First Blood

by S. Cedric

  That is not the blood that runs in my veins.

  Not those fantasies.

  Never.

  More pictures.

  Walls covered with blood.

  Women’s bodies, slashed and mutilated.

  Over several months, she had managed to collect a number of photos of the victims, all of them young women with light-colored hair. They looked eerily similar. Spitting images in death. But other than these shared characteristics, they had little in common. They had come from different cities and had different backgrounds. Nobody knew the motive. Nothing fit. And Eva would go back to square one. She would search for the detail—perhaps some commonality—that they missed in this series of murders. There had to be one.

  She had been doing this for months. She had not made any progress, but she refused to give up. Someday a fresh piece of evidence would show up. It had happened in other cases. Yes, one day she would find a useful lead. And she would close this case. Her case.

  She looked at photo after photo. There had been fifteen victims in all. Fifteen young women a monster had torn from this world.

  The case had gone cold.

  The murders had stopped from one day to the next. The killer had never showed up again.

  Maybe he was dead. An accident? Natural death? Suicide? Maybe he had been arrested for other crimes, perhaps even in another country. That is what the detectives had ended up thinking. It was plausible, because there were no other victims.

  Deep down, though, Eva thought the opposite. The person who committed these crimes was very much alive and out there somewhere.

  Even if he had been thrown in prison, he would end up getting out. And he would start again. This kind of killer always started again.

  She had to find his trail.

  She knew she could do it if she spent enough time. If she kept working on it, she would end up knowing.

  She harbored a strange feeling in her gut, a crazy hope. Maybe it was a fantasy. She knew better than anyone else where fantasies led, but she could not help herself. It was the story of her life, literally. The photos of these innocent victims—two of them at least—held the story of her life.

  “One day,” she whispered. “One day, I will find the bastard. I promise you.”

  In the dark room, tears welled in her eyes.

  “I promise, Mom. I promise, Little Sis. I will avenge you one day.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  She dried her tears with her hand, quickly closed the window on her screen, and opened a random file. The screen filled with police reports of some gang-related scores being settled in the streets. They were still waiting for ballistics on the Uzi found in an apartment in the fifteenth arrondissement. Perfect.

  She put her glasses back on.

  “Come in,” she said in a perfectly controlled voice.

  3

  Detective Erwan Leroy was around thirty, had an athlete’s body and was arguably the best-looking man in the division. But tonight, he had bags under his eyes and week-old stubble. Dirty strands of usually impeccable blond hair stuck out from under a black knit cap.

  Eva chuckled to cover up her discomfort. She had never seen Leroy in this state.

  “Erwan, come in,” she said, standing up. “You look like crap.”

  “What do you expect, angel?” Leroy took off his hat and carefully closed the door before adding, “I wasn’t going undercover in the projects wearing a suit and tie. I went to Les Ruisseaux.”

  “Les Ruisseaux?” Eva asked, raising an eyebrow. They had been taken off that case two weeks earlier. The cocaine ring—what Les Ruisseaux was known for—was not their problem anymore. The drug squad had taken over.

  “You went back out there without telling us? Are you crazy?”

  “As if you’re the one to preach,” Leroy said. “In any case, I was right.”

  “Right about what?”

  Leroy was so excited, he was wringing his hands like a nervous teenager.

  “Things are moving at Constantin’s place. I bet it’ll go down tonight.”

  “At Constantin’s place?”

  “Yep. His soldiers were stopping by all day. I’m not sure what they were up too, but it’s hot.”

  “That doesn’t mean much,” Eva said. “Constantin has spent his life making that housing project an independent entity with its own hierarchy. His underlings are just keeping him posted, that’s all.”

  “No, I swear. They were more than routine visits. They looked like they were getting ready for something big. I talked with a few guys. Several times, I heard people say that Constantin was waiting for someone. I bet a month’s salary that it’s happening tonight.”

  “Do you have any idea who it is?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “That’s kind of weak, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely not. Some signs are giveaways. I bet it’s some bigwig, someone from another city or maybe from another country. Do you want to know what I really think?”

  Eva was not sure she did, but Leroy could not be stopped now.

  “I’m listening,” she said, putting on her best maternal smile.

  “So here’s the thing. Our friend Constantin has kept quiet for the past couple of weeks, after the splash our raid made, okay? He knows that we had to drop the case, since we didn’t find any merchandise. That means he either hid it or got rid of it right before we arrived. Everyone is using just-in-time delivery these days. He’s going to have to restock. And then, all of the sudden, he calls in all his street soldiers, and the whole place is bubbling with excitement. Even the kids are keyed up. What do you think of that?”

  “First of all, Constantin is not my friend. And second, he has always had one up on us. This time won’t be any different.”

  “You’re so negative.”

  Eva sat on the edge of her desk. She lowered the sunglasses on her nose, showing her strange blood-red eyes, with pupils considerably dilated from the amphetamines. “I am being realistic, Erwan. And you know how much I’d like to see that scumbag rot in jail. He’s been thumbing his nose at us for years. But he’s untouchable in his own territory.”

