  “Told me what?”

  “And that’s the other thing. It’s going to sound bad, but there are steps we can take, things we can do.”

  “Camille,” Hugo said impatiently. “What the hell is going on? What’ve you done?”

  “I haven’t done anything. It’s Lieutenant Intern Marchand. He’s arrested Claudia.”

  “What?” Hugo felt a cold sickness in the pit of his stomach. “Arrested her? When and for what, exactly?”

  �
��He arrested her not even an hour ago, for the murder of Alia Alsaffar.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hugo was halfway inside the taxi when he remembered Reno.

  I’ll pay you back later, he thought, slamming the Renault’s door behind him. To the driver, he said, “Préfecture de police, s’il vous plaît,” but resisted the urge to offer a tip for faster service.

  As the taxi started down the boulevard Saint-Germain, Hugo dialed Marchand’s number.

  “Monsieur Marston,” Marchand said. “News travels fast.”

  “So do I. I’m on my way to talk to you.”

  “Make an appointment like everyone else, please, I’m very busy.”

  “You’re busy arresting innocent people,” Hugo snapped. “What the hell are you playing at?”

  When he spoke, Marchand’s voice trembled with anger. “How dare you speak to me this way. You think I am playing games? A woman is dead, and you think I have to bow and scrape to get your permission to do my job? That I have to drop everything to make time for you?”

  Hugo regretted his own tone. Making Marchand mad would cause him to dig his heels in deeper, which in turn would mean Claudia would spend more time in custody. Precisely the opposite of Hugo’s intentions. He took a deep breath and tried to start over.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Lieutenant Intern, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I know you have a job to do, but the idea that—”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Marchand interrupted. “I will give you five minutes when you get here, and four of those minutes will be me talking and you listening. Understand?”

  “I’ll take it,” Hugo said. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  The Renault turned onto the wide and tree-lined boulevard Saint-Michel, home to designer stores, boutique shops, and expensive restaurants. But Hugo was immune to its charms for once, and so the bright-red canopies of its cafés, the orange glow of its bakeries, and crystal-blue sparkle of the Christmas lights in the storefronts were but impressionistic flashes of color on a too-slow journey to the prefecture. When the cab pulled to stop on Rue de la Cité, Hugo didn’t wait to check the fare, just dropped twenty euros into the driver’s hand.

  “Merci, monsieur, mais—”

  Hugo didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, just hurried into the prefecture. Lieutenant Intern Marchand was waiting for him in the lobby, and they shook hands as formality required.

  “Now you listen to me,” Marchand began. “I know you think I am wrong. You are close with Claudia Roux, and have been for a while. To you she is not a suspect, could not possibly have done such a thing.”

  “That’s all correct,” Hugo said.

  “But, I myself do not know her. That means instead of ruling her out because we are friends, I have to look at the evidence. I see just the evidence, not the person.”

  “What evidence do you think you have?” Hugo fought to keep his tone civil, but underneath he was fuming. In his book, a couple of weak coincidences did not amount to enough evidence on which to base an arrest.

  “Everything that we discussed earlier,” Marchand said. “Her proximity to the scene, her lack of an alibi, and you as a motive.”

  “No one saw Alia get killed,” Hugo said. “Which means we don’t know exactly when it happened, so no one has an alibi. Myself included.”

  “Not true, as it happens,” Marchand said, a little smugly, Hugo thought. “We’ve not had you write or give a statement yet, but from talking to the guests we can put you in someone’s line of sight from the moment you entered until the time you ran out to the ambulance.”

  “Well, I’m happy to hear that. But even so, we were all right there at the scene, and I can give you motives for half a dozen other people, ones that are infinitely stronger than the ridiculous notion that Claudia would be jealous enough to kill a complete stranger.”

  “You have motives for other people?”

  “Oh, they’re not great ones,” Hugo said. “Not even particularly good ones. But they beat the hell out of yours for Claudia.”

  “Then entertain me, Monsieur Marston.” He opened his arms expansively. “Tell me about these motives.”

  “Fine, I will.” Hugo declined to remind Marchand of his five-minute deadline. “Let’s start with Josh Reno. Spurned and rejected after years of loyalty to Alia. Also likely to face financial problems since he’ll be on his own now and won’t be able to piggy-back off Alia’s shows.”

  “Not bad,” Marchand said. “Who else?”

  “How about JD Rollo next?”

  “Please, tell me.”

