“No, the Bassin family.”
“Tell me why you’re sure it’s her. I have to be honest, Hugo, I have a hard time believing it, despite her past.”
“I know. And this reminds me of Senator Lake, the way everyone was judging him.”
“Deservedly, no?”
“I’m beginning to think so. But when it comes to character flaws and personality defects, people’s judgments go from zero to one hundred in a flash. Like with him, and maybe with most politicians, you either love them or you hate them. And if you hate them, you pounce on some aspect of their personality and magnify it. We all do it, all the time. The same way new lovers ignore each other’s defects until they can’t anymore.”
“You’re losing me. I thought we were talking about Alexie Tourville.”
“We are. See, her behaviors before she supposedly turned her life around are pretty telling. She was selfish, in constant need of stimulation, and irresponsible with money. Now she’s broke and resentful that she has to rely on her brother. How else would you describe her?”
“Charming when she wants to be. Sexually promiscuous, if we’re to believe what we read.”
“The photos help on that score,” Hugo said. “And related to that, she has this ability, or drive, to reinvent herself.”
“I get the feeling those traits mean something.”
“They do. And bear in mind, she doesn’t exhibit them to a sharp degree, but they are all behaviors exhibited by someone with sociopathic tendencies. When we talked to her about Natalia’s death, she acted sad but I didn’t see any tears, no real sorrow.”
“Wait, that sounds like you’re justifying her being the bad guy.”
“And that’s because she’s not your psychopathic killer from Hollywood. Sociopathy is a continuum. It exists in corporate CEOs, politicians, people who are successful but who have enough empathy to fit right in with the people around them. Forget the idea that every sociopath or psychopath gets off on killing, they don’t. You and I live alongside them, they can be our neighbors and our bosses. Most are relatively harmless, getting off on furthering their careers, making money, or achieving positions of power.”
“So what’s her motive in life, what’s her goal?”
“That,” Hugo said, “is where I’m not caught up yet.”
“Personality aside, go back to why you think she killed Madam Bassin.”
“Well, there’s the chest. It was found in Natalia’s apartment but Alexie obviously has access to it: she’s the landlord. And she said Natalia only went there a couple of times a month, so getting in unseen would have been easy. The whole apartment building is practically deserted.”
“OK, what else?”
“No one can definitively say Alexie had possession of the chest, not yet, and it’s true that Natalia could have taken it to the Tourville Chateau. But Natalia doesn’t make sense as the killer, and I think Alexie lied to me about her.”
“How?”
“She belabored the fact that Natalia was a thief, essentially a kleptomaniac with a shoe fetish. But those things don’t necessarily go together. And the jewelry in Natalia’s apartment, it was older. Beautiful, but old. Kleptomaniacs are like magpies, they like shiny new things. They don’t steal objects that are old, used.”
“Camille told me that she had a lot of new shoes.”
“A lot of women own a lot of shoes. Which brings us to the shoes that were the wrong size, that would likely fit Alexie.”
“She stole them from her boss?”
“That’s what Alexie told us, what she wants us to think. But again, someone stealing new shoes doesn’t also steal almost-new ones that are the wrong size. I think Alexie either kept shoes at the apartment for when she stayed, or piled some in to make her thief story stronger.”
“Fingerprints on the chest?”
“None, and as I told Tom, that tells me it wasn’t Natalia who put it up there. Someone else did, and the only someone else I can think of, the only someone else who we can put at the Bassin residence, is Alexie Tourville.”
“Is it killing you, not knowing what was in that chest?”
“Of course.” Hugo grimaced. “But I’ll figure it out.” That is, figure out what else was in the chest.
He stood and stretched, looking around. He realized that he’d not paid attention to the direction they were walking and, looking for markers, his eye settled on a tomb across the pathway, no more than thirty feet away.
It belonged to Oscar Wilde, and Hugo remembered the discussion he’d had with Alexie Tourville and Lake about Hugo’s hobbies, his love of books. She’d asked which authors he liked, and Oscar Wilde had been one of the first to come to mind. Now here he was, a few steps from the man’s grave.
He moved closer, the first time he’d seen the glass wall that enveloped the tomb, a measure implemented to keep the red-glazed lips of fans away from the crypt itself. Their kisses had become a headache to clean and had even started to erode the flying nude angel wrought by sculptor Jacob Epstein. Hugo stood in front of the sculpture, as snippets of Wilde’s work and his life history drifted through his mind.
Claudia walked up behind him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Wilde, eh?”
“In every sense of the word. It came back to haunt him, of course, and the poor man died penniless here in Paris. In fact, the first time around he was buried somewhere else, Bagneaux cemetery just outside the city, and was moved here almost ten years after his death.”
“I didn’t know that. How long did he live in Paris?”
“Two or three years, I think. Prison ruined him,” Hugo said, “he was never quite the same after that. You know, to try and escape that time, to get past it, he even …” Hugo straightened, his eyes wide.
“What, Hugo? He even what?”
“He’s just given me an idea.” A slow smile spread over Hugo’s face.
“What idea? All this has something to do with Oscar Wilde?”
“Yes. But mostly no.” Hugo took out his phone. “Thanks to old Oscar, though, I think I might know what’s going on.”
Thirty-Two
They shared a taxi back into the city center, Hugo impatient and Claudia frustrated. He’d left a message with Merlyn but she’d not responded, and he spent the car ride deflecting Claudia’s questions, her demands for an explanation.
“No, you’re in reporter mode,” he said finally.
“I’ll turn that off. Stay in Claudia mode.”
“Nice try, but we’ve been through this before. Cops and journalists don’t have that on — off switch.”
Hugo stopped the cab on Rue de Rivoli and kissed Claudia on the cheek. “I need to stop in at the embassy, but I’m out of cash. Would you mind?”
“Seriously?” she said, and he was unsure if her indignation was real or feigned. “Are you turning into Tom now?”
“It’s a cab, not a call girl,” Hugo said with a wink. “Have the driver take you home, I’ll pay you back later.”
“You better. And, seriously, call me when you can.”
“I will, I promise.” As he climbed out of the taxi his phone buzzed and he waved it at a departing Claudia before answering. “This is Hugo.”
“Hey, it’s Merlyn. S’up?” Merlyn, the friend he’d made out of the blue in England while trying to keep track of the movie star he was assigned to protect. The beautiful yet waiflike goth girl who was more worldly than most people twice her age. Her directness had caught Hugo by surprise back then, and she’d accorded his position of authority no automatic respect but helped him because she was a good person, and because she believed that Hugo was, too.
“S’up yourself. I’ve been trying to call.”
She chuckled. “You might want to remember what I do for a living before you get too stroppy with me, Marston.”
Hugo grinned despite himself. “Not my cup of tea, as you might say, but fair point.” He cleared his throat and adopted as formal a tone as he could. “So, lovely Miss Merlyn, does your wonderfulness have anything for me?”