The Book Artist Read online

  “Thank you,” Hugo said. “Would you mind if I speak to you one at a time?”

  “Why is that necessary?”

  “Normal procedure—it’s how we conduct every interview.”

  “I suppose so, then,” he said, but he sounded dubious. “Meet me in the lobby; we’ll find a quiet place to talk.”

  Hugo kept his phone in his hand, the desire to call Claudia almost overpowering. But he’d promised Marchand he’d wait until the police had talked to her, and by venturing to the hotel to interview the Rollos, he was about to step onto thin ice as it was. The French detective could cut him out of this investigation with a snap of his fingers if he wanted to, and Ambassador Taylor had made it clear that he wasn’t going to burn political capital on keeping Hugo in the loop.

  Hugo still had more than an hour until the meeting, and it was a thirty-minute walk, but he was restless, couldn’t just sit there. Until now, he’d not let himself dwell on Alia’s death, putting it instead into the “investigation” compartment in his head. But images of her crowded in, the sparkling eyes and bright smile. He could almost feel the excited energy of their evening at the restaurant, see the wrinkle of her nose as he popped an escargot into his mouth. And it was unhealthy to fight those memories, the sadness; he knew that and, for what felt like an age, he let the dark cloud of her death envelope him. When the fog had lifted a little, he roused himself, pulled on a raincoat, and retrieved an umbrella from the back of his closet.

  Outside the rain had become more of a drizzle, so he used the umbrella as a walking stick and set off along Rue Jacob, then angled down Rue de Beaune. He exchanged muted bonjours with a Christmas-tree vendor who was nailing an X-shaped base onto one of his trees, and Hugo enjoyed the sweet scent of pine for the rest of that block.

  When he got to Quai Voltaire, he waited for the light to change and, when it did, he was overtaken by a group of schoolchildren and their teachers, the latter stationing themselves strategically across the road like traffic cops. Hugo smiled at the flow of bobbing, colorful umbrellas and the excited voices of kids who were escaping school for a few hours, rain or not. Their tidy uniforms told Hugo they were at a private institution, which explained why they were in school on a Saturday.

  He started across the Pont Royal and looked down at the water, still brown and angry as it churned through the city. He didn’t linger this time, though, and shrugged himself deeper into his raincoat when a gust of wind buffeted him. He quickened his step, not minding that he’d get to the hotel early; it’d be warm and dry, at least, and he wondered how the coffee would be. Other than expensive, of course.

  When he got to the hotel’s lobby, Hugo recognized JD Rollo from the evening of the murder. He was already there, talking to a receptionist. Rollo was a tall man, maybe an inch shorter than Hugo, with close-cropped gray hair and a solid build. He wore an expensive-looking tweed suit over a white shirt open at the neck. Hugo lingered until he’d finished his conversation, then approached.

  “Mr. Rollo? Hugo Marston, we didn’t get a chance to meet at Alia’s event.”

  “No, but I saw you talking to my wife.” Rollo’s tone was neutral, and Hugo wasn’t sure if there was any meaning in the statement, or if it was just an observation. They shook hands. “I ordered coffee for us and found a cozy spot to sit, I hope you don’t mind. Come this way.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Hugo said. “Thanks for the coffee—if you hadn’t ordered, I would have.”

  Rollo grunted an acknowledgement and led Hugo into one of the lounge areas. “They refurbished the place a year or so ago. Did a damned good job, created all these little areas where you can just sit and watch people.” He glanced over his shoulder at Hugo. “You’re probably a big fan of that, eh?”

  Again, Hugo couldn’t ascertain the man’s meaning, if any. “What makes you say that?”

  “You were a profiler in the FBI, no? Isn’t that what you guys do, watch people and interpret behavior?”

  “Ah, I see. Sure, I guess in some ways. Although it might be more accurate to say that we observe behavior in retrospect.”

