The Killer in My Eyes (31 page)

‘Yes, Damon. I’m here and I can confirm that Julius Wong, who was taken in by police last night, has now been charged with the murder of Gerald Marsalis. I understand that there is also evidence linking him to the murder of Chandelle Stuart and to last night’s kidnapping of writer Alex Campbell, in the course of which, as we know, he died of a heart attack.’

Lysa felt a wave of cold hit her stomach and spread through her veins, turning her blood to ice. She gasped and sat down on the bed before her legs could give way, her face as pale as the marble in the bathroom.

On the screen, the reporter continued, ‘From what I understand, the investigators are waiting for the results of a DNA test, to determine the source of semen found in Chandelle Stuart’s body. Right now we have no other details. We expect there to be a press conference very soon.’

A coloured photograph appeared, with the speaker’s voice over it.

‘Julius Wong, the son of Cesar Wong, is no stranger to the police or the courts. Some years ago . . .’

Lysa turned off the volume but continued staring at the screen.

The image of Julius Wong stared back at her, cold and silent.

Jordan raised his arms from the table and leaned back in his chair, to allow the dark-jacketed waiter to put the plate down in front of him. As the man walked discreetly away, Jordan looked at the dish with a puzzled air.

‘What the hell’s this?’

Maureen smiled across the table with its crystal glasses and elegant white linen tablecloth. She had the same colourful dish on her plate.

‘Breast of pigeon cooked in cocoa and grape sauce.’

Jordan moved his chair closer to the table and picked up his knife and fork. ‘If the food’s as impressive as its name, it should be good.’

‘My father always says that cooking is like literature. It has no limits except the imagination. He’s convinced that food should satisfy as many senses as possible. Taste, smell, sight.’

Jordan cut a small piece of the pigeon, lifted it to his mouth and started chewing it slowly. An ecstatic expression spread across his face. ‘Fantastic. I have to say, Martini’s deserves its reputation.’

Maureen laughed.

‘You did it!’ said Jordan.

‘What?’

‘You laughed. That’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh. You should spend more time here.’

‘Or more time with you.’

Maureen had invited him to dinner at her father’s restaurant, an elegant two-storey period building on 46th Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, not far from the lights of Times Square and the Broadway theatres. It was only when she had said that she was the daughter of one of the best-known restaurateurs in New York that the penny had finally dropped, and Jordan had accepted the invitation gladly.

On the face of it, they were celebrating the happy ending of an investigation in which neither of them had officially participated and in which neither of them had really wanted to participate. In fact, the real reason for being here together was the formless but solid thing that had connected them from the start, a thing to which neither of them could give a name.

Maureen continued watching Jordan as he ate. For the first time, she noticed that he had beautiful hands. There was something in him that reminded her of Connor, even though the two men were so different, both in personality and physical appearance.

Connor was creativity, a magician casting the spell of music. Jordan was strength and silence. Connor had beautiful long hands that quivered like the strings of a violin. Jordan had masculine hands which, it seemed to her, would never have held a gun if there wasn’t a need.

She wondered if, at another time or in another place, something might have developed between her and Jordan. But it was a pointless question, and any answer would be equally pointless. She continued looking at him every now and again, enjoying the pleasant sense of relaxation his presence gave her.

Jordan’s calm voice surprised her as she was thinking this. ‘Have I passed the test?’

Maureen could have kicked herself. She should have known that her excessive attention would not escape Jordan.

She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. There is no test. If there were, you’d have passed it long ago.’

At that moment, fortunately for him, Jordan felt his cellphone vibrate in his pants pocket. He had put it on vibrate so as not to disturb the other customers, but in agreement with Maureen, he hadn’t switched it off. Since the arrest of Julius Wong, they had been kept out of things, for obvious reasons. It would have been difficult to explain Jordan’s role, let alone Maureen’s, now that the media were fully involved. They were forced to follow the story from a distance, unable to participate in the interrogations or keep up to date with new developments. They had to rely on whatever came from Burroni or Christopher.

Maybe it was one of them calling now.

Jordan saw there was no number on the display screen. He pressed the key, ignoring a few heads that had turned towards their table with an air of disapproval.

‘Hello?’

‘Jordan, it’s James.’

Jordan looked across at Maureen and nodded. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s him, Jordan. They did the DNA test – a perfect match. Plus, he hasn’t been able to provide a scrap of an alibi for any of the days when the murders were committed. And that includes yesterday. He says he was at home all evening. I don’t think there’s any doubt it’s him, though we can’t get a word out of him.’

Jordan mutely absorbed this information.

‘Jordan,’ Burroni continued, ‘I don’t know what you did to get us where we are now. And I haven’t a clue how the Italian woman fits in. There are a whole lot of things I just don’t understand.’

Jordan could hardly blame him. In agreement with Christopher, he had decided to keep Burroni in the dark about what Maureen had brought to the investigation. And especially about the way she had found out what she knew.

‘If it’s any consolation, I’m in the same position as you are.’

‘There’s something else I wanted to say, Jordan. I really liked working with you. And I’m not just saying that because of my personal thing and the way it got sorted out. I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re a great cop, and I think it’s a scandal what happened to you.’

‘It’s all right, James. Don’t worry. Keep me informed, and say hello to your son for me.’

Jordan hung up and turned to Maureen. ‘It’s him. The DNA test nailed him. The game’s over for Julius Wong.’

They were both silent for a moment. Then Jordan said what they were both thinking. ‘You know it isn’t over for
us
, though, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Maureen replied in a low voice.

