The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (12 page)

Hugo spun around and peered at the man, a dark shape sitting with one leg crossed over the other, relaxed.
Probably smiling
, Hugo thought,
knowing him
.

“Well, we know it can be done, anyway,” the voice said.

Hugo flicked on the light. “Jesus, Tom, you scared the hell out of me. When are you going to grow up?”

“Not for a while. Come on, this was a scientific experiment to see how hard it is to sneak into someone’s room at this place. And I’m here to tell you, it’s pretty easy.”

“You’re CIA, Tom, of course it is.”

“And you’re FBI. Which, come to think of it, might tell us something about which agency is superior.”

“Former FBI, and apparently out of practice.” Hugo wagged a finger. “Though I still carry my gun, which means I could have shot you.”

“No chance. When did you ever shoot a man without seeing his face?”

“Well, never.” Hugo shook his head but couldn’t help but smile. “Although I don’t know why seeing your face would stop me pulling the trigger.”

“You’d never destroy such a thing of beauty. Now, go back to sleep, I’m here to protect you from any intruders. Any
more
intruders.”

Hugo sat on his bed, more than happy to oblige but a thought struck him. “Tom, did you go into every room in this hallway?”

“Of course, I had to.”

“Had to?”

“Your names aren’t on the door.”

“Right. Good night, Tom. And please don’t snore.”

Hugo and Tom were eating breakfast when Henri Tourville entered the dining room. He stopped in surprise and Tom quickly rose to introduce himself.

“Tom Green, a friend and colleague of Hugo’s. I arrived late last night, Hugo was kind enough to let me in and share his room.”

Tourville shook his hand but his eyes were on Hugo, his look clear.
What’s going on?

“Tom used to work with me at the FBI,” Hugo explained. “He still consults here and there. Seeing him was something of a surprise to me, too.”

“A pleasant one, of course,” Tom said. “Anyway, now that we’re together it might be a good time to let you know precisely where at the murder scene that fingerprint was found.”

Tourville moved to the large table that carried the food and drinks. He poured a cup of coffee and stirred in some sugar. When he spoke, his voice was level. “Some of us have no interest in any fingerprints, monsieur, and if you came into my house to try and persuade me otherwise, you may leave immediately.”

“The print,” Tom said casually, “was found inside the armoire where the jewelry was hidden. We believe it belongs to the person who broke in, stole from the old lady, and then killed her.”

Tourville smiled. “Please, Monsieur Green, have some breakfast before you leave. And Monsieur Marston, I suspect since the Guadeloupe talks appear to have been indefinitely postponed, you will be leaving, too. Am I right?”

“Well,” Hugo said, “if I can’t change your mind, I suppose I might as well. But before I go, may I speak to everyone who is here?”

“I already have and no one wishes to have their prints taken, thank you very much.”

“I’m sure you have, but I wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I let a . . . well, technically a potential suspect, run my investigation. And you may refuse me, of course, but then I’ll have to follow people as they leave the premises and catch them unawares. In the village, in public.”

Tourville narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Why are you doing this? You know that nobody here committed that crime. Is this some kind of political stunt?”

A new voice, from the doorway to the dining room. “If it were, Monsieur Tourville, I wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure,” said Capitaine Raul Garcia.

Tourville turned on his heel and glared. “Fine,” he said after a moment, “talk to whomever you want. Waste all the time you want. Then get out of my house.”

They let Garcia run things. It was technically his investigation and he was their official liaison with the police handling the murder near Troyes. And the staff, if not the family members, would be more likely to talk to a Frenchman than an American. So Hugo and Tom hovered in the background, Tom’s nervous energy making him pace the kitchen floor where the interviews were done. So keen was he to remain busy, he shook everyone’s hand and offered a glass of water to each person who came in and sat down. But, without exception, they didn’t sit for long. Each politely declined to provide fingerprints, most shaking their heads while not meeting the eyes of the capitaine, his treaties and endearments falling on deaf ears.

They were done in thirty minutes. Garcia and Tom went outside to enjoy a balmy day while Hugo headed upstairs to pack his bag. He sought out Tourville one last time, determined to leave on a positive, if not friendly, note.

“I’m very sorry things turned out this way, and you have my word that I will do everything I can to be discreet, assuming I am a part of any ongoing investigation.”

Tourville shook his hand. “I know you will. I trust you, Hugo, and I am also sorry things have worked out this way. Perhaps you can quickly solve this other murder and we can resume our business.” But he didn’t sound hopeful.

“If I can, I’ll let you know how things are going. And I’m sure Ambassador Taylor will be in touch, maybe even Senator Lake himself.”

“Maybe. An interesting man, that Senator Lake. Do you really think he has a chance to be your president?”

“Anything’s possible.” Hugo shrugged and smiled. “After all, America is the land of opportunity, and pretty much anyone can try and become president.”

