The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) (14 page)

“Oh, I got her,” Beth informed Melinda.

“You got her?!  Pascal Noir?! Oh my god, that’s amazing!”

“Yeah, she’s coming by the hotel tomorrow, we’re gonna sign her and we are going home golden.  We did it.”

“Awesome!!”

Melinda jumped up and down with uncontrollable excitement.  Melinda’s inability to filter herself was one of the main reasons Beth liked her.  She grabbed Beth and hugged her so hard she spilled her drink on Fulvio’s suit.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Melinda cried, taking hold of Fulvio’s arm, frantically patting it down with a napkin.

“Benne.  Benne.  If only you had spilled it down my throat, then it would be a party,” he grinned.

“We’ll save that for later,” Melinda smiled mischievously.  As she dabbed Fulvio’s arm with her napkin, he put a hand on her hip and when she was finished, she put a hand on his and they pulled each other close.  Beth figured this was her time to make her gracious exit and go back to the hotel and get some sleep.  If she could.  The adrenalin from scoring the hottest designer at Paris Fashion Week was still blasting through her and she felt so wired like a high speed train, she might not sleep the rest of the week.

“Is this man bothering you?”  a British voice called from behind her.  She half turned to see a man in his early thirties with a goatee, built like a rugby player, stocky but manly, dressed in a nice suit, two beers in his hand and a gleam of mischief in his blue eyes.  He handed one of the beers to Fulvio and broke out a wide and quirky grin at Melinda that was more than enough for Beth to know that this man was clearly a good time and probably a lot of trouble.  He hadn’t seen her yet, distracted by the closeness of Melinda and his friend, but Beth found herself tucking her hair behind her ear in a subconscious nervous reflex.

“Don’t mind him, he’s Italian,” the British man said.  Beth felt goose bumps run down her arms as the man stood beside her and their shoulders touched. He was nowhere near her type, but she found herself smiling uncontrollably and laughed to herself at her lack of control. 

“Can’t I have one night without you ruining everything for me?” Fulvio asked the Englishman.  Like all men who were close, they bonded through regular insults.

“No,” the Brit said and took a gulp of his beer, then flashed a mischievous smile.

“This animal is my friend, Jason,” Fulvio said, introducing him to Melinda, with whom he shook hands immediately.

“Nice to meet you.  Has he been whispering sweet nothings in your ear, luv?”

“I wouldn’t call what he’s been whispering ‘sweet’ but I hope it isn’t ‘nothing’.” Melinda replied, blushing a little.

“They’re not subtle, these Italians.” Jason grinned.  Melinda pointed to Beth.

“This is Beth. She’s my boss, which is weird cos she’s actually cool.”

Jason turned and locked eyes with Beth. For the briefest moment she saw all his cool and bravado hijacked by shock and surprise as he took in the sight of her.  She was used to having a reaction on men, despite feeling uncomfortable completely undeserving of it, but the look in their eyes usually became predatory and gave her an instant flight reaction.  What she saw in the Brit’s eyes was like that of seeing an old friend again and in that moment she felt like he was seeing who she was beneath the surface.  She liked that feeling.

“Hi,” he said, simply.

“Hi,” she stammered for a second, then seemed to regroup. Melinda caught the pause between them.

“And what do you do, Jason?  Are you a designer?” Melinda asked.

“Fuck no, I’m just here for the free booze.  I work at Reuters with this asylum seeker.”

Fulvio flipped a middle finger at him as Melinda giggled and slipped her hand down into his rear pants pocket, her fingers resting on his perfectly tight buttocks.

“Are you covering the show for the press?  I don’t really know what Reuters does, I’m sorry if that makes me sound like an idiot,” Beth asked, suddenly feeling like an idiot.

“No, we like to see which parties we can blag our way in to and how much we can drink before they throw us out,” Jason explained, matter of fact, then took another gulp of beer.

“This is the eighth party we’ve crashed this week- and it’s only Wednesday,” Fulvio beamed, proudly.  Jason never took his eyes off Beth.

“What do you do, Beth?  You look like a Big Apple power suit type.”

“Really?  You can tell all that just by looking at me?”

“I can tell by the East Coast accent and the power suit.  I could tell you more, but I don’t want to scare you with my amazing powers of deduction and utter lack of modesty.”

“You think I scare easily?”

“I don’t want to lose your interest this early.”

“You’re assuming I’m interested.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you still talking?”

