Текст книги "Taste of Fear"

Автор книги: Jadran Hawke

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Taste of Fear

 

–   John Montclair Mystery Thriller 1 -

 

Jadran Hawke

Copyright 2014 – All Rights Reserved

Author’s note

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and events portrayed in this story are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and simply the imagination of a story teller.

Prologue

Liliane Genet’s murderer was waiting in the room next door and she couldn’t wait to join him. She was about to die in the most pleasurable way possible.

Liliane was beautiful. She wasn’t that young anymore, but at forty-one, she was still very attractive. Since her divorce, she had paid special attention to her looks: personal trainer, gym membership, low-carb diets, skin therapy and thousands of euros invested in her new physique.

She tossed her panties on the floor of her bathroom and glanced at her stomach. It was flat and firm. She turned around to look at her ass and smiled. She was proud of it. Round and thick. Her personal trainer was right: squatting was the best way to reshape her bottom, and she was now reaping the results. In addition to a great body, she had regained confidence. Lots of confidence. And lots of men. Her new lover was beautiful. He looked much younger than he really was, but still looked mature and charismatic. He had a strong and powerful body. His muscles were chiseled, which made him extremely manly. Liliane had never slept with such a man before. She was almost shy, and impressed to have him waiting for her in her bedroom. It almost felt like a dream. She couldn’t believe how horny she was. This man was dangerous.

She stepped out of the bathroom, her heart beating like a drum. Wearing a black silk dressing gown with red high heels, she was completely naked underneath. She looked at her lover’s eyes, and all she could see was lust. His gaze was deep and intense. My god, his eyes, she thought. She loved his eyes.

The speakers of her laptop were playing soft and relaxing music, while her bedroom was lit by candlelight. It was perfect. He was perfect. She glanced at his washboard abs and felt butterflies deep in her guts. She was willing to do anything to please him. They made love, and time seemed to stop. Liliane Genet was swept away by her lover’s skills. He was truly amazing. Then, he asked her to turn around, face down. She didn’t think twice; she immediately did as he asked. She heard him move behind her and reach for something. She felt something cold around her wrists and heard a metallic sound. Click!

She figured she was being handcuffed, and felt even more aroused. That man was so damn kinky. The cold feeling was quickly followed by pain. Not extreme pain, but short and intense. Like needles on her back and her ass. Candle wax, she thought. She absolutely loved it. They made love again and she felt him climax a second time. But this time was different, though. Liliane Genet felt a tight grip around her neck. Her lover’s hands were choking her. Erotic asphyxiation? Maybe. She waited for him to release her, hoping this wouldn’t last too long. She waited. She didn’t particularly enjoy it but why not, she thought. She waited more, until her chest started to hurt. She opened her bulging eyes and tears rolled on her pillow.

Please, stop now, she thought. Her lungs were burning, desperately looking for air. That was enough. She tried to get away from his grip and thrashed and jerked, but he was holding her so tight that she was pinned on the bed. Trapped. Her arousal quickly disappeared, replaced by fear. What the hell was he doing? What was going on? Why? Impossible to move. She panicked and tried to shout. She tried to call for help and prayed this wasn’t what she thought it was. Was he trying to kill her?

Help! Help! she cried out in her head. No sound came out. The room was deadly quiet, except for the music from her computer. She jerked one last time before her body gave up, exhausted. Lifeless. Dead.

1

John Montclair was staring out the window, cell-phone stuck to his ear. It was cloudy and cold outside, a typical November afternoon in Paris, France.

“Next Friday? Let me see…” he said.

“Oh, come on, John. Don’t pretend to be so busy,” his ex-wife Julie said. “I’m taking care of Claire every day. School, homework, dinner, shower, bed-time, everything. You don’t even have to do all that on weekends.”

“That’s not the point, Julie. I’m happy to spend time with my daughter…” he said, shaking his head.

“But?”

John hesitated and took a deep breath. “She told me that you keep coming home with new boyfriends all the time. I don’t think a five-year-old need to see how active her mother is with her dating life. She should stay with me. All the time. At least, until you find your perfect match.”

He heard Julie sighing. “Hey, stop being sarcastic. I’ve given up the idea of finding someone perfect since we’ve been married. And she’s just a kid. She exaggerates. It’s not that often and when it happens, she’s always in bed.”

