Текст книги "Taste of Fear"

Автор книги: Jadran Hawke

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

7

John dropped Claire at school and drove back to La Défense. Sovann and the team of Detectives were having a coffee break. Most of the employees were out for lunch and there wasn’t much they could do. John decided to join them and took an espresso.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“We’re going to start with the HR department this afternoon,” Sovann said. “So far, people have been kind of reluctant talking to us, but the general impression about Dupont is consistent.”

“Meaning?” John said.

“He’s not very popular. He seems to be a hypocrite – that’s probably why he’s moved up so far on the company by the way. Most people wonder how in the world someone like him ended up supervising all the recruitment for the bank.”

“Tells us a lot about the banking world,” John said with a smile. “Anybody complained about violent behavior or a serious anger management problem?”

Sovann shook his head. “But you know what? It’s hard to tell if they’re telling the truth or just covering their ass. We can’t blame them. These guys still have to work together when we’re gone.”

John nodded. “What about Genet?”

“Not much. She was on good terms with everybody, no particular problem. No known enemies.”

John paused for a moment. “I don’t know if we’re going to get anything in here,” he admitted.

“What do you want to do, then? It’s not like we have many leads to work with,” Sovann said.

“We still have another place to check,” John said, throwing his cup of coffee in the nearby bin. “We finish what we’ve started here and tonight, I’ll bring you to Pigalle.”

Later that day, John and Sovann arrived at the Paris red light district. The Pigalle area was full of tourists, as well as locals, all determined to enjoy Paris by night without inhibitions. The streets and the pavements were still wet from the afternoon rain, but the sky was now clear although dark. John checked his cell phone once again, looking for the exact location of Le Club Coquin, the BDSM club where Dupont was supposed to express his wildest fantasies.

After a short walk in a dark alley crowded with dealers and working girls, they arrived in front of a black door. Nothing on the outside indicated there was a private club behind. No signs. Nothing. Just a number on the wall.

“Supposed to be here,” John said.

“How do we approach this one?” Sovann asked.

They could get in by force, using their authority as police officers, but cops weren’t exactly welcomed in the neighborhood. John knew from experience that in this kind of environment, they could become outnumbered within seconds.

“Civilians,” John said. “Just regular customers looking for a good time.”

Both of them were straight out of the bank, still wearing suits. The perfect business attire. John knocked at the heavy door while Sovann stayed behind him, watching their backs. A huge black doorman appeared in the doorway. He stared at them, silent.

“Bonsoir, monsieur. Err, is that Le Club Coquin?” John asked, trying to sound like a nice guy. He was probably overdoing it, he thought.

In his experience, most doormen were complete douchebags. They were used to having people beg them, seeking their approval to get in. Even the hottest and most confident women felt vulnerable around them, anxious to get a piece of the fun. So John had to act nice.

The man crossed his arms. “It’s not going to be possible,” he said.

John expected it. “Why not?” he asked, faking surprise.

“Members only,” the doorman said.

“Our friend recommended this place. He said we could use his name,” John lied.

“Who?”

“Mr. Dupont,” John said. “Daniel Dupont.”

The man said nothing. Good sign, John thought. He knew Daniel.

“You can’t get in without women,” the man finally said. “There’s a ratio to respect.”

“We just want to watch,” John insisted.

The man shook his head. “It’s not going to be possible,” he said again, closing the door behind him.

Douche, John thought.

“Come on, John,” Sovann said. “Let’s find a couple of hookers. Shouldn’t be too difficult around here.”

They walked back to where they’d come from and spotted two women in tight mini-skirts, cheap leather boots and fake fur coats. One white woman and one black woman, both smoking and chewing gum loudly.

“Wanna have fun, guys?” the white woman said.

“How much?” John asked.

“Two hundred. But you’re cute, so I give you a discount. One fifty and I pay for the room,” she said.

The price was too high and John knew it. It was bullshit. But they needed to get in.

“A hundred and we let you get in a private club,” Sovann said. “A very chic one.”

“No fucking?” the black woman said.

“No,” John said. “Just to get in a club.”

The two women looked at each other and shrugged. Good deal for them, John thought.

“I take the Chinese one,” the black woman said.

“I’m Cambodian,” Sovann corrected.

“Sorry, Chinaman,” the black woman said with a grin.

“We won’t spend the night with them,” John said to calm down his partner. “Don’t pay attention.”

“I know,” Sovann said. “It’s okay. I got it, man.” Sovann grabbed John’s wrist and then pulled his own wallet out of his pocket. He was aware of his partner’s financial situation since the divorce. He was more than a colleague to John. He was a real friend.

