The 7th Woman by Frédérique Molay

his lips. Deputy Chief Rost, Commanders Kriven and Théron and the psychologist Dominique Kreiss had taken spots around the table.
    â€œLet’s get straight to the point,” said Cohen. “He’s going to go at it again this afternoon. We are looking for a serial killer. Nobody goes home until we catch him. I hope you have some serious leads to follow.”
    â€œThe rope and the sailor’s knot,” Nico said. “There’s something there. The two victims were pregnant, which isn’t a coincidence, either. We need to work on these two leads. We’ll know tomorrow if there’s anything we can learn from the lock of hair.”
    â€œAnd what about prevention?” Cohen continued. “Anyone have any ideas?”
    Nico let out a loud sigh. “A press conference?”
    â€œWhat would we say?” his superior officer asked. “That no well-off brunettes around the age of thirty and pregnant should open the door to anyone?”
    â€œAnd why not?” Dominique said.
    â€œWe need to get that message out,” Rost said. “So why not go to the media? In any case, there will be leaks in the next few hours. We won’t be able to keep the reporters at bay for long. We might as well take the initiative and try to avoid the worst.”
    â€œThe worst will happen, press conference or no press conference,” Cohen shot back. “Don’t delude yourselves. But I agree. Nico?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThe commissioner wants to see us at the end of the morning. The prefect and the state prosecutor will be there. We’ll decide then whether to organize a press conference. In the meantime, outdo yourselves. I want hopeful news in the coming hours. Show me you are worthy of the brigade criminelle .”
    THERE was no doubt about it. He was suffering withdrawal. He needed to kill; the pleasure was so brief, he had to start over again, to attack another woman to fill the emptiness. Beating her until the blood rose, taking in her tears. It was only when he returned home, after winning by default, that he allowed himself pleasure. He was no idiot, and there was no way he would spread his DNA on the scene. He held back.
    The next victim appeared a few yards in front of him. She was beautiful, with long brown hair, thin the way he liked them, the face of someone who was fulfilled, a smile on her lips and determination in her step. He would bring her down as low as you could go. She would feel so much pain she would go insane. And she would have no answer to the question they all had to ask: “Why me?”
    TONIGHT, her husband would be home late. An exhausting two-day business trip would certainly have left him drained. She decided to prepare a little surprise to relax him. She knew what to do and planned a light dinner, a good wine and some fancy lingerie. The works. And she had some great news to announce. It would make him deliriously happy. He’d been dreaming about it since they met.

9
Realities
    T HE POLICE COMMISSIONER WAS a woman. Nicole Monthalet was fifty-five years old, five feet six inches tall and had short blond hair and dark eyes. She wore a tailored light gray suit. Two discreet pearl earrings highlighted her femininity. Only a wedding ring adorned her hand. Her movements had a natural authority, as did her voice. One had to admit that she was imposing. Rising through the ranks of the police was not easy, and being a woman certainly made that exercise more difficult. She certainly deserved her position and knew the workings and the pitfalls well—the violence in the field, the detective work, the command and the administrative responsibility—having made her way through them successfully. Nico had little direct contact with her, but every time they met, he left feeling confident and enthusiastic.
    He smiled to himself at the thought. During the few years he had lived with Sylvie, she had often talked about the feminine side of his