Of course it doesn’t. He rubbed his temples wearily. I’m losing my mind.
He poured himself a whiskey and was about to call it a night when a final thought occurred to him. Maybe our killer’s not a mathematical genius. Maybe it’s way simpler than that.
Logging in to the central Interpol database, the unimaginatively named I–24/7 Network, he typed in the date of each murder, then pulled up a list of all the violent crimes committed in the same city on the same day.
Nothing obvious came up.
Jean widened the search criteria to a week before and a week after the murder dates.
A smattering of other unsolved homicides popped up, along with rapes and serious sexual assaults. But there was nothing that looked like a pattern as such. Nothing that linked the Bible Killer’s work to any other crime.
On a whim, Jean deleted the word “violent” from the dialogue box. Now he was looking only for “serious crime” within a week either side of the BK murders, in the same locations.
One by one, they appeared on the screen.
Madrid: THEFT. $1m plus. Fine art. ANNTA Gallery.
Lima: THEFT. $2m plus. Fine art. Galería Municipal de Arte Pancho Fierro.
London: THEFT. $500,000 plus. Diamonds/other. Private residence (Reiss).
New York: THEFT. Fine art. Pissarro. Private residence (McMenemy).
Chicago: THEFT. $1m plus. Jewelry. Commercial (Neil Lane).
Buenos Aires, Hong Kong, Mumbai.
THEFT. THEFT. THEFT.
Jean Rizzo felt his heart start to race. He picked up the telephone.
“Benjamin?’
“Rizzo?” Benjamin Jamet, Interpol’s Paris Bureau chief, sounded distinctly groggy.
“I found something. Major thefts. Art, diamonds, almost all of them seven figures. One or two days before every single murder. Has anything splashy gone down in Paris in the last two days?”
“Putain de merde,” Benjamin Jamet growled. “Do you know what time it is?”
“This would have been big.” Jean ignored him. “Did anyone hit Cartier or an embassy or . . . I don’t know . . . the Louvre? Most likely art but could have been high-end jewels.”
There was a long pause on the end of the line.
“As a matter of fact, there was something. The German ambassador’s wife had a valuable collection of miniatures stolen from her safe.”
“How valuable?”
“Over a million euros.”
“When?”
“On Wednesday night.” Benjamin Jamet sighed. “But look, Jean, this has nothing to do with your dead hooker. We’re treating it as a domestic incident. All the embassy staff are being questioned. There were no signs of a break-in and . . . Jean? Jean, are you there?”
JEAN RIZZO STAGGERED INTO work at nine the next morning, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Ignoring colleagues’ greetings and jokes about his haggard appearance, he went straight into his office and closed the door.
After five minutes, his secretary, Marie, braved the lion’s den.
“Coffee?”