“Not asleep, apparently… She knows when somebody’s with you. If she ever hears anything gross, I warn you I will–”

“Listen,” Julie said, a hint of impatience in her voice. “I would never do anything that could hurt my little baby, so don’t–”

“Our little baby,” John said, raising his voice.

Julie paused for a moment, surprised by the interruption. “Yes… Our daughter.”

“I’m still her father. Always will be. No matter how many new daddies you bring her home.”

“John, stop it. We sound like two thirty-five-year-old kids arguing. You know I want what’s best for Claire just as much as you do.”

John kept silent on the phone. Their divorce was still fresh. Just a year old. Twelve months of silent agony, self-doubt, regrets and uncertainty. Ten years of marriage gone down the drain and one little girl caught in between.

Julie exhaled loudly. “I need to move on with my life, and I will choose based on what’s best for Claire as well. You’re a police Detective, you have odd hours, you fight crime and always make enemies. You can’t come home covered with blood and expect her not to notice. That’s not what our daughter needs.”

John had been stabbed in the thigh during a fight two years earlier. An ex-convict he’d sent to jail was back on the streets, and had decided to get revenge. Claire wasn’t asleep that night when John came home, injured and bleeding.

“I was doing my job. It was your job to make sure she was in bed when I got home that night,” he said. “It was midnight, for Christ’s sake.”

“John, that’s just not right for her. Do you understand? What’s next? We live in two different worlds. I’m a fund manager, my schedule is fixed, people around me are educated and peaceful. I’m more likely to make better decisions regarding Claire’s future. Plus…” Julie said, hesitating. “I make more money than you. It’s better like that. You need to accept the judge’s decision, John…”

John closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Resilient. “Alright. Friday after school until Sunday night, then.”

“Evening. You can’t bring her home too late or she won’t fall asleep. Then she’ll be moody on Monday morning and will be late for school.”

John shook his head and frowned. “Who is it this time?”

“What?”

“Your new boyfriend. You’re going to see him next week-end, right? That’s why you ‘allow’ me to see Claire.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Just a date. I met him at work. Good career, good-looking, good sense of humor. Why?”

“Just asking,” he lied. Since their divorce, John hadn’t been in any meaningful relationship. Not that he wasn’t attractive, though. His size usually got women’s attention. It was hard for him not to be noticed, actually. He was fairly tall and well built – 6 feet 3 for 220 pounds. Most of it, lean muscle mass; the results of fifteen years of discipline at the gym and inside a boxing ring.

The problem wasn’t a lack of demand. The problem was internal. John didn’t believe in relationships anymore. He wasn’t ready to trust again. His relationship with Julie had been passionate with lots of ups and downs, and he hadn’t completely moved on. He was stuck in the past, in what he believed were the best years of his life.

But apparently, his ex-wife didn’t share the same struggles.

“Kiss Claire goodnight for me,” he said before hanging up.

John decided to go to the gym. A quick forty-minute session of resistance training followed by twenty minutes of cardio would cheer him up. It was also his social networking time. Many dealers, hustlers and ex-convicts trained at the same gym. All ethnicities were represented: whites, blacks, Arabics, Asians. It was a French melting pot due to France’s colonial past and influence in many African and South East Asian countries.

John knew many of the guys out there. Most of them knew him as well. He had recruited the majority of his snitches there, either by building trust over time or by using force. He nodded at a few familiar faces, shook a few hands and started lifting. When he was done, he took a shower and went to a small Thai restaurant. The owner was an old friend. John had his habits. A bachelor’s routine, as his friend liked to tease him. Always the same table. The same dish. The same beverage. It was already dark outside and the streets were empty. People were home, getting ready for another week of work, eagerly waiting for the next week-end. An average Sunday night in Paris.

On the way home, John stopped at a boulangerie – a bakery. He bought a baguette and looked at the cakes. Claire loved strawberry cakes. Next week-end, he thought. As he stepped out, his cell-phone rang. It was his partner, Detective Sovann Yim. Sovann was the same age as John, a little shorter but with broad shoulders. He lived with his girlfriend, a woman whose parents were immigrants from Morocco. No children. His parents were Cambodian refugees but he was born in France and had never been to Asia. He was what they called a banana – yellow outside, white inside.

“What’s going on?” John said.

“Man, you have to come here,” Sovann said.

“What happened?”

“White woman. Middle-aged. I’d say early forties. Attractive. Quite wealthy. She was supposed to have dinner with her sister but didn’t show up. So the sister went to her apartment and found her body.”

