The Paris Librarian (26 page)

“I won't lie, I did wonder about that, but I never asked. I mean, how could I?”

“Do you have a theory?”

“Actually, I do. She could have kept the box with her, taken it to her new home and left that to me in her will. So I think that it's not so much her trusting
me
with the box, as her
not
trusting other people. In other words, because she was moving to a new place and would be surrounded by strangers, she felt like she didn't have much of a choice. And she knew she was getting dementia, or at least going a little senile. I'm sure she'd have preferred to keep that hidden from me and everyone else, but she didn't trust herself, or the place she was moving to. I mean, think about it. A famous person moves in with a mini treasure chest, you can see how she'd worry about someone taking it, taking advantage of her situation.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

“Also, she doesn't have family here but she does in America, distant family. What if they contested the will and the box ended up in the hands of some far-off cousin only interested in making money from her past? Much safer to let me have the box and only risk losing the key.”

“Very true. But that doesn't explain why she wouldn't just give you the key,” Hugo said.

Her face softened and she smiled. “You've not dealt with many old people, have you?”

“No, but I think I'm beginning to see what you mean. She wanted to hang on to her most precious possessions as best she could, keep just a little bit of her past in her control.”

“Exactly. These possessions, whatever's in there, must be some of the most private and meaningful things she's owned. It makes sense to me that she'd want to at least seem like she has some control over them.”

Hugo nodded. “Do you have any sense of what's in the box?” he asked. “Not specifically, but whether they confirm the old stories about her.”

“Are you asking for the investigation, or out of curiosity?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Then no, I don't know. I won't until I open that box and give its contents to the library.”

Hugo smiled. “Somehow I don't believe you. But that's OK.”

They both looked up as Camille Lerens reentered the interview room. “All done?” she asked.

“Yes,” Hugo said. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Probably, but we have someone else to focus on right now.”

“Who's that?” Hugo asked.

“Come with me.” She led Hugo out of the room and closed the door so Juneau couldn't hear. “I'm talking about Alain Benoît. More specifically, whoever murdered him.”

The morgue smelled like every other one Hugo had been to, from Barcelona to London to Wichita, Kansas. That hollow smell of disinfectant and bleach overlaid by something cloying. In this case, pine scent, as if a man-made odor would let the people who worked there imagine they were somewhere a little less grim.

Hugo and Lerens were shown into Doctor Sprengelmeyer's office at nine the next morning, and the doctor got straight to business.

“Please, sit down,” Sprengelmeyer said. “So, your friend Monsieur Benoît is dead, and while it's not my job to say, I would not rule out murder.”

“Why do you say that?” Lerens asked.

“Because he spent some time upstairs before coming to see me, and we know he wasn't in the water that long.” He held up a hand to silence Lerens's next question. “He did have water in his lungs, and that's what killed him, he drowned. But he also had a bruise on the back of his head that was not caused by the water.”

“He could have bumped into something, a boat or the concrete banks of the river,” Hugo suggested.

“Possibly, but two things make me think not. First, I drove alongside the river where he likely would have floated, and the water is moving very slowly right now. I don't think it would have propelled him with the force necessary. And, as I said, he wasn't in there that long.” He opened a folder in front of him and turned a photograph so Hugo and Lerens could see for themselves the bruise he was talking about. “But more importantly, you'll see that the bruise is over the occipital bone, a little above the superior nuchal line.”

He paused, and Lerens prodded him. “And that means?”

“It means,” Hugo interjected, “that most people float facedown or face-up, not in a way that he'd get a bruise right there, even if he did bang into something.”

“Correct,” said Sprengelmeyer. “If he was facedown, how did he get a bruise there? Same question if he was face-up.”

“Someone hit him and dropped him in the river,” Lerens said. “Anything else suggest to you that this was murder?”

“That's your job,” Sprengelmeyer said. “But I did check for curare, just in case. His system was clean, of everything.”

“Can we see his belongings?” Hugo asked.

“Of course, come with me.” Sprengelmeyer got up from his desk and led them into the autopsy room, pushing through double-swinging doors that whooshed shut behind them. Hugo looked around as Sprengelmeyer went to some metal lockers to their right and worked on a padlock, twisting the combination and muttering as he got it wrong. This room smelled even more of disinfectant, and Hugo's eye was drawn to the three autopsy tables that took up the center of the large, white space.

He'd watched a hundred autopsies in his time at the FBI, maybe more, but somehow the three empty metal tables, shallow and clean, were as portentous and disturbing as the ones he'd seen bearing bodies. It was as if they were lying in wait for their next victims, as ominous and patient as three open graves. He suppressed a shiver and was glad of something to do when Dr. Sprengelmeyer handed him a large paper bag.

“That's everything,” he said.

“Hang on.” Lerens took a pen from her breast pocket, and Hugo held the bag still as she signed the custody sheet taped to it. She looked around, and Hugo felt like she was avoiding the autopsy tables, but they were the best place to do their work, and she eventually gestured for him to put the bag on the closest one. Hugo did so, but not before making sure the table was as clean and dry as it looked.

The bag was stapled shut, and Lerens pried the large staples open with the tip of a pocket knife. She fished inside and pulled out individual plastic evidence bags. The morgue staff had packaged each item of clothing separately, and Hugo inspected each one in its bag, looking for one thing in particular, but not finding it.

“You see what's missing?” he asked Lerens.

“Tell me.”

