The Killer in My Eyes. By G. Faletti Read online

  She moved away from the window and the curtains fell back, blocking out the world outside. As she pulled on her tracksuit pants, she heard the phone ring faintly somewhere in the apartment. In order not to disturb her rest, her mother had removed the ringing mechanism from the phone in the room in which she slept. After a moment, the door opened noiselessly and Estrella put her head in.

  ‘Ah, miss, you’re awake. Pick up the telephone, there’s a call for you from Italy.’

  Maureen approached the night-table and picked up the receiver, wondering who it could be. ‘Yes?’

  She was surprised to hear the reassuring voice of Franco Roberto, her friend and lawyer.

  ‘How’s the most beautiful Chief Inspector in the Italian police?’

  ‘Hi, Franco, don’t tell me you’re still working at this late hour.’

  ‘Of course I’m still working. I will probably be at it most of the night, preparing for an important hearing tomorrow. A man has to earn a crust, you know.’

  ‘If I remember your fees, that’s quite some crust.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been in touch with your father. I understand the operation was completely successful.’

  You have no idea how successful . . .

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to give you some more good news. The proceedings over what happened between you and Avenir Gallani will be a mere formality. On the basis of your testimony, half the police in Rome got down to work. They did a thorough search of Manziana Forest and found a bullet lodged in a tree which, according to Ballistics, is the same as those taken from Connor’s body. It confirms your version of events a hundred per cent.’

  Maureen was silent for a moment.

  ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy?’

  ‘Of course. It’s very good news.’

  Or at least, it should have been. Not so long ago, in that situation, she would have got on the first plane that would take her to Connor, so that she could hug him and share that joy with him. But how could she be happy now, if this result had been obtained at the price of his death?

  Franco seemed to guess what she was thinking, because his tone of voice became as sensitive and comforting as only he knew how.

  ‘Anyway, everyone here is longing to see you. I’m not so dumb as to think that everything can be the way it was before, or to try and make you believe that. But if you’ll allow me a rather hackneyed remark, trust in time and the people who love you. It won’t change anything, but it helps to bear it. You know I’m always here for you.’

  ‘I know, Franco, and I’m really grateful. Good luck with your hearing.’

  Maureen put the telephone down. She knew how much truth there was in Franco’s words.

  She was young.

  Some people said she was beautiful.

  Some even said she was beautiful and intelligent.

  Yet only once had the presence of another person made her feel the most beautiful, intelligent and desired woman in the world.

  And now he was gone and she was alone.

  Maureen decided that a cup of coffee couldn’t make the day any more bitter than it already was. Just a bit hotter. Estrella would have been happy to bring her one if she had asked her, but she preferred to leave the room and go and make one for herself.

  As she walked barefoot along the corridor towards the kitchen, she heard voices from the other side of the large apartment. One was definitely her mother’s. She found that strange, because at this hour Mary Ann Levallier was usually in her office, which occupied half a floor in Trump Tower.

  She came out into the entrance hall and saw her mother in the company of two men she appeared to be showing out.

  One was a tall muscular man with crew-cut hair, his neck barely contained within the collar of his shirt, which he wore open, without a tie. He was wearing a black suit and Maureen could not see the colour of his eyes because they were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses.

  The other man was about sixty, shorter and much thinner, looking spruce in a dark, impeccably tailored double-breasted suit. His slicked-back hair was streaked with white, and his eyes were slightly narrow, hinting at an Oriental ancestry. The man’s glossy skin reminded Maureen strangely of a waxwork.

  His voice was curiously deep, in marked contrast with his slender build.

  ‘Miss Levallier, I don’t know how to thank you for agreeing to receive me in your home rather than in your office. For reasons of my own, I thought it best to talk to you somewhere less . . . how shall I put it? . . . official.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. I shall get down to the case immediately.’

  She noticed Maureen and took a step towards her.

  ‘Oh, Maureen, there you are. Mr Wong, this is my daughter Maureen.’

  The man smiled, and as he did so his eyes narrowed. There was something frozen about that smile, despite the warmth he tried to put in his voice.

  ‘You’re a lucky woman and your daughter is a lucky woman for the same reason.’

  He held out his hand. As she shook it, Maureen was surprised to find that his skin was not scaly, like a snake’s.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. My name is Cesar Wong and this is Mr Hocto. He’s a man of few words, but then I don’t employ him for his oratory. Your mother agreed to see me and help me with a matter very close to my heart.’

  Maureen threw a rapid glance at Mary Ann and saw her stiffen. She looked back at Cesar Wong’s waxen face and gave him her best smile. ‘I’m sure you have everything my mother will need to help you resolve your problem.’

  Cesar Wong pretended not to notice Mary Ann’s unconscious gesture of annoyance. He made a little bow with his head.

  ‘And I’m sure you’re right. I bid you good day, Miss Levallier. And good luck to you, Maureen. I assume that, like everyone, you will need it.’

  During all that time, Hocto had been a silent presence behind them. When he realized that the conversation was over, he moved to open the door for Cesar Wong. Maureen was convinced that he would just as casually have broken the necks of the two women in front of him, if his employer had asked him to. The two men went out. When they closed the door behind them, it seemed to Maureen that all at once the temperature in the room had gone up a few degrees.

