Текст книги "Taste of Fear"

Автор книги: Jadran Hawke

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

10

The next morning, John woke up next to Cécile. At first he was surprised to see her. He wasn’t sure whether he was still dreaming or not. But he was awake and she was there. It was real.

She was completely naked and wrapped in his bed sheets. He couldn’t remember the last time he had washed them. After the wild night they had spent together, though, it was now more than urgent to drop everything in the washing machine.

He got out of bed and prepared coffee for two. It felt natural. It even felt good to wake up next to her. It wasn’t one of those weird moments in the morning after a not-so-great one night stand. He felt totally comfortable. He wasn’t in a hurry to kick her out of his place, as it had happened a few times before. No. Actually, he wanted her to stay. As long as she wanted.

She had told him she felt safe around him. He knew what she meant. In fact, he felt the same. No, actually he really felt alive around her. Cécile, he thought with a smile.

He checked the time and gently shook her shoulder.

“Morning,” he said. “Time to wake up and go to work.”

She rubbed her sleepy eyes and stretched her arms. “No,” she said.

“Come on, don’t be like my daughter,” he said.

“Do you know what day it is today?” she asked.

“Yes. Thursday. Why?”

“It’s November 11th, John.”

Armistice Day, he thought. He’d completely forgotten. “Oh. Right,” he said.

She followed him in the kitchen, wearing his shirt. “I’ll be off tomorrow too,” she said. “So I can enjoy the long week end. Do you have to work?”

“Probably not,” he said. “But I’m still thinking about the case. There’s something wrong. It doesn’t match.”

“You still think Daniel killed her?” she asked, pouring him coffee into a mug. “Sugar?”

“Just one,” he said. “Yeah, so far that’s the strongest lead we’ve got.”

“What about the other leads?”

John slowly brought his mug to his lips, smelled the strong aroma and swallowed the hot beverage. He exhaled deeply and slowly, stretching out the silence.

“There’s no other leads,” he finally said.

Her lips pinched as if to say, sorry to hear that.

“And what’s bothering you?” she asked. “What do you mean by it doesn’t match?”

“His sexual behavior,” he said.

Cécile raised her eyebrows and blinked twice. Her mug stopped in midair on its way to her lips.

“And how do you know about his sexual behavior?” she said. “Are you hiding something from me?” She winked.

He smiled. She was very witty, even at seven in the morning, he thought.

“I went to that club you told me about,” he said.

“Le Club Coquin?” she asked. “Really?”

She was trying to suppress a smile.

“I stayed at the bar,” he said, feeling that he had to justify himself.

“I didn’t say anything,” she said, still controlling her smile.

“For work, Cécile,” he said, feeling that she was about to burst into laughter.

“I know, I know,” she said, calming down. “Sorry. So?”

“So, it seems like Dupont is not a dominant type at all, sexually speaking. He might be professionally but behind closed doors, he’s quote, as tough as a ballerina, unquote,” John said.

“I see,” Cécile said. “Role playing to release the pressure, right?”

“Exactly. But he’s still the main suspect, in my opinion. I just need to understand. We’re probably missing something,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes. Or maybe not.”

He stared at her. “You don’t think he did it?” he asked.

“I’m not really surprised about what you just told me,” she said. “I think he’s insecure deep inside. He needs to be an asshole to get respect. That’s why he’s a jerk at work sometimes. Because he’s not strong enough to get respect by being nice.”

She paused. “Not like you, for example,” she said with a shy smile.

John kept looking at her but said nothing. He stood up and took her by the arm. Then, he gently pulled her into his bedroom, pressed her against him and kissed her. Gently at first. Then harder, until his guts were on fire. They kissed long and hard, rolling in the bed. The bedsheets could wait, he thought. She grabbed his hair and started biting his ears. Like a lioness.

He was about to go down on her when his cell-phone rang. John decided to ignore it. It stopped and rang again a few seconds later. John was now between Cécile’s legs. The phone stopped and rang a third time.

Maybe it’s about Claire, he suddenly thought. An emergency?

He picked up without looking at the caller’s ID.

“Montclair,” he said.

“John, you have to bring your ass over here,” Sovann said. His voice sounded like he had bad news.

“Why? What happened?” John said, now sitting and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s him again,” Sovann said. “The Dark Stallion.”

“Who?”

“It’s our man, John. Happened last night. Same process. Woman in her late thirties, early forties. Handcuffs and candle wax.”

“Shit. What did you call him again? The Dark Stallion?”

“Yeah. He left a note this time.”

