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With a splintering of wood, the door burst inward. Shoving it all the way back, gun at the ready, Juliette led the way in. Breathing hard, all her senses were on a razor’s edge of sharpness. What would she find? She knew she had to be ready for anything, but couldn't allow herself to act in the moment in such a way that would endanger anyone innocent.
Her first impression: it was deadly quiet in here. And very dark. The blinds were down, and muted light filtered in from the small gaps.
The apartment looked to be entirely vacant. No furniture, no bed, no belongings, or clothing on the dusty floor. The door leading to the tiny bedroom and bathroom was open. Nobody inside. She felt devastated. He’d been ahead of them and he’d fled the area, leaving nothing behind.
Nothing, apart from a few tins of gold stage paint, stacked next to the window.
Lying on top, she saw, with a sinking of her heart, was a cellphone, its screen blank and dead.
"Where is he?" one of the cops behind her muttered in a baffled voice. "He's gone? Moved?"
They were too late. She knew it with a terrible coldness. Had he left any clues? Was there any information on that abandoned phone?
A buzzing in her pocket. It was Ebury, calling her again. She picked up, feeling devastated that there wouldn't be good news to report. But before she could do more than say hello, Ebury spoke, his voice urgent and strained.
"Juliette, you need to get in here, now. He's killed again!"
As she took the news in with a gasp, he continued, doubling the bombshell.
"There's been an identical murder called in last night. In Paris, France."
CHAPTER TWO
As she walked through the entrance door of the FBI’s head office in Manhattan, Juliette felt utterly shocked by the news of this latest murder. She felt haunted, as if this was personal, as if those paint tins and that phone had been left there deliberately to taunt her, to show her how far behind she was, and that Goldenface was miles ahead.
Never mind miles ahead, he was a continent away. Goldenface had gone to Paris? Was this really correct? It couldn't be a copycat crime?
Questions whirled in her mind. She'd come straight from the scene, as soon as she and Forrester had completed the apartment search and put together their report. Forensic officers had still been there, hunting for any trace evidence, any fingerprints, that might narrow down this suspect. They had conducted the search mostly in silence, exchanging only a few brief words. She knew Forrester felt as devastated as she did.
In France? Surely not.
But it would explain that abandoned phone. He'd left it behind, jettisoned it. The battery had run down soon afterward and he’d been long gone. Now, she was wondering about that call he’d made last week to the stage make-up store. He hadn’t needed more paint; he had been about to leave New York. It wasn't that he’d made a mistake because he'd known he wouldn't need the phone anymore.
Instead, she perceived it as a taunting message to the police, telling them how far ahead he was. Juliette felt sure of it.
Heading inside the tall building, with its workmanlike façade of dark concrete, and the U.S. flag flying from the top, Juliette went straight to the elevator and up to the third floor where her unit, and her boss Ebury, had their offices.
As she headed along the corridor, it felt like her heart was all the way down in the building’s basement. She'd had hopes for this raid. Now, they were crushed. Worse, he was at large in another country and he’d killed again. Would this mean he’d resume the same pattern as before? Three kills in a week?
Please, no, she thought. We have to catch him first.
She went straight to the boardroom, knowing that the urgent meeting she'd been called in for would take place there.
Ebury was already in the room, standing at the far end of the long table, talking quietly to two of the other agents. He turned as she entered.
"Juliette. Come in, I need to brief you."
She moved over to the table, her heart sinking further as she saw the two men in suits who were also present. She knew them by sight, from security and crime briefings. Up until now she hadn't sat around a table with either of these two high level officials, one of whom was head of the international operations division of the FBI, and the other from the director's office.
Ebury made quick, brisk introductions. "Take a seat," he told her.
She sat down, next to him and opposite the other two men. The two men were murmuring to each other in low, urgent tones. Juliette caught her own name, and Ebury's, and the words 'interagency cooperation.'
"Shall we start?" Ebury asked, and in a moment he had everyone's attention.
"As you know, we're facing a serious problem," Ebury said, his face strained. "Goldenface has left the U.S. and crossed over to Europe. Last night he committed a murder in Paris."
"Is it definitely his work?" Juliette asked.
