“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.