“Shit,” John said, pressing his fingers against his eyes. Work. He had expected to spend the night reading a good book in bed. “Where are you?”

“Bastille,” Sovann said, referring to the metro station. “Roquette Street. It’s a mess, you’ll see the police cars and the ambulance. Where are you?”

“At home. I’ll take the metro, it should be fast,” John said as he walked to the station. He lived at Place d’Italie, just a few stations away from Bastille. “What happened to her?”

“Asphyxia.”

“Suicide?”

“Murdered. But not the way you might imagine.”

“What am I supposed to imagine?”

“There was no violence. No sign of obvious struggle. Most likely, she was consenting when it happened…”

“Sexual games?”

“Something like that. Her body is covered with candle wax.”

“She was living alone?”

“Yep. Divorced. Took an apartment on her own.”

“Did you call the ex-husband?”

“Yes. He was out of town for the whole week end, gambling. We checked with his hotel, he’s telling the truth.”

“Anyone else we can call? Children?”

“Nope. But apparently, she was trying to adopt. We found some documentation.”

John took a bite of baguette and gave half of it to a homeless man. He wasn’t going to have time to finish it.

“Okay… I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

2

The Dark Stallion was walking in the streets and smiling. A young woman, probably a student, caught his eyes and smiled back. Women usually smiled at him. Women liked him. Women found him charming and entertaining.

Despite being nearly forty, he looked exceptionally young for his age. No more than thirty, according to all his female friends. He took great care of his appearance because he liked it and because he could afford to. His professional situation allowed him a lot of flexibility and it paid pretty well. An important part of his budget was dedicated to his wardrobe and his many “accessories”. The bag he was carrying was full of these “accessories” and he no longer needed them. He tossed the bag in an empty bin and kept walking without looking around.

He was satisfied. Proud of himself. Fulfilled. He was strolling along the pavement with no particular destination in mind. He didn’t want to go home. Not yet. He needed to fill his lungs with the cold air of Paris, the city of love.

He could still smell Liliane Genet’s perfume. She was a beautiful and successful manager for a big bank at La Défense, Europe’s largest business center. He could still see her green eyes filled with lust when he manacled her in her bed, completely naked except for her red high heels. She was so delicious. He had been fantasizing about her for weeks. And today, he had finally taken her.

He had been attracted to her physique, but not only that. The Dark Stallion needed more stimulation. There were hundreds and hundreds of beautiful women out there but many of them were dumb. He needed some kind of connection. His sexual arousal was at its peak when he was also stimulated intellectually. It was part of the challenge.

The Dark Stallion loved beautiful and powerful women. Independent women. Strong women with authority and successful careers. It made them more unattainable, more desirable. And whenever they finally gave in and opened up to him, it made him feel even more powerful. There was no thrill in picking the low-hanging fruits. Only the rare ones were worth his time.

Liliane was extremely hungry sexually. She was divorced and had been too busy with work to find any really interesting partner. The Dark Stallion spotted her immediately as his type the first time they met. He knew she was seeing other men. But she wasn’t satisfied. He knew instantly that she was a rare one. He felt it deep in his guts.

Liliane was a screamer. She begged at lot in bed, and he absolutely loved that. He loved it when women begged and moaned for his mercy. Especially when they were the ones giving orders outside of the bedroom. There was nothing more exciting.

The Dark Stallion could rarely climax without seeing some sort of pain and confusion in his victim’s eyes. But recently, he’d changed his method. Looking into women’s eyes as they were dying of asphyxia under the firm pressure of his fingers was divine but it was also distracting. A few times, his orgasms had been ruined by the dull look in the eyes of his victims. It was a big turn-off. Now, he preferred to have them lying on their stomach, arms manacled behind their backs, and slowly slide his hand beneath their throat. It was more subtle. That way, he could feel them jerking and thrashing under him, fighting for their life.

He liked to take his time. He usually allowed the women to have more pleasure than he did before killing them. After all, it was their very last time. He was offering them a gift, something very few people could afford – dying in the middle of an orgasm. It was the most beautiful and honorable way to die. Pleasure until the very last minute.

He went into a café and ordered a hot chocolate. He liked to blend in with the crowd. Bastille’s area was always lively and there was always something to watch. He could start a conversation with a lonely woman sitting next to him. Or watch the people around him. Or exchange phone numbers with tourists. He could always find something to do. Beautiful and smart women were everywhere. He just needed to pay attention.

