Killer in My Eyes Read online

  ‘Jesus Christ, Jordan, who could have done something like this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Chris, I really don’t know.’

  ‘I can’t even look at him, Jordan. I can hardly believe that’s my son.’

  Christopher placed his arm on the wall and leaned on it with his back turned and his head bowed. He remained in that position while what was left of Jerry Ko was lifted, placed in a body bag, and taken out of the room on a gurney.

  The four men – Christopher, Jordan, Detective Burroni and Ruben Dawson – were silent for a long moment. Christopher was the first to speak. He gestured at the wall against which his son’s body had been propped and said thickly, ‘What the fuck does this number mean?’ There was anger in his voice, but he had regained some of his self-control.

  Jordan took a deep breath and moved away from the others. Within a second or two, it was as if he was no longer with them. Over the years, he had discovered that he had remarkable powers of visualization. When he was still at the Police Academy, the psychologist conducting the aptitude tests had been astonished by his abilities.

  Following his instinct, he stared at the wall until it disappeared.

  He saw Gerald’s body being dragged over and propped against the wall, then being placed in that absurd pose, and the hand drawing the cloud and . . .

  ‘It’s a Code T9,’ he said, as if stating the obvious.

  Three heads turned to look at him. ‘What’s a Code T9?’ Ruben Dawson asked.

  Jordan put his hand in his pocket and took out his cellphone. He started tapping quickly, every now and again raising his head to check the numbers. Only when he had confirmed his intuition did he look at them and say, ‘It’s an SMS dialling system. The telephone software recognizes the possible words from the keys pressed and reconstructs them without needing every letter.’

  He approached the wall and pointed to the last two figures.

  ‘There, you see? The last two numbers are in a square. Thinking of the position of the body and the numbers, I knew there must be a connection between them. I punched in those numbers and this is what came out.’

  Jordan held up the open cellphone. On the display screen was a sentence:

  the doctor is in

  The three men all looked questioningly at him.

  Anyone who knew him well would have understood that now Jordan wasn’t so much talking to them as thinking aloud.

  ‘The victim was placed in a position intended to recall Linus, the character from Peanuts who sucks his thumb and holds his comfort blanket against his ear.’

  Jordan indicated the sentence on the phone display.

  ‘These words are used by another Peanuts character – Lucy, the elder sister of Linus – whenever she sets up her psychiatric booth.’

  Burroni was looking at him with what was meant to be a superior air, but his tone of voice when he spoke betrayed his admiration. ‘And what do you think that means?’

  Jordan put the cellphone back in the pocket of his leather jacket. ‘I don’t think the killer ever thought the message he left on the wall would be difficult to decipher. The pattern is so simple that any program used by the police or the FBI would have been able to decode it in a few seconds.’

  Jordan took out a cigarette – a single cigarette, not the pack – lit it and took a drag.

  ‘No, I think this was a kind of game for the murderer, a little joke to show us—’

  Jordan broke off abruptly. I’m not a lieutenant any more, Rodriguez . . .

  ‘To show you his next move.’

  None of the others seemed to have noticed that little correction.

  Christopher took a step forward. ‘What exactly do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘The killer arranged his body to look like a Peanuts character,’ Jordan explained. ‘It’s likely that the next victim will be treated the same way.’

  Without realizing it, Jordan had taken the situation in hand and the others were hanging on his every word.

  ‘I don’t know who this next victim is, but if I’m right, two things are very likely. The first is that it’s a woman . . .’

  ‘And the second?’ Christopher prompted.

  ‘The second is that, in the killer’s twisted mind, she’s Lucy.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Lysa Guerrero was pushed slightly forward as the train stopped with a hissing of brakes. They had arrived at Grand Central Station, and Grand Central Station meant New York. A new city, more indifferent people, and another apartment full of furniture she hadn’t chosen herself. But the choice was hers. It was a new start.

  She stood up and, as she got her case down from the rack above her head, her long wavy hair moved as if alive. Out of the corner of her eye, Lysa caught a dreamy expression on the face of the man who had been sitting opposite her for part of the journey, a boy of about eight by his side, peeking at her whenever he thought she couldn’t see. He was an average-looking man, the kind who wore a tie with a fake knot and a sleeveless shirt under his jacket. He seemed intimidated by her beauty, and the only time their eyes had met he had gratefully taken refuge in the answers that his son’s questions demanded.

  Lysa winked at him.

  She saw him blush as red as a shrimp and immediately turn his attention to the backpack his son was having difficulty putting on by himself.

  Lysa got off the train and walked along the platform, following the signs to the exit, indifferent to all the looks she was getting. There was nobody waiting for her, and at this point in her life she didn’t mind at all.

  She found herself in the vast main concourse – a monument of marble, with that staircase she had seen so often in movies, and that high ceiling depicting the sky. Pulling her case on its wheels, she turned right and headed for the subway. She knew that on the lower concourse there was a famous restaurant, the Oyster Bar. She decided that her arrival in the city should be celebrated appropriately. Oysters and champagne to start her new life. And maybe also to forget what she was here for . . .

