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

  ‘James, there’s something I need to do right now. Keep in touch.’

  ‘OK, speak to you soon.’

  Jordan hung up and opened the door to the landing. He could hear the noise of the elevator coming up. A few moments later, Maureen stepped out and came towards him.

  Jordan stood aside to let her in. She was walking with her back slightly stooped, and even with her glasses on he could sense that her eyes were tired of seeing what they were forced to see.

  Jordan smiled at her, encouragingly. ‘Hello, Maureen. I’d like to say good afternoon, but I’m not sure it is.’ He pointed to the couch. ‘Sit down. Let’s talk.’

  He realized that Maureen wanted nothing more than to get things off her chest, things she had carried alone until now. As soon as she had sat down, she immediately started telling him about the latest episode.

  She spoke with her eyes down, so that she did not see the reaction she was provoking in Jordan as he stood listening to her.

  When she had finished, he sat down next to her and took her hand. ‘Maureen, I just had a call from Burroni that tallies perfectly with what you’ve just told me. The thing you saw was a robbery my nephew, Julius Wong, Chandelle Stuart and Alex Campbell all took part in. The only thing we have to discover is the identity of the woman. If they were dressed in the same way, she must be linked to the murder you say you saw the other time. And if Julius Wong is responsible for that, we can add it to the list of his crimes.’

  Maureen took off her glasses to look at him, even though he knew how much the light hurt her eyes. ‘That’s only going to make things worse for me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Mary Ann Levallier has just been hired by Cesar Wong as his son’s defence attorney. In case you’ve forgotten, Mary Ann Levallier is my mother.’

  Jordan smiled again, and again it was meant to be supportive. ‘When my brother hears about that, it may make things difficult for him, too – although I’m sure he already knows. In any case, we’ll soon find out.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  Jordan stood up and held out his hand to help her up. ‘My brother is at Gracie Mansion right now. And that’s where we’re going.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Jordan and Maureen got out of the cab and set off along the path that led to the front gate of Gracie Mansion. Jordan had preferred to get to Carl Schurz Park that way, rather than force Maureen to sit on the back seat of a motorbike. It would have proved dangerous if she had had one of her episodes during the ride.

  For most of the journey they had both been silent, with Maureen looking out of the window, as if mesmerized by what she could see of the city through her dark glasses, and Jordan sneaking glances at her from time to time. Maybe, in the light of what was happening to her, she was thinking that there was another world somewhere, a real world, whereas everything around her was merely illusion – and nothing was true except what she saw, sometimes, through her eyes.

  After a while she had said, without turning to look at him, ‘There’s something there, Jordan.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s something inside me – something I feel I ought to know, but can’t pin down. It’s as if I’m looking at someone behind a shower curtain. I know he’s there, but I can’t see his face.’

  Maureen had removed her glasses for a moment and immediately put them back on again, adjusting them with excessive care on her nose.

  ‘The best thing to do is not to think about it,’ Jordan said gently. ‘It’ll come by itself.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m afraid of.’

  Maureen had fallen silent again and Jordan took the opportunity to call St Vincent’s and ask to speak to Dr Melvin Leko. The surgeon recognized his voice immediately.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Marsalis.’

  ‘Good afternoon. How is Miss Guerrero?’

  ‘In excellent shape, considering what happened to her. She’s still quite groggy, but the prognosis is good.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Not for the moment, no.’

  ‘Thank you. If it’s not too much bother, please keep me informed of any developments.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jordan had hung up just as the taxi drew into the kerb at the end of their ride.

  And now they were passing the bench where Maureen had sat, the day she had gone to Gracie Mansion, trying to summon up the courage to appear in front of strangers and ask them to accept something that she herself could hardly believe.

  Everything around her seemed a replay of that day: the trees, the patches of sunlight on the grass, the cries of children from the playground, the bronze statue of Peter Pan in the little square below them.

  Even the security officer on duty was the same. He allowed them to pass through without hesitation.

  The butler who greeted them at the door of Gracie Mansion informed them that the Mayor was busy at the moment, having a meeting with two representatives of his party.

  Thanking him, the pair made their own way to the room where Ruben Dawson was sitting at the computer, as impeccable and impassive as ever, in the company of a technician.

  ‘Ruben, we need to get on the internet . . .’ Jordan left the phrase hanging and glanced at the other person present in the room, a sturdy man of about thirty who was sitting at another computer with his back to them.

  ‘Martin,’ Ruben said, ‘would you mind excusing us for a moment?’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Dawson.’

  While waiting for Martin to get up and leave the room, Jordan went to the photocopier and, shielding what he was doing with his body, took from his jacket pocket the cheque he had found on Lord. He made a copy, put it in the fax machine and sent it to Burroni.

  Then he turned and said to Dawson, who was still sitting in front of the computer, ‘Ruben, do you think the town of Troy has a local newspaper?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we can soon find out.’ After a rapid search, he leaned back in his chair and pointed to the screen. ‘Here it is. The Troy Record.’

