Nothing to Fear, page 2
But even her request to stop, because she was lost, didn't touch the heart of the dark-haired, sallow-faced man behind the wheel.
He gave her a world-weary shrug and drove on, rivulets of water swishing up from the wheels as he traversed a puddle. Only as he passed did she realize he was on the phone, talking rapidly into the speaker, unwilling to stop his conversation to help her.
"Cochon," she muttered. It made her feel better to call him a pig, made her feel like for once she could fling an insult, if only in that narrow alleyway, while talking to a random stranger who couldn't hear her and whose car had already passed.
Having a father who was a career politician meant she had to keep a tight rein on her tongue and temper, neither of which usually liked to be controlled. But since her father's appointment as an ambassador, which had taken the family to Italy, Great Britain, and Turkey in the past ten years, before arriving back in France, she'd had to learn some tough lessons in diplomacy herself.
Now, at the age of twenty-one and supposedly an adult, she was realizing the world wasn't free, and that she still couldn't do what she wanted or behave how she liked. Except now, briefly, and anonymously, to that inconsiderate driver who hadn't even bothered to help her. She stuck out her tongue at him, knowing he wouldn't even notice, that he had forgotten about her the instant he’d passed by.
Claudette stepped off the precarious sidewalk and back into the road, frowning in concentration as she pieced together where she was now.
She was becoming more and more convinced that the boulangerie was on the parallel street. So all she had to do was find the next cross street, and turn down it.
There was one, up ahead, and it seemed to go in the right direction - never a certainty in the warren of alleys and side roads that crisscrossed central Paris.
This tiny roadway was a footpath only, too narrow for any car to drive down. Ahead, she could see the crossroad at its end was wider and better lit, bustling with people and cars. But in this passage, she would be all alone. Was it safe?
Then she saw something, a few yards inside the alleyway, that drew her eye. What was that?
Curious, she walked into the alleyway to look.
It was a golden statue of a man, naked except for a pair of golden shorts. Absolutely lifelike, and life size, standing with his head raised, and his arms slightly bent, palms turned to the sky. The gold shimmered in the dim light.
She blinked. Had he beckoned to her? Or had she totally imagined that. It had been only a moment when she thought she’d seen his fingers move. But looking again, at that stillness, she decided she’d been wrong. She didn’t think it was a real person.
What was it, she wondered. Was there a sculpture shop on the main street? Was this a discarded stage prop from the theater that she thought she remembered was close to here? Had it been thrown out into this alley? It didn't look damaged, though. Not broken in any way. In fact, it looked pristine.
There was something about its pose that intrigued her. A feeling of desperation restrained, of violence contained. It was beautiful, each muscle defined, but there was a definite element of threat there that brought her uneasiness bubbling to the surface again.
As she approached, wanting to look more closely, she frowned. It was incredibly lifelike. Surely it couldn't be a real person?
Why would a real person pretending to be a statue be here, in this narrow, deserted passageway? Why not posing on a pedestal on the main street nearby?
Besides, it was utterly still. This statue wasn't moving. Wasn't even visibly breathing.
The eyes would tell her, she decided, stepping closer.
How she wished she had her camera with her. Damn her phone’s useless battery; she'd have loved to take a photo of it. Real or not, that pose was troubling and fascinating all at once.
She walked closer. Was it real?
"Es-tu vivant?" she asked aloud. Are you alive?
The statue remained immobile, and it was as if her words had no effect at all.
Touching him would tell her. The feel of flesh, or of cold, solid metal would decide this once and for all. Feeling suddenly impudent, as if she wanted to push the boundaries - or maybe it was that she was feeling more confident now that she had her bearings again - she stepped forward.
As she reached out to touch his arm, his hands moved. Faster than thought. Faster than she could imagine. In a golden blur.
Claudette would have screamed in shock, but she couldn't. His hands, those gold painted fingers, were wrapped tightly around her throat.
In a panic, she began to struggle, but although the fingers were flesh, they were as strong as steel, and her air was totally cut off. There was no escape. No way to scream. No way to breathe.
And finally, his gaze fixed on her.
The cold, merciless light in his eyes was the last thing she saw as darkness rushed in.
CHAPTER ONE
For the past two months, FBI special agent Juliette Hart had felt as if she was tracking an elusive shadow. A disappearing demon. Until a new lead had brought her here.
Now, if this raid went the way she hoped it would, she would confront him at last.
"You can't vanish forever," she muttered, addressing this invisible man, nicknamed Goldenface by the team. Finally, they had a chance at catching this creepy killer who had terrorized the wider area. A month ago, there had been three murders in the space of a week, all the same MO. One in Brooklyn, one in lower Manhattan, and one in Jersey City.
She’d worked night and day on the case, desperately hoping for a breakthrough that would lead her team to this elusive killer. The murders had stopped, and he’d seemingly vanished. Now, finally, they had a lead that might bring them to his doorstep.
Taking a deep breath and checking her surroundings yet again, she stepped closer to the apartment building that was just a few miles from JFK Airport, so close that you could hear the roar of the airplanes overhead.