“Thanks,” John said. “I’ll buy you a drink inside if we get a chance.”

The two new couples arrived in front of Le Club Coquin and John knocked again. The doorman opened and stared at them for about thirty seconds.

“Four hundred,” he said.

“What?” John and Sovann said at the same time.

“A hundred each. Four people, so four hundred to get in,” the doorman said, waiting.

John scratched his chin. There was no way they were going to spend that much money to get in, especially since they’d already paid for the girls. It gave him an idea.

“Listen, man,” he said, changing his tone from polite office worker to street hustler. “You let us in for free, just me and my friend. You keep the girls. You get a hundred discount on each one of them. That’s what we’ve already paid.”

John stared at him, then at the girls. The hookers said nothing, as if it didn’t matter to them. The doorman didn’t think too long. He nodded and moved out of the way, motioning John and Sovann to get inside. The girls stayed at the door with him and waved goodbye to the two Detectives.

“Bye, Chinaman!” they heard behind them.

Sovann grabbed the butt of his gun, ready to blow out the bitch’s brain, but John put his hand on his shoulder to ease the tension. “Easy, man,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Inside, the light was dim. Everything was clean and neat. John was surprised. He’d expected something more outrageous. Something dark and raw. But everything looked like a regular club. There were sofas where men were chatting with women, and a bar. The only sign that they were in a fetish club was the way women were dressed – latex uniforms and stilettos. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary.

John noticed a couple of doors in back, though. Probably leading to more exotic and kinky rooms, he thought. He headed for the bar where he ordered two beers. He and Sovann raised their glasses and drank the fresh brews.

“Cheers,” the both said.

“Where do we start?” Sovann said after a while.

John looked around. Everybody was busy but the bar was empty. It’s not going to be easy, he thought. Then he turned back and nodded at the barmaid.

“Let’s start with her,” he said.

He called to the petite brunette behind the counter. She was probably in her mid-forties and dragged her feet when John asked her to come over.

“Excuse me,” John said. “It’s our first time here.”

“I can tell,” she said, standing there with a corkscrew in her hand. She looked impatient, as if she was busy as hell. John and Sovann were the only clients at the bar, though.

“How does it work?” Sovann asked.

“Depends what you want,” the barmaid said. She sounded annoyed.

“What’s on the menu?” John asked.

“What do you guys do for a living?” she said.

“High-level management for a bank,” John lied.

She shrugged. “Hum. Too much pressure at work. Too many responsibilities. Tired of being the boss. Right?”

John and Sovann looked at each other briefly.

Sovann nodded. “Right,” he said.

“So you should spend time with a mistress,” she said. “She’ll help you release the stress and the burden of being in charge.”

“Is that what men in our position usually do?” John asked. “They come here to be, what’s the word? Dominated?”

She nodded as if it was obvious. “Of course.”

John frowned. It didn’t match.

“Our good friend told us to come here to blow off some steam,” John said. “Daniel Dupont.”

She nodded. “He’s a regular.”

“He’s not a dominant type?” Sovann asked.

She laughed. “Are you kidding me? He’s a pussy. Too soft to be a dom. He tried one time. The woman said he was as tough as a ballerina.”

John and Sovann looked at each other again. That new piece of information was seriously compromising their theory. Despite being a tyrant at work, Daniel Dupont was a puppy in the bedroom. Not a Casanova, nor a potential cold-blooded killer.

John thanked the woman and asked for the bill.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “It’s not what we were expecting but we’ve got what we were looking for.”

The barmaid came back with the check. John read the amount twice. Fifty euros for two miserable beers. Welcome to Paris by night, he thought.

8

The Dark Stallion put his knife and fork on his plate, and pushed it away. The meal had been delicious. But he was far from satisfied. The best was still to come. He raised his balloon glass and took a sip of wine. Over the edge, he looked at Charlotte Bois, straight in the eyes and nodded. Her lips were moving fast and her hands were gesturing in front of her. The Dark Stallion didn’t hear a single word of what she was saying but pretended it was the most interesting conversation he’d had in months.

Charlotte was talking about work. She was a smart, driven and dedicated woman. So much so that she’d been managing the whole IT department of Crédit Parisien for five years now, even though she’d never worked in the banking industry before.

The Dark Stallion had just finished working on a big project with her, and it was now time to celebrate. She was all excited about how the new software he had helped to implement would reduce their costs and improve the work-flow between IT and finance.

She kept on saying how amazed she was. The Dark Stallion had been able to do in a just few weeks what they had been trying to do for months. He was awesome. He was so funny. She couldn’t believe he was still single.