  It was true. Ismael Constantin, an immigrant from Niger who was now in his fifties, had arrived out of nowhere ten or so years earlier and was supplying half the city with particularly pure blow. That crap was responsible for at least a hundred overdose deaths. Unfortunately, he always evaded arrest. He did not even have a parking ticket. Their most recent attempt two weeks earlier had been a fiasco, like all the other attempts. Two cops had been injured by rocks, and a vehicle had been demolished when someone threw a stove off a balcony. They had found absolutely no trace of drugs. Once again, Constantin had been warned. There had to be a mole. That was the only explanation.

  Unable to find the leak, the Criminal Investigation Division team had been removed from the case. The commissioner had been very clear. None of them were allowed to investigate any cases even remotely related to Ismael Constantin.

  The higher-ups did not know how pigheaded Leroy was.

  The young detective had made it a personal mission. Eva was not in a position to pass judgment. She also investigated cases in secret. But that did not mean she was going to encourage his crusade.

  “You’ve got to trust me. We can get him this time. Constantin isn’t expecting it.”

  Eva sighed.

  “That’s what we thought the last time, Erwan. You know it as well as I do. Some asshole ratted us out. You can be sure that Constantin knew about our operation even before the chief approved it. The same thing will happen this time.”

  “You’re right,” Leroy said. “And that is exactly what we are going to avoid.”

  “You’re not letting go, are you?”

  “Never.”

  “You don’t think that Constantin’s men could have recognized you and fed you lies?”

  “No risk of that. They weren’t giving me information per se. I was just talking with some guys about this
and that and the weather. That’s all. But mostly I listened. I overheard things. Rumors. Whispers. I can assure you that nobody in the division knows, except me.”

  “And now me,” Eva said.

  “I always choose the sexiest partner. I have my reputation to think about.”

  Eva crossed her arms and looked offended.

  “Your charm doesn’t work on me,” she responded with a smile that said the opposite.

  “We won’t know until we try, right?”

  Even with his hair awry and that exhausted look, he was attractive. It was no wonder women fell for him.

  “We are talking about Constantin here, aren’t we?”

  “What else would we be talking about?” he answered with a sly look.

  “What exactly do you need?”

  “Just to go back there and stay until the meeting takes place. To identify everyone. To collect proof, for once. You know I would do it alone if that were possible, but it’s too dangerous.”

  Dangerous. The word made Eva tense up.

  She shook her head.

  “We can’t get authorization on such short notice. The chief was clear.”

  “Of course we won’t get authorization,” Leroy grinned. “Why do you think I came to see you?”

  That is not the blood that runs in my veins.

  Never.

  4

  Neuilly-sur-Seine

  “Madeleine?” Jonathan Reich banged on the bathroom door. “Please, please open the door.”

  There was nothing but silence.

  Jonathan had never had to face anything like this before, and he did not know what to do. Madeleine seemed to understand what was happening. She had always been able to stay in control during a crisis, no matter how serious it was. She had dealt with her mother’s death and then her father’s without shedding a tear. Every day, she sent armies of private detectives out to snoop into her enemies’ lives and dig up dirt. She initiated scandals that brought powerful men and women to their knees, and when their empires collapsed, she bought their shares for a pittance. She even came off looking brilliant, because she turned those businesses around and sold them off, pocketing huge profits in the process. Jonathan was no fool. He had always felt her destructive power. And despite it all, he loved her. He was crazy about the woman. Madeleine had changed his life.

  He did not want to think about what he would have become without her.

  He looked at the cell phone in his hand. Should he disobey Madeleine’s order and call for help? She was hurt. He did not understand how it could have happened, but his wife had cut her face. And there was all that blood.

  “Madeleine, if you don’t answer, I’m going for help. Do you hear me?”

  There was nothing but silence.

  A few minutes before, she had been screaming horribly, and then the screams had stopped, replaced by sobs. Madeleine was crying. He had never, ever, seen his wife show the slightest emotion, even when the two of them were alone. That was just Madeleine. He remembered one of the Latino gangsters in the neighborhood where he grew up in Marseille. He had a tattoo in big Gothic letters that Jonathan never forgot. It read, “Laugh now. Cry later.” That was the kind of lesson that Madeleine knew by heart.

  Laugh now. Cry later.

  “Madeleine!” he shouted.

  He kicked the door again and again until it wobbled on its hinges. He stepped back. He was going to break it down. He was. He had to find out what was going on in there. Something was happening to his wife. Something terrifying and incomprehensible. He had to know what it was.

  He threw his right shoulder at the door full force. It almost knocked the wind out of him.

  “Shit.”

  He staggered back, determined to get the damned door open. Just as he was about to rush it again, he heard the lock turn.

  “Madeleine?”

  The door opened halfway, and Madeleine stepped back. He saw her splashing her face at the sink. Pink water was running between her fingers.

