‘For money, that piece of shit would be ready to accept an appointment on the Titanic.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No point. He’ll protect me.’
Jordan knew the reason for that meeting. Many of the paintings that Gerald sold were bought by Christopher himself. What Jordan had never understood was how much this was done to keep his son out of trouble and how much was due to his sense of guilt.
Christopher had gone out, and a minute or two later Jordan had heard the wheels of his Jaguar crunch on the gravel outside, then the noise of the engine fading away.
The house had sunk back into silence.
Jordan was used to the constant background hum of the city. Every time he was in that house he found the total absence of sound quite strange. It was a winter’s night, cold and dark outside. Inside, it was warm and safe, with the flames leaping in the fireplace. He had switched on the TV and sat down on a couch to watch the Monday night football game. He had with him a bottle of the eighteen-year-old whisky blended specially for Christopher and, without realizing it, he had drunk half of it. He had not even seen the end of the game, but had drifted into a peaceful sleep.
He was jolted out of it by the ringing of the cordless telephone on the low table next to him.
‘Hello?’
‘Jordan, I’m in deep shit.’ His brother’s voice was agitated.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I just killed a man.’
‘What do you mean “I just killed a man”?’
‘I was on my way home after meeting with LaFayette. At a traffic junction, this guy just shot out without giving way. I was going quite fast myself, and hit him straight on, but it wasn’t my fault.’
‘Are you sure he’s dead?’
‘Christ, Jordan, I’m not a doctor, but I fought in a war. I know when someone’s dead.’
‘Are there any witnesses?’
‘At this hour, in winter? I’m in open country. I doubt they get more than three cars passing in a week.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Near High Falls, on the other bank of the Hudson, due south. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yes, no problem. I’m on my way. Don’t do a thing till I get there. And above all don’t touch anything in the other car. Have you got that? If anything happens, call me on my cellphone.’
‘Jordan . . . hurry.’
‘OK. I’ll be right there.’
He had grabbed a winter jacket, left the house and set off in his Honda. When he had reached the scene of the accident and got out, a glance had been sufficient to take in the situation. The Jaguar was in a ditch, on the opposite side of the junction from which Christopher had come. The left rear side was crumpled and a wheel stood out at a twisted angle. Across the road was an old pick-up in an equally bad condition, facing in the opposite direction. Through the shattered windshield, he saw a body slumped over the steering wheel. From the marks on the asphalt, it was clear what had happened. He could see where the Jaguar had braked, and where the pick-up had spun around after the impact. Pieces of glass and plastic lay on the ground.
He had gone to the pick-up and touched the neck of the middle-aged man at the wheel. There was no pulse. He looked around. There was no sign of Christopher.
‘I’m here, Jordan.’
Christopher had emerged from a clump of bushes, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat.
‘I wasn’t sure it was you, so I thought it was best to get off the road,’ he said, his breath turning to steam in the cold air. ‘What do we do now, Jordan?’
It had only taken Jordan a moment to make up his mind. ‘Take my car, go home, and stay there.’
‘Do you realize what you’re saying?’
‘In the ultimate scheme of things, a good mayor is more important than a good cop. Do as I say.’
They stood there for a moment looking each other in the eyes. Two pairs of blue eyes, the only thing they really had in common. Then Christopher had got in the Honda and started the engine. Before driving off, he leaned out of the window.
‘I know what you’re doing and I’ll never forget it.’
Jordan had stood there watching the car lights becoming smaller and smaller and disappearing into the distance. Then he called the sheriff’s office in Rhinecliff, switched on the indicators of the two vehicles, and settled down to wait next to the half-wrecked Jaguar, with a dead man and his own thoughts for sole company.
He had lit a cigarette and smoked it all the way through as he waited.
By the time he heard the sirens approaching, he had known that this night was one he would never forget. He had given his personal details to the deputy sheriff and declared that he had been at the wheel of the car belonging to Christopher Marsalis. Naturally he had been given a breathalyzer test, and had had to admit he’d drunk half a bottle of whisky.
Fortunately things hadn’t turned out so badly because the post mortem on the victim had revealed that he had died of a heart attack. In other words, the driver had lost control because he was already dead at the moment of the collision, which was why there had been no criminal proceedings againt Jordan.
All the same, the accident had involved a lieutenant in the NYPD driving while in a state of intoxication. As if that was not enough, this lieutenant was Jordan Marsalis, the Mayor’s younger brother. The media had gotten in on the act, turning the case into a political football. The pressure from Christopher’s opponents had become unbearable, and his own party had made it clear behind the scenes that it wasn’t at all happy with the situation. So Jordan had eventually tendered his resignation and handed in his gun and his shield.
