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

by Chris O'Neill

  Guillotine shook his head, began to trace a finger over the thick welt on his left cheek that ran down to his jaw. He was twenty four when he’d made that one. A blunt kitchen knife. He’d actually seen the inside of his cheek and the muscles beneath. He tapped it now, imagining the muscle beneath the skin and the nerves that were dead and gone like the memories he had killed by doing it. Memories of his Madeleine and Marie.

  Claude reached over and touched Guillotine’s hand to get his attention. Guillotine pulled away as though he had been burnt.

  “Are you alright?” Claude enquired, genuinely concerned.

  “I have a new sketch for the exhibition. I want it to have its own place away from the others- but it is not to be sold. This one is a favorite.”

  Guillotine pulled up his satchel and removed the portrait of Janelle he had made in the square. Claude caught his breath as he so often did when drinking in the sight of his most gifted client’s work. It was incredible. He felt as though he could reach in to the paper and caress the girl’s face.

  “..incredible!” he exclaimed. Guillotine looked out across the boulevard and made an impulsive decision.

  “I think I’m going to work on a companion piece.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lara had spent all morning putting flyers up in the tourist areas. She had covered the square at the Pompidou, been around the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and had now reached the Cathedral at Notre Dame. It was exhausting, but she was intent on getting it done and then going to see Inspector Brouchard. She walked in to the square, the light rain tapping coolly on her cheeks. She began stapling a flyer to the bark of a tree as a tour group walked past her, Japanese tourists taking photos. Then she heard someone behind her, shouting.

  Turning, she saw a Police Officer pointing at the flyer on the tree, talking fast in French. Lara was ready. All morning she had had shopkeepers, cops, traffic wardens tell her she could not put up her flyers. She posted them anyway, knowing they would more than likely be torn down seconds later, but she could always return with more. In the few precious seconds or minutes while the flyers were up, she knew that someone passing by might recognize Janelle’s face. Better yet, the man who had taken her might see them and call her.

  “I don’t speak French. Americain.” Lara shrugged at the outraged Police Officer and walked on. She watched him reach up and tear the flyer off the tree, tossing it to the ground. Lara felt anger snap inside her and she started shouting back at the Police Officer. The wind picked up the flyer and it tumbled across the square. Another Police Officer approached. Tourists stood braving the cold wind and rain watching the excitement unfold. Some took pictures.

  Guillotine put his foot on the flyer as it blew towards him on the other side of the square. He picked it up off the ground and examined the picture of Janelle. His sketch of her was far better and it would have made a more eye catching and, frankly, affecting poster, he thought to himself. He looked out across the square and saw Lara being handcuffed by the Police Officers. The rain was getting in his eyes so he moved closer, to get a better look.

  She was incredibly beautiful, even as her face twisted in anger, screaming at the Police Officers. He marveled at her strength, her passion. This was the woman who was hunting him and she looked formidable. He felt the blood rush to his groin and he licked his lips without thinking. He watched one of the Police Officers take her by the arm while the other barked in to his radio, summoning a Police van from across the street, lights flashing, hurrying to sweep up the latest street trash. Guillotine knew they would not hold her for long. They never did with tourists, especially Americans.

  As they put Lara in the back of the van, shouting and kicking, Guillotine decided he would call her tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lara had sat in the holding cell for three hours surrounded by French drunks and whores before they brought her upstairs to the Missing Persons Unit. As she was brought in by a young uniformed Officer who reminded her of the rookie at the house in Koreatown, she saw that the entire back wall of the room was covered in photographs of missing people. Some color, some black and white. All people who were missed by loved ones whose whereabouts were still unknown. Lara McBride was not given to emotional reactions. It wasn’t that she didn’t care or didn’t empathize. A therapist had once told her she was borderline sociopathic in her detachment, in her objectivity. Lara had to explain to the woman she was not unfeeling, she was simply logical and objective and felt that the act of displaying emotions to other people was little more than attention seeking.

  Some things triggered an explosive rush of feelings in her over which she had no power at all. Seeing the faces on the wall and thinking of the mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters and friends who were thinking about them right now, worried and concerned, melted Lara McBride’s heart and she suddenly felt tears come to her eyes. Not because the people were missing and not out of pity. Lara McBride had tears in her eyes because it made her realize there were people in the world who still cared. It gave her hope that the world still had some good in it.

  Inspector Brouchard was a tall, burly man who had packed on a few extra pounds over the years, especially once he had hit his fifties. Beneath the extra bulk, he carried the litheness that had made him an effective soldier before he became a cop. He was standing in the doorway to his office. The Officer who had escorted her from the holding cell excused himself and Brouchard motioned for Lara to sit on the leather chair in front of his desk. She walked in to the office, scanning it for information about the man before he started talking. Most people gave away information about themselves in the way they decorated their work place. Hobbies, interests, schooling, sexual preferences, family status, vacation spots, second homes- all of this could be gleaned in a sharp glance from a keen eye. She saw the three books she had written were sat on his shelf in the corner. This could be interesting. She was also curious about why he was the only person in the Missing Persons Unit right now.