Beth had no answer.  Instead, she raised her champagne glass and took a sip, glancing at Melinda.  The Englishman intrigued her but she couldn’t get past the fact he was not as in shape as the athletic types she usually went for, the ones who fed her insecurity and made her look good desirable in public. This was the first man she had met who had challenged her.  She was intrigued but didn’t want to show it.

“So you’re not in to fashion?”

“I know fuck all about fashion but I do know you look great in that dress.”

“OK.  I’ll play.  Let’s put these amazing powers of deduction to work.  Go ahead; take your best shot,” she teased.

“I’d say you’re pretty much drunk by early evening, hung over pretty much every morning.  Most guys you meet are boring, department store mannequins who look as good on you as they do in photos, but you secretly pine for the kind of bloke who can give you that one thing that keeps you from going and spending the night with your DVD collection.”

“And what is it that?”

“Someone who can banter.”

He took a triumphant gulp of beer as she considered a reply.

“If we were in New York I would’ve told you to fuck off by now.”

“Then say it and get it over with.”

“Alright, fuck off.”

“Feel better?  Good.  Let’s hit the dance floor.”

He took her by the arm, started leading her to the dance floor.

“Wait.  Melinda-” she called back as Jason pulled her through the crowd to where the music was louder.

“She’ll be fine.  He’s not a serial killer.

Chapter Twenty Six

Guillotine hurried out of the museum square carrying the easel and folding chairs under his arms.  The van was parked on a side street off the Rue de Rivoli.  He threw his equipment in the back, slipped in to his long brown raincoat and pulled up the collar against the night chill and to cover his face.  He hurried back across the busy main street, his heart beating with excitement.  He could barely contain his glee.  Finally, he had found her.  His last Angel.  She was exquisite.  And he would have her.

He jogged through the archway that led back in to the square and saw the other sketch artists were starting to pack up.  The vendors were dismantling their tents and stalls.  The night was coming proper and it was time now for celebration.  His work was just beginning tonight.  He took a vantage point on the opposite side of the museum exit, about a hundred feet away, with a clear view of the people spilling out of the Louvre in a steady stream, passing those who were going in for the next show.  The glass pyramid gleamed in the crisp night air, the water pools beneath it sharply reflecting its radiance.  The lights around the square created shadows in the alcoves beneath the arches of the building behind him.  He slipped in to an alcove and stayed there in the dark, trying to contain himself.  He liked it there.  But soon, he thought, he would have to stay in the dark no more.  He had lived there for far too long.  It was time to come out in to the light and reveal himself to the world.  All he needed was this last Angel and the Masterpiece would be complete.  He had felt the first creeping doubt enter his mind, making him want to reach inside his skull and scratch until he bled, but he knew down that road lay defeat.  He had to believe in himself.  Believe in his work, as any true artist had to in the face of defeat.  He had not settled for anything less than perfection to complete his grand work- his legacy.  And he had been right to do so.  Fate had drawn Beth to him and he knew now that everything would be alright.  He had renewed confidence in himself.  His faith had returned.

An hour later, he saw Beth finally emerge from the museum with another young woman and two men. The new girl was smaller, giggling uncontrollably, clearly having a good time and on track for a horrific hangover tomorrow.  The man she was clinging to looked Mediterranean, possibly Italian. He was dusky, tall and handsome.  Sharply dressed but he somehow did not seem to be part of the fashion crowd. He was too comfortable with himself, not at all self-conscious like many of the others he had seen tonight.

The other man- the one with Beth- was well built, husky and very pale with red lips that were almost vampiric.  Probably British or Irish.  He was making a point of not looking at her when he spoke and walking just a couple of steps ahead of her.  This, of course, was causing Beth to crane a little to catch up with him and get his attention.  Guillotine admired the tactic- he was clearly skilled in getting female attention and he had an air of confidence bordering on cocky.  The man turned and said something to Beth, breaking in to a grin, which, in turn, caused her to explode with laughter, her head tilted back and to the side as she looked over at her friend. Guillotine felt his heart explode.  She had been created by the angels herself.  To him, the lights in the square began to haze and flare and almost blinded him, the only focal point left was Beth.  He stepped out of the shadows, helplessly transfixed by her.

