The Killer in My Eyes (36 page)

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 . . .’

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.’

As he shook their hands, the man, almost as tall as Jordan, with longish chestnut hair and a brisk air, introduced himself.

‘Welcome. I’m Colin Norwich, Director of The Oaks. We spoke on the phone.’

‘Thank you for agreeing to see us and let us meet with your patient.’

As they walked towards the large building, Norwich said, ‘You told me this is a very important matter. I don’t know what you’re expecting from Mrs Ross, but I fear she’s unlikely to be of much help to you.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Two main reasons. The first is that, because of the trauma she suffered, Thelma – to put it in layman’s terms – has created a barrier around herself beyond which she almost never goes. We had to work long and hard to help her find some kind of balance. Now she alternates agitated periods with whole days when she doesn’t speak. When she first came here, all she could do was scream.’

‘And the second reason?’

Dr Norwich stopped and looked gravely, first at Jordan and then at Maureen. ‘Although it may not seem like it at first glance, this is a hospital. I’m a doctor and Mrs Ross is my patient. I’m responsible for her. If your being here upsets her in any way, I’ll have to ask you to cut short your visit immediately.’

While speaking, they had reached the semicircular forecourt in front of the building. Norwich pointed to an extremely well-tended garden beyond a low redbrick perimeter wall. A few women were strolling freely along the paths, alone or in groups. Others were being pushed in wheelchairs by nurses in white uniforms.

‘Those are some of our patients. As you can see, this is a women-only institution.’

Jordan made a gesture with his arm, taking in everything around them. ‘Dr Norwich, I get the impression this place is reserved for people able to afford some rather high fees.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely, but yes, you’re right.’

‘Mrs Ross was a nurse. How can she possibly afford to stay in a place like this?’

‘From what I understand, she had a personal fortune of almost a million and a half dollars. I know it’s managed by a bank and yields enough to cover her expenses.’

‘Doesn’t it strike you as strange that a simple nurse should have so much money?’

‘Mr Marsalis, I’m a psychiatrist, I don’t work for the IRS. What I find strange is what’s in my patients’ heads, not in their bank accounts.’

The arrival of a somewhat overweight but pretty blond nurse saved Jordan from the embarrassment of finding an appropriate reply to this. The woman stopped beside them, irreproachable in her white uniform but looking at Jordan with eyes that expressed pure gluttony. Maureen smiled to herself: she could well imagine the nurse looking in the same way at a double portion of strawberries and cream.

Norwich explained to her the reason for the presence of these two strangers at The Oaks. ‘Carolyn, take Mr Marsalis and Miss Martini to Thelma. Make sure everything goes OK.’

It didn’t escape Jordan’s notice that Norwich had slightly lowered his voice for these last words. The nurse finally took her eyes off Jordan.

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘You can go with Carolyn. If you’ll excuse me, someone’s waiting for me in my office. I’ll come and see you before you leave.’

Norwich turned and walked resolutely towards the entrance to the building. Maureen and Jordan followed the nurse, who moved in a surprisingly agile way in spite of her far from sylphlike figure. Carolyn led them along the paths of a garden full of colours so unusual that Maureen felt as if she had entered a Monet painting. The patients they passed all had the gentle, surprised air of people living in worlds of their own.

Thelma Ross was sitting motionless on a stone bench in a gazebo completely covered in climbing roses. She was wearing a grey skirt and a somewhat old-fashioned pink twinset that made a pleasant contrast with her dark skin. She was older than her photograph in the newspaper but her skin was smooth and unlined. She was still a beautiful woman, as if fate, content with having affected her mind, had decided to show mercy to her body.