Since that day he had not drunk a drop of alcohol, nor driven a car. And he had hardly ever heard Christopher’s voice until the latter had called him to announce that Gerald had been murdered.
Now, sitting at the table in the diner, Jordan reflected sourly that history was repeating itself. In the afternoon, his brother had thanked him with the same words he had used that evening.
I know what you’re doing and I’ll never forget it.
But he had.
CHAPTER 9
Jordan left the restaurant and crossed the street, to where light spilled out through the glass door of his building. As he moved his helmet from one hand to the other and felt in his pocket for his keys, he heard loud music coming closer.
Instinctively, Jordan knew that this music meant trouble. He turned and saw a dark, shiny Mercedes parking just ahead of him on his side of the street. From the open window came the electronic rumble of a techno track, played at high volume. The doors were flung open and two black men got out and came towards him, their lazy walk heavy with menace. They were both wearing bright tracksuits and jogging shoes. One had a woollen cap on his head and the other a black bandana.
One of the two, the man with the cap, he had never seen. The other he recognized immediately. Everyone knew him as Lord. It was Jordan who had put him inside for possessing and dealing heroin, as well as wounding two officers while resisting arrest.
‘Hello, Lord. How come they let you out?’
‘I was a good boy, Lieutenant. Six months off for good behaviour.’
‘I’m not a lieutenant any more, Lord. And I hope that’s the last time I have to say that today.’
‘Oh, I know. They kicked you out on your ass. You’re a private citizen now. Just like us – right, Hardy?’
Hardy said nothing, didn’t react at all.
‘Do you know what it’s like to spend three years in the can?’ Lord went on.
He didn’t give Jordan time to reply. Not that he was interested in what he had to say anyway. He was enjoying himself. He turned to his friend as if sharing a joke.
‘Oh, I forgot. Lieutenant Marsalis can’t go to prison, because he’s the Mayor’s brother, so even when he’s out driving, smashed out of his head, and knocks down some poor bastard who happens to get in his way, the most he gets is a little slap on th
e wrist – and then he’s free to go off and kill somebody else.’
‘Stop beating about the bush, Lord. What do you want?’
It was a dumb question, whose sole purpose was to gain time. Jordan could perfectly well have answered it himself. He tightened his grip on the chinrest of his full-face helmet, ready to use it as a weapon.
Lord took a step back and with a rapid movement unzipped his tracksuit top, took it off, and dropped it on the ground. Then he lifted his arms and stood there in his undervest, his biceps and chest muscles tensed, in a bodybuilder’s pose.
‘Do you see these, Lieutenant? Know how I got them? By working out four hours a day, every one of the thousand-something days I spent in the can. And you know what I used to think about when I was lifting weights?’
‘No. Surprise me.’
‘I used to think about seeing you again, knowing you didn’t have your shield any more to protect you.’
Jordan saw the shadows outlined on the rectangle of light cast on the asphalt through the glass door behind him. He didn’t have time to turn before the door opened and two people stepped out and took him from behind, pinning his arms behind his back. His helmet dropped from his hand and rolled on the ground.
Lord came closer. ‘I used to think about this.’
When Jordan had joined the police, he knew a cop sometimes found himself in difficult situations. The irony was that this was one of the worst situations he’d ever been in and he wasn’t even a cop any more. He leaned back against the two men behind him, lifted his foot and planted it in Lord’s face. He distinctly heard the sharp sound of the cartilage of his nose breaking and saw him disappear from his field of vision. As he tried to free himself from the grip of the two men, the previously impassive Hardy suddenly came to life. Taking up a classic boxer’s position, he landed him a one-two to the solar plexus. Jordan felt the food he had eaten earlier rise to his throat, then saw, as if in slow motion, Hardy’s fist heading straight for his face. It struck him and, even before he felt the pain, there was a blinding flash of yellow light in his eyes. The impact pushed him backwards against the two other men, dislocating his shoulder.
In the meantime, Lord had got back on his feet and was coming towards him with blood dripping from his broken nose and onto his uneven teeth. ‘You motherfucking bastard, I’m going to—’
He didn’t get a chance to say what he was going to do. On the other side of the street, a police car had stopped just outside the diner and an officer had climbed out.
‘Shit, it’s the cops,’ a voice behind Jordan’s back said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Lord came close to Jordan. ‘We’ll finish there for now. But this isn’t the end of it, you piece of shit.’