“We’re not quite that naïve, though, are we? We both know it’s the money that counts as much as the person. Without the money, well, look at my sister. Potential for greatness, but once the people with the money decided she wasn’t worth supporting, whether they were right or not, her career was over. We’re just lucky she had other talents, other things she could do.”

“True. And she seems to be doing fine.”

Tourville was staring at the ground and he was silent for a moment, before looking up. “What? Ah yes, doing fine. That’s the thing about people, you never really know, do you?”

Hugo thought of Tom, the alcoholic who’d apparently given up booze with a snap of his fingers. “Very true,” he said, “you never really know for sure.”

Tourville turned and headed back to the house, a tall man weighed down by the disappointments and frustrations of the past few days, Hugo thought. And of the possible embarrassments to come, if that fingerprint really did lead police back to the chateau.

Hugo’s car had been driven back to Paris by Special Agent Emma Ruby when Senator Lake left, so he rode with Tom and Garcia. Tom, who’d taken a late-night taxi to the chateau, grumbled but put himself in the back seat of the Frenchman’s Renault.

“There’s a reason no other country in the entire world buys French cars,” he said. “You want me to tell you what that reason is?”

“Be quiet, Tom,” Garcia said. “One more complaint and I’ll drop you at the train station. Maybe a couple of miles away from it, so you can appreciate the countryside a little.”

Hugo smiled at the banter but his mind was on the staff interviews, such as they were. “Raul, how many statements did we get in the end? And by statements,” he added, “I mean complete rejections.”

“By my calculations, we spoke to four of the seven staff who were working that day, and only Tourville himself from the family. As far as I know, there were eighteen outside guests we’ll still need to approach.”

“No Vibert, Natalia, Alexandra?”

“Vibert wouldn’t come out of the library, and the two women are in Paris for the day. At least, that’s according to Tourville. The cook, whatever her name was, confirmed that—not that it matters much.”

“So,” Hugo said, “pretty much a complete waste of our time.”

“Well,” Tom said lightly, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Hugo turned in his seat. He recognized that tone, the way a father recognizes the guilty tone of a mischievous son. “Tom, what did you do?”

Tom patted a duffel bag on the seat next to him. “You know, sometimes I feel like I just don’t get the appreciation I deserve.”

Hugo turned and looked forward again as they eased onto the main road. “Here we go. Fine, Tom, I’ll play. Why don’t you feel appreciated?”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Tom said. “Can we stop somewhere and buy some packing materials?”

“Packing materials?” Garcia asked, with a worried look at Hugo.
Is he mad?

“Yes, packing materials. For the glasses I borrowed from Tourville’s kitchen.”

“The . . . glasses?” Hugo turned around again. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The water glasses,” Tom said. “The ones carrying the fingerprints of four potential suspects.” He patted the bag again. “Those glasses.”

“Ah, I see.” Hugo smiled. “But just four? I suppose it’s a start.”

“Like I said.” Tom sniffed exaggeratedly and looked out of the side window. “I just don’t get the appreciation I deserve.”

As they headed east toward Paris, a silence fell over the car. Each man, Hugo knew, had a slightly different role in what had happened and what was to come. Hugo’s next move would depend on whether the ambassador believed Lake had seen a ghost, a real intruder, or nothing at all. Garcia was going to be busy with the robbery–murder case no matter what. And Tom? Hard to know with him. He’d get involved in whatever was happening in Paris and beyond if asked—and likely if not asked.

It was Tom who broke the silence. “Oh, crap, I meant to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Hugo asked. Garcia pricked his ears, too.

“About our mild-mannered senator,” Tom said. “I got curious and poked into his background. You know he’s divorced, right?”

“So?”

“I think I know why, though the court paperwork didn’t say anything. A few years back he was arrested for assaulting his dear wife.”

“Lake?” Hugo asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yep. Happened before his political career took off, and it remained a secret because his lawyer got him into a deferred prosecution program.”

“What does that mean?” asked Garcia.

“Most states use them for first-time offenders,” Tom explained. “It’s basically a short probation term, you have to take classes, get counseling, maybe do some community service. If you do everything you’re supposed to, your criminal charge goes away. Thin air.”

“And that means if anyone runs a criminal history check on him, nothing shows up,” Hugo added. “But apparently he’s not so mild-mannered after all. Good to know.” Hugo’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket. The ambassador. “Good morning, sir. We just left the château, we’ll in be in Paris for lunch.”

“No lunch today, Hugo.” The ambassador sounded tired.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we have a potential disaster on our hands.”

He explained in three short sentences and when he’d finished, Hugo said, “We’ll get back as fast as we can, see you soon.” He rang off, and looked over at Garcia. “Got lights and sirens on this thing?”

“Yes, but why would I need those?”

“Senator Lake has disappeared.”

Four people stood beside the grave. On one side, the little boy’s father and mother were silent with grief, staring down at the wooden box in its final resting place. On the other side were Jacques the old gardener and Olivier their groom, not much younger, the two servants entrusted with digging the little hole. They were men who were silent by nature, and they’d been given a year’s wages to stay that way.