  Mary Ann Levallier took her by the arm and drew her to the kitchen. Anger flashing in her eyes, she spoke in a low voice, as if afraid the two men could still hear her.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Why? I don’t think I said anything that isn’t true. He’s a rich man, his son killed three people and you’re a lawyer.’

  Mary Ann had regained all her self-control, that cool-headedness that had made her one of the best criminal lawyers in New York State.

  ‘You know, Maureen, there’s one major difference between the two of us.’

  ‘Only one?’

  Mary Ann carried on as if she had not heard. ‘As you so rightly said, I’m a lawyer. As far as I’m concerned, a person is innocent until proved guilty. You’re a police officer, so of course you think exactly the opposite.’

  Maureen could almost have laughed. Her mother, hired to defend the man she had helped to get arrested! For a moment she felt like telling her everything, to see how Mary Ann Levallier’s logical, pragmatic brain would react if she told her of her part in the case, especially the way she had become involved in the first place.

  She limited herself to smiling and shaking her head.

  ‘Do you think this is a laughing matter?’

  ‘Laughing, no. Smiling, definitely. Though even if you lived a hundred years, you’d never believe the reason.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘No. Except that I was going to make myself a coffee. But now I’ll think I’ll go out for it.’

  Maureen turned her back on her mother, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, beautiful, elegant and distant, to watch her as she walked away along the corridor.

  As she opened the door to her bedroom, she realized ‘it’ was about to
happen again. Another episode was on its way.

  By now, she had learned to recognize that long shudder down her spine. Before the dizzy spell that always occurred before one of her episodes, she managed to get to the bed.

  She had just sat down on the edge of the mattress, forcing herself not to scream, when . . .

  . . . I’m sitting by a large window at the table of what seems to be a college cafeteria, and around me are young men and women – and one of the girls is sitting on the other side of the room looking at me, and with a slight nod of her head signals to me to follow her when she gets up from the table and goes towards the exit and I . . .

  . . . I’m in another place and I can feel the pressure on my cheeks of the hard edges of a plastic mask, and through the eyeholes I see people with their hands in the air, looking at me terrified. They’re crying out words but I can’t hear them, and in my hand there’s the weight of a gun and I wave it towards these people, who lie down on the floor and . . .

  . . . a figure dressed in dark clothes and a Pig Pen mask, carrying a pump-action rifle and a canvas bag, comes to me and grabs me by the shoulder, and from the vein standing out on his throat I can tell he’s yelling something and . . .

  . . . there’s a beautiful young black woman with short hair sitting on a chair in the middle of a room, and her huge dark eyes are wide with fear and there’s adhesive tape over her mouth, and her arms are tied to the chair. Behind her there’s a figure dressed in dark clothes wearing a Lucy mask who’s finishing tying her up and . . .

  Maureen suddenly found herself back in the present, lying on her bed, with the neck and armpits of her T-shirt soaked in sweat, and feeling that sense of bewildered exhaustion this thing always left in her body and mind. She would have liked to turn over, grab the pillow and start crying until her life was given back to her.

  Instead, she reached out, picked up the telephone and dialled the number she had learned by heart.

  ‘Jordan, it’s Maureen. It happened again.’

  ‘Has it passed? Are you all right now?’ There was such genuine concern in his voice that she immediately felt less alone, less desperate.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘Did you see something new?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then if you’re up to it, I think we should meet.’

  ‘Yes, I’m up to it. Where?’

  ‘If you like, I can come over there. Or we could meet in my apartment.’

  Maureen immediately thought how hard it would be to justify to her mother Jordan Marsalis’s presence in her apartment.

  ‘I’ll come to you. Give me the address.’

  ‘Fifty-four West Sixteenth Street, between Fifth and Sixth.’

  ‘Great. Just give me time to get there.’

  Maureen put the phone down, got up from the bed and walked, still slightly unsteadily, to the bathroom to take a shower.

  CHAPTER 41

  Maureen’s call had come just after Jordan had closed the door of his apartment behind him. He put the cellphone back in his pocket and looked around. Lysa must have hired furniture to replace the pieces he had put in storage. The apartment looked more complete now, more lived-in, with colourful posters on the walls. It bore the marks of her taste, insofar as taste could be expressed with rented furniture.

  A half-empty coffee cup stood abandoned on the table, a T-shirt was draped over the back of a chair, and her vanilla scent hung in the air. It was as if she would be back any minute, instead of lying in a hospital bed, attached to a monitor, with tubes in her veins.

  Jordan had come up to the apartment to look for the health insurance policy, if Lysa had ever had one. This had been his home not so long ago, but now he felt like an intruder.

  When he was in the police, he had made dozens of searches, but they had always been justified by the needs of an investigation. Not even for a moment had he ever felt he was violating someone’s privacy, but now he did. Especially someone like Lysa, who guarded her privacy so fiercely.