“Paul's keys, the keys to the library,” he said. “If we're still assuming he took them.”

“I think we are. They could have fallen out of his pocket when he was in the water,” she said.

“True.” Hugo picked up a small bag that contained what he thought at first was Benoît's wallet.

“For his phone,” said Sprengelmeyer. The case was rectangular and made of soft leather, now heavy with water, and a zipper ran along the top of it.

“The phone wasn't inside?” Hugo asked.

“No. We didn't find it, anyway.”

“Interesting,” Hugo said, as much to himself as his companions.

“I'll have someone check with the hospital staff upstairs, see if anyone messed with it,” Lerens said. “It was attached to his belt?”

“Yes,” said Sprengelmeyer, “I took it off myself and bagged it after they sent his things down.”

“I'm taking it as an indicator that you're right about murder, for now anyway,” Hugo said. He looked at Lerens. “And if we're right about that, it seems like we may need to find a brand-new suspect in the deaths of Paul Rogers and Sarah Gregory.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Revenge?” Tom wondered aloud.

He and Hugo were in their apartment, Hugo had come home to shower the smell of the morgue from his skin. He stood by the window and looked down at Rue Jacob as an early-afternoon rainstorm pounded the street and soaked the few pedestrians brave enough to venture outside.

“You mean, he killed Paul and Sarah, and someone killed him in revenge?” Hugo said, absentmindedly. “I guess it's possible. Maybe.”

“Fine, a stupid idea. So what's your solution?”

“I don't have one.” Beneath him, a mother and daughter scurried hand in hand along the sidewalk, both trying to stay under an umbrella that was just a fraction too small.
No one tests umbrellas for size
, he thought.
But if you're sharing one . . .

“Stop moping, will you?” Tom snapped.

“I'm not. I'm letting my mind wander, it's not the same thing.”

“It puts me on edge. An unfocused Hugo is . . . weird. You wanna go out and drink, get even more unfocused?”

“It's raining.”

“Yeah, see, I was thinking we'd go somewhere with a roof. Wacky new invention the French have nowadays. Chez Maman? Not been there in an age.”

“No, thanks.” The last thing Hugo felt like was the cramped confines of the hole-in-the-wall bar, sitting on a hard wooden chair under the curious eyes of its owner and customers. Sometimes the ancient tavern had its own charm, but sometimes it just seemed downright depressing.

“Come on, man. It's Monday and it's raining, two things I fucking hate, so can we get some action going?”

“The Severin collection,” Hugo began. “I wonder—”

“Dude, if that's the key, just get a damn search warrant, open up the box, and see if it contains the secret to all this crap.”

“Lerens and I already talked about it, and we called a magistrate about two hours ago. No go, we simply don't have any factual basis for one. Isabelle Severin isn't talking, and so no warrant.” He shook his head in frustration.

“How do you know the old lady isn't talking? I mean, I know she's been all secretive so far, but if you tell her that her little box has something to do with a murder case, maybe she will.”

“You're still a step behind our good friend Camille. She sent the local police to talk to her after our chat with Michelle Juneau drew a blank yesterday. Apparently the sweet old lady gave them an enigmatic smile and little else.”

“Why isn't there enough for a warrant?”

“The magistrate said so. As she explained it, to get a search warrant you have to be looking for something specific, and have a good reason to be doing so. The best we can say right now is, ‘We're looking for clues from the past to help us out with what we're pretty sure are murders, but we don't really know what we might find or how it might help us.' Not really good enough.”

Tom snorted. “Well, no shit, when you put it like that.”

“The magistrate did. That box is the old lady's property and we have no evidence it's connected to a crime, so unless we get the old lady's permission it stays closed.”

“Well, that's just great.”

Their musings were interrupted when Tom's phone went off. He dug it out of his pocket. “Hello? Oh, hey. Really, why?” He listened for a moment, then spoke to Hugo. “Our new girlfriends are leaving town.”

“Today?”

“First thing tomorrow.” He pointed at the phone. “This is yours. Merlyn.”

“Is something wrong? Why didn't she call me?”

“She says she did, but you didn't answer.”

Hugo patted his pockets. “Oh, my phone's charging in my room. Tell her to come by.”

Tom relayed the message, listened, and then disconnected. “Miki is stopping by the library to drop something off before it closes for the day, then they'll be here. She said to order pizza.”

“Pizza? We're in Paris.”

“So the pizza should be good,” Tom said. “Fuck it, I'll order one myself. Extra garlic for you. Oh, but I don't have any cash and I don't want to run out to the ATM in this weather.”

“Like you would anyway. Pizza joints accept credit cards, you know.”

“For the tip,” Tom said. “I'll let you get that, and maybe I
will
pay for the pizzas, just to show you.”

“First time for everything, they say.” Hugo turned back to the window. The rain had lightened a little, encouraging a few more people out into the open. “Why would . . . ?”

“‘Why would' what?”

“Nothing. ATM, you said.”

“Hugo, you're being weird, please stop it.”

“I wonder . . .” Hugo strode into his room and picked up his phone. He opened the map application and typed in the address of the library, zooming in when it came up. Using the library as a focal point, he searched the neighboring streets until he found what he was looking for. He dialed Camille Lerens. “There's a bank on the street behind the library. Facing the American University.”

“OK, go on.”

“Can you send someone over there to see if it has an ATM out front, and if so to pull the security footage from it the night we staked out the library?”