She felt the way she always did when she was getting close to cornering an adversary. It was a breathless blend of adrenaline, terror, and excitement. When she'd been a younger agent, that feeling had been overpowering. She'd felt shaken and unable to sleep for days after a job.
Now, at the age of thirty-three, she could handle the pressure better. That wasn’t surprising, since she was so committed to her work and everything it involved, barely having a social life outside of it. That was something that occasionally worried her. She knew she needed to change things, to achieve a better balance in life. She loved cooking, and she’d always wanted to learn how to play a musical instrument, but somehow there was never time.
She breathed in and out, deeply, forcing herself to stay calm and focused, lifting a hand to brush away a lock of honey blonde hair that had come loose from her ponytail. Her eyes, a warm hazel green, were hidden behind dark glasses. She herself, at this stage of the mission, was in plainclothes, wearing navy chinos and a gray jacket, blending in with the stream of office workers who were leaving the commercial parts of the city and heading home.
They'd been hunting him for weeks, but it was only in the last few days that things had moved fast on the Goldenface case. At this very moment, at the FBI headquarters, they were organizing an emergency no-knock warrant that would allow her to do what she needed to - break into this apartment, and hopefully surprise the man inside.
Her partner, agent Evan Forrester, was around the back of the apartment building, watching the fire exit. She trusted him implicitly. They'd been in several tough situations in the fourteen months they'd worked together. Every time, he'd had her back and vice-versa.
Backup would be arriving any minute as soon as she'd confirmed the coast was clear and that he didn't have a lookout watching for the police.
They needed to corral this man, this killer. She had her gun and handcuffs under her jacket. She was ready.
Juliette looked around again, taking in every detail, every aspect of the scene. Movement caught her eye and her gaze sharpened. But it was only a cat, jumping down from a side wall and then leaping up, through the window of a neighboring apartment. For a moment, as she watched the animal, her face softened and she felt some of the tension inside her ease.
The cat had a collar, he looked well fed, and he was clearly going where he belonged. He had a home and he was okay, so she could put it out of her mind. In the past, she had been known to arrive back from takedowns with rescue animals in tow. Two of her police friends now had new pets as a result of strays she'd picked up, after the criminals were caught. But hopefully, she'd only be going home with one living thing today - and that was Goldenface, around whom, finally, the net was closing.
Turning her attention away from the cat, she refocused on the scene. Her phone buzzed, and after another check, she answered it discreetly. Nobody was watching her. She had good instincts and could usually tell if someone’s eyes were on her. And nobody had come out of, or into, the apartment that was now in her sights.
"Any sign of him yet?" a man’s voice queried.
"Nope. No sign," she answered. The caller was her boss, Mark Ebury, who had just landed from a high-level meeting in Atlanta. "We're watching the apartment. Awaiting the warrant. Backup’s on its way."
"You sure it's the right place?" he asked.
"Yes. We got the lead earlier today. We've been tracking him down via his purchases. The stage make-up store in Newark was a definite match. Unfortunately they didn't get video footage, but they alerted us last week, and told us that he’d called again, asking if there was more gold paint in stock. It was definitely the same person because the saleswoman asked him when he’d last bought from them. The store did a good job; they thought fast, and he slipped up.”
It had been a stroke of luck for the team.
“So, we were able to get a cellphone number for him. We tracked it immediately, but it was turned off,” she finished.
"How did you trace it there?"
"We kept checking up on it, every day, many times. We didn’t leave it alone. The team kept working on it," Juliette said in a low voice. "We didn't give up on that phone number, and on Monday morning, we saw it was turned on and had come onto the network again. It wasn't on for long, but it was long enough for us to triangulate it, and now, here we are."
Juliette wished this could have been done faster, but it had taken a couple of days to pull this raid together. They’d watched the apartment on and off, but had seen no movement, no comings and goings. They’d concluded he was holed up in there.
Today, Thursday, they’d finally been able to go ahead with it.
"Sounds good," her boss said. "I'd better let you get on."
Her phone buzzed again with an incoming message.
"The warrant's just been issued, so we can go in," she told Ebury, her heart now beating faster because at last, after a frustrating delay, this raid could begin. The next few minutes would be where she could make a critical difference.
"Good luck. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how important this is," he said.
"I won't let you down," she promised. She hung up, and sent the message that would start this operation moving.
"It's clear," she messaged. "We can go in."
A lot rested on her shoulders now, and she concentrated hard on calming her mind, channeling the pressure she felt into a positive force. This was about saving the lives of future victims she didn’t even know. She knew firsthand about the consequences of a violent murder. The families would suffer pain, grief, and loss that would never leave them.
A minute later, she saw the two armed officers who would provide backup approaching. Dressed in Kevlar vests, and with their weapons at the ready, she knew she had an experienced team behind her and drew confidence from that fact.
“Morning,” she greeted them. “Let’s get this done.”
Now, it was time to go in. That also meant things could go badly wrong. She took off the plainclothes jacket she'd used for her ruse, and put on a Kevlar vest herself.
Her hand brushed against the holster that held her gun, and she felt ready.
