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.