The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(61)

“And you thought,” Fredrik says, preparing to make a point, “that I and this serial killer were the same person?” He shakes his head with disbelief. “For someone who’s studied serial killers for most of his life—I’m assuming—and hunted this one in particular for a good deal of it, it disappoints me that you seem to have forgotten—or overlooked?—the number one similarity that all serial killers have: they tend to stick to their M.O.. I never cut out the teeth”—he glances over at me and purses his lips—“though that’s not a bad idea, Faust; maybe I’ll use that during my next interrogation.” I shrug, and he turns back to Ware. “And I always use the same chair, when I use a chair, which isn’t always the case. Yeah, I see the similarities, but clearly we are not the same person.”

Ware is red in the face, but he manages to defend himself quickly enough.

“Yes, I realize that,” he says, “but I thought you had evolved, as most serial killers do. The last victim—before the most recent one—was found three years ago; I thought for sure you had evolved since then, opting for clean extractions, and possibly forming a bond with a particular chair and decided to stick with that one.”

Fredrik laughs—until he realizes that he can’t very well make fun of Ware for the bonding chair comment when Fredrik does, in fact, have a special bond with his dentist chair. Of course, I can’t read his mind, but I’m confident that is what he was thinking—it is what I was thinking, too.

“And what about the most recent victim?” Fredrik asks.

Ware sifts through the top section of photographs until he finds the one he is looking for. He places it on the table toward us; the other men in the room continue to watch and listen, absorbing it all.

“He was found three months ago,” Ware begins, “here in the United States—Atlanta, Georgia. Still the same M.O.; nothing about the killer’s technique had evolved.” He nods in Flynn’s direction. “And according to Mr. Flynn, you had an alibi for the time of the murder; you weren’t even in the country.”

“So this serial killer crosses borders,” I say.

“Yes,” David Darros, the calm, experienced one speaks up for the first time; his voice is smooth, with confident undertones, and heavily accented. “And dat ees vy I am here.” He is definitely German; though his accent is much thicker than my brother’s. “I am liaison for Interpol. Dees serial killer ees vanted in five countries: France, Sveden, England, Germany and United States.”

“And those are just the countries where bodies found have been linked to this serial killer, so far,” Barrett says, finally playing the ‘good cop’ for a change. “We believe there are more.”

“And how many are there at present?” I ask.

“Thirteen,” Connors answers. “All of them men.”

Fredrik sits up straight, growing more interested.

“And how much,” I ask, “is catching this serial killer worth to you? And I’m assuming it will not be a hit?”

“Twenty million dollars,” Connors says.

“And definitely not a hit,” Ware interjects—it would probably crush his little black heart to see this serial killer go the way of the grave; he would much rather spend the rest of his years interviewing and studying and wetting his dick in the cold, dark mind of the killer he has longed to capture. “Just find him and lead us to him and we’ll take care of the rest.”

“We will, of course”—Connors clears his throat—“be the ones taking all the credit for the capture, since we can’t very well tell anyone about you.”

I smile slimly. “Of course,” I say with a mock smile. “We are not in this business for the publicity, or the fame, Mr. Connors—by all means, revel in it all you like.”

“So then do we have a deal?” Connors asks.

I think on it a moment, and then turn to Gustavsson.

“Does working this case with Mr. Ware interest you?” I ask him, knowing that it does. A killer with his M.O. is too appealing to pass up—I know a little about that.

Fredrik contemplates, rubbing his clean-shaven cheeks with his fingertips. Then he nods. “Yeah, sure sign me up, I suppose.





Izabel





Francesca’s sister, Valentina, comes up the elevator shortly after Miz Ghita leaves with the girl, and there’s suppressed panic in her face.

“Sister,” Valentina says walking up, her short dress swishing around her knees, “I didn’t want to bother you but…it’s”—she looks at the three of us briefly—“it’s Sian.”

I notice from the corner of my eye that Emilio stiffens.

Francesca stands from her throne; servant girls move toward her immediately; a little flurry of hands reaching out to adjust her hair, her bloodied robe; two kneel down in front of her with a shoe in each hand and wait for Francesca to step into them, but she passes them up, remaining barefooted; another girl gets on her hands and knees and furiously wipes up the trail of blood left by Ela, clearing it from Francesca’s path.

“Is there a problem with Sian?” Francesca’s voice is cold, unforgiving, and the darkness shadowing her features sends a chill up my back.

Valentina nods. “Yes,” she says, and then she glances at us again, clearly not comfortable talking about this ‘Sian’ in front of us.