  There was a picture of a young girl in her late teens framed on the desk but the Inspector wore a wedding ring on the opposite hand and there was no picture of his wife. Lara figured he was widowed and the sight of his wife’s face smiling back at him was too painful a reminder to experience every day, hence no pictures of her. A sensitive man, then, who had exposed his weakness by trying to hide it. Lara hated her intuition at times like this, feeling like she was intruding on a secret, a delicate pain she had no right to see. The anger that had built up since she had been thrown in the back of the Police van disappeared when Brouchard looked her in the eyes and smiled. She liked him straight away.

  “Detective McBride, I assume resisting arrest and assaulting Police officers is as much a crime in your country as it is here,” Brouchard’s voice was deep and commanding.

  “I didn’t assault-“ Lara began, but Brouchard raised his hand to stop her and shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter. We will not be pressing charges. I extend this to you as a courtesy. Let’s call it a misunderstanding. Actually, let’s say we’re even.”

  “Even for what? Have we met before?”

  “Yes, sort of. I saw you lecture in Boston a few years ago. They sent me over to study the latest in American law enforcement methods.”

  “Did it help?”

  “I closed eight cold cases when I got back.”

  “Guess it did.”

  “You taught me to look at the evidence in a different way- with fresh eyes. To think creatively. Thank you for that. So, how can we help you, Detective?”

  “My sister has been abducted. She said she was on her way to the airport but she never made the plane. I called her phone on the flight over and a man answered. He said he had her. He said, ‘she’s my Angel now’. I don’t think this is his first time doing it.”

  “That’s not much to go on.”

  “The more time we waste debating whether this is happening or not is more time for the trail to go cold. And you know the
chances of finding missing persons become almost impossible after forty eight hours. Witnesses forget, security footage gets erased and they slip through the cracks.”

  “I understand that this is personal so, if I may ask, in your professional opinion, is it possible that you may be overreacting?”

  She looked at the picture of the beautiful young woman on his desk. It was a single shot of her, backlit by the sun on what looked like a college campus. Not a wedding picture and she could see a family resemblance in the eyes. His daughter then. Brouchard was a good man and she hated herself for what she had to do next to give push him in to helping her.

  “I’m assuming that’s your daughter in the photograph. Did you raise her yourself after your wife died? How would you feel if it was your daughter who went missing? ”

  Brouchard bristled and sat back in his chair, his fingers rolling the wedding ring over in circles.

  “You’re very clever, Detective. I had no doubt. But manipulating me is beneath you.”

  “I’m just trying to find her before something happens. I’m sorry.”

  “I had help from my sisters. She was ten when her mother passed away. She handled it very well. Strong girl. Like her mother.”

  “Can I ask what happened?”

  “She was misdiagnosed. The doctors gave her the wrong medication. She had a reaction. Slipped into a coma one day and never woke up. Long time ago but I remember holding her hand in the hospital every night and sometimes she would squeeze me. Even though she was asleep I like to think she knew I was there. Reaching out for me.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  Lara saw his eyes flick briefly to the picture of the girl and felt she was going to get further with Brouchard than she had with Derek Shaye.

  “And what ransom did this man demand?”

  “He didn’t demand a ransom.”

  “Not much of a kidnapper, is he?” Brouchard mused. “Seems to defeat the purpose.”

  “Only if the purpose is for monetary gain. He didn’t take her for money- which rules out a sex trafficking ring or a shakedown.”

  “It is unusual for those people- I use the word ‘people’ loosely, you understand- to prey on tourists. Especially Americans. It brings unwanted attention, so they tend to ply their trade with women from Eastern Europe with few family ties, people who will not be missed. Most of those girls are here illegally, no official papers, which makes it even harder for us to know if they’ve gone missing. I must say I’m very impressed how you can speak so objectively about these events. That must be difficult for you.”

  “I can’t afford to be emotional. I could miss something if I’m not thinking straight. So where do we go from here, Inspector?”

  “We will need to fill out forms and get her picture to every Police station in Paris. I will see to it personally. And I will call Interpol in case he’s tried to take her out of the country.

  “Can we expedite that?”

  “There is a process.”

  “I see how well your process works from those faces on the wall.”

  “Another low blow, Detective.”

  “Why are you the only person in the unit?”

  “Because the rest of my squad are out trying to find those people on the wall.”

  “Touche. I know you don’t make the rules. But could you bend them a little? I’ll sign your books for you.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. Brouchard laughed. She’d won him over.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “In the same room of the same hotel where she was.”

  “You have to admit there is little even for somebody with your experience and skill sets to go on. I do not think your missing persons posters will do anything except perhaps alert this man you seek that you are here to find him.”

