Lost in this hysterical delirium, Chandelle had moved through the apartment, continuing to undress frenziedly until she had nothing on but her stockings. She finally reached her bedroom – a room which, like all the rest of the apartment, reeked of casual money and a dissipated life. Her nudity, as it appeared in the big mirror in front of her, was not enough to calm her: she saw a bony woman, with small, somewhat withered breasts, her pubic hair completely shaved. There was an unnatural innocence in that naked body, a fragility belied by her wild-eyed gaze and the traces of saliva at the corners of her thin mouth.
‘You wanted me to live up to the family name, didn’t you? You asked me to live . . . how did you put it?’
She spread her legs, placed her hands on her sides and pushed out her pelvis. She tried to change her shrill voice into a deeper one, and her nakedness became a grotesque attempt to imitate a male figure.
‘Oh, yes . . . to live according to the principles that have always been the foundations of the Stuart public image.’
She laughed hysterically.
‘Do you know what I did instead? I got myself laid by everyone, everyone I wanted, everyone I liked. Do you hear me, Mr Stuart? I hope that look you threw me before you died was because you understood I was the one who sent you to that lake of shit where you’re swimming now. Yes, your daughter’s a whore. And yes, your daughter killed you.’
This final cry faded away, as if the energy summoned up by her nervous crisis was suddenly exhausted. She collapsed back on the bed with her arms and legs open.
The contact with the cool surface of the satin bedspread made her shiver, and she felt her nipples wrinkle. She reached out a hand, lifted a corner of the bedspread and wrapped herself in it. Then she closed her eyes and started to remember what she had done to her father, seven years earlier.
When her mother, Elisabeth, had died in an automobile accident near their house in the mountains, the reaction of Chandelle’s father had been to have a stroke. Not because of the grief of his loss, but because in the twisted wreck of the car they had found, as well as her body, the body of a young ski instructor from Aspen, sitting in the driver’s seat with his pants down. It was blindingly obvious that the car had come off the road because the passenger at that moment had been giving the driver a blowjob. And the journalist who had been first on the scene was neither blind nor a moron. He had written an article that had made his fortune and nearly killed the last male representative of the Stuart dynasty. Everyone in New York’s financial circles had laughed behind Avedon Lee Stuart’s back, remembering the oft-invoked principles that had always been the basis of the family’s public image.
He had been admitted to Emergency and saved at the last moment, although almost the entire right-hand side of his body was paralyzed. When he had been pronounced out of danger, he had decided to spend his convalescence in their apartment, tended by an army of omnipresent, overpaid nurses.
Chandelle had greeted her mother’s death with total indifference, even though at the funeral she had managed to wear the expression required of a grieving daughter. But her father’s illness had filled her with revulsion. He lay in bed, fed through a drip because his mouth, being bent to one side, prevented him from eating anything, and there was a constant thread of drool trickling down his chin.
She had never loved her father, but now the creature into which he had been transformed literally disgusted her, and it was out of that disgust that the idea had been born. She hadn’t had the slightest qualm. In fact, she had welcomed it as the only course of action that could solve her problems once and for all.
All at once she had turned into a devoted and concerned daughter.
With the excuse that she wanted to personally attend her father, she had often taken over from the nurses, who were much more attached to their paycheques than their duties anyway. She had discovered that Vitamin K could greatly increase the coagulation of the blood. Every time she had been alone with him, she had taken advantage of the moments when he dozed off to inject massive quantities of the vitamin into his drip.
Chandelle had a very clear memory of the night when, after yet another dose, her father had opened his eyes wide and seen her standing by the bed with a syringe in her hand. For a moment, it was as if he had seen the end and realized that he couldn’t do anything but accept it. Then his eyes had glazed over again.
Chandelle had watched, spellbound, as the line representing his heartbeat on the monitor beside his bed had gradually gone flat. Then she had left the room, closing the door delicately behind her.
‘Asleep,’ she had whispered to the nurse sitting outside with a magazine in her hand.
The woman had taken her smile for that of a loving daughter, instead of someone who at last feels free.
Even now, lying on the bed, thinking again about that evening, that same smile appeared on her face.
The memory had completely calmed her. She felt relaxed, full of a languor that needed to be satisfied. In her own way.
Still wrapped in the cover, she turned on her side, picked up the telephone on the night-table and dialled a number.
When she heard the voice answer, she didn’t even bother to say her name.
‘Hello, Randall? I want to have a bit of fun tonight – to do something exciting. Can you bring a car, around midnight? Nothing too flashy.’
She didn’t wait for confirmation, nor did she expect any objections, not that she would have listened to any, not from Randall. She paid him a decent enough salary, and sometimes, when she felt like it, she gave him something a little more satisfying as a reward.
She opened a drawer just below the phone, put her hand inside and moved it around until she felt a small bag taped to the underside of the table-top.
