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.
The wind swept off the open fields that surrounded this wooden copse, rattling the stand of trees that sat atop the only real hill on the property. The father had promised his wife that by laying him to rest here, their little boy would always be visible to them and therefore never be forgotten.
That word sat heavily with them both, forgotten . Earlier, at the house, the boy’s mother had finally said what they both knew to be true, whispering her words through tears as she wrapped the body of their only child in the best sheets they owned.
“We have to forget him. If this is to work, then we have no choice.” She’d looked up at her husband, pale with grief and thinner than she’d ever seen him. “I don’t think I can do it any other way.”
“ Oui , I know,” he said. “I know.”
To deny their little boy’s death meant denying themselves the balm of grief, those few and weak moments of relief that came from wailing and screaming at the sky. They knew this to be true: no parent can bury a son and then safely, unobtrusively, bury the
“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.
The wind swept off the open fields that surrounded this wooden copse, rattling the stand of trees that sat atop the only real hill on the property. The father had promised his wife that by laying him to rest here, their little boy would always be visible to them and therefore never be forgotten.
That word sat heavily with them both, forgotten . Earlier, at the house, the boy’s mother had finally said what they both knew to be true, whispering her words through tears as she wrapped the body of their only child in the best sheets they owned.
“We have to forget him. If this is to work, then we have no choice.” She’d looked up at her husband, pale with grief and thinner than she’d ever seen him. “I don’t think I can do it any other way.”
“ Oui , I know,” he said. “I know.”
To deny their little boy’s death meant denying themselves the balm of grief, those few and weak moments of relief that came from wailing and screaming at the sky. They knew this to be true: no parent can bury a son and then safely, unobtrusively, bury the
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