“He’s getting confident. He knows we don’t have any serious leads, he wants to tell us something.”

“Did you have breakfast yet?” Sovann asked.

“What? Just coffee, why?”

“Good. You might want to wait until you eat anything. This time it’s pretty gross.”

“Where’s Dupont?” John asked, afraid to hear the answer. “Do we know where he’s been?”

“He’s clean, John,” Sovann said, exhaling loudly. “He stayed at work the whole night. We called the bank, and our guys saw the videos from the security cameras. He’s still over there, actually.”

Fuck! John took his head in his palm and ran his hand through his hair. Cécile came to sit behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He was tense. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Alright, I’m coming,” he said. “Where?”

“Montparnasse,” Sovann said.

John stood up and rushed to the bathroom.

“Another murder?” Cécile asked.

“Unfortunately.”

“It’s not Daniel, is it?”

John shook his head. “Dupont was at work. Still is. Now we know it’s not him. But we have no idea who this killer is. The bastard calls himself the Dark Stallion.”

Cécile looked worried. “Do you want me to leave right now?”

“It’s okay,” he said while getting dressed. “You can stay if you want.”

“You’ll catch him, John.”

“I hope so.”

He kissed Cécile, grabbed a croissant and was about to take a bite when he remembered his friend’s warning. He hesitated. His stomach was screaming, the caffeine burning inside. The hell with it, he thought. He brought the croissant to his mouth and swallowed it in five seconds.

Then he went out and called the elevator.

Armistice Day my ass, he thought. We’re still at war!

11

Montparnasse. It took John fifteen minutes to get there. The streets were empty. People were either home or gone to the countryside for the long week-end. Parking was usually a hassle, but he found a spot almost immediately. Once again, police cars and an ambulance were blocking the street. But there was no crowd. No cell phones taking pictures of the scene to upload on the Internet. Thank God, John thought. He wasn’t in the mood.

Sovann was waiting at the door and they shook hands. The medical examiners were busy inside with a team of other Detectives and police officers.

The apartment of the victim was spacious. Not big but very decent and comfortable. The coppery smell of blood assaulted John’s nostrils as soon as he stepped into the bedroom. The woman was facing down, her back covered with candle wax and her hands handcuffed behind her. But this time, the cause of her death was different. Much more dramatic. She was soaking in her own blood. The bed sheets and the carpet were red and had started to dry. He walked to the side of the bed and looked at her face. She was covered with dried blood and had a disturbing expression of fear mixed with shock and surprise.

“He cut her throat,” Sovann said.

John nodded. He immediately noticed a pattern. The victims were upper middle class. White women. Attractive. The killer was definitely someone with some sort of status. A good job, maybe well connected. Fairly handsome, or at least good looking enough to end up in bed with his victims. And he knew how to talk to women. He had the gift of conversation.

“Seems like he’s taking things to the next level,” John said, looking away from the dead body.

“And he wants to take the credit,” Sovann said. He showed John a printed piece of paper with what looked like a signature – The Dark Stallion.

“This guy is nuts,” John said. “Where did he pick up that name?”

“He thinks highly of himself. At least sexually. The stallion thing probably refers to his anatomy,” Sovann said.

“Yeah, probably. He’s nuts,” John said again. “He saw the news and now he wants to be called by this stupid name. And he wants to make sure the media talks about him. That’s why he cut her throat instead of strangling this time.”

John flipped the sheet of paper. There was something else written.

“The week-end will be glorious?” John read out loud. “Jesus, he’s telling us he’s going to do it again this week end. And we don’t have a fucking clue who he is!”

Sovann nodded gravely. “I know. At least, we know that he remains consistent in his choice of victims,” he said. “Her name was Charlotte Bois, forty-three. A neighbor found her door ajar this morning when he left for his jogging and when he was back, the door was still opened. She was an IT manager for Crédit Parisien. We saw her badge in her purse. The neighbor said she was single and has never been married. And no children.”

“Another bank,” John muttered to himself. He squinted at his partner, thinking hard. “This guy must be a banker or something. He chooses his victims at work, that’s why they trust him. They think they know what to expect. It feels familiar. Safe. He must have a good situation. These women can’t picture him as a killer; he has everything to become successful. Maybe he’s already successful, actually. Maybe he’s very good and that’s why he’s worked for several of these banks. That’s how he selects his targets.”

Sovann nodded. “We can already predict where his next victim will be,” he said. “We must find a way to warn all the women working for banks in Paris. Easier said than done, though.”

