The Killer in My Eyes (33 page)

‘If anyone had to arrest me, I’m glad it’s you, Rodriguez.’

The light lingered a moment longer on Jordan’s face, then the beam descended to take in the bike against the parapet and what could be seen of the body wedged under it.

‘Shit. Lieutenant Marsalis.’

I’m not a lieutenant any more, Rodriguez
. . .

This time, Jordan didn’t bother to say it.

‘Can I put my hands down?’

The two cops put their guns away and came towards him.

‘Of course. But what happened? They reported two bikes having a kind of race along—’

‘Rodriguez,’ Jordan cut in, ‘please, lend me your cellphone. Just let me make a quick call, and then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.’

When they came level with him, Rodriguez handed him the phone. Jordan dialled the number as if the keys were red hot. The cellphone he had slipped into Annette’s pocket started ringing and she picked up immediately.

‘Jordan here. Where are you?’

‘At Saint Vincent’s Hospital, on Seventh Avenue and Twelfth.’

‘Yes, I know it. How is she?’

‘The ambulance arrived immediately. She’s still in the OR.’

‘What are the doctors saying?’

‘Nothing, so far.’

Jordan was glad that the poor lighting concealed the fact that his eyes had suddenly become watery.

‘I’m a bit tied up right now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘Don’t worry. There isn’t much more you could do than I’m doing.’

‘If there’s any news, call this number.’

‘OK.’

‘Thanks, Annette. I’ll find a way to pay you back.’

‘That’s what I’m doing right now, Jordan. And I’m sorry it has to be like this.’

Jordan hung up and handed the phone back to Rodriguez. The other police officer – Rodriguez introduced him as Officer Bozman – had knelt by the bike, his torch trained on two sightless eyes in a dark-skinned face visible below the lifted visor of the helmet.

‘He’s gone,’ he said, standing up again.

‘You need to call the River Police,’ Jordan told him. ‘There was another guy who was thrown off the bike and ended up in the water. From the way he hit the rail, I’d guess he isn’t in much better shape than this one.’

Rodriguez walked off to ask for the backup he needed and Bozman leaned over the parapet and shone his torch down at the dark waters lapping against the pier.

Jordan crouched again by the body of the man under the bike. Out of habit, and seizing the opportunity since nobody was paying any attention to him, he quickly searched him. There was nothing in the pockets. He unzipped the leather jacket and in the inside pocket found a white envelope, with no address or anything else written on it.

Without thinking, he slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt.

He then unfastened the dead man’s helmet, slipped it off, and wasn’t especially surprised to discover Lord’s wide-open eyes staring up at the dark sky.

Son of a bitch.

He had promised it and he had done it.

And because of his partner’s bad aim, Lysa had taken the bullet meant for Jordan.

As they waited for the requested backup, Jordan told Rodriguez and his partner what had happened. The frogmen arrived, and the body of the passenger was soon fished out of the sea. They had found him directly under the parapet, anchored to the bottom by the weight of his helmet, which had filled with water. His back was broken, and with the water dripping off him he looked like a rag doll a child had dropped in the sea. As for Lord, Jordan’s last image of him was his face disappearing under the zipper of a body bag as they put him in the ambulance. His eyes were staring into nothingness, and not even one officer had bothered to close them. Jordan hoped none of them ever did, so that the bastard could continue to look at the lid of his coffin for all eternity.

Sitting on a padded chair in a hospital room, Jordan waited.

When he had stopped the Ducati outside the entrance to Emergency, he had found himself under a white, blue and gold sign announcing that this was the St Vincent Catholic Medical Center.

Jordan had instinctively grimaced.

In the same place, the powerlessness of men and the power of God.

Jordan had thought about Cesar Wong and Christopher Marsalis, two men who, despite all their wealth and influence, had not been able to prevent their sons killing or being killed.

As for the power of God . . .

Jordan had parked his bike on the street, even though he was almost sure he wouldn’t find it when he got back. The glass entrance door had opened automatically in front of him and he moved through, taking off his helmet.

A Chinese nun had passed him, as white as the walls. Jordan watched her hurry by as he tried to orientate himself, and it was only when the immaculate figure was out of sight that he had seen Annette sitting on a chair over to his right, still dressed in her waitress uniform.

She rose and came to him. He didn’t need to speak, as she could read the question in his eyes, and told him, ‘Still nothing.’

Jordan forced himself to recall the cliché philosophy that no news is good news. ‘Thanks, Annette. You can go if you want. I’m here now.’

She pointed towards Reception, where a woman in a blue suit was sitting behind the desk next to a computer. ‘There are some formalities to get through. They asked me a lot of questions I couldn’t answer.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.’ Jordan lowered his voice and his eyes. ‘Did they tell you she’s a man?’

His words had no effect on Annette, who had long ceased to be surprised by anything. ‘No, they didn’t tell me. But if she is, all I can say is that, for a man, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’ Then she had put a hand in the pocket of her apron and gave him back his cellphone. ‘Did you get them? The guys who shot her, I mean.’

‘Yes. And I can tell you, they’ll never shoot anyone again.’

‘Amen to that.’ Annette glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I think it’s time I got out of here.’

Jordan took out some money. ‘At least let me give you the cab fare.’

‘Jordan, I wouldn’t take your money if I had to walk from here to Brooklyn. Don’t worry, I’ll catch the subway.’

She started towards the door, but then turned with a wicked grin: the first time Jordan had ever seen an expression like that on her face.

‘What I wouldn’t mind, though – if you ever have a moment – is for you to take me for a ride on that lovely bike of yours.’

