CHAPTER THIRTY

The bag had been pulled out of the River Seine opposite Parc de Bercy, which lay on Paris’s right bank, in the Twelfth Arrondissement, southeast of the city center. It took them twenty minutes to get there, with Hugo’s curiosity rising by the second. Eventually, they pulled off Quai d’Austerlitz and drove down beside the water. Four police cars sat silent in front of them on the narrow bricked quayside.

Marchand opened the Cadillac’s rear door, and when they’d stepped out, Hugo reintroduced him to the ambassador. The two men shook hands, and Taylor said, “I would say it’s my pleasure, but under the circumstances . . . I know you have work to do, so I’ll let you get to it. I’ll just hang back and watch.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Ambassador.” Marchand led Hugo to a picnic table that was covered with plastic sheeting. A large, see-through and sealable bag sat closed on top of it. Two crime-scene techs hovered nearby, and, toward the water, a dozen policemen and women in uniform wandered along the riverbank.

“You’ve opened it already?” Hugo asked.

“Opened it, catalogued, photographed, and inspected the contents. Dusted for prints and swabbed for DNA, then put back as it was found, as best we could.” Marchand handed Hugo gloves and a surgical mask. “Put these on, and look for yourself.”

“Are you going to tell me whom it belongs to?”

“Someone who was at the museum the night Alia Alsaffar was murdered.”

“Clearly, otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” Hugo said. “Keeping me in suspense on purpose?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Marchand smiled. “These items belong to the brother of Mademoiselle Alsaffar. Rob Drummond.”

“Well.” Hugo stared at the bag. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“We’ve not located a body, but as you can see we’re looking up and down the riverbank, and will be dragging this part of the river.”

“Makes sense.” Hugo put on the gloves. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

Hugo didn’t answer him, instead circling the table, his eyes on the bag. “A fisherman found it, you said?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t open it?”

“Non, he saw the passport, and what he thought was blood, and called the police.”

“Good.” Hugo pulled up the surgical mask, reached for the bag, and opened it. He tipped it on one side and slowly pulled out the contents, spreading them on the plastic sheeting. He then picked up each item and inspected it. “Half a passport,” he said, opening it. “With blood smeared on several pages.” He moved onto the next objects. “Bright yellow scarf, looks new. Red, wool sweater, also new-looking. A novel.” He flicked through the pages, but it contained nothing except an inscription from the author to “J.S.” and the innocuous bidding that authors always seemed to write: Best wishes! He put it down and picked up the next object. “Ah, what’s this, a gold necklace?” He held it up and it glinted in the sunshine. “I don’t remember seeing him wearing this, but it’s very thin, so maybe I just didn’t notice.” He turned to Marchand. “You already collected photos from people at the museum, right?”

“From the night of the murder, yes we did. Several hundred in all.”

“Can you have someone look through them and check the ones that have Drummond in them? I want to know if he was wearing this necklace.”

“A step ahead of you.” Marchand smile at him. “The same thought occurred to me. I already have people looking to see if they can spot any of the clothing or the necklace.”

“The sweater is too casual, and I don’t recall him wearing such a gaudy scarf that night. Our best bet is definitely the necklace.”

“Hey, you never know.” Marchand glanced at his phone. “Ah, they’ve finished. No sweater, no scarf, and no necklace in any of the photos.”

“He wore an open-necked shirt that night. No tie. So if he’d worn it, your people should have seen it.”

“Maybe he just didn’t wear it.”

“People don’t usually take off their jewelry for fancy events. Quite the opposite.”

“True,” Marchand conceded. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, that lot was all double-bagged, one clear bag inside another. I sent the outer one to the lab already, figured you didn’t need to see the same bag twice.”

“Double-bagged?”

“Oui. Both sealed tight. That tell you anything?”

“It does. A hell of a lot, actually.”

“Do you mind sharing?”

“All in good time,” Hugo said. “When exactly was this found?”

“About two hours ago. It took a while for the responding officers to connect the dots.”

“They did so through the passport?”

“Correct.”

“Good police work.” Hugo winked at Marchand. “Time for you to do some. What do you make of it all?”

Marchand took a deep breath. “Well, if we can rule out accident, which I think we can, and if we’re sure this is all Drummond’s property, which it likely is given the passport, then I think we have to conclude there has been more foul play, and whoever dumped the bag in the river also put Drummond in there.”

Hugo waved toward the policemen stretched in a line along the riverbank. “Which is why you’ve got those men out here, and a dive team on the way.”

“Exactement.”

“If you’re right, then who exactly do you think put poor Rob Drummond into the river?”

“Well, I suppose our list of suspects just narrowed. It must have been one of three people: Rachel Rollo; her husband, JD; or Josh Reno.”

“I’d agree, they do seem like the best suspects. But which one?” Hugo pressed.

“Was Mademoiselle Alsaffar having an affair with JD Rollo? If so, then his wife did it. Drummond finds out, he needs money so he tries to blackmail her. She lures him out here . . .”

“And if her husband wasn’t having an affair with Alia?”

“Then perhaps that’s why Monsieur Rollo killed her. He was spurned, rejected. He decides that if he can’t have her, no one will. Again, Drummond finds out somehow, and gets himself killed.”

“Does each of your scenarios include Drummond discovering the identity of the killer and being murdered for that?”

Marchand bristled. “You asked for possibilities, and I am giving them.”

“You met and interviewed Rob Drummond. Does he strike you as the detective type?”

“People find things out by accident, by chance. Like I said, maybe he tried blackmailing the killer.”

“I could see him more as blackmailer than detective, I’ll give you that much.”

“Which means it would be one of the Rollos.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Josh Reno wouldn’t make for a great blackmail target, would he?” Marchand said. “That guy has less money than I do.”

“Good point. So which Rollo is it?”

“I don’t know,” Marchand said. His eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like you’re playing games with me?”

Hugo ignored the question, and asked: “How do you explain the bag of Drummond’s stuff floating in the river? What’s the point of that?”

“Simple. The river is fast, full, and takes everything to the sea. If the killer is trying to get rid of Drummond, of everything to do with him, then the sea is a better dumping ground than a relatively narrow river.”

“For half a passport and two pieces of wool clothing, fire would work much better.”

“Perhaps.” Marchand conceded. “But where are the Rollos going to light a fire without attracting attention?”

“Ah, so you have them working together now?” Hugo asked with a smile.

“Another perhaps.” Marchand shrugged. “Why could it not be two people?”

“Two people,” Hugo repeated, his voice distracted. He picked up the passport and studied it. “Yes, that’s one way to put it.”

“What?” Marchand stared at Hugo. “You know who the killer is?”

“I believe I do.”

“Who? Which one of them was it?”

“It’s like you said.” Hugo smiled at him. “It was two people. Sort of, anyway. And depending on when this clever little duo dumped the bags, we might want to hurry.”