  “Wealthy, older, distinguished. And by several accounts he holds a candle for Alia. Maybe a mix of mid-life crisis and unrequited love led to him losing his temper.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then again, maybe you’re right about jealousy being the motive. That might account for two other people who were there that night, Rachel Rollo and Rob Drummond. Two other people who don’t have nailed-down alibis.”

  “Rachel Rollo being jealous of some relationship her husband had, or wanted to have, with Alia.”

  “Right.”

  “How was Rob Drummond jealous?”

  “Successful, attractive stepsister. He’s kind of a drifter who has no apparent direction in life, and who killed his own father with his bare hands. And I presume he inherits her estate, being the only living relative. Money, rage, and jealousy all present.”

  “Not to mention he was on coat-check duty at the event,” Marchand said. “I can imagine that might be a little . . . humiliating.”

  “I agree,” Hugo said. “Although to be fair to him, he said he offered.”

  “So he says,” Marchand pointed out. “You know what all this tells me?”

  “No idea.”

  “It tells me that you’ve been meddling with a police investigation. Which, if this were any other case involving a different cast of characters, would be both irritating and inappropriate. But in this case, what you have been doing is almost criminal.”

  “Criminal? How the hell—?”

  Marchand stepped closer, his eyes boring into Hugo. “I have arrested someone, and you are that someone’s copain, or whatever label you wish to hang on yourself. Close friend, at the very least.” He held up a finger to silence Hugo, who was about to speak. “I’m not finished. Not only are you her lover, but you would be the person called to testify at her trial, because you are the closest thing she has for an alibi.”

  “You can’t possibly think—”

  “And that,” Marchand interrupted. “Makes you a material witness, does it not?”

  Hugo stayed silent, not trusting what might come out of his mouth. In one small way, a tiny and abstract way, he knew Marchand was making valid points. But this was Claudia, in jail and being accused of murder. It was preposterous.

  Marchand was still talking. “The idea that a material witness would be conducting his own investigation is, perhaps, not unheard of. But would you seriously expect the police to share the developments of an official investigation with such a person?”

  “So you have more evidence than you’ve told me.”

  “Oh, yes,” Marchand said. “I most certainly do.”

  “Evidence against a woman who wasn’t there at all, wasn’t even inside the building.”

  “So she says, anyway.”

  “You’ve interviewed her.”

  “At length, she was most cooperative.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Monsieur Marston.” Marchand pursed his lips as he thought about how to answer. “I can tell you one thing, and that is that she repeated her claim that she was never inside the museum. In fact, she says she never met or even saw Alia Alsaffar in person.”

  “And you have cause to doubt that?” Hugo asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Marchand said, a smug little smile appearing on his face. “In fact, I have considerable cause to doubt it.”

  Hugo’s jaw tensed. He wanted to punch Marc
hand in the mouth, but more than that he wanted to know what cards the Frenchman was holding.

  “And what considerable cause is that, exactly?”

  “Three little letters,” Marchand replied.

  “Letters?” Hugo asked, confused for a moment at the cryptic reply. But then it struck him. “Wait, are you saying you have . . .?”

  “Yes.” Marchand nodded his head slowly. “We found Claudia Roux’s DNA at the crime scene. Specifically, swabbed from the victim’s right forefinger. I haven’t seen the report yet, but I can only imagine it was taken from under Mademoiselle Alsaffar’s fingernail, and got there when the victim tried to defend herself. As you know, that is quite common.”

  A coldness settled around Hugo’s heart, and he found himself unable to reply.

  “Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do,” Marchand said, and without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the bowels of the prefecture, leaving Hugo standing in the lobby, his mind at a loss for an explanation, and his body numb with shock.

  Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor answered the knock on his office door at four o’clock that afternoon, his mind more on the bottle of Bordeaux he was planning to drain than the official papers in front of him.

  “Come in.” It was his secretary, Emma, and as soon as Taylor saw how pale she was, he gestured to one of the chairs across from him. “Sit. What’s wrong?”

  Emma sat and leaned forward. “Mr. Ambassador, I’m sorry to bother you, but I received a call for you but the man wouldn’t give his name.”

  “We have a policy covering that. It involves hanging up.”

  “I did, sir, but he called right back and was very insistent. He said it was about Tom Green.”

  “Tom?” Taylor rubbed his chin for a moment. “What else did he say?”

  “I wasn’t going to put him through, since he wouldn’t give his name, so I made him tell me why he was calling.” Emma’s eyes went to the desktop, and she clutched her hands together. “I’m afraid it’s bad news.”