He went into a café and ordered a hot chocolate. He liked to blend in with the crowd. Bastille’s area was always lively and there was always something to watch. He could start a conversation with a lonely woman sitting next to him. Or watch the people around him. Or exchange phone numbers with tourists. He could always find something to do. Beautiful and smart women were everywhere. He just needed to pay attention.

After half an hour, he paid the bill and left. He kept wandering the whole afternoon but didn’t talk to anyone. It was getting late. Nothing interesting. Or maybe he wasn’t in the mood anymore. After all, sleeping with Liliane before killing her had been exhausting. He came three times with her. Two times when she was still alive. One more time after.

Taking random chances with strangers in the streets wasn’t the best use of his time. The best probabilities were always at work, with coworkers. And he was just a few hours away from Monday morning, when the hunt would start again.

Just an average Sunday night in Paris.

He headed for the metro. He didn’t want to take a taxi. He wanted to be lost in the crowd, be elbow-to-elbow with innocent people while walking away from a crime scene. That was freedom.

He started to feel cold and walked more quickly into the bowels of the Parisian metro. He didn’t see the tall man coming up in front of him, and they bumped into each other.

“Excuse me,” the tall man said.

The Dark Stallion said nothing. He grunted and simply glanced at him without a word. The man was pretty strong. The Dark Stallion wasn’t hurt, but still a bit shocked by the impact.

The tall man had short black hair, a little bit of beard and a strong jaw. He was wearing a gray hoodie and black sweatpants, with white sneakers. Probably coming from the gym or something. And he was eating a baguette.

“I said excuse me; you don’t know how to say sorry or what?” the tall man said behind him.

The Dark Stallion looked away and just kept walking. Parisians were so rude.

Asshole.

3

John climbed up the stairs to get out of the metro station. He turned left and took rue de la Roquette. He could see the police cars and the ambulance blocking the street ahead. Pedestrians were gathered all around, all taking pictures and videos with their cell-phones.

“Police. Police, excuse me,” John said, elbowing his way through the crowd. “God damn it, get that phone out of my face,” he said, pushing people aside.

“John! Over here,” Sovann said when he saw him. “This is Detective Montclair, he’s with us,” he said to the man in uniform blocking the way.

They shook hands and walked up to the woman’s apartment. It was a modern two bedroom flat, decorated with lots of glass and wood.

“This way,” Sovann said, flashing his thumb in the direction of the bedroom.

The victim was naked, on her stomach, with her hands handcuffed behind her back. Her legs were spread apart and John saw her intimate parts right away. She was in good shape. Not overweight, not skinny. Healthy. Her skin was covered with red candle wax. Mostly on her back and her ass.

John walked to the side of the bed to see her face. She was bluish-purple. No doubt about the cause of death. John looked around the room. Everything seemed in place and tidy. Whoever had killed her had sneaked in or was invited. She hadn’t been fighting with her murderer. Her clothes were neatly folded on an armchair. Her purse was on her desk. Her laptop was still turned on, playing soft music. Candles had been lit in different corners of the room. Nothing broken.

“Looks like she was having fun with someone before it turned bad for her,” John said.

Sovann crossed his arms. “She’s been raped too. Kind of.”

“What? Doesn’t look like a rape scene to me,” John said, squinting at his partner.

“The medical examiner says there was sexual intercourse before her death. And after as well.”

“A maniac,” John whispered. “Pubic hair? Semen? Anything?”

“Of course not,” said Sovann with a dry smile. “It would make our job too easy.”

“Who is she?”

“Liliane Genet. Forty-one. Head of securities for Groupe Finaris.”

“A banker,” John said. “Where’s her sister?”

Sovann motioned his head to the side. “Kitchen. She needed something strong. We found her some Vodka in the living room.”

“I hope she’s still sober. I need to ask her a few questions,” John said, walking to the kitchen.

“Her name is Amandine Blanc,” Sovann said.

John nodded and went in the kitchen.

“I’m Detective Johnathan Montclair. I’m sorry for your sister,” John said, extending a hand as he approached her.

“Amandine Blanc,” she said, shaking his hand. John noticed a ring on her left hand. She and Liliane looked very similar. She didn’t seem drunk yet but her gaze looked empty. Still in shock, he thought.

“You might want to stop with the vodka for now. When did you talk to your sister for the last time?”

“Yesterday,” Amandine said. “Just to confirm about tonight’s dinner.”

“Did she mention anything about her plans for today?”

“She said she’d see a friend.”

“No name?”

Amandine shook her head. “I just know she was quite… active.”

John frowned. “Can you be more specific?” he asked.

“She’s been divorced for a couple of years. She said she felt free. She’s had quite a number of partners since then, if you know what I mean.”

“Did she have a favorite way of finding these partners? Dating websites maybe?” Sovann asked.

Amandine shook her head again. “She couldn’t. Not with her professional position. Having her profile published on the Internet was too dangerous.”

“Did she tell you how she met her partners then? Did she go to speed-dating events, or any place where she could meet single men?” John said.

“She didn’t have time, and I really don’t picture her attending that kind of thing. Most likely, she met them at work,” Amandine said before taking another sip of vodka.

John and Sovann asked a few more questions and left Amandine alone.

“What do you think?” Sovann asked. “You think she’s telling the truth?”

“What’s your gut feeling?” John said.

“I think she’s telling the truth.”

John nodded. “Me too…”

“First thing in the morning tomorrow, we’ll have to go to her office. But we need to keep the media away from the case. I’m afraid the bank’s PR department might give us some BS,” Sovann said.

“You’re right. Can you deal with that? Talk to the neighbors. Make them understand they must shut their mouths. We don’t want the identity of the victim all over the news. The murderer will think he’s becoming a celebrity.”

Sovann nodded and left the apartment. John went back to the bedroom and sighed. He glanced at Liliane’s naked body. Her ass in particular. The murderer was a man of taste. He loved beautiful and curvy women. And most likely, he was attractive in women’s eyes too.

Liliane had money and social status. She had choice. The murderer had had permission to be in her bed. He’d been tested and approved. He wasn’t an average Joe; probably someone with equal status, or smart enough to be up to her standards. He hadn’t killed her like a barbarian. No weapons involved. No blood. He had made love to her first and only then killed her, once she felt safe enough to let him handcuff her.

John walked around the bedroom but didn’t find anything of interest. He approached her desk and looked inside her purse. Her cell-phone was still inside. She hadn’t bothered to take it out; probably too busy with her lover.

John grabbed the phone. It was password protected. Of course. He went back to the kitchen and nodded at Amandine.

“Excuse me. Do you know your sister’s PIN code by any chance?” he asked.

She rolled up her eyes, thinking. “Try 4990 maybe…”