After half an hour, he paid the bill and left. He kept wandering the whole afternoon but didn’t talk to anyone. It was getting late. Nothing interesting. Or maybe he wasn’t in the mood anymore. After all, sleeping with Liliane before killing her had been exhausting. He came three times with her. Two times when she was still alive. One more time after.

Taking random chances with strangers in the streets wasn’t the best use of his time. The best probabilities were always at work, with coworkers. And he was just a few hours away from Monday morning, when the hunt would start again.

Just an average Sunday night in Paris.

He headed for the metro. He didn’t want to take a taxi. He wanted to be lost in the crowd, be elbow-to-elbow with innocent people while walking away from a crime scene. That was freedom.

He started to feel cold and walked more quickly into the bowels of the Parisian metro. He didn’t see the tall man coming up in front of him, and they bumped into each other.

“Excuse me,” the tall man said.

The Dark Stallion said nothing. He grunted and simply glanced at him without a word. The man was pretty strong. The Dark Stallion wasn’t hurt, but still a bit shocked by the impact.

The tall man had short black hair, a little bit of beard and a strong jaw. He was wearing a gray hoodie and black sweatpants, with white sneakers. Probably coming from the gym or something. And he was eating a baguette.

“I said excuse me; you don’t know how to say sorry or what?” the tall man said behind him.

The Dark Stallion looked away and just kept walking. Parisians were so rude.

Asshole.

3

John climbed up the stairs to get out of the metro station. He turned left and took rue de la Roquette. He could see the police cars and the ambulance blocking the street ahead. Pedestrians were gathered all around, all taking pictures and videos with their cell-phones.

“Police. Police, excuse me,” John said, elbowing his way through the crowd. “God damn it, get that phone out of my face,” he said, pushing people aside.

“John! Over here,” Sovann said when he saw him. “This is Detective Montclair, he’s with us,” he said to the man in uniform blocking the way.

They shook hands and walked up to the woman’s apartment. It was a modern two bedroom flat, decorated with lots of glass and wood.

“This way,” Sovann said, flashing his thumb in the direction of the bedroom.

The victim was naked, on her stomach, with her hands handcuffed behind her back. Her legs were spread apart and John saw her intimate parts right away. She was in good shape. Not overweight, not skinny. Healthy. Her skin was covered with red candle wax. Mostly on her back and her ass.

John walked to the side of the bed to see her face. She was bluish-purple. No doubt about the cause of death. John looked around the room. Everything seemed in place and tidy. Whoever had killed her had sneaked in or was invited. She hadn’t been fighting with her murderer. Her clothes were neatly folded on an armchair. Her purse was on her desk. Her laptop was still turned on, playing soft music. Candles had been lit in different corners of the room. Nothing broken.

“Looks like she was having fun with someone before it turned bad for her,” John said.

Sovann crossed his arms. “She’s been raped too. Kind of.”

“What? Doesn’t look like a rape scene to me,” John said, squinting at his partner.

“The medical examiner says there was sexual intercourse before her death. And after as well.”

“A maniac,” John whispered. “Pubic hair? Semen? Anything?”

“Of course not,” said Sovann with a dry smile. “It would make our job too easy.”

“Who is she?”

“Liliane Genet. Forty-one. Head of securities for Groupe Finaris.”

“A banker,” John said. “Where’s her sister?”

Sovann motioned his head to the side. “Kitchen. She needed something strong. We found her some Vodka in the living room.”

“I hope she’s still sober. I need to ask her a few questions,” John said, walking to the kitchen.

“Her name is Amandine Blanc,” Sovann said.

John nodded and went in the kitchen.

“I’m Detective Johnathan Montclair. I’m sorry for your sister,” John said, extending a hand as he approached her.

“Amandine Blanc,” she said, shaking his hand. John noticed a ring on her left hand. She and Liliane looked very similar. She didn’t seem drunk yet but her gaze looked empty. Still in shock, he thought.

“You might want to stop with the vodka for now. When did you talk to your sister for the last time?”

“Yesterday,” Amandine said. “Just to confirm about tonight’s dinner.”

“Did she mention anything about her plans for today?”

“She said she’d see a friend.”

“No name?”

Amandine shook her head. “I just know she was quite… active.”

John frowned. “Can you be more specific?” he asked.

