Free The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel by Mark Pryor Page A

the room; behind it from where he stood was a wing-backed chair and ottoman in cracked brown leather. A reading lamp, the most modern thing in the room, sat in the corner behind the chair. The right hand wall was dominated by an armoire that was seven feet tall and six wide. The four-poster bed was in front of him, up against the left-hand wall, and behind it Garcia could see another door—to the bathroom, he assumed.
    He stooped over his bag, a black box with a carrying handle like attorneys used to lug around their papers and books. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and flexed his fingers as he surveyed the room again, this time planning his incremental assault.
    He didn’t mind that it was, for all intents and purposes, a waste of his time. To have a couple of hours to get back to basics, to remind himself how to do the fundamentals of his job in peace and quiet, those moments were always to be welcomed. And at an alleged crime scene where no one expected you to find evidence, well, that was the kind of pressure he could live with.
    He’d considered dusting the door knob, but Hugo assured him that he himself, the senator, and heaven-knew-who-else had touched it recently, so he began with the table to his right. He knelt down to inspect the highly-polished wood, seeing several possible prints. He dusted them with gentle strokes and carefully laid his tape over the dust, pulling it back up swiftly and smoothly before transferring the tape to a backing pad, laying the print on the glossy side of the pad before documenting where he’d found the print on the back. He worked slowly, methodically, enjoying the occasional creak of the floor under his feet and the muffled sounds of the house beyond the bedroom, settling into a rhythm that was as pleasant as it was efficient.
    He paid special attention to the tables beside the bed and to the bedpost nearest the door. If someone had come in and leaned over the senator, those would be the places he’d most likely have touched. Finally, he turned to Senator Lake’s briefcase, and sat on the bed as he worked, hunched over the case as though it held the solution to a heinous murder.
    After ninety minutes he had a stack of cards, dozens of prints, and a sore back. As he stretched himself, he checked the room for other evidence, but, having no real idea what he might be looking for, that didn’t take long. Nothing looked broken or out of place, no strange stains or scratch marks. Just an old bedroom with the kind of furniture money couldn’t buy any more.
    Garcia texted Hugo when he’d finished, wanting to get started on interviewing people who were at the chateau that night. After a few seconds, Hugo texted back and directed him to the library. Garcia hefted his case down the broad staircase and found the library door wide open, his friend and Henri Tourville sitting inside, the latter looking slightly impatient.
    Tourville stood and shook Garcia’s hand. “Capitaine Garcia, thank you for doing this. Something of a charade, I’m afraid.”
    “ Bien , you are welcome. Not too much of one, I hope, the police don’t like to play parlor games while on the clock.” He smiled but hoped that his tone made it clear that he wasn’t entirely kidding.
    “Of course. You have everything you need?”
    “I just need to talk to whoever was here that night and get prints to compare against the ones I found.”
    “Prints?” Tourville’s brow creased and he looked back and forth between Hugo and Garcia. “ Mais non , you’re not taking prints from anyone here, absolutely not.”
    “If I don’t do that, Monsieur Tourville, then how do I know whose prints I lifted?” he gestured to his bag.
    “You run them through whatever databases you have and see if a random stranger shows up, that’s what you do. I’m certainly not having my family and staff printed like they were common criminals. You can talk to a couple of staff members but forget interviewing my family. It’s an insult