  “Here we are.” Rollo gestured to two comfortable, leather chairs separated by a low table. On the table was a silver tray bearing a coffee pot, a creamer jug, and sugar. The aroma of fresh coffee drifted up to Hugo’s nose, and suddenly the wind and rain seemed very far away. “How do you take yours?” Rollo asked, reaching for the coffee pot.

  “Black, with sugar.” He waited while Rollo poured, and then helped himself to the raw brown sugar. “Thank you.”

  “Welcome.” Rollo poured his own, taking it the same way as Hugo. “Now, how can I help?”

  “First of all, please accept my condolences for the loss of your friend. I got to spend a little time with Alia, and I can’t imagine how difficult this must be.”

  “Thank you. She was an amazing woman, not just talented but kind, generous, and . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “Like I said, simply an amazing woman. I still can’t believe this is happening, to be honest.”

  “That’s a very common sentiment, believe me. When something like this happens, it’s not just a tragic loss but an emotional shock that the mind has a hard time processing.”

  “You’ve seen this before, obviously.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Hugo said.

  Rollo looked at Hugo for a moment, as if appraising him. Then he said, “Well, tell me how I can help find who did this.”

  “Thank you. I suppose the first question is whether you saw who went into that room with Alia?”

  Rollo smiled. “Or, put another way, do I know who killed her.”

  “If you like,” Hugo said.

  “No. I don’t know who killed her. I wish I did.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone going into that room?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why wasn’t that room open like the main floor?” Hugo asked.

  “Why do you think I’d know that?”

  “You helped set this up, didn’t you?” Hugo asked.

  “In some small way, yes.” Rollo smiled. “And I do happen to know. There were four rooms down there, closed off. It was Alia’s idea, rather cute of her.” He paused to sip his coffee. “Each room had its own theme, you see. Throughout the evening, she wanted to open each one up, have a surprise reveal of each room, one by one.”

  “Why?”

  “She thought it would be in keeping with the general theme of the exhibition—each room would be like a new chapter or section of a book.”

  “Ah, yes,” Hugo said. “That makes sense. I like that idea. So, how did you meet her?”

  “Several years ago, she took some photographs for us. A family gathering. My parents figured it to be the last before they died, so they wanted someone to record it for posterity. I honestly can’t remember how we found Alia’s name, why we chose her. But she did a good job, and while she was there she got to talking about art with Rachel. Things kind of snowballed from there.”

  “Snowballed?”

  Rollo shook his head. “Not that way, no. She’s . . . was a beautiful woman, no question. But we were all good friends, nothing more than that.”

  “And you guys sponsored her.”

  “Sponsored implies we got something in return, which we didn’t.” He eyed Hugo as he took another sip. “Which was also poorly worded. We didn’t want anything in return; it wasn’t your usual arrangement whereby one party pays and the other party gives them recognition or some other benefit.”

  “Pure altruism?”

  “I’m not sure there’s any such thing, is there?”

  “It seems to be what you’re describing,” Hugo said.

  “Well, yes and no. We got great pleasure from seeing her succeed. From helping Alia to get her work out into the world where people could enjoy it. Neither Rachel nor I have any siblings, and our twin boys are off doing their own thing, so I suppose you could say that Alia was somewhere between being a daughter and a sister.” He grimaced.
“And now I’ve just made it sound weird.”

  “No, I get it,” Hugo assured him. “I think I know what you mean.”

  “Point is, there was no romantic involvement from either of us toward her.”

  “What about from Josh Reno?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I will. But do you know of any romantic entanglement between them?”

  “You sound so old-fashioned, Mr. Marston.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Hugo said with a smile.

  “But to answer your question, I suspect maybe he had feelings for her, but I never saw anything . . . develop.”

  “She didn’t have them for him?”

  “Not that I was aware of. He’s actually pretty talented himself, more of a painter than a sculptor. But good.”

  “Did you support him, too?”