He hung there outside the alcove, a small moan escaping his open mouth as he gazed across the square at his prey.  People walked past him, paying him little attention.  How blind they were.  This woman was a work of art and the sketch he had made of her did her no justice at all and he felt ashamed of how he had failed her.  Then, just as his euphoria had surged uncontrollably through him, taking him to a state of grace, his eyes moved to the man with her and he was consumed with a bilious rage that exploded from his stomach and in to his throat, almost choking him.  Jealousy coursed through Guillotine with a fury he had never felt before.  He had encountered Angels with their male escorts in the past and they had meant nothing to him, he saw them simply as living breathing obstacles in his path to claim his prize.  Now he felt envy, a sensation that was completely new and terrifying to him.  It seemed like Beth liked this man and that made him feel powerless and Guillotine had not been powerless since the day he had emerged from the barn carrying the straight razor in to the farmhouse with his mind set on what he was going to do to Madeleine and Marie.  Guillotine was afraid.  More so now than he had been when he saw them putting Lara McBride in the back of an ambulance and she was still alive, still a threat.  People could be removed, destroyed, made obsolete.  Emotions were far more ethereal.  Nobody had control over those.  That was terrifying to him.

The haze from the lights dissipated and he stumbled back to the alcove, put a hand against the cold stone wall and threw up violently.  Beth and the others were walking out of the square and he would lose them if he didn’t hurry.  He wiped his mouth and moved out after them.  The fourth member of the group was a smaller, almost elfin sized cherub.  Dusky in complexion, she had a Spanish air about her, a full body and large expressive eyes.  Guillotine stopped, his attention torn between the two women.  He needed one more Angel, had to have her and the timing was crucial because his piece must be ready the same time as the exhibit in a couple of days.  He followed the group back out to the Rue de Rivoli and held back in the darkness of the archway that led to the street.

Beth and the pale man were talking by a cab, while the elfin girl held tight to the Italian.  She was trying to lead him away and Beth seemed unsure about them going their separate ways.  The pale man held the cab door open, a mischievous smile on his face, daring her to get in with him. He moved closer to hear them, careful to stay in the shadows.

“I’m a big girl, go back to the hotel.  I’ll see you tomorrow,” the cherub giggled, slurring.

“You sure?” Beth asked, absolutely not sure herself.

“Go!!” the cherub screamed, pulling the tall man with her down the other end of the street.

Beth turned back to the pale man.

“I can’t trust you at all, can I?” she teased.

“Of course not.  I’m British,” he grinned.  So charming.  Guillotine hated him.

“My father used to say, ‘tomorrow may be too late’” Beth said.

“What does that mean?” the pale Englishman asked, his confidence wavering for a second, not sure where she was going with this.

“It means get your ass in the car before I change my mind.”

He did as he was told and she followed him in.  The Mercedes cab took off in to the busy night.  Guillotine walked out of the archway and saw that Beth had dropped the sketch he had drawn of her.  It lay on the street, abandoned- like him- and he bent to pick it up and looked down the sidewalk to see the cherub and her beau crossing the street further down, arm in arm.

Guillotine cursed his luck.  He had been too late.  Now Beth was gone, but he knew where to find her- at the George Cinq hotel.  He could follow her there, but how would he get her out without being seen?  That would have to be planned.  It was too risky to barge in there and he had played every move smart since his work had begun and taking desperate risks now could jeopardize everything he had worked so hard for.  He had to find another way to get to her.  To lure her out of the hotel.  He turned his attention back to the cherub.  She would be excellent bait.

He ran back to the van, jumped in the driver’s seat and keyed the engine.  He drove around the block, his eyes scanning the sidewalks, looking for them.  They weren’t out on the main street.  He was approaching an alley that ran down the back of a strip of restaurants, bars and shops.  He slowed almost to a stop, looked down the alleyway and saw them, in a doorway, hands and mouths on each other.  He had her pinned against the back door of a Chinese restaurant from the looks of the symbols on the stone walls around them.  The doorway was recessed, so the cherub was out of sight, the man half in the alleyway.  Garbage had spilled out of the trash cans around them.  Classy place for a lustful encounter.  He eased the van on to the cobbles of the alley, his speed dropping down to barely two miles an hour.  A few seconds later and the van had reached them, stopping so they were trapped in the recessed doorway.  He put the handbrake on, climbed in the back and opened the toolbox.  He pulled out the cheese wire, took a breath, adrenalin pumping through him, his hands shaking.  He rolled the side door open, revealing the tall man’s back and he looped the cheese wire over the man’s head and around his neck and pulled as hard as he could.

