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"Lucien," he snapped.
She had no idea if it was a first name or a last name. Clearly, it was the only name she was going to get from him.
Juliette smiled, determined to break the ice.
"Well, Lucien, I'm Juliette Hart, and I’m happy to work with you," she said. "Wyatt Thompson is my partner, and Sierra Lowry is our tech expert."
Lucien nodded curtly, but he didn't reply. Juliette sighed inwardly, but she was determined not to give up. She knew how to handle difficult people. It was a skill she’d learned from watching her father at work, and she wasn't about to let this grumpy French gendarme get the better of her.
Luckily, Wyatt wasn't getting involved in this particular conflict, and instead was grilling Sierra about the tech demands of self-driving cars.
A floral whiff of perfume came to her from one of the shops she passed and she breathed it in appreciatively, feeling a moment of cheer as the smell distracted her. She adored the complex scents of a fine fragrance. She didn’t buy much make-up, but perfume? That was her weakness for sure, and she had a few fine bottles at home. If she’d had the time, she would have gone in, tested a couple, to see what was available here.
In another life, perhaps, she thought wryly, knowing the pressure they were under now.
Lucien led them out of the airport and to an unmarked vehicle parked in one of the officially demarcated bays near the exit. They put their bags in the trunk, before climbing into the back seat. One of the officers got into the front with Lucien. The other peeled off to get behind the wheel of another car.
The drive to the crime scene was a tense one, with the French officers sitting in stony silence in the front. Juliette and her team, bundled together in the back, exchanged glances, and shrugged.
Lucien accelerated along the highway, then peeled off and wove his way into central Paris. Ignoring the interpersonal dynamics for a moment, Juliette stared out of the window, taking in the exquisite architecture, the character of the closely packed buildings, the shop fronts and the apartment blocks, the gray stone frontages that turned to pale gold in the rays of the sun, the balconies and window boxes.
She'd hoped for a glimpse of the Seine River or that they would drive past the Arc de Triomphe, but their route led them a different way, and a few minutes later, the car was rattling over cobblestones, heading down a narrow road.
Crime scene tape fluttered ahead.
"Here," Lucien said in a clipped voice.
Juliette felt her stomach twist. This was it. This was the place where the Goldenface killer had committed his latest heinous act.
Now she would have to see if there were similarities between this scene and the ones in New York. And, if there were differences, why they were apparent.
Lucien’s next comment didn't help her. As they ducked under the yellow tape and headed toward the crime scene, he said, in a loud voice, "Of course, you know that what this man is doing is impossible?"
CHAPTER FIVE
"Impossible? What do you mean?" Juliette asked Lucien, but her stomach clenched in anxiety, because she was wondering if there was something about this crime scene that they didn’t yet know.
He turned to glower at her.
"How can anyone do such a paint job in a busy street? That would surely have taken time? You saw the photographs."
She nodded. The paint job was a stumbling block, for sure. And they hadn’t yet figured it out in the New York and New Jersey areas. All his sites had been close to tourist areas, or busy commercial hotspots, and yet he’d been able to paint those faces as if he was invisible. The bodies had been left in more secluded streets, and she guessed it would be the same here, but as for his method, she was unsure.
"I know. We also couldn’t figure that out,” she said honestly. “What do you think happened?"
He shrugged. "I am not the one who has to get answers. This case has been taken away from us and now the American FBI is here. Now, it is your job, to find out about the impossible."
Juliette felt another pang. Despite her best efforts, it was clear that their presence was deeply resented. And honestly, she thought, could they not have put an easier man in charge? It seemed that Lucien had a huge chip on his shoulder, and try as she might to stay calm, his arrogance was rubbing her the wrong way. And they'd known each other for only twenty minutes!
"It doesn't look so busy to me, not here," Wyatt chipped in, his tone of voice challenging. "Maybe I'm just comparing it to New York standards, but this particular road looks very quiet. Hella narrow. I guess you guys don't drive SUVs here." He stared at the alleyway critically, as if personally affronted by the lack of spaciousness that had forced them all to get out of the car and walk the last thirty yards or so.
"It's part of what we will need to figure out," Juliette hastily said, as Lucien turned to glower at Wyatt. "How he did this. The main road is busy, but this point in the side road looks to be much quieter."
At night, she could imagine that not many people walked down this narrow, twisting alleyway. But what if someone had? How would Goldenface have handled that? Did he have some kind of method for ensuring his privacy as he painstakingly painted the dead women's faces?
The Goldenface killer had painted his victims’ faces in detail and methodically. He had obviously planned his movements, and ensured enough time to do so, and still, no one had noticed what he was doing.
It had been the same in New York, she remembered. Quiet areas, close to busy tourist streets. How was he doing it?