Jordan replied with a surprised smile.

‘You men,’ Annette said, shaking her head ironically. ‘Let me tell you something. At my age I’m out of the running, that’s why I can say it. And I suspect you’re so much above all that, you don’t even know it . . .’

‘What?’

‘You’re one of the handsomest men I’ve ever met. Good luck to you and that poor girl.’

And with that, she waved goodbye and left. Jordan stood there watching her until the glass door had closed behind her.

Then he went to Reception. The woman at the desk was a kindly lady identified by the badge on her dark jacket as Mrs Franzisca Jarid. He gave her the details Annette had not been able to provide, and noted that Mrs Jarid had not given any sign of caring too much about the discrepancy between the physical appearance and true gender of Alexander Guerrero known as Lysa.

Jordan didn’t know if Lysa had private insurance or not. He promised to go to her apartment the next day to look for it, and for the moment showed his own credit card.

Franzisca Jarid looked at the card for a moment, then looked him in the face and indicated the row of chairs to her left, deserted at that hour. She had asked him to sit there and wait, assuring him that he would be informed as soon as there was any news.

And here he was, still waiting.

Right now, the case seemed as remote as the furthest star from the earth. All Jordan could think about was Lysa’s bewildered eyes as she lay on the asphalt, and the surprise and fear in them when she had sought his.

He realized that the two of them had never talked. The only time they had done so, they had told each other nothing but tame fragments of themselves: he had been too involved in the case and she too unreachable, too secretive. They had never discussed a book, never commented on a play on the way out of a theatre, never listened to music, apart from the Connor Slave songs endlessly played by their downstairs neighbour.

I want you much more than I ever wanted that car
. . .

The words he had said to her that day at the restaurant on the river had made her run away. It was only now that Jordan understood: she hadn’t run away from
him
, but from his fear of her.

There was a noise in the corridor to his right, and his heart skipped a beat. But it was only two young nurses who came through the doors, walked past him and crossed the lobby, chattering away about personal things. They disappeared, leaving Jordan to his wait. He would never know what the taller of the two was going to do with Robert that weekend, or what was written on the birthday card he had sent her.

By an association of ideas, these words reminded him of something.

He passed a hand over his chest and felt in the pocket of his shirt for the envelope he had taken, without even knowing why, from Lord’s jacket. He took it out and examined it. It was a simple white envelope without anything written on it, and at first he thought it was empty.

He opened it and found inside a little slip of coloured paper. He was surprised to see that it was a cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars, issued by the Chase Manhattan Bank – or rather, half a cheque, as somebody had cut it in half, diagonally. Part of the name was missing, but there was enough of it for Jordan to know the identity of the person it was made out to.

. . .
ay Lonard

DeRay Lonard, better known as Lord, who at that moment was being slid into a freezer at the morgue.

Jordan sat there on his chair, with his elbows on his knees, looking at that piece of coloured paper, without understanding how and why.

Two green plastic shoes appeared on the floor in front of him, the kind surgeons wear in the operating room.

‘Excuse me, are you Jordan Marsalis?’

Jordan looked up and saw a doctor still wearing his white coat and cap from the OR. He was quite young, and slightly built, but his dark eyes conveyed efficiency and calm.

Jordan stood up. ‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Melvin Leko and I’m the surgeon who just finished operating on your friend.’

‘How is she?’

‘The bullet went in and out without damaging any vital organs. She’s lost a lot of blood and it’ll take a day before we can make a real prognosis, but the patient is in excellent health and I think I can say with reasonable certainty that she’ll pull through.’

Jordan heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Can I see her?’ he said, trying not to be too obvious in his impatience.

‘For the moment it’s better if you don’t. She’s in post-op and only just coming around from the anaesthetic. I think we should keep her sedated in intensive care until tomorrow morning. Trust me, there’s nothing you can do here right now. You might as well go home. She’s getting the best of care.’

‘Thanks,’ Jordan said, holding out his hand.

‘It’s my job,’ Dr Leko said, shaking it.

The doctor walked away and Jordan picked up his helmet from the chair and left the hospital – to discover the second miracle of the night: his bike was still there. He took it as a good omen.

As he put on his helmet, he wondered how the medical staff would solve the problem of whether Lysa should be admitted to a women’s ward or a men’s.

Maureen woke up feeling even more tired than when she had gone to bed. Although she had taken a sleeping pill, she’d had a restless night, dozing fitfully and having bad dreams, not even sure that the images welling up from her subconscious were completely hers.

The digital clock on the grey marble surface of the night-table indicated that it was almost noon.

Throwing off the crumpled sheet, she got out of bed, put on her dark glasses and opened the curtains, letting in the sunlight. She looked down at Park Avenue, and found herself envying all those people driving cars, marching along the sidewalks, moving through the city, all of them surrounded exclusively by the
here and now
, not plagued by messages from some other unknown dimension.

After discovering that her visions related to the life of Gerald Marsalis, she had felt an obligation to go and see the work of Jerry Ko in a retrospective organized by a gallery in Soho. She had walked through the rooms alone, calmly, with no sense that she had seen any of the paintings before. She had expected a new ‘episode’ at any moment, but nothing had happened. And yet gradually, a sense of unease had overcome her: inside and behind those canvases, she had seen darkness and destruction, the pain of a mind devoured by nightmares.

Jerry Ko, like Connor Slave, was an artist who had died young, probably at the height of his creativity. But it seemed to Maureen that Gerald had already died, long before his physical death.