  “I figure there’s an outside chance if he was cocky enough to answer her phone, he might just call me. There’s something impulsive about him and right now that’s the only way I can hope to get to him. If I can establish a dialogue with him, that puts me in the game and gives Janelle a chance.”

  “Yes, but you may also have people call you who are…how do you say it in America..?”

  “Maniacs. Yes, they’re always out there.”

  Brouchard considered.

  “Allow me to take you back to the hotel.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lara woke the next morning and grabbed a sandwich for her breakfast at the Patisserie across the street from the hotel. First she would check the areas she had already canvassed and see what remained of the flyers she had posted. Once she had replaced the ones that had been torn down, she would move on to other areas and broaden the search. She took a mental step back to appraise what she had done so far, trying to think of something she may have missed. Something was itching in the back of her mind. She had been focusing on Janelle instead of the man himself. He was clean and professional. Looking back at other missing persons cases with similar victims might produce clues. If she could learn his methods, that would put her closer to him.

  A half hour later, she found herself in a large public library trying to explain to the young girl at the front desk that she was looking for newspaper articles. Did they have microfilm or would she have to find the resources online? If so, did they have a computer suite where she could get online? What she really needed was someone who could translate for her, help her find articles about missing girls, missing backpackers specifically. The mousy girl behind the desk was getting irritated and called over a thin young man in a crisp white shirt tucked in to very tight slacks from the back office.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said to Lara, ignoring the mousy girl, his eyes feasting on Lara.

  “Hi. Do you speak English?” she asked, hoping he was as fluent as Brouchard had been, but less slick than Derek Shaye.

  “Yes, I do. You speak no French?” he responded in a light accent.

  “No, I don’t speak French at all. Can you help me? I might have to take a couple of hours of your time. I can pay you.”

  The man shook his head in refusal at the offer and introduced himself as Philippe. He led her to a large room upstairs that overlooked the back of the Pompidou and held a suite of computers. They were primarily being used by students doing research. Philippe led her to a terminal and sat with her. She could smell his cologne, strong and powerful and he seemed to exude his own natural scent that, despite herself, she found alluring.

  He was good and he knew what he was doing. It took longer than he probably would have liked but he stayed anyway, ignoring the mousy girl when she walked by to make her presence known and remind him there were other duties to be carried out in the library today. Going through newspaper and local media reports over the last two years of anything related to young women being hurt, abducted or found dead, she discovered that there had been many incidents. Most, however, had been locals, usually prostitutes or junkies, the collateral damage of most big cities. But, every once in a while, a story appeared about a missing foreign female backpacker. American. Canadian. British. Spanish. Danish. They had been traveling alone or in small groups. In several cases, the girls had been with young men, who had been found dead, wallets missing perhaps in an attempt to make it look like the robbery the Police had assumed it was. The girls, however, had never been found- at least in the sense that she couldn’t find a single follow up report to confirm otherwise. If this was her man, then she knew now that he had no qualms about killing. He had not harmed the girls, it seemed, but he was brutal in dispatching their male companions.

  Lara thought about the profile, the man’s motivation to kill. It wasn’t jealousy or rage, if he had killed the young men in question, it was simply to get to the girls and take his ‘Angels’. He was a true psychopath, disconnected from right and wrong, the lives of others meaning nothing to him. She felt the ribbon flutter around her a little tighter and pull her closer to him. She took copies of the articles that interested her, thanked the young man and, after politely tur
ning him down for lunch, went back to the hotel, stopping en route to buy a large tourist map of Paris.

  In the little hotel room, Lara tacked the map to the wall and Paris was hers. She was delicate in pinning the pictures she had printed of the girls’ faces and the related articles to the map, placing them where the girls had last been seen. She finished by attaching the missing poster of Janelle to the area around the Pompidou. When she was done, she took a few steps back and looked at the city stained by the wreckage this man had left in his wake. Now she could clearly see the girls’ pictures placed directly over specific areas. The Pompidou. The Louvre. Montmartre. Notre Dame Cathedral.

  “He’s stalking the tourist spots...”

  That meant a huge amount of foot traffic, so many people and faces that it would be almost impossible, if not miraculous, for her to find him there. Somehow, he was hiding in plain sight, watching, searching, and hunting for his prey.

  She packed up her bag with the flyers Brouchard had printed for her and hurried back out to canvass the area right across the street, the last place where Janelle had been seen. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she walked to the square outside the Pompidou. It was a foreign number, perhaps somebody responding to the flyers. She set her bag down and answered, her heart beating faster in anticipation this could be the call she had hope for- and dreaded.

  “You’re looking for me.” It was the same voice she had heard over the phone on the plane. She recognized it instantly and chills raced down her spine. Her heart blasted past its normal speed. She tried to remain calm, keep her focus and keep him talking. The more he talked, the more information he would give away and the closer she could get to Janelle.