The razor sharp wire went through the tall man’s neck like a hot knife through butter. Guillotine felt blood spray across his fingers and the man’s head rolled back, exposing his severed windpipe.  He made a gurgling sound, wet and desperate.  The cherub’s face was stained with blood and she was trying to comprehend what was happening.  Guillotine pulled the cheese wire off the tall man with one hand while his other hand reached down to the toolbox and took the chloroform doused rag.  The tall man fell to his knees, revealing the cherub, her eyes wide and filled with fear.  Her mouth opened, about to scream. 

“Without pain, there is no joy,” Guillotine told her as he leaned out of the van and put the rag to her face. 

It was beginning to rain as he slid the door shut and he thought of angels weeping- and Lara McBride.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Lara looked out at the city as Brouchard drove her through the bustling night traffic.  She felt sore, her head ached and her stomach was acidic.  She was hungry but the last thing she wanted to do was eat. 

“Tell me you remember exactly what he looks like so we can do a Photofit of his face,” Brouchard implored her.

“I don’t remember it clearly.  Everything’s a blur,” she responded, feeling disappointment tugging at her.

“What
do
you remember?” he asked.

“Scars.  He had scars on his face.  In patterns.  They were intricate. Almost tribal.”

“That must have been painful.  Perhaps he had an accident.”

“They were too specific to have been the result of an accident.  They were intentional.”

“Someone did it to him?”

“Maybe he did it to himself.”

“That’s insane.”

“No, they must mean something to him.  Like getting a tattoo to commemorate something.  I know a guy who does body art back in LA.  We should set up a call.  Where are we going?”

“I am taking you to a hotel with two officers to keep eyes on you.”

“Protective custody?  I don’t need protection, Inspector.  He has a three day lead.  I need to work.”

“You saw his face,” Brouchard said.

“I told you, I don’t remember it well enough for a description,” she snapped, finding herself becoming defensive.

“Yes, but you’re forgetting something, Detective,” Brouchard said, hoping not to sound like he was lecturing her.

“What’s that?”

“He’s seen your face, too.”

That silenced her.  She sat quietly as they drove another few minutes.  Brouchard opted to stay silent, let her process.

“I need to be close to the case files, records, I need a phone and internet access and manpower if needed.  You can’t lock me up in a hotel without that access.”

“Very well.  I know just the place where you can have that and satisfy my need to keep an eye on you.”

Twenty minutes later, Brouchard led Lara in to a small barracks room on the top floor of the Police station.  A bunk bed on one side, the sheets neatly turned down, a chair and table, small window overlooking the street and a mirror on the wall.  Three quarters of the wall were a dull grey, the lower part painted a deep blue.

“You’ve got a sense of humor, I’ll give you that,” Lara said and walked to the window, looked down on the street.

“You will be safer here than anywhere in Paris.  I am going home to sleep.”

“We can’t treat this case like a nine to five job, Inspector. We have to find him.”

“And we will.  Very soon.  I am sure of it.  But we cannot hunt anybody if we are running on fumes.  Please, eat something, get some rest and we will start fresh tomorrow.”

The Inspector walked out, leaving Lara standing in the empty room alone, ready to begin the hunt.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Morning sunlight burned white through the bathroom window of the hotel room.  Beth took a long look at herself in the mirror to put her mind in check and come back to reality, then walked out in to the lavish bedroom area and saw the Brit still asleep on the bed. The two bottles of champagne they had gone through last night lay empty on the carpet.  The room was a mess.  She put on a blouse and skirt from the selection she had hanging in the closet.  When she closed the door, she saw him stir in the reflection of the mirror on the closet door.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“It’s almost nine, aren’t you gonna be late for work?”

“I think I better call in sick,” he said, massaging his head as the hangover announced itself.

“Is that how you do it in England?  You guys get drunk and just skip a day?”

He paused, sat up and looked at her through sleep blurred eyes. She turned to face him. “Did I do something to upset you?” he asked, sounding like a guilty schoolboy and she felt bad for giving him the cold shoulder.  It was what she had become used to doing.

“I hope it’s a good story for you and your drinking buddies; the one night stand with the visiting American girl.  I’m sure I’m not your first.”

“I wasn’t expecting breakfast in bed but this is a bit much, luv.  What are you so angry about?”

“Don’t try to psycho-analyze me.  It was cute last night but that’s exactly why I don’t do sleepovers back home.  I hate the morning after bullshit.  So, just get dressed and it was nice to meet you.”

“Have you been up brewing over this shit?”  he asked, which annoyed her because he was right.  Jason started laughing.  She couldn’t help but start to laugh with him.

