Of Fever and Blood Page 8

  They stepped cautiously into the thickly carpeted boardroom.

  The victim’s body lay stretched on the table. Audrey Desiderio, like Barbara Meyer, had been stripped bare and tied up. Her blood had gushed in torrents from her multiple wounds. It had splashed the floor and spattered the walls and even the ceiling.

  “Shit. It’s exactly the same thing,” Leroy said.

  “No, this is worse,” Eva answered, walking toward the table where the corpse lay.

  Desiderio’s head was drooping off the edge of the table. Her throat was slit from one ear to the other. Above this monstrous gash, there was no face. Just a vermillion cutaway, and empty eye sockets gazing at eternity.

  There was something else.

  Something that Eva had already seen once, the previous year, when she had inspected the crime scene down south. She spotted it the very moment she entered the boardroom. The circle of blood on the floor.

  It had been drawn very carefully all around the table, as though for some pagan ceremony.

  On the window, there was a message in big capital letters:

  Pauline Chadoutaud was already at the scene. The pathologist straightened up when she saw Eva and took off her latex gloves.

  “The work of the same killer. But you didn’t need me to figure that out, right?”

  “Was the same weapon used?”

  “Without a doubt. The cuts here are identical to those on Meyer’s body. And since we haven’t found the weapon, I’d say the killer has taken it with him. It’s not uncommon for a serial killer to have his own murder tools.”

  Eva lowered her eyes to the victim. She could see several perforations in her abdomen and legs. Between her thighs, the genitals were a mess of red meat.

  She winced.

  It has started again. You can deny it all you want, but you know it.

  It’s more than a series of murders. It’s a ritual.

  But what kind of ritual?

  Why such brutality?

  “When did she die?” Eva asked to get her mind off those thoughts.

  “Probably early this morning, around one,” the pathologist said.

  “Okay,” Deveraux said. “Our man lost his cool. He must have been on a high after what he did to the Meyer kid. He came over here to slaughter her lover. At least, we have a link between the two victims. He must have known them both.”

  “I agree,” Eva said. “But it doesn’t explain his motive.”

  She took a step back and studied the table and the armchairs around it.

  Feast scarlet? What the hell could that mean?

  And you, what were you doing in here, Audrey Desiderio, so long after business hours?

  Were you waiting for someone?

  Were you expecting Barbara Meyer to meet you here?

  Of course you were.

  She examined the armchairs with great care. Sat in the one at the far end. There was a glass on the floor, lost in the soft carpeting, as well as a bottle of whisky, lying on its side, against the wall.

  She shut her eyes. The victim was sitting here, yes, before the killer showed up.

  Why?

  Who are you?

  Opening her eyes, she gazed at the window on the wall in front of her and its mysterious inscription—now feast scarlet.

  Did the killer sit in this place, too?

  Oh yes, he did. To take a look at his work. So very peacefully.

  Eva looked around the room. All the other walls were lined with magazine covers, every one featuring young, pouty models. A huge mirror, now broken, hung on the left wall. That was no surprise. Eva got up and walked over to the mirror. She studied her own reflection in the fragments. Multiple, repeating perspectives of a white-haired woman in dark glasses.

  You don’t like the way you look? Is that it?

  That’s the reason you rip their faces off? To take their beauty away? Or just their humanity?

  Or is there something we’re missing?

  Something less… ordinary?

  She turned around to study the circle of blood around the boardroom table.

  So, what’s the meaning of your ritual?

  You’ve made me run in circles for a whole year.

  Leroy crouched behind one of the armchairs to take photos.

  “To put it mildly, the man likes to play with blood.”

  “He has been covered with it,” the pathologist confirmed. “A hell of a bloodbath. Do you think it’s a message he left for us? To test us?”

  “You betcha,” Deveraux asserted, hands on his hips. “He wants to prove that he’s smarter than we are. But trust me, honey, this won’t last.”

  “I don’t think he did any of this thinking about us,” Eva said.

  “Yeah, right,” Deveraux said. “All this fucking setup, the moronic message, who’s that for? The pigeons?”

  “What he’s doing has a meaning, yes. But it has meaning for himself only,” Eva insisted. “That’s what’s important for him, the ritual. He intends to accomplish something very specific. He’ll complete it at any cost. We just have to figure out what it’s about before he strikes again.”

  Deveraux gave her an exasperated look.

  “Words, and more words. You’re good at talking up a storm, aren’t you. To me, there’s nothing complicated to understand here. We’re dealing with a nutcase. The man wanted to shed blood, and he found a way to get inside the building. I tend to think it’s a Goth freak. That’s the kind of people Barbara Meyer hung out with, right? Some of those kids actually worship death and the devil and shit. One of them just took it a bit too far, that’s all.”

  “Will you shut the fuck up, Jean-Luc?” Eva snapped.

  Deveraux shot her a murderous look.

  “Of course. I forgot you’re all-knowing, right? Then, honey, go solve it for us. Just try not to kill anybody, for once.”

  Eva tensed.