“She’s been divorced for a couple of years. She said she felt free. She’s had quite a number of partners since then, if you know what I mean.”

“Did she have a favorite way of finding these partners? Dating websites maybe?” Sovann asked.

Amandine shook her head again. “She couldn’t. Not with her professional position. Having her profile published on the Internet was too dangerous.”

“Did she tell you how she met her partners then? Did she go to speed-dating events, or any place where she could meet single men?” John said.

“She didn’t have time, and I really don’t picture her attending that kind of thing. Most likely, she met them at work,” Amandine said before taking another sip of vodka.

John and Sovann asked a few more questions and left Amandine alone.

“What do you think?” Sovann asked. “You think she’s telling the truth?”

“What’s your gut feeling?” John said.

“I think she’s telling the truth.”

John nodded. “Me too…”

“First thing in the morning tomorrow, we’ll have to go to her office. But we need to keep the media away from the case. I’m afraid the bank’s PR department might give us some BS,” Sovann said.

“You’re right. Can you deal with that? Talk to the neighbors. Make them understand they must shut their mouths. We don’t want the identity of the victim all over the news. The murderer will think he’s becoming a celebrity.”

Sovann nodded and left the apartment. John went back to the bedroom and sighed. He glanced at Liliane’s naked body. Her ass in particular. The murderer was a man of taste. He loved beautiful and curvy women. And most likely, he was attractive in women’s eyes too.

Liliane had money and social status. She had choice. The murderer had had permission to be in her bed. He’d been tested and approved. He wasn’t an average Joe; probably someone with equal status, or smart enough to be up to her standards. He hadn’t killed her like a barbarian. No weapons involved. No blood. He had made love to her first and only then killed her, once she felt safe enough to let him handcuff her.

John walked around the bedroom but didn’t find anything of interest. He approached her desk and looked inside her purse. Her cell-phone was still inside. She hadn’t bothered to take it out; probably too busy with her lover.

John grabbed the phone. It was password protected. Of course. He went back to the kitchen and nodded at Amandine.

“Excuse me. Do you know your sister’s PIN code by any chance?” he asked.

She rolled up her eyes, thinking. “Try 4990 maybe…”

John typed the four digits. “Nope.” Two attempts to go before locking the SIM card.

“Mmm. Maybe it’s 9440 then, I’m not sure,” she said, her voice sleepy and hoarse.

She’s drunk, John thought. He tried again. Still blocked. “Last chance,” he said. “Think hard and go easy with the vodka. I need your help to find who killed your sister.”

“Oh no, it’s 9049,” she said.

“Last chance, Amandine. Are you sure?”

“Sure,” she said, nodding.

John looked at her for a moment, trying to decide whether she knew what she was talking about or not. He typed the new code anyway and crossed his fingers.

Bienvenue.

John sighed. “Thank you, Amandine,” he said. “And put that damn bottle down. It’s not going to help, for Christ’s sake!”

John checked the logs. The last call was from Amandine. She had called for dinner. Before her, there was a call from her mother. Not interesting. John scrolled down and checked the next name: Dan. More than seven hours ago. It matched. Could be their guy. John called back.

“Hello?” A man said, excited. As if he had been waiting for that call for a long time.

“Who’s talking?” John said with a low and powerful voice. The Detective lieutenant type of voice.

“Excuse me? Why are you using Lily’s phone? Who are you?” The man said, confused.

Lily… they were close enough to have cute nicknames, John thought.

“Police. Detective Johnathan Montclair. Who am I talking to?” John said with authority.

The man paused. “Daniel Dupont. What’s wrong?”

The surprise in his voice sounded genuine. But it could also be deceptive, John thought. “What’s your relationship with Liliane Genet?”

“We… we just work together,” Daniel said. John picked up on the hesitation in his voice.

“Groupe Finaris?” John asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Which position?”

“Sir, I don’t like being –”

“You’re the prime suspect in the murder of Mrs. Genet,” John said with a threatening tone. That should shake him up, he thought. “Answer my question.”

“I’m the head of human resource. I didn’t do anything, I was –”

“Can I have your personal address, please?”

Daniel seemed reluctant but gave him what he wanted.

“No meeting tomorrow?” John asked.

“I’ll be available the whole day. Why do you –”

“Excellent. We’ll pay you a visit tomorrow morning. 9:00 a.m. don’t be late,” John said before hanging up.