Free The 7th Woman by Frédérique Molay

to their tasks.
    THE atmosphere in the kitchen was truly unbearable.
    â€œWe gave the victim’s friend an IV of Valium,” one of the paramedics explained. “She’s not really in any state to answer questions. The husband is not any better. He didn’t want to take anything, but he is very weak. That’s hardly surprising, considering. What do you want us to do?”
    â€œLeave us alone with them for a few minutes, then you can take them,” Jean-Marie Rost answered. “They should probably spend the night in observation. Has somebody informed the friend’s family? What is her name?”
    â€œAnne Recordon,” said a uniformed officer, “No, not yet.”
    â€œI saw a wedding ring on her finger. Call her husband,” Rost ordered.
    The paramedics and the police officer left the kitchen. Rost and Kriven found themselves alone with the husband and friend. Rost leaned toward the woman. Kriven offered the husband a chair.
    â€œMr. Grégory Bartes?” Kriven began, placing a hand on the husband’s arm. “I am a commander with the Paris Criminal Investigation Division. What happened is—there are no words for it. My job is to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Do you understand? I need your help. Anything you could tell me could be key to the investigation. Mr. Bartes?”
    The man finally looked at the policeman. His features were totally distorted, and his eyes were expressionless. Kriven shivered.
    â€œMr. Bartes?” he tried again in a barely audible voice.
    â€œI’m here, commander,” came the response in a voice so monotone, it could have been from a zombie. “Ask your questions, since that is your role. But I can already tell you that your chances of success are slim. I have nothing to tell you. Absolutely nothing. We led a perfectly normal life until today. I don’t know what could have happened. I’m afraid I can’t be much help to your investigation. Let’s hope it’s quick.”
    Kriven didn’t like Grégory Bartes’ condescending way of talking to him. But he had to get over that.
    â€œEven something small, Mr. Bartes. Try to remember any detail that didn’t seem worth noticing but could be meaningful today. Did your wife mention anything unusual happening recently?”
    â€œNo. I told you already. I have nothing to tell you.”
    â€œI was sure,” Anne Recordon cried out.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Rost asked, kneeling near the woman.
    â€œI felt it. She didn’t come to our meeting place, and I knew she was dead. I can’t explain why.”
    â€œDid you have any particular reason to think that something so serious had happened to her?” Jean-Marie Rost asked.
    Tears were rolling down the woman’s cheeks. She was whispering, and he had to lean in close to hear what she was saying. Her eyes were closed, her face swollen with grief, and she was having trouble breathing.
    â€œNo, just an instinct.”
    NICO Sirsky and Michel Cohen left the bedroom and entered the office, examining all the papers they found, including bills, professional notes and bank papers. Nico pushed open the bathroom door. He looked for the switch with his gloved hand. A Jacuzzi occupied a large part of the space. There were two long bathrobes, two sinks and a large mirror.
    â€œLook, Michel!” Nico called out in disbelief.
    There were words written in purple on the mirror.
    â€œLipstick?” Cohen asked.
    Nico approached the mirror, being careful not to touch it. Blood or some other biological fluid could be infected, presenting a risk of AIDS or hepatitis. He had to be careful, even with protective gloves.
    â€œHmm. I think it’s blood.”
    The two men stepped back to read the message left for them.
    â€œSeven days, seven women,” Nico finally said out loud.
    They stared at the words, aghast.

WEDNESDAY

7
Sleepless Night
    I T WAS PAST MIDNIGHT, according