Carefully removing the tape, she took out a small plastic wrapper full of white powder. She opened it, stuck her fingers in and took a pinch. She lifted it directly to her nostrils and snorted strongly, first into one, then the other. She put the bag down on the night-table. There was no point in putting it back. She was going to need it tonight, a lot of it . . .
She smiled up at a ceiling as white as the powder.
She waited for the rush of the cocaine, so similar to the perfect orgasm of pain. The drug had always had an erotic effect on her, and thinking of the evening that awaited her made her feel even more languid.
She slipped a hand under the covers, opened her legs and ran her fingers from her breasts to her navel and then further down until they reached the shaved slit between her legs.
She opened it with her fingers and found it already wet. She closed her eyes, imagined a stranger, and quivered with pleasure.
CHAPTER 17
When she looked again at the time, she saw it was almost nine. Far from draining her, that little treat she had allowed herself had given her new energy. She decided she was hungry and had a craving for Japanese food. She got out of bed and, putting her hands on her back, arched her thin body and looked at herself smugly in the mirror. She had completely recovered from her earlier attack. She was herself again, cool-headed, in control.
That asshole who’d called himself her father had understood, despite himself.
Those two bloodsuckers who called themselves her lawyers would understand, too.
She would show them who Chandelle Stuart was.
For now, she would take a hot shower and then call Randall Haze and ask him to pick her up earlier. Maybe he could also book her a table at Nobu. Then, before she carried out her plans, she might go hear some music in a club in the Bowery, or whatever else came to mind.
She went in the bathroom and slipped into the multifunction tub with its shiatsu hydromassage shower. As she greeted the beneficial pressure of the water on her skin, it struck her that she needed to be as beautiful as possible tonight. She needed to appear like an unattainable vision to the strangers she would meet. She wanted to see the incredulity on their faces, and then the desire, and then the pleasure that only comes from a dream comin
g true.
She dried her smooth, glossy hair, applied a deodorant stick to her shaved armpits, and sprinkled her body in the right places with an aromatic essence created specially for her by a traditional perfumery on Canal Street.
After making herself up in a slightly more eye-catching way than usual, she went from the bathroom to the walk-in closet. Here she put on black underwear and self-supporting stockings, which she particularly liked for the effect they had on the male imagination, but even more because they were very comfortable and practical.
Very useful for taking advantage, wherever she was, of any sudden, unexpected itch she got for sex.
From the clothes hanging in the closet she chose a fairly short black dress she thought would emphasize her slender figure and long legs.
She had just put on the dress and was taking a second snort of cocaine before calling Randall when she heard the entryphone buzzing.
She wondered who it could be at this hour.
The security guards had a direct line to the apartment, and early that afternoon she had given the rest of the day off to the staff in order to have privacy when she was talking to her lawyers.
She approached the little video screen in the bedroom. When she pressed the button, the face of the person who had rung appeared on the screen, framed by the camera positioned over the door of her private elevator in the left wing of the huge shiny marble entrance to the Stuart Building.
Chandelle was surprised to see him there, especially dressed like that, with a hood over his head that seemed, from the slightly blurry image, to be part of a tracksuit. They hadn’t seen each other for quite a while and she didn’t really feel in the mood to see him tonight, despite the feelings she had once had for him.
His voice emerged slightly muffled from the small speaker. ‘Hi. Is that you, Chandelle?’
‘Yes, this is she. What do you want?’
Her unfriendly tone did not seem to affect him. He smiled at her from the screen. ‘Can I come up? I need to have a word with you.’
‘Now? I was just on my way out.’
‘It won’t take long. I have some news you might find interesting.’
‘All right. I’ll send down the elevator. You don’t need to do anything, I control it from here.’
As she walked through her vast apartment to the living room, onto which the elevator door opened, Chandelle continued to wonder what he could possibly have to tell her that was so important he’d show up at this hour.
Especially after all this time.
Given the way he was dressed, maybe he’d been running in Central Park, and had passed her building and decided to drop in.
She activated the code that opened the elevator doors in the lobby. The elevator served only her apartment, and she could operate it from there using a code known only to her.
As she waited, she hoped she could get rid of him quickly. But then she realized that was a lie she was trying to peddle to herself. She made an effort to stay calm, even though the man who was on his way up continued to give her a kind of perverse, sadistic thrill. She had felt it as soon as she met him, and then again every time she was in his presence.
If only he knew . . .
For a moment she was tempted to rush to her bedroom and do another line of coke.
The whoosh of the doors opening stopped her in the middle of the room. There he was, standing in the elevator, in the light pouring down from above. He was wearing a tracksuit with the hood up so that his smile was in shadow, and he had his hands deep in his pockets.
He stepped out, and for the first time she realized how cold a smile could be.
‘Hello, Chandelle. Sorry to bother you at home. But as I said, this won’t take long.’