He was used to hearing all of that. He’d heard it before. Many times, in many cities around France. Paris was going to be his masterpiece. He had never been caught. It was so easy to fool the police, they were so dumb. He’d killed eight women already, in different big cities. It was a game for him and he had created the rules.

All of his victims had been impressed by how smart and knowledgeable he was. As a successful freelance IT consultant in the finance and banking industry, he could afford to name his price with his clients. He was that good. That was part of his secret. Women were impressed by his independence, his boldness and his confidence. He had everything.

In their own words, he was the perfect husband. The Dark Stallion knew how hard it was for them to find the right man, especially after a certain age. A decent father. A faithful husband. Someone to found a family. He’d heard it a million times.

He knew how to appeal to them. With their biological clock ticking, these women were easy prey. Completely obsessed by their work and nearly desperate, they were easy to spot. Many of them were incredibly active sexually. Total office whores. Easy to get close to them by staying late at work. Even easier to slide into their bed after bonding and pushing all their hot buttons. But he couldn’t care less about fulfilling someone’s else expectations. The only person who really mattered was himself. He was the exceptional one. They even talked about him in the newspapers! The Dark Stallion relived the scene with Liliane in his mind and felt an urgent need to strike again.

Patience, he thought. Charlotte is even more delicious than the other one. Don’t spoil it. Take your time. Make sure people remember this one.

The Dark Stallion asked a waiter to bring them the bill. He insisted on paying but Charlotte argued that she could get a refund at work. Business expense, she told him with a wink.

Then they walked into the cold night. Charlotte lived just a couple of streets behind the restaurant. She invited him to take one last drink. The Dark Stallion chuckled to himself. You’re right, sweetie, he thought. One last drink. Your last drink.

He made sure to keep his hands in his pockets as they got inside her building. He didn’t touch anything in her apartment either. Charlotte was about to flick the switch to turn on the light but he grabbed her wrist and pushed her against the wall. No more useless chit-chat, he thought. Let’s get down to business.

Charlotte didn’t fight back. After a second of hesitation, she jumped on him and kissed him. She pulled him near her bed, and the Dark Stallion made sure his laptop bag was nearby. There was no computer in the bag, obviously. He wasn’t going to bring work home. He was about to give her the night of her life.

They had sex. Twice. Charlotte was now totally relaxed and panting. Her guard was definitely down. She wouldn’t mind playing with him, he thought. The Dark Stallion reached for his bag and grabbed a pair of handcuffs. The metallic clattering sound surprised her.

“What are you doing?” she asked innocently.

You have no idea, he thought.

“Trust me,” he said. “Just let go. Let me take care of you. Turn around.”

“Okay,” she said, lying on her stomach.

“Wonderful,” he said as he caressed her round ass. “Now give me your hands.”

She joined her wrists behind her back and the Dark Stallion handcuffed her. Click!

What a beautiful sound, he thought. Your destiny is locked. Click!

“You’re so naughty,” she giggled.

He smiled. Bitch.

The Dark Stallion took a candle and a lighter. Then, he dropped the hot and liquid wax on her skin, making her squeal in surprise, torn between pain and pleasure.

That’s right. Here I come…

He grabbed a long, sharp razor blade from his bag and discreetly placed it next to her pillow. With her eyes closed, she didn’t see anything. The Dark Stallion went inside her one more time, making her scream. Then, he pulled her by the hair, exposing her throat. Blood shot from her neck onto her bedsheets as the sharp blade cut deeply into her jugular. He leaned forward to see her from the side; now he could see her eyes open wide in surprise and terror. He could see fear on her face. She didn’t even have time to scream for help. Her last scream had been for him. A scream of pleasure before dying.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

9

The investigation was going nowhere. After their visit to Le Club Coquin, John was filled with doubts. He wasn’t so sure anymore about Dupont’s involvement in Liliane Genet’s murder. The two of them had a history. She had dumped him so he had a motive. He was a control freak and couldn’t handle confrontation, or rejection.

On paper, it all matched. But there was his sexual personality. Not a dominant type in bed. Soft as a ballerina. What kind of woman would let a man manacle them with handcuffs and drop wax on their body, unless he was sure of himself? John didn’t really know about the subject, but he was pretty convinced that only a confident man could make this type of game arousing for a woman. He even had to be charismatic to a certain degree.

That’s where things stopped matching. The barmaid had laughed at the mention of Dupont when they suggested his being a dominant type. Her reaction had been spontaneous. Totally genuine. It was pretty revealing.

Before he knew it, John was in front of Notre-Dame Cathedral. He and Cécile had an appointment there. Or was it a date? She’d told him she just wanted to thank him for helping her the other day, but he couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t more. A typical guy’s reaction, actually. A pretty woman wants to thank you and the first thing you imagine is that she’s into you? Really? he thought.

