Eight Days to Live by Iris Johansen Read Free Book Online

the strides Syria has made, a wife is still often thought of as property. Millet’s father died a year later, and Jack Millet dropped out of sight for a number of years. Then he showed up in Rome and Venable began to hear rumors of the Sang Noir.”
    “He didn’t have a record?” MacDuff asked.
    “He was under suspicion for killing a thirteen-year-old girl in a brothel in Barcelona.” He added grimly, “He toyed with her for three days. The kid was cut to pieces.”
    “Nothing else?”
    “Only rumors. Very ugly rumors. His favorite sport is inflicting pain. But by that time Millet had formed his group of killers for hire, and no one would testify against him.” He looked at MacDuff. “One thing Venable told me that was a little unusual. I’m sure Millet charged a small fortune for his hits, but even when he’d had no work for a long time, he seemed to have plenty of money and was able to maintain his killing squad.”
    “So we look for the money.”
    He shook his head. “Venable can look for the money. We just take care of Jane.”
    “I don’t care about the damn money,” Jane said. Jock’s summary of Millet’s background had not yielded anything of value except that he was a sadistic monster, and she already knew that. She felt helpless, frustrated. “I don’t know enough about him. I don’t even know what he looks like. I didn’t pay any attention to him in that taxi.”
    “I can help there,” Jock said as he took his phone out of his pocket. “I took shots of all the Sang Noir while I was hobnobbing.” He flipped through the photos and handed her the phone.
    Millet appeared to be in his thirties, with thick brown hair, a hook nose, and a burly neck. Not handsome but not a terrible-looking man, she thought, sick. He didn’t look like a monster who would crucify—
    She quickly handed the phone back to Jock. “At least I’ll recognize him if I see him.” She tried to search through her memory for anything else that might help. Dammit, her contact with Folard and Millet had been only a few minutes. How could she—
    A thought occurred to her.
    “How did those members of the Sang Noir speak? What kind of phrases did they use?” Jane asked suddenly. “Were they religious?”
    Jock’s brows rose. “Not unless they kept it very private. They weren’t the churchgoing types. Priests very seldom give absolution for cold-blooded murder.” He gazed at her inquiringly. “Why?”
    “That man Folard . . . When I was on the phone with him.” Her forehead knitted. “He was accusing me of all kinds of things. Whore. Bitch. I didn’t think much of it. Obscene callers usually use terms like those. But he called me Blasphemer. That wasn’t the same. The word sounds almost biblical. It means sacrilege, doesn’t it?”
    “Or wickedness, profanity . . .” MacDuff said. “But it does sound a bit odd.”
    She was remembering something else. “And when he attacked me, he said something about the angels of paradise having to forgive him for his impatience.”
    “If he was on the side of the angels, it must be one hell of a weird heaven,” MacDuff said dryly.
    “But it sounds as if he believed he was doing something he thought was right.” She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know why I’m trying to take his motives apart. He had to be crazy to have done that horrible thing to Celine. What difference does it make if he thought all the angels in heaven would cheer if he crucified me as he did Celine?”
    “It might make a difference. It’s certainly unusual.”
    “But knowing it’s unusual and being able to decipher it are two separate things. Which leaves me as much in the dark as when I started.” She got to her feet. “I can’t think right now. I’m going to take a shower and call Eve, then go to bed.”
    “Call Eve?” MacDuff said. “You’re going to tell her? It will only make her concerned. I’ve arranged to keep your name out of the