  “Indirectly, I suppose. He paid his own way everywhere, and he helped Alia with the logistics and muscle involved with her shows. In return he got some gallery space for his work. I wouldn’t say they were a team, but it was a symbiotic relationship. They were friends, respected each other, and both profited from her success.”

  “You may not be able to answer this question, but I’ll ask it anyway.” Hugo took a swallow of hot, rich coffee. “It’s a given that no one can predict the future, of course, but I’m wondering if he’s likely to succeed, make a name for himself, now that she’s gone.”

  Rollo nodded. “You’re wondering if he had a disincentive to kill her. I would’ve said yes to that a few days ago.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, as of several days ago, his professional and artistic attachments to Alia were intact, which in turn means that as far as he was concerned, when she had a show, so did he. And when she continued her rise to the top, he’d be there with her. That’s a huge disincentive to kill her.”

  “But that changed, as I understand it.”

  “Right. He wasn’t getting space at this event. And with her planning to move to London, I don’t think there was going to be space for him in her life. I believe that gives him an actual motive, does it not?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If he was angry enough with her, maybe. But in the middle of her own exhibition, that seems a little unlikely.”

  “And yet,” Rollo said, “that’s where it happened. Someone killed her there and then.”

  Hugo nodded and took another sip. “Have you spoken to the police yet?”

  “I thought I was right now.”

  “More of a parallel investigation, you might say.”

  “Is that so? One the Paris police know about?”

  “If they don’t, they will,” Hugo said. “We’re all on the same side, it’s just that sometimes people get territorial and focus on that a little too much.”

  “Get that a lot in the FBI?”

  “Not as much as it looks like on TV, but every now and again.” Hugo drained his cup. “So you’ll have to go over this all again with them, almost certainly.”

  “Lucky me. You still want to talk to Rachel?”

  “If there’s nothing more you can think of. Anyone who’d want to hurt Alia, someone she had any kind of dispute with. Anything at all.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Rollo said. He stood, pulled out his phone, and tapped out a message. He waited, staring at his phone for a moment. “Right, she’s on her way down. Help yourself to more coffee.” Hugo stood, too, and they shook hands. “And find out who killed that beautiful woman, please.”

  “I plan to,” Hugo said. He watched as Rollo walked away, into the lobby and out of sight. More coffee sounded like a good idea, so he poured himself a cup and sat down to wait for Rachel Rollo. Her husband had been a disappointing dead end, had given him nothing to go on at all. That said, Hugo felt like the man had been holding something back, keeping something from him. But Hugo had no idea what it might be, a frustration he put aside as he waited for the man’s wife.

  Five minutes later, Rachel Rollo appeared in the lobby, and Hugo watched as several heads turned her way. She wore jeans tucked into leather boots, and a fluffy, gray cashmere sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail, and her makeup was flawless. Hugo stood and shook her hand, catching a whiff of expensive perfume that he couldn’t identify.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said. “Although I would prefer it be under different circumstances.”

  “Me too. And, Hugo, I’m sorry to do this to you, but can we talk about this another time?”

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “I got call from the museum. They want to know what to do with the exhibit. The sculptures.”

  “So soon? Can’t they hang on to them for a few days?”

  “I’d have thought so, yes, but they’re freaking out about what happened. I need to go over there and calm everyone down.”

  “You’re in charge of the exhibit now?”

  “Not officially. But they can’t find Josh Reno. They tried getting hold of him to take care of this, but they said he’s not returning calls or texts.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hugo walked Rachel Rollo out of the hotel and held open the taxi door as she climbed in. He had half a mind to ride with her since he was now planning on taking a trip to Montmartre himself, but he didn’t want to interview her with a taxi driver listening.

  Instead, he decided on the metro. The rain had stopped, for now anyway, and the air outside smelled fresh. It was a short walk to the Concorde stop, where he trotted down the stairs and wound his way through the tunnels to his platform. There, a homeless man sat on a blanket with his change cup empty in front of him and his attention not on the commuters passing him by, but on two tiny bunny rabbits that hopped around each other on his blanket. Every few seconds, he’d reach out and pull one back as it hopped too far away. As Hugo watched, the man grinned a gappy smile when one rabbit launched itself at the other in a clumsy, playful attack.