This was it. Time to move into the place where he was hiding, and see what was there.
The officers nodded at her, and they all moved in. The door was locked, but Juliette had no intention of alerting the suspect by knocking on it. Instead, she backed up, and the officers took position.
The door was old and battered looking, as if this wasn't the first time in its long life it had met the edge of a boot. Juliette sized up the lock. At five-six, she was tall enough to kick in a door effectively, and she'd had lots of practice in the past. She might not be overly muscular in build, but she was deceptively strong for her size.
She jogged at it, then coiled herself, sprang, and let her foot lash out in a brutally hard, accurate kick.
With a splintering of wood, the door burst inward. Shoving it all the way back, gun at the ready, Juliette led the way in. Breathing hard, all her senses were on a razor’s edge of sharpness. What would she find? She knew she had to be ready for anything, but couldn't allow herself to act in the moment in such a way that would endanger anyone innocent.
Her first impression: it was deadly quiet in here. And very dark. The blinds were down, and muted light filtered in from the small gaps.
The apartment looked to be entirely vacant. No furniture, no bed, no belongings, or clothing on the dusty floor. The door leading to the tiny bedroom and bathroom was open. Nobody inside. She felt devastated. He’d been ahead of them and he’d fled the area, leaving nothing behind.
Nothing, apart from a few tins of gold stage paint, stacked next to the window.
Lying on top, she saw, with a sinking of her heart, was a cellphone, its screen blank and dead.
"Where is he?" one of the cops behind her muttered in a baffled voice. "He's gone? Moved?"
They were too late. She knew it with a terrible coldness. Had he left any clues? Was there any information on that abandoned phone?
A buzzing in her pocket. It was Ebury, calling her again. She picked up, feeling devastated that there wouldn't be good news to report. But before she could do more than say hello, Ebury spoke, his voice urgent and strained.
"Juliette, you need to get in here, now. He's killed again!"
As she took the news in with a gasp, he continued, doubling the bombshell.
"There's been an identical murder called in last night. In Paris, France."
CHAPTER TWO
As she walked through the entrance door of the FBI’s head office in Manhattan, Juliette felt utterly shocked by the news of this latest murder. She felt haunted, as if this was personal, as if those paint tins and that phone had been left there deliberately to taunt her, to show her how far behind she was, and that Goldenface was miles ahead.
Never mind miles ahead, he was a continent away. Goldenface had gone to Paris? Was this really correct? It couldn't be a copycat crime?
Questions whirled in her mind. She'd come straight from the scene, as soon as she and Forrester had completed the apartment search and put together their report. Forensic officers had still been there, hunting for any trace evidence, any fingerprints, that might narrow down this suspect. They had conducted the search mostly in silence, exchanging only a few brief words. She knew Forrester felt as devastated as she did.
In France? Surely not.
But it would explain that abandoned phone. He'd left it behind, jettisoned it. The battery had run down soon afterward and he’d been long gone. Now, she was wondering about that call he’d made last week to the stage make-up store. He hadn’t needed more paint; he had been about to leave New York. It wasn't that he’d made a mistake because he'd known he wouldn't need the phone anymore.
Instead, she perceived it as a taunting message to the police, telling them how far ahead he was. Juliette felt sure of it.
Heading inside the tall building, with its workmanlike façade of dark concrete, and the U.S. flag flying from the top, Juliette went straight to the elevator and up to the third floor where her unit, and her boss Ebury, had their offices.
As she headed along the corridor, it felt like her heart was all the way down in the building’s basement. She'd had hopes for this raid. Now, they were crushed. Worse, he was at large in another country and he’d killed again. Would this mean he’d resume the same pattern as before? Three kills in a week?
Please, no, she thought. We have to catch him first.
She went straight to the boardroom, knowing that the urgent meeting she'd been called in for would take place there.
Ebury was already in the room, standing at the far end of the long table, talking quietly to two of the other agents. He turned as she entered.
"Juliette. Come in, I need to brief you."
She moved over to the table, her heart sinking further as she saw the two men in suits who were also present. She knew them by sight, from security and crime briefings. Up until now she hadn't sat around a table with either of these two high level officials, one of whom was head of the international operations division of the FBI, and the other from the director's office.
Ebury made quick, brisk introductions. "Take a seat," he told her.
She sat down, next to him and opposite the other two men. The two men were murmuring to each other in low, urgent tones. Juliette caught her own name, and Ebury's, and the words 'interagency cooperation.'
"Shall we start?" Ebury asked, and in a moment he had everyone's attention.
"As you know, we're facing a serious problem," Ebury said, his face strained. "Goldenface has left the U.S. and crossed over to Europe. Last night he committed a murder in Paris."
"Is it definitely his work?" Juliette asked.
Ebury nodded. "I'll show you the photos. They were sent to us when the Interpol database picked up on the similarity in the crimes. Female, in her twenties, walking alone near a central area in the city, and you can see for yourself that the MO is identical. What makes it more serious, though, is that this time, he’s killed a government minister’s daughter. That’s why they called us immediately.”
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