‘You saw something that led us to Julius Wong. I haven’t the faintest idea how it’s even possible, but you and I both know it’s true. Which means the murder you say you saw when those people were wearing
Peanuts
masks must be true, too. Do you think Wong was the person you saw with a knife in his hand?’

‘I don’t know, Jordan. I only saw him for a moment, with his back to me. Now that I’ve seen him in person, I think it’s possible. The build is similar.’

Maureen made a sign to the waiter who was approaching to clear the table. He understood, turned around and walked back the way he had come, leaving them alone.

‘We need to find out what happened in that room,’ Jordan went on, ‘even though we don’t know where, when or why. It could provide the motive for the murders, but at the same time we can’t talk to anyone because they all, Burroni included, would laugh in our faces or call in the nearest psychiatric unit.’

Maureen felt a sense of panic. ‘I don’t know if I can do it again, Jordan.’

He reached out a hand and placed it on hers. Maureen found it incredible how such a small gesture could be so reassuring.

‘Yes, you can. You’re a strong woman and you’re not alone now. And above all, you’re not crazy. I know that, and I believe you. Sooner or later all this will be over.’

Maureen did not have time to reply, because at that moment a slim man in a beautifully tailored dark suit approached the table and addressed Jordan.

‘Sir, if this delightful creature you have in front of you is telling you you’re very handsome, don’t believe her. She says the same thing to every man she meets.’

Jordan was puzzled, but then he saw a smile appear on Maureen’s mouth. ‘Jordan, this is Professor Roscoe, the surgeon who operated on me. It’s thanks to him that I can see now. William, this is Jordan Marsalis, a very dear friend.’

Roscoe held out his hand to Jordan and shook it with a firm grip, the grip of a sincere, self-confident man.

‘Sorry if I disturbed you, but the fact is, we doctors are a bit like prima donnas. We like to savour our successes. It may not always be appropriate, but we’re only human.’

Roscoe turned his attention to Maureen. ‘How are your eyes, Miss Martini?’

‘They’re fine. I still don’t know how to thank you.’

The surgeon did not notice how false Maureen’s enthusiasm was, nor did he see the shadow that passed over her face as she uttered those words. Jordan wondered how Roscoe would have reacted, had he been told about the side-effects of the operation.

‘My dear, I think your operation was one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life. Apart from the professional satisfaction it gave me, it’s also flung wide for me the doors of this Holy of Holies of New York cuisine. I’ve discovered that your father has opened an almost unlimited line of credit for me here, which I’m not embarrassed to take advantage of . . .’ he gave a disarming smile ‘. . . though I’m limiting myself to alternate days.’

Jordan pointed to the empty chair next to his. ‘We’ve nearly finished, but if you’d like to join us . . .’

William Roscoe indicated with a glance a table behind him where two elegant, slightly stiff-looking men were sitting. ‘Those two barons of medical research at the table over there would never forgive me. It’s incredible how lacking in a sense of humour some scientists are.’

He moved away from the table with a conspiratorial air. Maybe he had misconstrued the meaning of their presence here together, but neither Jordan nor Maureen saw fit to enlighten him.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he called pleasantly. ‘Have a good evening.’

He turned, and walked with an elegant gait back to the table where his colleagues were waiting for him, their faces buried in big leather-bound menus.

Jordan and Maureen did not have time to talk about Professor Roscoe, because the cellphone Jordan had put down on the table started vibrating again.

This time the number appeared on the display and Jordan recognized it immediately. It was the landline in his apartment, and he knew who was at the other end. For a moment, he was tempted to reject the call. He looked around, ill at ease.

Maureen understood his embarrassment and pointed to the phone. ‘Answer it, it might be important.’

You don’t know how important. And you don’t know how afraid I am that it might be.

He took the call and immediately heard the voice he desired and feared.

‘Jordan, it’s Lysa.’

He had not forgotten the look on her face when she had seen him embracing Maureen the previous night. He couldn’t forget it, because he hadn’t forgotten what he himself had felt on seeing her. He kept his reply curt, not because he didn’t have the words, but because he was afraid to utter them.

‘Go on.’

‘I need to talk to you. About something important.’

‘OK. I’ll call you tomorrow morn—’

‘No, Jordan. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. It’s very important and very urgent. I need to talk to you now. I won’t have the courage tomorrow.’

Jordan looked at Maureen. She understood and nodded her head.

He glanced at his watch, mentally calculating the time it would take him to get to 16th Street on his bike.

‘OK. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

‘Problem?’ Maureen asked.

‘Not at all. A personal matter, nothing to do with the case.’

‘Then go. Don’t worry about me. I’m at home here. I’ll take advantage of my father being away to boss everyone around.’

Jordan stood up. He was tall and strong, but right now Maureen thought he looked like a lost little boy.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Maybe we can meet and work out a strategy.’

‘All right. Now go – three of your twenty minutes have already gone.’

As she watched him walking to the cloakroom to pick up his leather jacket and helmet, Maureen told herself that when a man has that expression on his face, it’s almost always because of an affair of the heart. So it wasn’t hard to believe that it was a matter that had nothing to do with the case.

Neither she nor Jordan knew just how wrong this last supposition was.

Jordan stopped the Ducati in front of the building, switched off the engine and propped the bike on the kickstand. He removed his helmet and waited there for a moment, looking at the glass in the main door, as if he could somehow read his future by magic on the shiny surface. He did not have his key with him and besides, even if he had had it, he wouldn’t have wanted to go straight up and open the door as if nothing between him and Lysa had changed.