  Always a new gimmick, Hugo thought, but he dropped five euros into his cup anyway. As he took his place on the platform, he smiled at what he knew Tom would have said: At least the old fella has dinner taken care of.

  Hugo took the green line north, and twenty minutes later he climbed the stairs out of the Abbesses station and stepped into the heart of Montmartre. He turned right and walked along Rue des Abbesses, a long, meandering stroll along the cobbled streets and still-empty sidewalks, all the way to the hotel where Alia Alsaffar and Josh Reno had been staying.

  Inside, he showed his credentials to the young man stationed by the grand piano, which seemed to serve as their reception desk.

  “Excuse me, monsieur,” the young man said. “But can I get my manager? The police were here already, so I don’t understand . . .”

  “Of course,” Hugo said. “Whatever you need to do.”

  A moment later, a tall, elegant black woman approached. “Bonjour monsieur, how can I help you?”

  “Bonjour. My name is Hugo Marston, I work at the US Embassy here and I’m part of the investigation into the death of your guest, Alia Alsaffar.”

  “Ah, yes, such a tragedy. I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am Alouette Tremblay, the day manager. How can I help?”

  “I believe the police have been here already, is that right?”

  “Oui. They spent some time in her room looking through her things. I am not sure, but they may have taken some with them.”

  “Quite probably,” Hugo said. “Would you mind if I look myself?”

  “Actually,” she said, hesitating. “I wonder if you might be able to help me in that regard.”

  “Be glad to.”

  “A man came in earlier. After the police but before you, he left about twenty minutes ago. He wanted to take her things.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know his name, but he said he was her brother . . .”

  “You think he was lying?”

  “I don’t know how to say this tact
fully but Mademoiselle Alsaffar was a beautiful woman. Very beautiful . . . exotic. The gentleman who came here . . .” She lowered her voice. “It didn’t seem to me they shared many of the same genes.”

  Hugo refrained from smiling. “Was he a larger gentleman with, shall we say, agricultural cheeks and a slightly thinning hairline?”

  “Yes, that is him.”

  “His name is Rob Drummond, does that sound familiar?”

  “No, if he gave me his name I forgot.” She shrugged. “And you see, they don’t even have the same last name.”

  “He is . . . was the young lady’s stepbrother,” Hugo explained. “He really is, so that’s why he was asking.”

  “Ah, bien. I didn’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have turned him away.”

  “He may come back, and if not I can find him so I wouldn’t worry. Did the police tell you that you can release her belongings?”

  “Monsieur Drummond said so, but I’ve not heard that from them, no. Which was another reason I declined.”

  They both looked toward the main door at the sound of raised voices, two men arguing heatedly in English. Hugo recognized both.

  “You did the right thing, madame, but I think maybe Monsieur Drummond has returned.” Drummond and Josh Reno stormed into the hotel, both pulling up short when they saw Hugo.

  “What are you doing here?” Reno asked.

  “He’s part of the investigation, idiot,” Drummond said. He turned to Hugo. “Maybe you can tell this woman that I’m Alia’s brother. She treated me like a common criminal, trying to steal her stuff.”

  “Which would be pretty fucking accurate,” Reno said.

  “Screw you, mooch, you’re the one who’s done nothing but take, take, take from her.”

  “All right, boys,” Hugo said sternly. “How about we all simmer down and sort this out?” He turned to Tremblay. “Is there somewhere I can talk to these gentlemen? Separately.”

  “Bien sûr,” she said. Of course. She led them past a self-service coffee and pastry bar, to a space around the corner like a mini library. An armchair and half sofa made the place seem cozy and quiet.

  “Josh, can you wait here a moment?” Hugo asked.