With perfect timing, the clouds that had watched over New York all afternoon broke at that moment. There was a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder, and then the rain came pouring down, so hard that it bounced off the tiles of the balcony onto the window sills.
The man continued walking in her direction. As he came level with her, he took his right hand out of his pocket. Chandelle thought he wanted to shake her hand, instead of which she realized with a shudder that he was holding a gun.
She was so busy looking at the black hole of the barrel, she did not notice that the smile had vanished from the man’s face, nor was she aware of the mocking tone in his words.
‘It won’t take long, although I have the impression that for you it may feel that way.’ He paused. His voice became as soft as velvet. ‘My sweet Lucy . . .’
Chandelle Stuart raised her head abruptly. She would never know that the look in her eyes was exactly the same as the one her father had thrown her from his deathbed.
There was another flash of lightning beyond the windows, and it cast her shadow on the wall, the shadow of a useless woman who was about to die.
CHAPTER 18
Outside, in the darkness, it was pouring with rain.
From his window overlooking 16th Street, Jordan watched the drops falling straight from the sky, enshrouding the lights and wonders of New York.
He had once seen an old film with Elliott Gould, called Getting Straight. During the credits, thanks to a trick of the camera, the main character was shown walking along a crowded street, advancing normally, while the cars and the people were going backwards.
That was exactly how he felt now.
Jordan didn’t know if the way he was doing things was right or not, but he was certain that he and the people around him weren’t going in the same direction.
Moving over to the couch, he picked up the remote and switched on the TV, turning to the Eyewitness Channel. They were showing an item recorded that afternoon. In close-up was a reporter whose name he couldn’t remember, with a microphone in his hand. Behind him could be seen planes and a bright patch of rain on the runway of an airport.
‘A large number of people were at the airport today to greet the coffin containing the body of Connor Slave, the singer kidnapped in Rome a week ago with his girlfriend Maureen Martini, an officer in the Italian police, and savagely murdered. His fans will be able to pay their last respects over the next few days in a specially arranged chapel. The funeral will take place—’
Jordan switched off the sound, leaving only the images on the screen and the rain beating against the windowpanes. Another young man who would never grow old, he thought.
The telephone started ringing, and Jordan stood there looking at it, uncertain whether or not to answer. His doubts were resolved by the figure of Lysa emerging from the corridor in her robe and handing him the cordless.
‘It’s for you.’
Jordan put the phone, still warm from Lysa’s skin, against his ear.
‘Jordan, it’s Burroni. I think it’s happened.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid we have our Lucy.’
‘Shit. Who is it?’
‘Chandelle Stuart. They found her in her apartment this morning.’
‘Where?’
‘The Stuart Building, on Central Park West.’
Jordan’s hands felt clammy, as if the dampness of the rain falling blindly on the windowpanes had somehow entered the room. ‘I was hoping that bastard would leave us a little more time.’
‘I’m on my way there now. Want me to pick you up?’
‘Sure. In this rain, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to use the bike.’
‘OK. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
Standing in the middle of the room, Lysa watched him as he put on his leather jacket.
‘I’m sorry you got woken up, Lysa. I don’t know why they didn’t call me on my cellphone.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I wasn’t asleep. Trouble?’
‘Yes. Someone else has been killed, and it looks like there may be a connection with the murder of my nephew.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me, too. I only hope that this time we find something that helps us catch thi
s madman.’
They stood facing each other in an apartment that didn’t belong to either of them.
‘Jordan, I’m not sure what to say in situations like this.’
‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s OK, Lysa. I hope you get some sleep. Good night.’
He walked out, closing the door behind him and deciding to go downstairs on foot rather than call the elevator. From the apartment below came the sound of music. Connor Slave, of course.
He got to the front door just as a Ford with Burroni at the wheel pulled up at the kerb across the street. Jordan ran out into the rain and, as he dashed across the road, he saw Burroni lean over to open the door on his side. He got in. The car smelled of damp carpet and imitation leather.
Through the windscreen, swept by the wipers, he looked up at the bright rectangle where, behind the glass, the figure of Lysa stood motionless against the light. A presence and an absence.
Burroni had followed the direction of his gaze to the lighted window. ‘Your apartment?’
‘Yes.’
Burroni didn’t ask any questions, and Jordan didn’t choose to say any more. As they moved away from the kerb, Jordan remembered waking up on the morning after the evening he and Lysa had met.
He had opened his eyes, and immediately smelled something he wasn’t used to smelling, at least in his own home: the aroma of coffee he hadn’t made himself. He had got up and put on jeans and a T-shirt. Before going to the living room, he had checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror. His face looked exactly the way he had expected it to look. The face of a man who had taken a few blows the previous night.
He had washed his face, left the bathroom and walked to the living room, and there she was.
The Killer in My Eyes Page 11
