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“Wonder if Alicia’s parents felt the same way,” Lancelot said, by way of segue.
Hugo glanced back at him. “Pardon?”
“She’s a teacher. Did they think it was lowbrow?”
Hugo opened the folder once again, his shoulders relaxing with the change of subject. “She taught English at the American high school level. According to the file, she retired from her position, very abruptly, several months ago.”
“So if we don’t find anything at her home, we could always try the school.”
“Possibly.” Hugo glanced out the window again, and Lancelot got the sense his companion didn’t consider a visit to the school necessary, but with so little to go on, he wasn’t sure they’d have a choice.
“There’s a chance she remained in touch with some of her former students or colleagues.”
“Perhaps,” Hugo replied vaguely as he continued flipping through the pages. Even Lancelot could see there wasn’t much there. A few measly pieces of paper. Precious little to work with.
Lancelot switched lanes, passing a large tractor trailer. “So all we’ve got is her last known address and place of employment?”
Hugo hesitated just long enough to send up an alarm in Lancelot’s mind. Then the other man nodded. “I realize it’s not much, but if we can discover anything that might help us stop the mastermind, it’s worth the trip, the effort. Perhaps, if we are very fortunate, we’ll find information at her home we can use to piece together her involvement. Maybe we won’t even need to locate Alicia herself.”
Lancelot said nothing. Even if they found a manifesto that explained everything, Alicia had killed one of their own and knew too much. Alicia was walking dead.
Still, the fact that Hugo thought information was more important than catching her was interesting, in part because that lined up with what the fleet admiral had said. Lancelot was curious about Hugo’s part in this investigation.
Lancelot knew exactly why he was there—kidnap Alicia and somehow get her to the Isle of Man for questioning, or find a secure location and torture her for information.
And then kill her.
Whether she died here or on the Isle of Man was only a question of location. In the end, she would pay for her crimes, and what she knew, with her life.
What he couldn’t figure out was how the political science professor from Paris fit into this?
“How did you get recruited for this job?” Lancelot asked.
Hugo’s gaze remained on the paper in his hand, but Lancelot could tell he was no longer reading.
He’d told Hugo he could read people, their body language, their expressions. Hugo was no exception. Hell, Hugo seemed easier for him to read than most. Which meant he could see that whatever Hugo said next would be a lie. Not that he was in a position to cast stones, but…
“Don’t,” Lancelot said, before Hugo could answer him.
“Excuse me?”
“If you can’t tell me the truth, say that. Don’t lie.”
Hugo studied Lancelot’s face closely. “How did you know—”
“I told you. I’m very good at reading people. Which is how I know you don’t want to lie to me. You hesitated. If we’re going to work together, we need to be able to trust each other—with the things we can say, and even the things we can’t.”
“I cannot tell you why I’m involved in this investigation.”
Lancelot gave him a brief nod. “Then I won’t ask again.”
“Thank you.”
Lancelot glanced at the petrol gauge. They were running low. Then he rubbed his eyes, which had started to feel gritty. While it was only seven o’clock in the U.S., his body was reminding him it was midnight. “Time to find a hotel for the night. Start again fresh in the morning.”
The dark circles under Hugo’s eyes told him his traveling companion was starting to hit the same wall. “This sounds good.”
“Maybe we can find one that has a pub in it. We can grab some food and a couple beers.”