  ‘Could you phone them and ask if their archives have been digitized and are accessible online? I don’t think they’ll refuse if the request comes from the New York Mayor’s office. Please say it’s very important.’

  Ruben stood up and went to the phone. Before dialling he turned to them for a moment.

  ‘Remember we’re dealing with a newspaper. If there’s something you’re trying to keep secret, that’s hardly the best way to go about it.’

  Jordan was forced to admit that Christopher, in choosing Ruben Dawson as a colleague, had not misplaced his trust.

  ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I don’t really care.’

  Ruben dialled the number and asked to be put through to the editor. As he spoke, Maureen sat down at the desk and went on the Troy Record website. Jordan came up behind her and put his hands on the back of the chair.

  Ruben said what he had to say and put the phone down. ‘Done. The archive is partly computerized and goes back twelve years.’

  He gave them the password. Maureen clicked on Archive and typed it in. Under the logo of the newspaper appeared an internal search engine.

  She heard the voice of Jordan behind her.

  ‘The robbery took place on 14 September 1993, so it makes sense to check the 15 September edition.’

  Maureen typed in the date, and the relevant edition appeared on the screen. The item they were looking for was on the city section and took up the whole page. It was written by a journalist named Rory Cardenas.

  DOLLARS AND PEANUTS

  Charlie Brown Robs a Bank

  A robbery took place yesterday at the East Greenbush branch of Troy Savings Bank, on the Columbia Turnpike. Three people wearing masks depicting characters from the comic strip Peanuts entered the bank, threatened customers and staff with pistols and a pump-action rifle, and seized the bank’s entire holdings, amounting to thirty thousand dollars. Linus, Lucy and Pig Pen
drove away in a white Ford that was waiting outside with the engine on, driven by a person wearing a Snoopy mask. The Ford was later found abandoned about six miles south of Troy, having apparently broken down, but the robbers vanished without trace. Nobody was hurt during the robbery, but a 72-year-old woman, Mary Hallbrooks, was taken ill and was promptly admitted to Samaritan Hospital, where she is still under observation. Doctors say her condition is stable. It is the first time a branch of Troy Savings Bank has been targeted by . . .

  The article was accompanied by a photograph of the manager and images of police officers searching the premises of the bank. Maureen felt the pressure of Jordan’s hands loosen on the back of the chair.

  ‘Well, we already knew all that. But the other thing you saw is likely to have happened at about the same time as the robbery. If that’s the case, the news should be in the same edition.’

  And indeed, two pages further on, in the bottom right-hand corner, was the article they were looking for.

  Maureen zoomed in to enlarge it. There were two photographs to accompany it. One showed an attractive, light-skinned black woman with short hair, smiling calmly. The other, a child with dark eyes and even lighter skin than his mother’s. He looked bright, and gazed out at them with an amused expression.

  Although the circumstances in which she had first seen the woman were very different, Maureen recognized her immediately. Without a word, she put a hand on Jordan’s wrist and gave it a little squeeze.

  NURSE’S SKILLS NOT ENOUGH TO SAVE HER SON’S LIFE

  Thelma Ross, a professional nurse at Samaritan Hospital in Troy, yesterday fell victim to a tragic sequence of events that resulted in the death of her son, Lewis, aged five. Playing in the garden, the child was stung by a large number of hornets. The violent anaphylactic shock that followed caused a laryngeal oedema that soon completely blocked his respiratory tract. His mother, who has had extensive experience as an operating-room nurse, performed an emergency tracheotomy on young Lewis, but not even this could save his life. By the time the paramedics arrived, the child was dead. On behalf of a community to which she has given so much, we would like to express our sincerest condolences to Thelma Ross on her terrible loss.

  Jordan placed a hand on Maureen’s shoulder in his excitement. ‘There’s something not quite right here. The news as reported doesn’t really correspond to what—’

  He broke off. Even though Ruben had no idea what they were referring to, Maureen knew why.

  ‘Find me the number of Samaritan Hospital in Troy,’ Jordan told her.

  Maureen opened Yellow Pages, and within a few moments the telephone numbers and address of the hospital appeared on the screen. Jordan immediately grabbed the telephone and dialled the number.

  The operator replied almost at once.

  ‘Samaritan Hospital, how can I help you?’

  ‘Could you put me through to Human Resources?’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  After a few moments of the usual switchboard music, a resolute-sounding voice came on the line.

  ‘Michael Stills.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Stills.My name’s Jordan Marsalis and I’m calling on behalf of the Mayor of New York.’

  ‘Of course you are. Sorry if I kept you waiting, but I had the President of the United States on the line.’

  Jordan admired the man’s quick reflexes and did not take it badly. He had expected a reaction like that, even if not such an ironic one.

  ‘Mr Stills, I understand your surprise. I’d have come in person but this is a very urgent matter. Maybe your switchboard could get you the number of Gracie Mansion and you could ask for me. I’m the Mayor’s brother.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. You’ve managed to convince me. Carry on.’

  ‘I’d like some information about an employee of yours, a nurse named Thelma Ross. I need to know if she’s still working there and if so, whether I can speak to her.’