He couldn’t really explain it. He just liked her, and his instinct told him it was mutual. But his instinct wasn’t infallible. He’d been wrong in the past, more than once. In particular when his marriage was in peril and he was convinced everything was better than ever.

Was it just physical? Maybe. Cécile was pretty. She had style and a great body. She knew how to dress and had attitude, without acting like a brat. But there were many women like that in Paris. How come he could feel his guts twisting? Why feel nervous as a fourteen-year-old? Even if it was indeed a date, it wasn’t his first, for Christ’s sake. Why the sweaty palms and the anxiety?

The place was packed with people, mostly tourists but not entirely. In his student days, John used to hang out in the area. There were many cheap bars where young people on a budget could have fun around there. He’d had his first kiss in a small studio located in the building standing in front of him. He was sixteen at the time. Almost twenty years ago already, he thought.

“John!” Cécile called out behind him. She was wearing a white coat this time and her hair was tied in a ponytail high on her head. It emphasized her chiseled cheekbones and jaw line.

“Hey,” he said, hypnotized by her bright smile. There was a short, awkward moment. What now? Shaking hands? Or faire la bise?

She decided for them and they rubbed their cheeks together. Twice. Once on each side. She smelled good, he thought.

“You look great. No problem with your handbag today?” he asked. She had a black, no-brand-name purse.

“I don’t know who would want this one,” she said, smiling.

“You never know,” he said. “Petty crimes have increased with the economic crisis.”

“Stop being a cop for tonight, will you?” she teased him. “I’m starving.”

They ambled along the small, lively streets until they agreed to stop at a Greek restaurant. They asked the waiter for a table for two, no reservation, and ordered right away. After a brief small talk, the dishes arrived.

“So you have a daughter? You don’t look like you have a daughter,” she said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“You look like a tough guy. Mysterious. A loner.”

“That’s how you see me?”

She nodded, bringing her fork to her lips.

“Tough guys can’t have daughters?” he said, wiping his mouth with a tissue.

She smiled. “Of course they can. I’m just teasing. What happened with her mother?”

“We had different ways of seeing the world, I guess,” he said.

“How long have you been married?”

“Are you trying to be the Detective now?” he said.

She laughed and blushed. “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

“About ten years,” he said. “We met when we were twenty-one and got married at twenty-five. Our parents said we were too young, that we needed to accomplish more. But I was deeply in love. Too much maybe.”

“Seems like you’re still holding on,” she said.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It was a long time ago. We had friends in common at the time. We shared the same interests like music, movies or fashion. You know, the kind of things that change over time and become meaningless.”

“I see,” she said. “It was too superficial you mean?”

“I’m not sure. In a way, yes, but it wasn’t that obvious at the time. We took different paths. Julie is very career driven and ambitious. Enough is never enough. Social status and perception became more and more important in her eyes,” he said.

She nodded, silent, like she was waiting for more. John could have stopped talking. He’d told Cécile what she wanted to know. It was none of her business, after all. And it was very personal. But somehow, he needed to get it off his chest. He needed to let someone know how he felt. And he knew he could trust her.

“You saw the car I’m driving,” he said. “Nobody’s going to turn their head when I drive by. I don’t have a high social status. I’m a police Detective, not a white collar in a big company. She asked me to change and I tried. But I realized she wanted me to become someone else, so we agreed it was better to go our separate ways.”

Cécile was still listening carefully and gently rested her hand on his. “You made the right choice, John,” she said. “Stay the way you are.”

He said nothing and simply nodded. They finished eating in silence and as promised, Cécile paid for the two of them. They walked for a while in the now quiet streets and finally got to his car, an old black Honda.

“Where to?” he asked, glancing at her.

“Anywhere warm,” she said rubbing her arms.

“Okay,” he said.

Without asking, he took her to his apartment. She didn’t seem surprised and said nothing. She just followed him as they walked to his building, side by side. John took her tiny hand. She was cold, but her skin was soft. She squeezed back and smiled.

He prepared hot chocolate for both of them, and they sat on the couch. John hadn’t brought anybody home for months. After an hour or so, he wondered what was next.

“You don’t have to bring me back home,” she said.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s late. You’re not worried you’ll be attacked again?”

She shook her head. “I feel safe around you.”

“But I won’t be there to protect you this time,” he said.

“That’s why I don’t want to go home,” she said.

He looked at her. She was serious. And beautiful. He leaned forward and gently kissed her.

“Then stay,” he said as she kissed him back.