“You have, haven’t you?” he asked.  “I like you.  You’re funny.”

“Why is it so funny I don’t want to be a slut.  You’re a drunk, sexually promiscuous, irresponsible bullshitter.”

“Of course I am.  I never said I wasn’t.”

She started laughing and put on a jacket.  Her mood was softening.  She did like him.  Damn it.

“Seriously, I have a lot of work to do today.  You should get going.”

“Listen.  If you want this to be a one night stand I’ll bugger off and you’ll be a bitter but sweet memory that will haunt me for the rest of my life.  Or, we can meet up later and enjoy what brief time you still have left here.  If that’s alright with you.”

“I’m flying back to New York in a couple of days,” she said, sad at the thought.

“Funny you should mention that because I’m moving to New York in a couple of months.  This could be a preview of coming attractions.”

She considered for a moment, then moved to him and kissed him on the lips.

“Ok, morning breath, why don’t you hop in the shower and let’s get grab breakfast real quick.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and walked naked in to the bathroom.  She doubled over laughing.  He had won her over with his lack of self-consciousness and that sense of humour.  She did want to spend some more time with him and decided not to think about it too much.  Just let the moment happen.

In the lobby twenty minutes later, Beth walked to the Concierge, who watched her approach with a welcoming, professional smile.

“Bonjour, madame,” he said.

“Hi.  Melinda Jiminez.  Did she come back yet?”

“I can call her room for you if you’d like,” the Concierge offered, that smile planted firmly on his face.

“I’ve tried, there’s no answer.”

“Perhaps you can call her mobile phone?”

“Tried that, too.”

“I came on duty at four and I have not seen her.”

“Is it possible she could have come in and you missed her?”

“I remember both of you from when you checked in.  M’msle Jiminez is… hard to miss.  I’m sure I would have heard her.”

“Right.  If you see her can you ask her to call me?”

“Of course,” he said.  There was nothing more to do.  Melinda would show up, hung over, looking like a hot mess with a big smile. But Beth had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.  Jason was on his cellphone, standing by the wall next to the gift shop, a concerned look on his face as he listened to the caller.  She reached him as he hung up.

“Melinda didn’t come back last night,” she said, exasperated and unsurprised at the same time.

“We have to go to the Police station,” he said, his voice trailing off.  His face was losing color but his blue eyes burned with intensity.

“I don’t think it’s that serious.  She’ll show up.”

“They found Fulvio,” he said, almost to himself.

“I’m not as quick as you, Jason, what are you saying?”

“They think… they found his body.”

Chapter Twenty Nine

Brouchard watched the Englishman looking at the body of his friend.  The pretty American girl stood beside him, looking lost and out of her depth. They were standing on the cold tiled floor of the morgue, Fulvio’s pale drawn body set out on a long metal cart before them.  Brouchard hated this part of his job because the identification of a person who had died in mysterious circumstances worked on two levels, neither of which was pleasant.  The first, obviously, was the identifying of the corpse.  Brouchard had called the Englishman because his number was the most dialed on the dead boy’s cellphone. No wallet or official ID had been found on the body, making him logically conclude this was a robbery that had escalated to murder.  The second element to this process was that it allowed Brouchard the opportunity to study the face of those making the identification, reading their reactions and behavior to rule them out of any foul play- or find cause to suspect them.  Watching the Englishman fight back tears as the American girl looked increasingly anxious, he could now eliminate both of them.  Lara was stood at the back of the room, watching, making the same evaluations.  She was here because of the missing girl element of the murder.  She had a very strong, eerie ability to ethereally make connections that went far beyond the well documented hunch.  He was becoming increasingly fascinated with her.

“Is this your friend?” Brouchard asked.

“Fulvio.  His name is Fulvio Giannini,”  Jason said

“Thank you.  Does he have family here in Paris?  We could not tell from the Contacts list on his mobile phone.”

“No, they’re all in Rome.”

“I will call them with the news.”

“I’ll do it.  They should hear it from me.  We went to boarding school together back home.”

“What happened?” Beth asked.  “Where’s Melinda?  Did she come in with him?  Is she here?”

“He was discovered not far from the Louvre.  His wallet was gone.  Whoever killed him may have taken it or he could have been robbed after he died.  Such is life in the big city..”

“No witnesses?” Jason asked.

“None.” 

“What can you tell us about the last time you saw him?” Lara asked.  Jason turned to look at her.  Beth speed dialed on her cellphone, calling Melinda.