“I’d like to do that,” John said. “At least, the killer would feel the pressure or encounter more resistance from his female coworkers. But here’s the problem: we’re just speculating. We can’t conclude anything with only two victims. Our sample is too small. That’s not… what’s the phrase again? Statistically significant.”

“Christ, John!” Sovann said shaking his head. “We can’t cross our arms and wait for the third or fourth murder. Two is already too much. We can’t let it happen again.”

“I didn’t say we’d cross our arms and do nothing. But we can’t go public and make a statement based on our gut feeling either,” John said. “What’s that?” He nodded at the pile of documents on her desk.

“Bills mostly,” Sovann said.

“Did you check her phone?”

“It’s locked. We sent our guys to try to unlock it.”

“OK, good,” John said.

He covered his mouth with his hand and closed his eyes. The smell in the room was becoming hard to handle. He felt his chest and his heart burning. He took a few deep breaths, controlling his nausea, and walked around.

He paced in the living room and found her purse. He looked inside. Nothing unusual. Her keys, her badge for work, make-up, tissue, a pocket-sized umbrella and credit cards. There was a small piece of paper as well. It was folded and kept along with the credit cards. John took it out. It was a receipt. It indicated November 10th and 10:47p.m. John looked at the header and recognized the name of a restaurant nearby. Bingo.

“Sovann,” John called. “I’ve got something.”

“Yeah?” Sovann said as he arrived. “What?”

“Check this out.”

Sovann squinted. “A receipt from a restaurant,” he said.

“Yeah. Look at the amount.”

“Almost two hundred euros,” Sovann said as he read. “That’s a lot for a slim woman like her, don’t you think? I’d say two people at least.”

John nodded, a smile on his face. “Exactly,” he said. “They had dinner together over there before coming home last night. The waiters have probably seen his face.”

“Nice. Want to go there now?” Sovann asked before checking his watch. “But we’ll have to wait. It’s way too early.”

“There’s a café-bar across the street from the restaurant. We can sit there and wait for the staff to come,” John said.

John and Sovann sat near the window, facing the street. They both took an espresso. Sovann was starving – he had vomited his breakfast upon seeing Charlotte’s body soaking in her blood.

The café-bar was quiet, with only a few patrons, mostly old men buying cigarettes or lottery tickets. John and Sovann waited, eager to finally have a description of the killer.

They kept watching the restaurant on the other side of the street. Nothing was happening.

9:00 a.m. John went outside and bought a couple of magazines: ones on sports cars and fitness.

10:00 a.m. Sovann got a call from Anissa, his girlfriend, and told her he would probably not be home for lunch.

11:00 a.m. They both started to become impatient. Anxious to go on with the investigation. The staff would arrive very soon to open at twelve.

11:30 a.m. Still quiet. Nobody. They had less than thirty minutes to prepare everything and be ready to serve clients. It didn’t feel right.

At twelve, John decided to talk to the barman.

“Hey,” he said. “What time do they usually open?” he asked pointed his thumb at the restaurant.

“Twelve,” the barman said.

John looked at his watch, then looked back at the man and shrugged. “It’s twelve already,” he said. “What’s going on?”

The barman grunted. “They make good money. They can afford to close the shop for the long week-end,” he said. “They won’t be back until Monday.”

John resisted the urge to slam his fists on the counter.

Fucking Armistice Day!

12

The parking lot was almost deserted. There were a few cars, maybe three dozen, but it still felt empty. John had called Cécile and asked her if it was possible that the headquarters of Crédit Parisien were open on a holiday.

“I can’t tell for sure, since I don’t work for them,” she had said. “But I know that we usually have a few people who stay for maintenance or emergencies.”

“What kind of maintenance?” John had asked.

“Mostly related to IT. We have a team of IT support guys who do come to the office to make sure international transactions still occur.”

“Isn’t it automated?”

“Probably, but maybe not everything. All I know is that they come to work. It’s probably the same for Crédit Parisien.”

“Alright, thanks.”

John had decided to go the headquarters of the bank. Sovann was dealing with the families of the victims – both Liliane Genet and Charlotte Bois. It was never an easy thing to do. There was no right way to announce the death of someone to their loved ones. No amount of kindness or politeness could prepare them or diminish the impact of the terrible news. Circumstances were never ideal. It just had to be done. Whenever possible, John preferred to avoid it. Better to let someone else do it. Especially when the murderer was still on the loose and the police had no clue who he was.

John locked his car and entered the quiet building. The women at the reception were busy on their cell phones when he arrived at the counter.

“May I help you, sir?” a tall blonde asked him.

