68

New York

Present day

Because of his status as a police officer, Marcas had been able to bypass the security lines for regular passengers and was one of the first to board the plane. The flight had gone smoothly, and Marcas arrived in New York with minimal jet lag.

But now he was annoyed. The taxi driver wasn’t taking the Manhattan Bridge to his hotel. Instead, he had chosen the Brooklyn Bridge. Like an ordinary tourist, Marcas was being taken for a ride. The police inspector decided not to make an issue of it. As they crossed the bridge, he stared at the skyscrapers lighting up the night. Whenever he saw this sparkling vista, he sensed an invisible electrical current running through all of Manhattan.

The taxi driver was slaloming through traffic, swearing in a language Marcas couldn’t identify, when a white limo veered in front of them. The limo driver stuck his arm out the window and made a rude gesture. Cursing even louder, the taxi driver swerved around the limo and laid on his horn. And just as he did this, he was forced to slam on the brakes. They were getting close to the center of Manhattan, and the cars and trucks had slowed to a crawl.

Marcas scanned the gigantic digital billboards. He paused on one announcing a new TV series Marcas had vaguely heard about, some contemporary family comedy. Marcas smirked. He could qualify for his own contemporary family comedy: single cop with one son. It wasn’t what he envisioned when he married Isabelle, but what he wound up with. Even the hopes he had allowed himself to nurture during his time with Jade had been trampled.

For a few moments he had allowed himself to entertain thoughts of starting something with the lovely Anne Hervieu, the conservator at the Musée Carnavalet. But he had thought better of it. He was too bitter to have a decent relationship with a woman. He needed time—and yes, maybe better perspective and room for forgiveness in his heart. He was too spent for love at the moment.

The taxi stopped at a light, and Marcas heard the blinker go on. The driver was getting ready to turn left, toward City Hall, instead of continuing north. This had to end. He wasn’t going to circle the city three times just to get to his hotel. He tapped the window and pointed straight ahead. The driver shrugged, muttered something, and turned off the blinker.

A half hour later, Marcas was lying on the bed in his hotel room. All he had to do now was wait until tomorrow. He couldn’t help thinking that the whole thing was absurd. He’d flown across the ocean to meet for an hour with a woman he didn’t know to discuss some centuries-old crap about alchemy, gold, and ritual murders. He could picture it now.

“Hi, Miss Archambeau. I’m looking for a Freemason psycho who’s killing brothers, apparently for the fun of it. And by the way, did your father happen to leave you a little envelope with the secret of the Holy Grail?”

What bullshit.

He took a bottle of gin from the mini-fridge. The clear liquid ran down his throat without giving him any pleasure. Too tired to venture outside and roam the Broadway theater district, he picked up the remote and clicked through a televangelist and a food show called “Chopped” before landing on female cage fighters. He experienced a moment of culture shock before falling into a deep sleep.

Hot water from the shower was filling the bathroom with steam. God, he loved the Waldorf Astoria. Following Marcas was child’s play. He knew all about the man, including where he was now and where he would be tomorrow.

He heard a knock at the door. Just on time—a professional. He slipped on a bathrobe, padded across the thick carpet, and opened up to a tall blonde who smiled and sashayed into the room. He removed some bills from his wallet and handed them over. An hour of pleasure awaited him. When he approached her, she smiled again and then grabbed him by the neck, flipped him over, and locked his head between her thighs.

His choice, made via an online reservation with a private erotic-wrestling club, had been an excellent one. He managed to wriggle free, but she blocked an arm. She was strong, and he was hard.

After a half hour of intense play, he was straddling the woman. The image of the three men he murdered ran through his mind just as he ejaculated between her breasts.