The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) (15 page)

“All I can tell you is they were on foot and we left in a cab. Where’s the girl he was with?  And what’s an American cop doing in a Paris morgue?”

“I’m Lara McBride, LAPD Homicide.” 

“Long way from home, aren’t you, luv?  Don’t they have enough murders in Los Angeles?”

“I’m here as a liaison for a case that might be connected to your friend’s murder.”

“How’s that?”  Jason was becoming increasingly frustrated, felt like he was being answered with riddles.  He liked straight answers, anything else made his temper explode from zero to sixty in a nanosecond.

“I’m here to help,” Lara explained, keeping her tone as calm and low as she could, seeing the anger rise in the young man.  “There were similar elements in previous murder cases that I’m investigating.”

“What ‘elements’?  I don’t understand what that means.  What the fuck is going?  Can someone give me a straight answer?” 

“The murder weapon, a male victim and a missing foreign woman around the same age as Melinda.  Those are the ‘elements’ in other cases I’m looking in to.”

A moment passed as Jason processed the information.  Lara let him run with it, saying nothing, seeing where he would go.  Either he would get angry, possibly violent, or he would calm down and listen. She saw his shoulders drop and the tension eased. Beth hung up her cellphone and turned back to them, desperation in her voice. 

“She’s still not answering her phone.”

“Do you have a picture of her we can use for the missing person’s alert?”  Brouchard asked.

“I have a bunch in my phone we took since we got here.”

A recent photograph would be helpful- the missing girl’s hair and look would be current and make it easier for her to be identified.

“Since we have completed the identification process, we should go to my office and get the photographs uploaded.”

Brouchard opened the door and gestured for them to follow him. Beth looked to Jason, unsure whether she should follow, not knowing how much further down this rabbit hole she wanted to go. Life had suddenly become surreal.  He was looking at Lara McBride, trying to figure out how she fit in to this puzzle.   Lara returned his gaze and gestured to the door.

“Shall we?” she prompted.

“What are the chances Melinda’s still alive?” he asked.

“Actually, very good.  From what I know, he doesn’t kill the women he takes.”

“So you know who’s done this.”

“I have a pretty good feeling it’s the same man.”

“You’re the lass from the news.  The one who got dumped in the river.  You’re hunting someone.”

“And you work for a news agency so I’m not going to divulge any information that you can leak to the press.”

“Fuck the press, I want to find who did this.  Make you a deal right now, I will not bullshit you, Detective, if you’re straight with me.”

“Deal.”

“If he’s not killing these women, what’s he doing with them?”

“That’s what I’m here to figure out.”

Chapter Thirty

Melinda was unconscious in the van, secured under the hatch in the belly of the vehicle, her hands bound and her mouth gagged.  She was adrift in an ocean of liquid morphine dreams. Guillotine had driven her back to the storage garage last night, seeing no point in returning to the farm when his prize- Beth- was here in the city.

Now, he was splashing water on his face at the small sink basin in the corner.  He looked at himself in the mirror on the wall and thought about being in the barn as a child.  He looked at the original scar, the one he had used with the rusted razor he had found buried in the dirt.  The one he had used on Marie and Madeleine.  How sweet that moment had been.  He snapped back to the present and approached the work table.  Melinda’s purse was there.  He opened it, took out her cellphone and scrolled through the recent calls, seeing Beth’s name at the top of the list.  His own phone began to ring.  It was Claude.  He set Melinda’s phone back on the work table and walked to the door.

“Yes, Claude?” he snapped, imagining a time very soon when he would not have to take calls or speak to this obscene little man any longer.

“I am at the gallery.  Could you come down immediately?  I need your assistance.”

“You handle these things, not me.”

“But I cannot do this without you.  You want the exhibition to be perfect, yes?”

“Of course, I do.  What a stupid question,” Guillotine was losing what little patience he had for the man.

“Then, please, come over.  Just a few minutes.”

“Very well,” Guillotine surrendered and kicked the door open, stepping outside and slamming the door closed behind him, hurrying through the cold morning air to be rid of the man as quickly as he could.

The gallery space where the show was due to open was a five minute fast paced walk from the storage garage.  Guillotine walked the entire distance without seeing any of the people on the sidewalks around him, lost in a fog of simmering rage.  He contained the desire to burst in to the gallery and take the man by the back of the neck and put his face through every window in the building until the flesh was torn from his skull.

He rounded the corner of the street where the gallery was located behind open iron gates, set back from the main road in a private courtyard that had been there for centuries.  It had once been used as a slaughterhouse, a monstrous, drab, stone building that was grey and dull and home to many dark secrets.   The building on the opposite side of the courtyard was now apartments and shops on the ground floor. He approved of the setting, thinking it was an excellent venue to unveil his work to the world.  He walked across the cobbles and saw the gallery, the entire front of it glass to ceiling windows to allow in the light.  There were workers inside fitting lights, building temporary walls, constructing the maze that would display the bulk of his work.   He had provided Claude with highly detailed, intricate drawings for the maze, including specific dimensions, widths and heights, each wall designed to display specific works. His design was being put in to action.  Truthfully, he had not wanted to see this until it was all ready.  Now he felt Claude had robbed him of the experience.  Guillotine kicked the door open and marched inside.

Claude was on the upper level, looking down at the workers putting the displays together.  He saw Guillotine make his impassioned entrance and knew at once this was one of his special days where he was even more delicate and volatile than usual.  He met him halfway across the gallery, Guillotine’s tone and body language was edgy, dismissive, making it very clear he had somewhere else he would rather be.