  Be brave, Lysa, it’ll soon be over.

  All her life she had been searching for a quiet place, somewhere to take refuge. What she wanted most in the world was something most people feared: to be ignored. Unfortunately, she had been gifted with a physical appearance that made that impossible. She had spent her life with everyone’s eyes on her, all wanting the same thing from her.

  And now, finally, she had surrendered.

  If the world around her wanted her that way, then that was how she would be. Only, she would make them all pay dearly for her surrender.

  She went down the ramp leading to the lower concourse. There was the restaurant she was looking for. She walked in through the glass doors of the Oyster Bar with an air of indifference, but none of those present was indifferent to her entrance.

  Two somewhat aging yuppies, sitting at the counter just facing the entrance, stopped talking, and a plump man two seats further along dropped the oyster he was eating onto the napkin in his lap.

  A waiter in the restaurant’s uniform of white shirt and dark vest came towards her and escorted her through the large square room to a table in the corner, with two places set on a red-and-white check tablecloth.

  Lysa sat down on the leather bench seat, ignoring the empty chair, and put her suitcase and purse down against the wall to her left. When the waiter held out the menu to her, she dismissed it with a gesture of her hand and gave him one of her sweetest smiles, which immediately won him over.

  ‘I don’t need it, thank you. I’d just like a selection of the best oysters you have and a very cold half-bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Excellent choice. How does a dozen sound?’

  ‘I think I’d prefer two dozen.’

  The waiter leaned towards her conspiratorially. ‘I’m well in with the maître d’. I reckon I could get you a whole bottle of champagne for the price of a half-bottle. Welcome to New York, miss.’

  ‘How do you know I’m an out-of-towner?’

  The wa
iter grinned. ‘You have a case and you’re smiling. You can’t be from New York.’

  ‘People leaving have cases, too.’

  ‘Yes, but people leaving only smile when they’ve left the city behind.’

  The waiter walked away, and Lysa was alone.

  In the corner opposite was a table with half a dozen men around it. It was obvious they were out-of-towners, too. Lysa had spotted them behind the waiter as he was taking her order, had heard them talking, and had immediately recognized them for what they were.

  Lysa took her time looking for something in her purse, until the waiter returned with a tray of oysters elegantly arranged on ice and a bottle in a chromium-plated bucket.

  The men at the table waited until she had been served, and then one of them, a tall fellow with a receding hairline and a beer belly, got up from the table and, after conferring with his friends, came towards her.

  Lysa had been expecting something like this to happen.

  He reached her table just as she was serving herself a large Belon oyster. ‘Hello there, darling,’ he said. ‘My name’s Harry and I’m from Texas.’

  Lysa lifted her eyes for a moment, then immediately dropped them and started seasoning her oyster. She spoke without looking the man in the face. ‘I guess that makes you special?’

  In his eagerness, Harry had not noticed the question mark at the end of the sentence and accepted it as a recognition of his qualities. ‘You bet it does.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  Without being invited, the man sat down in the empty chair.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Whatever you’re planning to suggest, I warn you I’m not interested.’

  ‘Come on, now. A man like me must have something to interest a woman like you.’

  He was so sure of himself, he did not even notice the expression on her face. He was caught in a trap and didn’t know it. Lysa leaned back in her seat, pushing her chest out slightly, and looked at him with eyes that made his legs shake.

  Suddenly she smiled, a smile that was full of promise. ‘You know, Harry, there’s one thing I like in a man. Initiative. I think you have plenty of that, and that’s what makes you such a smart guy.’

  Harry smiled in his turn. Lysa did not miss the fleeting sideways glance he threw towards the other table: he was swanking to his friends.

  ‘You can’t even imagine how much,’ he leered.

  ‘That’s what I thought. So it’s only right for you to know that I’m pretty smart, too. Look at my hand.’

  Lysa slowly ran her left hand across the table. Harry watched, fascinated by the route her nails were taking on the red-and-white check tablecloth. It was a simple movement, but her expression made it unusually sensual. He gulped.

  ‘You see what I’m doing on the tablecloth? Just think – I could be doing it to you, on your back, in your hair, on your chest, other places . . .’ Lysa half closed her eyes. ‘Are you thinking about that?’

  However limited Harry’s imagination might be, his face made it clear that he was indeed thinking about that. Suddenly, Lysa’s voice became a seductive sigh.

  ‘And now just think what I could do with my other hand . . .’

  She lowered her eyes, indicating a spot under the table. Harry looked down – and turned white. She was holding a switchblade in her right hand, aimed directly at his testicles.

  ‘You have a choice, Harry,’ she said. ‘You can go back to your friends with your balls, or without them.’

  Harry sought refuge in an ironic grin, but could not conceal the unease in his voice. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Want to try me?’

  For a few moments, the one movement in the world seemed to be a bead of sweat slowly trickling down Harry’s forehead.