“I’d like to see Charlotte Bois,” John said.

“One moment, please,” she said, typing on her keyboard. Then her lips moved silently, memorizing the number, and she dialed the phone extension displayed on her screen.

John waited. Nobody picked up.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I’m afraid she’s not here today.”

“Try again, please,” he said. “I just need to talk with someone on her team.”

The receptionist looked at him, hesitated and finally nodded. She called again and this time, someone picked up.

“Hello, this is the reception,” she said. “There is someone who wants to see you. Yes. One moment.”

She put her hand on the receiver and looked at John. “What is it about, sir?” she asked.

“Police,” John said, showing his badge.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “This is the police,” she said ceremoniously.

She hung up and gave John a visitor’s badge. “Fourteenth floor. Mr. Pierre Gentil is waiting for you, sir,” she said.

When John got out of the elevator, a man wearing jeans and a T-shirt was waiting, his foot tapping the floor. John immediately noticed the tension and nervousness on his face and in his shoulders.

“Detective John Montclair,” he said, extending his hand.

“Pierre Gentil,” the man said. “IT support team leader. This way.”

Gentil led John to an empty conference room and invited him to sit down.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“Do you work directly with Charlotte Bois?” John asked.

“Not really,” Gentil said. “She’s a project manager. We only have to deal with her once a project is launched, to collect and fix minor bugs. Or we report them to the programmers when it’s more serious.”

“Who does she work with most of the time?”

“Both the finance department and us. She has to coordinate everything.”

“How’s the turnover on the finance side? Many new people coming?”

Gentil scratched his head. “I never really paid attention.”

“Think harder,” John said. “Any new face recently? Anyone unfamiliar who came from another bank, for example?”

Gentil paused and shook his head. “Not for the past nine months at least.”

“Why nine months?”

“Because that’s when my wife got pregnant. She just delivered.”

“Oh. Congratulations. Boy or girl?”

“A girl,” Gentil said with a smile. “Emilie.”

“So during that time, nobody new?” John asked.

“Nope.”

Nine months, John thought. That’s a long time. Why would the killer wait so long?

“So there’s a very low turnover then,” John said.

“At least with the interns,” Gentil said. “Contractors come and go more frequently.”

John leaned forward and squinted at him. That was the kind of pattern he was looking for. The killer was a hunter, a predator. Two murders in less than a week. Nine months of inaction didn’t seem right, although still possible.

“Explain that to me,” he said.

“Not everyone you see in this building is actually an employee of the bank. The interns are those with a fixed and permanent contract. They work for the bank. But we also have a lot of contractors, or consultants. These people are generally freelance, and their contract is short term. And they usually work on several projects with other banks as well,” Gentil explained.

A consultant, John thought. Someone mobile and in touch with different people at many levels within a company. Maybe that was the way to go.

“Can you get access to a list of consultants who work with your team?” John asked. “In particular those who work with Charlotte Bois.”

Gentil raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Maybe, but I would have to ask permission from my management. That’s kind of confidential, you know. I could be fired. Can it wait until Monday?”

Hell no, John thought.

“Mr. Gentil, you just had a daughter, right?” he said.

Gentil nodded in silence.

“Okay, let me put it this way,” John said. “Imagine your daughter, say thirty years from now. She’s beautiful, successful, everything. Now what if I told you there was a murderer out there, looking for women just like Emilie. And if I told you that this animal was also a rapist and that your daughter was probably his next victim. In fact, what if he had explicitly told us he was going to do it this week end. Would you wait until Monday to do something about it?”

Gentil’s Adam’s apple moved up and down, and his face went pale. “Something happened to Charlotte, right?” he said.

John nodded. At least the man was sharp.

“Oh my God,” Gentil said, taking his head in his palms.

“You can help me catch this bastard, Pierre,” John said. “Get me the list.”

“I understand,” Gentil said, his lips trembling. “But I could be fired. My wife stopped working for the baby, I can’t afford to lose my job!”

“He’s still running,” John insisted. “Someone’s daughter will die and be raped if we don’t do anything about it. Think about it.”

And have some frickin’ balls, for Christ’s sake, John thought. But he needed the help of the guy. He said nothing.

Gentil took a breath and nodded. “Okay, I’ll help you,” he said. “But it won’t be easy. We have to hack the human resources department’s database to get a complete list. As much as I want to help, I can’t promise you that it will be fast.”

“How long?” John asked. “A couple hours? I can wait.”

Gentil shook his head. “More like twenty-four hours. At least…”