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But then, Lucien sighed. "I am sorry," he said. "That was not a fair comment to make at all. I apologize. I am feeling stressed, and I spoke in a way that was out of line.”
“Apology accepted,” Juliette said, surprised by how genuine he’d sounded.
“I am driving to the scene already. It's close to where you are, and if you leave soon, you might even get there first. But I am getting massive pressure from the French authorities. They are furious that this has happened again. They are looking for someone to blame, and right now, that someone is all of us."
Pulling on her underwear, Juliette could now understand the pressure he was under. She wanted to find the killer as much as the French officials did.
"I'll get there as soon as I can," she said. "Have you called Wyatt?"
"Not yet," Lucien said. “I called you first.”
“I’ll knock on his door,” she volunteered.
“No, no need. I will call him as soon as I finish this call. And I will have a better check on my temper, I hope,” he said ruefully.
Already, while she was talking to him, she was hopping on one leg, getting into her pants, trying to apply deodorant accurately.
“Okay. See you at the scene as soon as I can get there,” she said.
Socks, boots, shirt, jacket. She did a quick check around the hotel room, deemed it to be clear, and rushed out. Only as she was rushing down the stairs did she finally get a chance to check the time.
Five-thirty a.m. At this hour, Paris was mostly sleeping. She had to face the possibility that this murder had occurred last night, and had only been discovered now.
Wyatt was rushing down the stairs as she arrived in the lobby, his face stressed.
"I couldn't believe it when I got the call from Lucien," he said, heading quickly to the exit door with her.
"Yeah, me neither,” Juliette said. But, now that he was alongside her, she felt even more determined that they would catch up with this man.
"Let's go," Wyatt said, and they rushed out of the hotel, into the still, dark, early morning.
Following the coordinates, Juliette was shocked to see how close to the previous site this new murder site was. It made her feel another huge flash of guilt that they hadn't done enough, that if they'd tried harder, they could somehow have captured this killer.
It only took a few minutes for them to reach the scene, without the Paris traffic to cope with. Juliette saw the shimmer of red and blue lights in the humid air before they reached the street where the police and ambulance were parked.
They climbed out of their car at exactly the same time that Lucien pulled up on a motorcycle. Removing his helmet, he slung it over the handlebars before glancing at the two FBI agents.
"We have to hurry," he said, leading the way.
This was a recent crime scene, just the same as the ones she'd handled in America, only with an extra layer of the expressive French character that Juliette sensed immediately.
People were gesticulating wildly at each other. Cops were having arguments on the phone. The coroner, who must have just arrived, was lecturing one of the forensic officers in a loud, angry voice for some perceived breach of protocol. It was mayhem. Much more so than she was used to.
But amid the chaos, there was one constant. Putting on PPE before walking closer, Juliette felt her heart sink as she saw the body. Lying in a now familiar pose, it was the same as the others.
Goldenface had struck again, and now this woman's broad, attractive features were rendered weirdly alien by the perfectly applied layer of gold.
"Who is she? Who found her?" she asked in a soft voice.
Lucien was beside her, on his radio and phone. "She's Katarina Rodic, from Slovakia. As yet, I don't know where she lives or her occupation. She was found very early this morning, by a night shift worker coming off duty at a club, and heading home. We interviewed him and released him. He said he noticed the gleam of gold, looked more closely, and called police straight away. This alleyway is not often used at night."
And yet, it was close to a major tourist street, just like the others.
Juliette was wondering if this killer had bought himself time by the gold painting of the face, and that someone who was rushed or incurious might just have passed by, assuming the body was a discarded mannequin or prop.
But how was he doing this careful, detailed work without being noticed? That was puzzling her.
"Cameras nearby?"
