Free The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) by Chris O'Neill Page B

chance if he was cocky enough to answer her phone, he might just call me.  There’s something impulsive about him and right now that’s the only way I can hope to get to him.  If I can establish a dialogue with him, that puts me in the game and gives Janelle a chance.”
    “Yes, but you may also have people call you who are…how do you say it in America..?”
    “Maniacs.  Yes, they’re always out there.”
    Brouchard considered. 
    “Allow me to take you back to the hotel.”
     
    Chapter Fourteen
     
    Lara woke the next morning and grabbed a sandwich for her breakfast at the Patisserie across the street from the hotel.  First she would check the areas she had already canvassed and see what remained of the flyers she had posted.  Once she had replaced the ones that had been torn down, she would move on to other areas and broaden the search. She took a mental step back to appraise what she had done so far, trying to think of something she may have missed.  Something was itching in the back of her mind.  She had been focusing on Janelle instead of the man himself.  He was clean and professional.  Looking back at other missing persons cases with similar victims might produce clues.  If she could learn his methods, that would put her closer to him.
     
    A half hour later, she found herself in a large public library trying to explain to the young girl at the front desk that she was looking for newspaper articles.  Did they have microfilm or would she have to find the resources online?  If so, did they have a computer suite where she could get online?  What she really needed was someone who could translate for her, help her find articles about missing girls, missing backpackers specifically.  The mousy girl behind the desk was getting irritated and called over a thin young man in a crisp white shirt tucked in to very tight slacks from the back office.
    “Bonjour, Madame,” he said to Lara, ignoring the mousy girl, his eyes feasting on Lara.
    “Hi.  Do you speak English?”  she asked, hoping he was as fluent as Brouchard had been, but less slick than Derek Shaye.
    “Yes, I do.  You speak no French?” he responded in a light accent.
    “No, I don’t speak French at all.  Can you help me?  I might have to take a couple of hours of your time. I can pay you.”
     
    The man shook his head in refusal at the offer and introduced himself as Philippe.  He led her to a large room upstairs that overlooked the back of the Pompidou and held a suite of computers.  They were primarily being used by students doing research.  Philippe led her to a terminal and sat with her.  She could smell his cologne, strong and powerful and he seemed to exude his own natural scent that, despite herself, she found alluring.
     
    He was good and he knew what he was doing.  It took longer than he probably would have liked but he stayed anyway, ignoring the mousy girl when she walked by to make her presence known and remind him there were other duties to be carried out in the library today.  Going through newspaper and local media reports over the last two years of anything related to young women being hurt, abducted or found dead, she discovered that there had been many incidents.  Most, however, had been locals, usually prostitutes or junkies, the collateral damage of most big cities.  But, every once in a while, a story appeared about a missing foreign female backpacker.  American.  Canadian.  British.  Spanish.  Danish.  They had been traveling alone or in small groups.  In several cases, the girls had been with young men, who had been found dead, wallets missing perhaps in an attempt to make it look like the robbery the Police had assumed it was.  The girls, however, had never been found- at least in the sense that she couldn’t find a single follow up report to confirm otherwise.  If this was her man, then she knew now that he had no qualms about killing.  He had not harmed the girls, it seemed, but he was