The Book Artist by Mark Pryor

Author:Mark Pryor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Book Artist
ISBN: 9781633884892
Publisher: Prometheus Books
Published: 2018-03-25T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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