“Yes, Claude, what is so important you had to bring me down here to see the bride before the wedding?”  Guillotine snapped.  Claude smiled, hoping a friendly face might disarm him.  He was wrong, of course.

“I wanted to show you our progress and see how close we are to how you imagined the space,” Claude said.

Reluctantly, Guillotine looked around at the work in progress. He could see the crew were doing a good job.  It was coming together quite nicely and very quickly.  He took a breath and realized he was genuinely impressed.  He saw the pride in Claude’s eyes that only needed a verbal nudge before it would turn in to the repulsive sight of him gloating.

“Yes, very good, Claude.  Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.  Unless you wish to tell me you’ve picked up a hammer and nails and pitched in yourself.”

“Well, I am committed to making this perfect, but manual labor is not for me,” Claude laughed, hesitantly.  Guillotine did not find his attempt at levity amusing in the slightest.

“Will they be finished in time?” 

“Absolutely!  Of course.  Right over here is where the Heaven and Hell piece will take center stage.  It will be the highlight.  I don’t just want this to be the launch of a new artist.  I want this to make history.”

“Oh, it will, Claude.  Trust me.”

Guillotine suddenly froze.  Claude looked at him, for the first time feeling genuinely afraid.  There was a look in the artist’s eyes he had never seen before but realized had always been there, just beneath the surface and he suddenly understood that the feeling he had often had around Guillotine was fear.

“Is something wrong?”  Claude asked, taking a discrete step back.  Guillotine remained silent, frozen in time.  He blinked and looked at Claude with focused eyes that had an intensity that burned through his skull.

“I didn’t lock the garage,” he simply muttered then turned and ran out.

Chapter Thirty One

Melinda woke up in the trailer, disoriented and nauseous.  She felt the gag in her mouth and struggled not to throw up. Her arms were numb from being bound behind her.  She fought an almost overwhelming urge to shriek and panic. She seemed unable to move. She had no idea where she was, all she knew was that it was dark in here and she was terrified.  She tried to remember anything she might have learned from the true crime shows she had watched religiously back home, how people who had been abducted had managed to escape.  First, she knew she had to calm down. She could see a small line of daylight bleeding through the edges of what seemed to be a hatch door above her. That meant a way out.

She slammed her shoulders up at the hatch, seeing the daylight come in stronger, meaning the latch was going to give if she applied enough force.  She tried to piece together how she had even got here, wherever here was.  She remembered, the fashion show, the champagne, Fulvio. Had
he
tied her and put her in here?  She couldn’t remember anything after they left the show.  Her head pounded like no hangover she had ever had, a skull shattering force that threatened to twist her brain in to bleeding mulch.

She hit the hatch door again with her shoulder and heard the lock break, the force lifting the door up and open. She pushed her whole body up with every ounce of strength she could find.  Her legs trembled with pins and needles up and down her thighs like a million nails stabbing her furiously beneath the skin as the blood began to circulate once more.   She tried to ignore the pain and the hot salty tears spilling from her eyes and prayed that whoever had taken her had not heard the noise of the hatch opening. She got on her knees and rolled out, finding herself on her side in the back of what appeared to be some kind of work van.  Light cut in from the windows and she saw the van was parked facing a wall.  She listened, blood raging loud in her ears, her heart pounding, as she waited for the sound of approaching footsteps, her captor coming to put her back in her cage.  But the sound never came.  She knew time was limited, she might have just got lucky and found an opportunity to get out without being seen or heard and she had to take it.

Looking around the van, she saw sketch pads, tubes for storing drawings, a roadside emergency kit and a tool box.  The toolbox might have something inside that she could cut whatever was holding her hands behind her back. She used her head to tip it over on its side, spilling the contents- tape, syringes, rope, a knife and a wire with two small wooden handles on either end. She sat in front of the blade and her desperate fingers searched for the handle, finally grasping it and the key to her freedom.  Slowly, she began cutting into the plastic ziptie that bound her, terrified the back door would open any second and she would be discovered.

A few minutes later Melinda climbed out the back of the trailer and was blinded by daylight.  She found herself in a storage garage with the windows letting in the sun from above a long metal door that separated her from the rest of the world. It was a work space with the thick smell of oil and turpentine.  A table a few feet from her had tools and paint supplies set out neatly and evenly next to a canvas that cradled a painting covered with an oil cloth. Her feet were free now and she had pulled the duct tape and gag from her mouth, the pain not even registering anymore.  She saw her purse on the table and the cellphone next to it.  Adrenaline blasted through her and she leapt forward, grabbing the phone as she ran to the door. She grabbed the handle and pulled it with more force than she thought she possessed.  When it opened, the shock almost froze her to the spot.  She saw a cobbled street, an alleyway, rain was spilling down all over it, making the stones slick and wet.  It was cold, too, a wind cutting over her.  She got her breath back and pushed herself out in to freedom.  There was a low wall to her left leading down another alleyway, the mouth opening out on to a main boulevard where she saw cars on the street and people on the sidewalk.  She got to the wall and something made her stop and look over her shoulder.

As soon as she saw him she remembered everything.  The man who had killed Fulvio was coming towards her, striding over the wet cobbles in the rain, looking right at her.

Chapter Thirty Two

Melinda pulled herself over the low wall and in to the alley on the other side, then broke in to a sprint to the street at the far end.  The cars were hurrying through the rain, just as the people were on the sidewalk.  She didn’t know what to do.  She grabbed the first person who was passing, an elderly man in a flat cap and an overcoat.