“Sit down, Hugo.” Taylor pointed him to the cluster of chairs to Hugo’s left. “I believe you know my guest.”
Hugo started forward, a smile forming. “How the hell do you do that?”
“I travel outside your human space-time continuum,” Tom replied. “I move with the sun’s rays. Now I’m here, now I’m gone.”
“Or you lied about being at my apartment.”
“Possibly,” Tom said. “But I meant what I said about your shitty coffee.”
“You noticed that, too?” said Taylor. “Thank God for Emma.”
The three men sat and Hugo looked at his boss. “I’m guessing that those tourists at Père Lachaise were American?”
“Yes,” Taylor nodded. “Well, one of them. The young man.”
“I see.” Hugo turned to Tom. “And why exactly are you here?”
“Because the other one wasn’t,” Tom said. “Not by a long shot. Wanna have a guess?”
“Well, I’m sitting with one former CIA spook and one freelancing spook. Which puts my guess somewhere in the Middle East or central Asia.”
“Clever Hugo. She was from Egypt.” Tom grinned and looked at Taylor. “I get my brains from him.”
“But Egypt’s a friendly, at least the last time I checked,” Hugo said, looking back and forth between the two men.
“Mostly,” Tom said. “We’ve been keeping an eye on a few cells we think are targeting tourists. We’re worried they’re branching out, looking for US sites outside Egypt.”
“Still seems like you being here is … an overreaction.” Hugo winked at his friend. “No offense.”
“None taken,” said Tom. “But it’s not just her that brings me here. The guy is of interest, too.”
“How so?”
Taylor took over. “He was the son of Senator Norris Holmes.”
“Wait, you mean … the kid was Maxwell Holmes?” Hugo sat straight up. “He was supposed to—”
“Intern here at the embassy,” Taylor finished. “Yes. Which explains why you are here.”
“Damn. That’s terrible. What happened out there?”
“They were both shot close to Jim Morrison’s grave,” Taylor said, “on the main path leading to it. Small caliber weapon, but we’ve not been given any pictures or forensic information yet. As far as I know, there’s no indication of a motive or a suspect.”
“What about the victims, do we know much?”
“Not really,” said Tom. “We’re running on speculation and paranoia at the moment.”
“And you’re speculating that this girl was a terrorist trying to infiltrate the embassy through an association with Maxwell Homes?” Hugo asked. “The paranoia being that there are zero facts to support that theory.”
“That’s right,” Taylor nodded. “It’s been about eight hours since they were found, and we’re still gathering information. Sometimes the French aren’t good at sharing.”
“If you know she’s Egyptian,” Hugo said, “then you know her name. That should open a few doors.”
Taylor nodded. “The French cops went straight to his hotel and found some of her stuff there. That took them to her apartment, where they snagged her passport. So yes, they got a name, which they gave to us, but so far nothing’s come back on it. She seems clean.”
“Unless it’s a fake name,” Tom said. “And a fake passport. We’d like to look at it to know for sure, but that’s where the sharing thing isn’t working out.”
“Have you told Senator Holmes?” Hugo asked.
“Yes, I told him myself.” Taylor shook his head. “Poor guy took it hard, as you might imagine. He’s heading over here, and when he arrives, he’ll be wanting answers.”
The three sat in silence for a moment, then Tom and the ambassador exchanged looks. Taylor cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing,” he said. “Not sure it’s consistent with a terrorism-related theory.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Whoever did this mutilated one of the bodies,” Taylor said.
“Maxwell Holmes?”
“No,” said Taylor. “The girl. I’m getting this from the French and I’ve not seen any pictures yet, but they’re telling me that an area on her shoulder was intentionally hacked with a knife. The rest of her, and Holmes, completely untouched. No rape, and no significant injuries other than the bullet wounds.”
“Interesting,” said Hugo.
“It is,” Taylor said. “Any thoughts you’d like to share?”
“Not yet.” Hugo frowned. “I can imagine a couple of possibilities but I need to see her body, or at the very least photos. Preferably her body.”
Chapter Three
Hugo and Tom were let into the morgue by a young technician who’d been told by the French police to expect, and cater to, the Americans. The young man, round and red-faced, flipped his blond hair as he fired questions at Hugo about America and the FBI.
They moved through the administrative area toward the morgue proper, Hugo recognizing the gentle lap of sterility that seeped toward them, the sharp odor of disinfectant and the even more telltale scent of lavender and lemon that so many morgues used to mask the smell of death. As carpet gave way to tile under their feet, the youth paused in front of a heavy swing door. He turned, waiting for an answer to his final question.
“I am pretty sure,” Hugo said, creasing his brow for effect, “that the bureau does not hire its own specialist morgue technicians. But if I find out I’m wrong, I’ll let you know.”
“Vraiment, you will?”
“Absolutely. In fact, if they do, I’ll bring you an application form myself.”
“Merci!” The young man beamed. “Alors, nous sommes ici, messieurs. I took the liberty of laying out the bodies. I’ll leave you to them, just stop by the office when you’re done so I can put them away.”
“We will,” Hugo said. “Do you know when the autopsies will be done?”
The tech shrugged. “When the authorities stop fighting about who should do it. Tonight, maybe tomorrow. Sterile gloves on the cart if you want to touch them, they’ve been scrubbed for evidence, so you can.”
The room was windowless but bright, the white tiles of the walls and floor bouncing the glare from the strip lights overhead. It was smaller than Hugo had expected, with room for just two autopsy tables and, at the far end of the chilled room, three cooler doors. A metal cart held an array of cutting implements and, on extendable arms above each table, Hugo recognized the other essential tools of the trade: a saw, a camera, and a voice recorder.
Hugo went straight to the body of the girl. Only her waxen face was visible, the rest of her body covered with a sterile blue blanket of thick tissue. Hugo pulled it off and folded it neatly as he looked up and down her body.
“Good-looking girl,” Tom said.