  “My God.”

  It was worse than he had imagined.

  “What happened to you?”

  Madeleine straightened. She came back to the door and opened it all the way. Her metallic eyes looked serious. Her lips were pursed, as they always were when she was thinking. With her right hand, she lifted her hair and brought it to the side of her face. Jonathan saw his wife as he had never seen her before. Her open blouse had slipped off her freckled shoulders, revealing the top of the star-shaped tattoo on her left breast. Her body seemed younger, her skin shinier, certainly from being wet—rivulets of water were running down her neck and onto her arms.

  But the horror of those wounds.

  “Don’t worry. It’s over now,” she said.

  It was true. The water had cleaned her wounds. They had not closed, but at least they were not bleeding as much.

  Jonathan trembled.

  Her two wounds.

  There were two gashes, one on each cheek. Jonathan had never seen wounds so deep. It looked like an ax had struck his wife’s face. He could see the bone beneath the muscle.

  How repulsive, he was thinking.

  “What...”

  “Don’t ask any questions,” Madeleine said in a low voice as she left the bathroom. “I need to think.”

  She went down the stairs to the living room. Her husband rushed after her, his heart beating fast.

  “No questions? Are you kidding me?”

  Madeleine, looking vexed and overwhelmed, put up her hand to make him stop talking. Jonathan closed his mouth and looked down, submissive, as always.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Her composure was back. She was the woman he had fallen in love with—the unyielding businesswoman capable of facing Chinese giants on their own turf and walking away with their guts in her hands. Still, she was injured.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she finally said when she reached the leather armchair. It faced a large window. She sat down, taking her time. She was unreadable.

  “You need a doctor right away,” Jonathan dared to say.

  “What I need is a drink.”

  She looked for a cigarette and lit up. Some drops of blood formed on her cheek.

  “Glenfiddich,” she added.

  “Okay, okay,” Jonathan said, shaking himself into action.

  He opened the cupboard, grabbed a bottle of whisky, and picked up two crystal glasses. Trembling, he filled them up. He held one out to her and downed the other one.

  “What did you do to yourself, Madeleine? You have to tell me.”

  She took a sip.

  “I have to know,” Jonathan said.

  Madeleine blinked and grimaced, now fully aware that she really did not want him near her. Not bothering to move or speak, she gazed at her glass of whisky and the window in front of her.

  It was pitch black outside.

  She sighed.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So are you going to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him with her cold, steely eyes.

  “Turn the outside lights on, please.”

  “Um, okay,” Jonathan said, walking across the room.

  An instant later, bluish lights rose from the flowerbeds, shrouding the grounds in a ghostly aura. There were splotches of frost on the garden statues. Farther away, the street lamps towered over the boulevard.

  Jonathan came back and poured himself another glass of whisky, which he drank as quickly as the first.

  He waited.

  “These are old injuries,” Madeleine finally said.

  He looked and her and did not say anything.

  “I’ve always had these horrible scars.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know what you are trying to say, but this is idiotic. You never had any injuries like that. You are...”

  He stumbled over his words. “You are disfigured, Madeleine. If they get infected...”

  “They will not get infected. I was
sure something was going to happen. I knew it in my heart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I dreamed about it.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “That dreams are places of lucidity, Jonathan. Much more so than we dare to admit.”

  She tensed her jaw, and Jonathan saw the bones move in the open wounds. He shivered. Somewhere deep down, he was actually finding that mutilated face strangely attractive.

  “What kind of dreams were they?” he asked, shaking his strange fantasy.

  “Dreams that are not good to venture into. Nightmares with sharp claws. All the things that I wanted so much to forget. But the flesh doesn’t forget.”

  She lifted the whisky to her lips.

  “Like these cuts?” her husband asked, still not understanding.

  “Yes, like these cuts. I got them a long time ago. I thought I would never have to live through that again. The pain, the humiliation. But it seems I was wrong.”

  She tossed her head back, lost in her memories. They were unpleasant. They pulled at her like hooks.

  She shook her head.

  “I had, uh, surgery. It was before we met.”

  “The life you don’t want to tell me about.”

  “The life you shouldn’t know about.”

  She held out her empty glass, and he filled it.

  “And the injuries just reappeared?”

  “How perceptive of you.”

  Jonathan shook his head.

  “Don’t be that way with me, Madeleine. This is serious. In fact, this is impossible. A surgical incision cannot reopen in that way after so many years. It does not happen.”

  Madeleine smiled, revealing even more of the bone and muscle. Jonathan turned away.

  “You’re right. It’s never happened before. The operation was a particularly innovative one. The doctors said that the wounds were too deep to cover up.”

  She took a deep breath, a distant look in her eyes.

  “The blade that did this to me cut too deeply into my flesh. Yes. Yet I managed to make them disappear, didn’t I? Nobody even knew, not even you.”

  Jonathan nodded. He had kissed his wife’s cheeks all these years. He had caressed them without ever detecting the slightest scar, much less any surgery.