The Killer in My Eyes (5 page)

‘I think you’re right.’

Silence had fallen, the kind of silence that always falls between two people who have nothing more to say to each other. Jordan had turned and walked away. In the indistinct buzz that had followed him, he had made out one phrase: ‘Just a cop.’

That was the last time he had seen his brother’s son.

When the elevator doors opened, the first thing that struck him was the strong smell of paint. The door of the apartment was wide open, and inside, the Crime Scene team could be seen going about their business. Given the identity of the victim, it was obvious that no effort would be spared.

Presumably Christopher had informed them of his arrival, because Detective James Burroni came out on the landing before the officer guarding the door of the apartment could bar his way.

‘It’s OK, Pollard, I’ll deal with it.’

Jordan had known Burroni a long time and knew he was a good officer. They had worked together in the Ninth Precinct when that was still a frontier outpost, but had never been on especially friendly terms. Jordan couldn’t blame the man for his attitude. Nobody readily forgave a colleague for being simultaneously a well-known figure in Homicide
and
the brother of the Mayor. It was obvious that many people thought his rapid rise had more to do with family connections than merit.

Jordan felt strangely like an intruder, being here at a crime scene, even though the crime concerned him personally. And he had the impression Burroni was thinking the same thing.

‘Hello, James.’

‘Hello there, Jordan. Sorry to be meeting because of something like this.’

Jordan made a vague gesture with his hand, as if to dismiss the awkwardness of the moment. They both knew the score.

‘Come in. I warn you, it isn’t a pretty sight.’

As he followed Burroni, Jordan took a rapid glance around. The indescribable chaos of the loft was illumined by a limpid spring light that seemed strangely peaceful in a place like this – a place from which Jerry Ko had waged war on himself and the world.

And then he saw him.

Jordan did all he could to remain impassive. He crouched beside his nephew’s body and contemplated the wide-open eyes, the doll-like red paint, the grotesqueness of his position.

‘So far,’ Burroni said, ‘we think he was strangled first and then arranged like that. Death took place a few hours ago.’

Jordan indicated the clear areas on the wrists and ankles where the paint had come away. ‘These marks will have been left by whatever was used to immobilize him. Maybe adhesive tape.’

‘Looks likely. That should come out in the post mortem.’

‘What else is the crime team saying?’

Burroni shrugged, indicating the rest of the loft. ‘Have you seen this place? It doesn’t look as if it’s ever been cleaned. Whatever we find could have belonged to anyone, any time over the past hundred years.’

‘And what’s this stuff?’ Jordan pointed to the victim’s finger stuck in his mouth and the blanket he was holding pressed to his ear.

‘Glue. They’ve taken a sample and should be able to tell us something once they’ve analyzed it.’

‘And the paint?’

‘He painted himself. His dealer says he often used this technique in his work.’

At this point, Christopher Marsalis himself arrived, followed as always by his right-hand man, Ruben Dawson. They heard him from the entrance, berating the Medical Examiner.

‘Christ, doesn’t it mean anything any more, being the Mayor of this fucking city? Do what you have to do! Get the body out of here as quickly as possible!’

Still crouching, Jordan waited for the moment when his brother walked past the shelves and was able to see the state his son had been reduced to.

And that was precisely what happened.

Jordan saw Christopher’s face first turn to stone then somehow crumble, and his eyes become strangely opaque. He didn’t know how much longer his brother had to live, but Jordan knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had died at that moment.

Chris turned abruptly and disappeared behind the shelves. Jordan stood up. Through the paint cans, he saw his brother hide his face in his hands. He went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Christopher knew it was him without seeing him.

‘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.’

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 waiter 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.