“Members only,” the doorman said.

“Our friend recommended this place. He said we could use his name,” John lied.

“Who?”

“Mr. Dupont,” John said. “Daniel Dupont.”

The man said nothing. Good sign, John thought. He knew Daniel.

“You can’t get in without women,” the man finally said. “There’s a ratio to respect.”

“We just want to watch,” John insisted.

The man shook his head. “It’s not going to be possible,” he said again, closing the door behind him.

Douche, John thought.

“Come on, John,” Sovann said. “Let’s find a couple of hookers. Shouldn’t be too difficult around here.”

They walked back to where they’d come from and spotted two women in tight mini-skirts, cheap leather boots and fake fur coats. One white woman and one black woman, both smoking and chewing gum loudly.

“Wanna have fun, guys?” the white woman said.

“How much?” John asked.

“Two hundred. But you’re cute, so I give you a discount. One fifty and I pay for the room,” she said.

The price was too high and John knew it. It was bullshit. But they needed to get in.

“A hundred and we let you get in a private club,” Sovann said. “A very chic one.”

“No fucking?” the black woman said.

“No,” John said. “Just to get in a club.”

The two women looked at each other and shrugged. Good deal for them, John thought.

“I take the Chinese one,” the black woman said.

“I’m Cambodian,” Sovann corrected.

“Sorry, Chinaman,” the black woman said with a grin.

“We won’t spend the night with them,” John said to calm down his partner. “Don’t pay attention.”

“I know,” Sovann said. “It’s okay. I got it, man.” Sovann grabbed John’s wrist and then pulled his own wallet out of his pocket. He was aware of his partner’s financial situation since the divorce. He was more than a colleague to John. He was a real friend.

“Thanks,” John said. “I’ll buy you a drink inside if we get a chance.”

The two new couples arrived in front of Le Club Coquin and John knocked again. The doorman opened and stared at them for about thirty seconds.

“Four hundred,” he said.

“What?” John and Sovann said at the same time.

“A hundred each. Four people, so four hundred to get in,” the doorman said, waiting.

John scratched his chin. There was no way they were going to spend that much money to get in, especially since they’d already paid for the girls. It gave him an idea.

“Listen, man,” he said, changing his tone from polite office worker to street hustler. “You let us in for free, just me and my friend. You keep the girls. You get a hundred discount on each one of them. That’s what we’ve already paid.”

John stared at him, then at the girls. The hookers said nothing, as if it didn’t matter to them. The doorman didn’t think too long. He nodded and moved out of the way, motioning John and Sovann to get inside. The girls stayed at the door with him and waved goodbye to the two Detectives.

“Bye, Chinaman!” they heard behind them.

Sovann grabbed the butt of his gun, ready to blow out the bitch’s brain, but John put his hand on his shoulder to ease the tension. “Easy, man,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Inside, the light was dim. Everything was clean and neat. John was surprised. He’d expected something more outrageous. Something dark and raw. But everything looked like a regular club. There were sofas where men were chatting with women, and a bar. The only sign that they were in a fetish club was the way women were dressed – latex uniforms and stilettos. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary.

John noticed a couple of doors in back, though. Probably leading to more exotic and kinky rooms, he thought. He headed for the bar where he ordered two beers. He and Sovann raised their glasses and drank the fresh brews.

“Cheers,” the both said.

“Where do we start?” Sovann said after a while.

John looked around. Everybody was busy but the bar was empty. It’s not going to be easy, he thought. Then he turned back and nodded at the barmaid.

“Let’s start with her,” he said.

He called to the petite brunette behind the counter. She was probably in her mid-forties and dragged her feet when John asked her to come over.

“Excuse me,” John said. “It’s our first time here.”

“I can tell,” she said, standing there with a corkscrew in her hand. She looked impatient, as if she was busy as hell. John and Sovann were the only clients at the bar, though.

“How does it work?” Sovann asked.

“Depends what you want,” the barmaid said. She sounded annoyed.

“What’s on the menu?” John asked.

“What do you guys do for a living?” she said.

“High-level management for a bank,” John lied.

She shrugged. “Hum. Too much pressure at work. Too many responsibilities. Tired of being the boss. Right?”

John and Sovann looked at each other briefly.

Sovann nodded. “Right,” he said.

“So you should spend time with a mistress,” she said. “She’ll help you release the stress and the burden of being in charge.”

“Is that what men in our position usually do?” John asked. “They come here to be, what’s the word? Dominated?”

She nodded as if it was obvious. “Of course.”

John frowned. It didn’t match.

“Our good friend told us to come here to blow off some steam,” John said. “Daniel Dupont.”

She nodded. “He’s a regular.”

“He’s not a dominant type?” Sovann asked.

She laughed. “Are you kidding me? He’s a pussy. Too soft to be a dom. He tried one time. The woman said he was as tough as a ballerina.”

John and Sovann looked at each other again. That new piece of information was seriously compromising their theory. Despite being a tyrant at work, Daniel Dupont was a puppy in the bedroom. Not a Casanova, nor a potential cold-blooded killer.

John thanked the woman and asked for the bill.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “It’s not what we were expecting but we’ve got what we were looking for.”

The barmaid came back with the check. John read the amount twice. Fifty euros for two miserable beers. Welcome to Paris by night, he thought.

8

The Dark Stallion put his knife and fork on his plate, and pushed it away. The meal had been delicious. But he was far from satisfied. The best was still to come. He raised his balloon glass and took a sip of wine. Over the edge, he looked at Charlotte Bois, straight in the eyes and nodded. Her lips were moving fast and her hands were gesturing in front of her. The Dark Stallion didn’t hear a single word of what she was saying but pretended it was the most interesting conversation he’d had in months.

Charlotte was talking about work. She was a smart, driven and dedicated woman. So much so that she’d been managing the whole IT department of Crédit Parisien for five years now, even though she’d never worked in the banking industry before.

The Dark Stallion had just finished working on a big project with her, and it was now time to celebrate. She was all excited about how the new software he had helped to implement would reduce their costs and improve the work-flow between IT and finance.

She kept on saying how amazed she was. The Dark Stallion had been able to do in a just few weeks what they had been trying to do for months. He was awesome. He was so funny. She couldn’t believe he was still single.

He was used to hearing all of that. He’d heard it before. Many times, in many cities around France. Paris was going to be his masterpiece. He had never been caught. It was so easy to fool the police, they were so dumb. He’d killed eight women already, in different big cities. It was a game for him and he had created the rules.

All of his victims had been impressed by how smart and knowledgeable he was. As a successful freelance IT consultant in the finance and banking industry, he could afford to name his price with his clients. He was that good. That was part of his secret. Women were impressed by his independence, his boldness and his confidence. He had everything.