  “First of all, I’m not your honey. If it hurts to call me by my name, you can use my rank, Jean-Luc. That’s inspector.”

  “Oh yeah? Then how about Inspector Honey?” he sniggered.

  Leroy landed a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.

  “I’m getting tired of it too, Jean-Luc. We’re supposed to be a team, so leave Eva alone, will you? We’re here to work together.”

  “A team, you tell me?” Deveraux barked. “I’d actually like to do my job properly here, without having to listen to the nonsense that keeps coming out of this one’s mouth.”

  “Okay,” Eva said. “I’ve taken enough shit already. You guys can interview the personnel yourselves. I’m done here.”

  “There you go,” Deveraux went on. “On top of everything else, you just abandon your post. The chief will love that, I’m sure.”

  Eva left the room before she exploded.

  21

  Officer Leroy ran after her in the hallway and grabbed her arm.

  “Leave me alone, Erwan,” she said, yanking herself free.

  Her colleague backed off, trying a calmer approach.

  “Eva, listen to me. I’m really sorry about his behavior. He’s an asshole, really. I don’t understand why the boss stuck him with us again.”

  Eva leaned against the wall. Her hands were trembling, but her face remained impassive. She knew full well why.

  “It’s not a big deal,” she said. “I’m getting used to it.”

  “All men aren’t like that, you know.”

  “Deep down? I think most are—with one or two exceptions,” Eva said.

  Erwan Leroy still gave her a smile.

  “You’re letting us do the interviews then? You sure you don’t want to take care of that?”

  The inspector straightened her glasses and looked around. The Chick offices were set up like a little maze: a series of corridors connecting rooms that seemed identical at first glance. A bit farther on, by the elevators, was the reception area. She could see some of their colleagues talking to the cleaning crew. The rest of the team must have been busy gathering contact
info for the magazine staff in order to start the interviews as soon as possible.

  She shrugged.

  “All they’re going to tell us is that their boss was harder with them than she needed to be, that she worked way too much, stayed late at the office, had morals that were loose enough to cause people to talk behind her back.” She studied the hallway where they stood, thinking. “Nobody was left in the building last night. Still, our man took the elevator or used the staircase. In both instances, you need a magnetic ID. Each use is registered and time stamped.”

  “I’ve already asked about that,” Erwan told her. “No one used an ID before the cleaning crew this morning.”

  “Then it’s Desiderio who let him in. Jean-Luc is a moron, but he’s right about one thing. The victim knew her killer. Just like Meyer knew him. Maybe we’ll luck out tracking down their mutual acquaintances.”

  “You think our man came here to shut Desiderio up so she couldn’t identify him?”

  Eva took a moment to think.

  “That’s quite possible, actually. But still, there are too many details that don’t add up. All that’s certain is, he’ll do it again.”

  She pushed herself off the wall and began walking.

  Leroy followed.

  “But then,” he insisted, “What are we focusing on, exactly?”

  “The ritual,” Eva said. “That’s the key. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it. We need to understand what’s going on in our killer’s mind, why he’s doing this. Why cutting up girls turns him on so much.”

  Flashing their badges, they made their way past the officers screening the entrance, and Eva dove into the elevator.

  “Wait, I’m going with you,” Leroy said, following her inside. Eva pressed the button for the ground floor.

  “So, what are you going to tell him?” he asked as they slowly went down the eight floors.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what. We’re meeting with the boss this afternoon, and you already know what question he’s going to ask.”

  Of course Eva knew. She just had no idea what she was going to say.

  “He’ll want to know if there’s a link to the Salaville case,” she said. “And if there is a link, he’ll want to know how I managed to fuck up that much last year.”

  “That’s exactly what I meant,” Leroy said.

  “And if I can’t serve something real convincing to him, he’s not going to be a happy camper.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Leroy said. “The media’s going to go ape shit over this. We’d better bring our A game, and sooner rather than later.”

  “What do you want me to say? I missed something last year. Something huge. And the worst of it is that I knew it somewhere in my head. It wouldn’t go away. And still, I closed my eyes. I didn’t concentrate on why the Salavilles mutilated and murdered all those girls. I investigated like Jean-Luc would have. And here’s the result. Our man is at it again. He had a one-year break. His psychosis must have reached an advanced stage by now.”

  “If that’s the case, then we all missed it, Eva. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.”

  “Tell that to Rudy,” she sighed.

  The elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open.

  Their faces grim, they made their way through the main lobby, now crawling with officers, then out to the avenue, crowded with reporters who were shouting out questions and taking photos. Eva swiped the mikes away as Leroy and she hurried by.

  Their cars were parked on the sidewalk, next to the rest of the official vehicles. An officer was guarding them. All around, pedestrians were streaming past, only one or two of them stopping to wonder what was going on in the building.

  Eva studied the faces of the passersby. It was not uncommon for murderers to return to the scene of their exploits to relive the high, the ecstasy. But what type of killer were they dealing with this time?

  A new type of killer?

  Why is that idea making you so uncomfortable?

  Suddenly, in the middle of the pedestrians, Eva spotted the little girl with white hair.