  Then Lysa said, ‘I’ll give you a chance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Seeing as how you’re not a bad person, just a moron, I’d like to do something for you. Put your hand in the breast pocket of your jacket and give me one of your business cards. I’ll take it and smile at you. Your friends will see that, and you’ll be able to tell them whatever you like. Maybe tonight you’ll be able to go out on your own, go see a movie, and then tomorrow tell them what a terrific lay I was. I don’t care. The only thing I want is for you to get out of my hair and let me finish my food.’

  Harry slid cautiously out from the table and stood up.

  Lysa put her right hand, now empty, back on the table. With a precise, highly suggestive gesture, she took the large oyster from her plate and slowly sucked it.

  Harry turned his back to the table where his friends were and tried to recover some of his pride. ‘You’re nothing but a cheap whore.’

  The angelic smile she gave him seemed incompatible with the woman who until a few moments earlier had been casually holding a knife aimed at his sexual organs. She slipped her hand back under the table. ‘If that’s what you think, why don’t you sit down again?’

  As Harry moved away without another word and returned to his own table, Lysa watched him with a smile on her face. When he sat down among his friends, she took the flute of champagne and raised it in his direction, as if toasting him. None of the other men noticed the grimace with which he responded to her gesture.

  Then, calmly, Lysa turned her attention back to a huge Maine oyster that had pride of place on the metal tray.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, a taxi dropped Lysa at the address she had given.

  54 West 16th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues.

  She got out of the cab and, as the driver unloaded her case from the trunk, looked up at the roof of the building then let her eyes travel down to the windows of the corner apartment on the third floor. She put her hand in her purse, took out a bunch of keys, picked up her case, and walked to the front door.

  She didn’t know how long she would be here but, for now, this place was home.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jordan drove his motorbike into Carl Schurz Park and onto the short sloping path that led up to Gracie Mansion, official residence of the Mayor of New York. His brother had decided to live there during his term in office, even though he had a splendid penthouse on 74th Street. Jordan had kept a clear memory of his inauguration speech, when he had declared, in his best vote-catching voice, that ‘the Mayor of New York should live where the citizens have decided he should live, because that’s where they’ll look for him when they need him.’

  He stopped in front of the gate and took off his helmet. The security guard, a young man who still had a trace of adolescent acne on his cheeks, approached.

  ‘I’m Jordan Marsalis. The Mayor is expecting me.’

  ‘Can I see some ID, please?’

  Without a word, Jordan put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and took out his licence.

  As he waited for it to be checked, he saw that a number of police cars were parked beyond the gate, and that there were officers guarding the house. He wasn’t surprised. The Mayor’s son had been murdered and it couldn’t be completely ruled out that the killer might come after the father.

  The guard gave him back the licence. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll open up for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  If the young man knew about him and his story, he gave no sign of it. Once the gate was open, Jordan drove through and parked his bike in the small open area in front of the main door of the mansion. As he approached, the door opened, and an impeccably dressed butler appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Good day, Mr Marsalis. Please follow me. The Mayor is waiting for you in the small study.’

  ‘You don’t have to go with me,’ Jordan told him. ‘I know the way, thanks.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The butler vanished discreetly. Jordan started walking along the corridor that led to the other side of the house, which faced the East River.

  It was when he had left Gerald’s apartment that Christopher had asked him to join him later at Gracie Mans
ion. Back out on the street, Jordan had once more escaped the onslaught of the press by using his helmet as a disguise – not that he had really needed to, because Christopher had come out immediately afterwards and the reporters had rushed towards him with all the blind frenzy of ants whose anthill has been destroyed.

  Jordan had got to his Ducati and accelerated away without a backward glance.

  And now here he was, outside a room he had no desire to enter. He rapped his knuckles softly on the shiny wood and, without waiting for permission, opened the door.

  Christopher was sitting at his desk talking on the telephone. With his hand, he motioned him to come in. Ruben Dawson was sitting in an armchair with his legs crossed, as elegant and composed as ever. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head in Jordan’s direction.

  Instead of sitting down, Jordan preferred to walk past the desk and go to stand in front of the windows, which looked out towards Roosevelt Island. Outside, a barge was slowly descending the West Channel, heading south. A man was passing on the riverbank, holding two children by the hand, heading perhaps for the playground in the park. A boy and a girl were kissing against the railings.

  Everything looked normal: a beautiful but ordinary spring day.

  And behind him the cold voice of his brother, whose son had just been killed.

  ‘No, I tell you. What happened mustn’t be exploited. No photographs of the grieving father or anything like that. There are young American men at war right now, in various parts of world. The loss of any one of them is as important as my son’s, the grief of a plumber in Detroit is no less great than the Mayor of New York’s. All I’ll let you say is that this city is mourning the loss of a great artist.’

  A pause.

  Jordan didn’t know who exactly his brother was talking to, but it was clear that it was someone in his Press Office.

  ‘All right. In any case, consult me before you decide anything.’

  As he put down the receiver, the door opened and Police Commissioner Maynard Logan walked into the room, wearing a fitting expression. ‘Christopher, I’m truly sorry. I came as soon as I—’