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The streets were ever more silent and the air was growing very cool. He kept his pace steady and his eyes straight ahead, not looking left or right.
He stretched his stiffened limbs, enjoying the feeling of the cold night air on his skin. He felt alive. He felt powerful.
He was Goldenface, and he was unstoppable.
His third statue awaited, and by midnight, he promised himself the deed would be done.
He narrowed his eyes.
He was still thinking about that meeting he’d wanted, that agent he’d noticed. Maybe it wouldn’t happen, but if it was possible, he was going to try to arrange it. Its success would depend on how smart the police were. If he saw the opportunity, he hoped it would add to his power and in a way, it would complete the circle.
“I might see you again, lady agent,” he whispered, suddenly feeling excited by what the next few hours would bring.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
There was a sense of purpose and excitement inside the police station in central Paris where the suspect had been taken. Juliette sensed it immediately.
Lucien had taken charge and was organizing for their suspect to be processed and searched. The man, with his silver and gold painted features, his black and chrome outfit, stood statue still as he was searched, in a way that made Juliette look at him again, carefully.
He was used to doing this, she thought. He was used to standing, waiting, becoming one with the landscape around him.
The skill it took to be a performer, the patience to stand and pose, made her even surer now that this was how he'd been able to melt into the background and avoid detection.
"Right. We have searched him. No paint found, but he had a pack of stage make-up in his satchel," Lucien said. "Let's go and question him." He looked expectantly at Wyatt and Juliette.
Juliette was already putting on her more unobtrusive dark blue jacket, and shaking out her hair, placing the wig she’d worn on a table. The time for cover was past. Now it was time for her to ask questions in her FBI agent capacity.
Wyatt nodded to her. "You go in this time. I'll observe."
Juliette felt grateful that he was offering for her to take a turn, because she didn't think this man was going to be easy to question.
So far, worryingly, he hadn't said a word. He'd stood in utter silence, staring at them with a strangely calm expression.
The ID on him showed that he was Francois Dupont, a French citizen. He didn't have a passport on him. Juliette couldn't wait for the team of French police to search his place, which according to his address details, was on the outskirts of Paris. She hoped she'd find stamps in his passport that matched up with the U.S. killings. And a stash of the gold paint that she expected to find there. But that was still ahead of them. The team was being dispatched now, and should arrive at his home within half an hour.
His keys had been on his person and although he hadn't spoken, they had informed him what they were going to do, and that his home and his possessions would be searched for evidence.
He'd simply watched in silence.
"Come through," Lucien told him in a sharp voice. "This is where you talk to us." He led the way to the interview room.
Sitting opposite him, in the harsh light, Juliette took a look at their suspect, taking in every detail of his appearance and demeanor.
The paint on his face was smudged. She noticed a spot near his ear that he'd missed completely and the pallor of his skin showed through. His eyes were a deep gray color, like the sea on a stormy day. They stared at her, unblinking, as if challenging her to crack his silence.
She took a look at him, letting the silence build, but resolving it shouldn't go on too long because he'd shown already that he was comfortable with it.
So once she had gathered her thoughts, Juliette decided that pressure was the way to go.
Bombard him with questions. Crack open that protective shield of silence that he'd wrapped himself in. And get to the truth of it all.
But even as she thought that, looking at him again, she felt a highly unwanted pang of doubt.
The paint jobs on the women had been perfect. Each victim had looked like a work of art. This man's paint was more amateurish, as if it had been hastily done.
And was that gold the same color as she remembered from the victims? Or was it more of a coppery shade? Now that she was looking at it in the bright light of the interview room, she thought she was seeing more copper.
That worried her, but she pushed it aside. This wasn't the time for self-doubt. Now, she needed to forge ahead and get some answers and then, hopefully, everything would become clearer.