  At the other end, there was a sigh and a slight pause. ‘Ah, Thelma. The poor woman . . .’

  ‘I know what happened to her and her son. What I’d like to know is where I can find her now.’

  ‘Everybody here liked her,’ Stills went on, as if lost in his own memories. ‘She was a very sweet person and a wonderful nurse. She never really got over that death. She fell into a depression that got worse until she ended up in a semi-catatonic state. Currently she’s in a psychiatric hospital.’

  ‘Do you remember what it’s called?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think the name is The Cedars or The Oaks, something like that. I know from colleagues who visit her that it’s just outside Saratoga Springs, to the north of here. I believe it’s the only hospital of its kind in the area.’

  ‘Could I speak to her husband?’

  ‘Thelma isn’t married. I guess she was once, but by the time she arrived here she was a single parent.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Stills. You’ve been extremely helpful.’

  Jordan hung up and was silent for a moment, trying to absorb what he had just heard.

  ‘Thelma Ross is in a mental hospital near Saratoga Springs. I don’t know how much help she could be, but I think we really need to pay her a visit.’

  From Jordan’s tone, Maureen understood that their visit to Gracie Mansion was over. Christopher was still busy, and the idea of leaving without seeing him and having to explain the reason for their presence didn’t bother either of them.

  They said goodbye to Ruben, opened the door and walked in silence down the corridor to the main door.

  Dawson stood in the doorway, watching them walk away until they had disappeared around a corner. Then he went back in the room, took his cellphone from his pocket and dialled the number of a charitable association.

  When someone picked up at the other end, he did not even bother to say his name. Despite his proverbial self-possession, he could not help slightly lowering his voice in deference.

  ‘Tell Mr Wong I have some news that might be of interest to him . . .’

  CHAPTER 43

  The helicopter was flying north over the Hudson, at a height of 2,000 feet. From his seat by the window, Jordan watched its shadow glide over the surface of the river. At Jordan’s request, and without asking too many questions, Christopher had put his own helicopter at their disposal – an Augusta-Bell AB139 that had taken off from the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, headed for Saratoga Springs. He had already contacted The Oaks, the hospital where Thelma Ross was a patient. After talking to the director, Colin Norwich, Jordan had opted for a helicopter when he had heard that the hospital had a landing strip.

  Now he and Maureen were sitting side by side behind the pilot. Although the cockpit was soundproofed, they had followed his advice and put on Peltor headsets, so that they could talk during the flight without being disturbed by the noise of the blades.

  Jordan pressed the button that excluded the pilot from their conversation and turned to Maureen, who was sitting with her head tilted slightly back, as if she had dozed off behind her dark glasses.

  ‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ he said.

  Her reply showed him that she was awake and, like him, thinking hard. ‘Let’s see if it’s the same thing I’ve been wondering.’

  ‘Given what’s gone before, there’s nothing to suggest that what you saw isn’t true. But if that’s the case, and if Julius Wong killed Thelma Ross’s son – why did she never inform the police?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I was thinking.’

  ‘Let’s hope she can tell us something, although the doctor I spoke to seemed a bit vague about that.’

  Maureen again turned to the landscape on her side as the helicopter veered round. ‘Right now,’ she said, ‘all I want is to understand.’

  Perhaps because he was not in love with her, Jordan felt closer to her than he had ever felt to almost anyone before. What had happened to him two days earlier had brought him even closer to her. When he had seen Lysa lying on the ground, with
that red bloodstain spreading over her blouse, draining the colour from her face, he had understood what Maureen must have felt when Connor Slave had been killed.

  Lysa . . .

  The previous evening, after his visit to Gracie Mansion, Jordan had gone to St Vincent’s to see Lysa, even though he had already spoken to Dr Leko. When they had allowed him to creep into her room for a moment, he had found her asleep, with her hair spread on the pillow, as pale and beautiful as if, instead of being in a hospital bed, she was on the set of a photo call. Her heartbeat, represented by a green line moving across a monitor, was regular, much more so than his.

  As he stood beside the bed, Lysa had opened her eyes and looked at him, her gaze still blurry from the drugs. It had seemed to Jordan that a slight smile had hovered over her lips for a moment, but then she had drifted back to that painless place where the drugs allowed her to find refuge. Jordan had left the room as he had entered it, in perfect silence, leaving Lysa in the kind of deep sleep that he had sought in vain all night.

  The pilot lifted his right hand and pointed downwards at the glittering surface of Saratoga Lake beneath them.

  ‘That’s the lake. The place we’re looking for is at the north tip.’

  The helicopter turned again and lost height. As they came in to land, Jordan saw two buildings, surrounded by pleasant grounds. One of the buildings was smaller than the other, and lay just beyond the landing strip. The second, to its right, was much larger and had a broad forecourt that led to a flower garden.

  The pilot switched off the engines. Jordan and Maureen disembarked, stooping to avoid the blades, then walked along a path lined by a hedge of holly bushes. A man was moving in their direction.

  Jordan held out his hand. ‘Hello. I’m Jordan Marsalis and this is Maureen Martini, who works for the police in Italy.’