“Is he still checked in?”
“I believe so. Let me check the computer.”
The wait was agonizing. Jean Rizzo could hardly stand the tension.
At last the girl came back on the line. “Yes, he’s still here. Would you like me to check his room, see if he’s in the hotel at the moment?”
“NO!” Jean almost shouted. “I mean no, thank you, there’s no need for that.”
The Casas de la Judería was only a short walk away, back across the park.
“It’s rather a delicate matter. I’ll come over myself. I can be there in five minutes.”
WALKING BRISKLY THROUGH THE underground passage that led to room 66, Jean Rizzo felt an eerie sense of calm. The comforting solidity of his gun pressing against his rib cage beneath his blue windbreaker was certainly a factor. As was the fact that, win or lose, live or die, this saga was about to be over.
Thirteen women.
Eleven cities.
Nine years.
And it ended here, tonight.
The occupant of room 66—Juan Hernández, aka Detective Luís Colomar, aka Daniel Cooper—had nowhere to run. In a few short moments, he would either be captured or killed. Rizzo had called Comisario Dmitri as he arrived at the Casas de la Judería, announcing his imminent strike on Cooper and then hanging up. If Cooper somehow managed to shoot Jean and escape, Dmitri and his men would be waiting. It would be irritating to have to let the obnoxious Spanish policeman take the credit for apprehending the Bible Killer, Jean thought as he drew nearer to room 66, traversing a courtyard enclosed by high stone walls. On the plus side, though, for that scenario to happen Jean would have to be dead, and ergo oblivious. Every cloud had a silver lining.
At the far side of the courtyard four stone steps led to another passageway that stopped almost as soon as it had begun. Jean found himself at a dead end, the wooden door of room 66 directly in front of him.
Drawing his gun, he knocked twice, hard.
“Señor Hernández?”
No answer.
“Señor Hernández, are you in there? I have an important message for you.”
Nothing.
Taking out the key that the girl at the reception desk had given him, Jean started to push it into the lock. The door creaked open by itself. Jean stormed into the room, gun drawn.
“Daniel Cooper, this is Interpol. You’re under arrest!”
Damn it.
The bed was made. There were no suitcases. Everything was spotless, clean and sparkling to within an inch of its life. By the side of the bed, a Bible lay open to John, chapter 19, verse 1.
The highlighted quote read, “They took Jesus, therefore, to the place of the skull. And there they crucified him.”
Jean Rizzo felt his stomach lurch. So he’d been right! Daniel Cooper was the Bible Killer. There could be no doubt now. Room 66 was like all the other crime scenes, with one crucial exception.
There was no body.
Yet.
Only then did Jean Rizzo notice the envelope, crisp and white like the one Señora Prieto had found at the foot of the Shroud. It was propped up against the pillows, and addressed in a clear, cursive hand:
To Tracy Whitney, c/o Inspector Jean Rizzo.
Ripping it open, Jean started to read . . .