  A six-year-old girl in a black dress.

  Her eyes like two chasms of blood.

  Eva felt a cold sweat on the back of her neck. She felt as though a heavy hand was pressing on her heart.

  You’re not real.

  The little girl turned her head. A woman leaned toward her to help her blow her nose. This was no ghost who’d come to terrify her on the sidewalk. Through the screen of her sunglasses, her eyes were playing tricks on her again. The girl’s dress was pale blue, not black. Her hair wasn’t white, either, but blond and frizzy. As for her face, it was sprinkled with freckles. Even from afar, she looked nothing like Justyna. Her mother grabbed her hand, and they walked through the doors of the shopping mall.

  “Eva?” It was Leroy’s voice. “Eva? You okay?”

  She detected a hint of worry in her colleague’s tone. She turned to him. He was scrutinizing her.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no. Sorry, my mind just got away from me for a second.”

  Still, she watched the sidewalk for a few more moments.

  Quit dreaming, will you? There was no little girl with white hair.

  There never had been any.

  Nowhere, except in her own head.

  “I’m sorry. I kind of lost it there. I’ve been away from work for two months, I just need a little time to readjust.”

  “I can’t blame you for being affected,” Leroy said. “Those murders, they’re a real bloodbath.”

  The word struck Eva.

  “A bloodbath, right. That’s what the pathologist said too. The killer literally bathed in the blood.”

  “Yes, so what?”

  “Maybe it’s stupid, but I’ve got to check something out,” Eva told him.

  “Need any help?”

  “No thanks, you’re sweet. I’ll catch you back at Central this afternoon. And if you need to reach me…”

  “I know,” Leroy said. “You’re always reachable.”

  “Night and day.”

  The officer returned to the building.

  Eva got into her car. She was still thinking.

  A bloodbath…

  She believed she was dealing with a new type of killer, yes. But what if she were wrong? What if the killer, on the contrary, was abiding by a very, very old ritual?

  Why the hell hadn’t she thought of it before?

  22

  Toulouse

  Saturday, 7:50 a.m.

  Alexandre Vauvert was struggling in a nightmare when the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds jerked him away.

  He massaged his temples. How long had he slept? Probably no more than an hour or two. He was on the couch, as usual. The volume on the television was turned way down. He fumbled for the remote and flipped through the music videos, cartoons and infomercials until he found a news channel running a weather report. Rain and more rain. Great.

  As he sat up, his ill-treated spine sent a bolt of pain down his back.

  “Holy shit,” he grumbled, trying to stretch.

  The memory of his nightmare was dissolving. Still, the unpleasant sensation lingered at the edge of his mind.

  Eyes.

  Watching?

  Was that it? Yes. He had dreamed of eyes that shone like crimson flames. They were stalking him from behind a maze of mirrors. He had dreamed of lithe figures with glistening fur.

  Wolves?

  He shivered.

  Wolves, yes.

  What the fuck?

  His phobias were coming back. Those old fears were looking for a crack in his mind where they could get in and take over. He did not intend to let them do that. He figured he might mention the nightmare to Christophe, the precinct shrink, at his annual consult.

  Until then, he would avoid thinking about it. He really hated those four-legged beasts.

  Off the couch, he set to gathering the empty beer can
s. He piled them in a box that he would take downstairs for the recycling later. He turned on the coffee machine and made his way to the bathroom.

  On the television, a reporter was covering a murder in Paris. A body had been discovered in the thirteenth arrondissement. It had been a particularly grisly slaying.

  Alexandre Vauvert, his head under the scalding spray of the shower, was not paying attention.

  Fifteen minutes later, dry, shaved, and still wrapped in his bathrobe, he was back on the couch. He set his coffee mug on the table and popped two aspirins. Then the image on the screen caught his attention.

  Eva.

  That was her all right. Inspector Eva Svärta, on television.

  She was wearing the same black leather jacket she had last year. Her white hair was a bit shorter now, curling around her porcelain face and framing those dark glasses.

  She was elbowing past reporters, walking with a colleague, a young guy in a beige knee-length leather coat.

  Vauvert fished under a cushion for the remote and turned up the volume.

  The camera panned several police cars parked on the sidewalk before focusing back on the reporter, a blond bimbo with too much makeup and teeth too white to be real. She brandished an enormous mike with unwavering enthusiasm. Behind her was what appeared to be the entrance to a building blocked off by a police cordon.

  Never dropping her plastic-doll smile, the reporter went on.

  “I’m standing in front of the Chick magazine offices, in the heart of the thirteenth arrondissement. It was here, in one of the editorial rooms, that one hour ago the cleaning personnel discovered the lifeless body of Audrey Desiderio, the renowned journalist. Her assailant mutilated her with extreme brutality.”

  Vauvert listened closely, his face becoming grimmer with each word.

  “While homicide investigators are refusing to comment, a source close to the police has informed us that this murder is likely one of two identical slayings. The other victim is a twenty-year-old woman whose identity has not been revealed to us yet, but whose body was found earlier this morning.”

  Vauvert searched for his cell. His found it under the couch.