The Killer in My Eyes (6 page)

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.

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 Mansion. 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—’

The mayor interrupted him without the slightest sign that he had even heard what he had said. ‘Sit down, Maynard.’

Jordan had never seen the Commissioner looking so embarrassed. When he noticed Jordan, his embarrassment increased exponentially.

Logan sat down. Christopher leaned forward, put his elbows on the surface of the desk, and pointed his index finger at him.

‘Maynard, I want whoever killed my son to be caught. I want him locked up in Sing Sing. I want the other prisoners to beat the hell out of him every day and I want to be the one to give him the lethal injection when the time comes.’

Christopher Marsalis was a politician, and like all politicians he knew what to say when he was in the public spotlight. In private, though, his language wasn’t always as refined.

‘And I want Jordan to conduct the investigation.’

Three of the four men in the room were motionless for a moment: Jordan by the window, his brother with his finger raised, and Ruben Dawson looking with what seemed like great interest at the strap of his wristwatch. Only Commissioner Logan looked from one to the other.

‘But Christopher—’

‘Don’t “But Christopher” me, Maynard!’

Logan tried to recover a little ground. ‘OK, let’s think about this for a moment. As a person, I have absolutely nothing against Jordan. We all know how good he is. But he isn’t the only good police officer around, and what’s more, there are procedures that even I can’t—’

Logan seemed destined never to finish a sentence. Jordan saw his brother pounce on these words like a falcon on a henhouse.

‘I don’t give a fuck about procedures. Most of your men couldn’t find their own asses even with an anatomy chart in their hands.’

‘I have a duty to the community. How can I expect other people to obey the rules if I’m the first person to violate them?’

‘Maynard, we’re not at a police convention here. I know how the game works. Half the police officers in this city are taking bribes and the other half wish they were. Rules can be broken, it’s a matter of necessity.’

Knowing it was his last throw of the dice, Logan tried to tackle the matter from another angle. ‘Jordan is emotionally involved in this case and might not be able to keep a cool head.’

‘Maynard, I saw what happened today. If Jordan was cool-headed enough to decipher that fucking number even after . . . after seeing what we saw, I don’t think he’d have any difficulty in pursuing the investigation.’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Logan sounded doubtful.

‘Well, I do. Or rather, I know what I want. And you have to help me get it.’

For the first time since he had come in, Jordan spoke up. ‘Don’t you think my opinion matters in this discussion?’

Maynard and Christopher looked at him as if he had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. On Ruben Dawson’s pale, impassive face, there was the merest hint of a smile.

Jordan left his place by the window and came and stood in front of the desk. ‘I’m out of the game, Christopher. God knows I’m sorry about Gerald, but by now I should have been at least a hundred and fifty miles away from here.’

His brother raised his blue eyes towards him. ‘The road will still be there, waiting for you, when this is all over, Jordan. You’re the only person I trust. Could you excuse us for a moment, Maynard?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ruben, will you keep Commissioner Logan company and offer him something to drink?’

Dawson stood up without any change of expression and the two men left the room, probably grateful for the break.

Jordan sat down on the wooden chair that had just been occupied by the Commissioner.

‘Logan will do what I tell him,’ Christopher said. ‘I can give you all the support you need. You just have to ask and you’ll have every available means at your disposal. Officially, we won’t say anything about you, but to all intents and purposes you’ll be leading the investigation. If you like, Burroni can head it officially, but he’ll be under your command.’