  He decided to start his search in the bedroom. Even here, where there were no major changes, the touch of a delicate hand could be felt. The new blue bedspread, raffia mats, also blue, on the floor, the newly cleaned lampshade of the bedside lamp: the room gave off a sense of light and peace.

  Usually, when he had conducted police searches, he had been looking for things people had tried their best to hide. In this case it was quite likely that the most obvious place was also the right one.

  He opened the wall closet opposite the bed and was immediately lucky.

  On the highest shelf, to the left, next to a pile of T-shirts, was a thick leather document holder. He sat down on the bed and opened it.

  It was full of papers and documents neatly arranged, as might be expected of a woman like Lysa. In his thoughts, Jordan realized he had instinctively used the word ‘woman’.

  Good luck to you and that poor girl . . .

  He remembered the way Annette, as she left St Vincent’s, had continued talking about her as a girl, even after learning the truth. Well, if that was what Lysa felt that she was, then it was only right for him and everyone else to think of her that way.

  Jordan started to go through the documents one by one, without taking them out. Between two birthday cards, he found a slightly faded colour photograph. Despite his scruples, he slid it out and held it carefully between his fingers, as if a brusque movement could somehow hurt the people in it. A very beautiful little boy stood, smiling shyly, between an austerely dressed man and woman, who were glowering at the camera. In the background a white wooden building could be seen, probably a church.

  He checked inside the document holder but there was no other photograph. The whole of Lysa’s past was encapsulated in that single image, its colours already starting to fade. He recalled again what she had told him about her family, at the restaurant on the river.

  When I left home, without even touching the door, I saw it closing behind me . . .

  He put the photo back where he had found it and continued going through the documents. Finally, in a transparent plastic folder, he found her Social Security card and insurance policy.

  As he took them out of the folder, an envelope fell onto the bedspread. It was unsealed, with the flap simply tucked inside.

  Jordan took it and turned it over. It was a simple white envelope, with nothing written on it, but Jordan was scared of what he might find inside.

  He lifted the flap and, holding the envelope by the edges, emptied the contents on the bed.

  They consisted of four slips of paper, each divided in half by a sharp diagonal cut, which someone had put together again with adhesive tape. His hands slightly unsteady, he laid them out side by side. There were four cheques, each for twenty-five thousand dollars, issued by the Chase Manhattan Bank, similar in every way to the fragment he had found in the pocket of the late DeRay Lonard, also known as Lord.

  Except that these were made out to Alexander Guerrero.

  Without realizing it, Jordan got to his feet and took a step back. He stood there, staring, dazed, at those rectangles of coloured paper. Then he put his hand in his pocket, took out his cellphone, and speed-dialled Burroni.

  The detective replied at the second ring.

  ‘James, Jordan here.’

  ‘Hi. I heard you put on quite a firework display last night.’

  ‘Yes. A son of a bitch I sent to the can decided to have his revenge. Unfortunately, someone entirely innocent got caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘I heard. I’m sorry. How is she?’

  ‘Stable. The doctors are holding off on a prognosis for now. James, listen, the reason I’m calling you is that I need a favour.’

  ‘Anything you like.’

  ‘I’ll shortly be sending you a fax with a photocopy of part of a cashier’s cheque issued by the Chase Manhattan Bank. The name of the payee is partly missing, but it’s DeRay Lonard, the guy who shot at me last night. See if you can find out who requested the issue.�
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  For the moment, Jordan preferred not to talk about the cheques made out to Lysa that he had found in the apartment.

  ‘Got it. Anything else?’

  ‘Not for the moment.’

  ‘Then let me tell you the latest about Julius Wong. There are things coming out about him you wouldn’t believe. Your nephew may have been some kind of mad genius, but this guy’s a real nutjob. He’s still refusing to say a word, but we’ve discovered a couple of things that are strange, to say the least, from the point of view of coincidence.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘On 14 September 1993, in Troy, a town near Albany, in the branch of a local bank – the Troy Savings Bank – there was a robbery carried out by four masked people, who got away with almost thirty thousand dollars. And guess what kind of masks they were wearing?’

  ‘Plastic masks depicting characters from Peanuts. Linus, Lucy, Snoopy and Pig Pen, to be precise.’

  Burroni was speechless for a moment.

  ‘Jordan, I don’t know how you do it, but your talents are wasted. But that’s not all.’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘I’ll try. Among other things, we combed the area around Poughkeepsie, to a radius of about five or six miles. The owner of a bar recognized Julius Wong from the photographs he was shown. He claims that about ten days after the robbery in Troy, he overheard a heated discussion in his bar between Wong and three other people, two men and a woman, that didn’t degenerate into a fight only because the bar owner chased them out with a baseball bat. And he added that one of those three people was definitely your nephew.’

  ‘Maybe this’ll lead us to the motive, which is the one thing we don’t have. You’ve done a great job, James.’

  As he was talking to Burroni, Jordan had moved to the living room, where reception was better. From the window he saw a taxi pull up at the sidewalk. Maureen got out, paid the driver, and immediately looked up at the building through dark glasses. Jordan leaned out and made a sign with his fingers to press the button for the third floor. Then he went to the entryphone to open the front door.