He gave Jordan a backhander that knocked his head sideways. Jordan felt the grip on his arms loosen and he fell to his knees. The four men got quickly back in their car and disappeared in a slamming of doors and screeching of tyres.
His ears were humming from the blows and there was a dull pain in his shoulder. He saw bloodstains on the stone steps and realized that the blood was his. He stood up and went to get his helmet, holding it with his left hand. Then he staggered inside the lobby and leaned against the wall for support. Taking a deep breath, he gave his shoulder a quick, sharp jerk, stifling a groan of pain as the joint clicked back into place. A few drops of blood fell onto his jacket and shirt. He took out a Kleenex and dabbed his nostrils. Then he went up in the elevator, standing in such a way as not to see himself in the mirror.
Once back at his door, he went in and switched on the light. Here was his old apartment, waiting for him. He put his helmet on the couch and headed for the bathroom, where he was surprised to see a sliver of light under the door. Maybe he had forgotten to switch off the light that morning. But right now, he had other things to think about.
He opened the door, and there, in the amber light of the bathroom, was a naked woman. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
She had her back to him and was reflected from the waist up in the mirror. She had been drying her hair with a towel and had stopped when he came in. She showed not the slightest reaction, either of surprise or fear, nor had she made the slightest attempt to cover herself.
‘Should I consider you a danger?’ she asked, in a soft calm voice.
Jordan was completely taken aback. He couldn’t speak for a moment, couldn’t do anything but stand there in the doorway, seeing his face reflected next to hers in the mirror as he pressed a pathetic bloodstained tissue to his nose.
‘No, I’m sorry, I—’
‘Then do you mind closing the door and waiting outside while I get dressed?’
Jordan did as he was told, feeling like a small boy caught peering through a keyhole. He took refuge in the other bathroom, the one next to the guest room. He switched on the light and looked at his face in the mirror. He was forced to admit that Lord and Hardy had done a good job on him. His eye was swelling up and his mouth and nose were dirty with half-congealed blood. He turned on the faucet and washed himself. The cold water felt good on his swollen face.
He took off his shirt and used the clean part to dry himself. As he went back along the corridor towards the living room, he heard the hum of a hair dryer. He opened the closet where he had put his backpack that morning, and from it he removed a clean shirt. As he changed, he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the bathroom. He couldn’t remember ever seeing such a stunning creature. Closing the closet, he put the backpack down on the couch next to his helmet.
At that moment, the woman appeared, wearing a blue robe. Her dark hair was still a little damp. Her large liquid eyes were the most incredible hazel, almost golden.
‘Now then, are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ she demanded.
‘I live here.’
‘Strange, I thought I’d just rented the place. Maybe there’s some detail I missed.’
Jordan felt the same sense of inadequacy he had felt a while earlier in the bathroom. ‘Let me rephrase that. I used to live here.’
‘Are you Jordan Marsalis?’
‘That’s right. And you must be Mrs Guerrero . . .’
‘Not exactly, but more or less. My name’s Lysa.’
Jordan shook the hand she held out to him. It was warm and soft, a tactile sensation that was complemented by the delicate vanilla scent she gave off.
‘I was told you’d be here in three days.’
‘That was the idea, but I decided to come earlier because the agency told me you’d be leaving today.’
‘I was supposed to, but then . . .’ Jordan made a vague gesture with his hand. ‘Well, things don’t always work out as planned. I’m sorry I startled you. I’m really embarrassed.’
‘Do you always get a nose bleed when you’re embarrassed?’
Jordan lifted a hand to his face, and when he took it away it was stained with blood. The wound had started bleeding again. He walked to the kitchen door and looked around for something to stem the flow.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a really bad day.’
‘I’d already guessed that. Sit down on the couch. I’ll be right back.’
She left him for a moment, and when she came back she was holding a dressing-case that looked more like a first-aid kit. She put it down on the couch next to Jordan and took out some yellowish cottonwool.
‘Don’t worry. I used to be a nurse. Anyway, I don’t think I’d manage to make it any worse.’
She stood in front of him. Again, he smelled that vanilla scent of hers. She gently touched his nose and eye, then put her hand under his chin and lifted his head.
‘This is going to burn a little.’
Having applied the haemostatic agent, she stepped back.
‘All done, the blood’s stopped. Your nose isn’t broken, you’ll be pleased to hear. That would have been a pity, it’s a nice nose. There’ll be a bruise, but it should match your blue eyes.’
Jordan felt as if she was loo
king deep inside him, searching out his secrets.
‘You look like a man who’s had more than just a bad day,’ she went on.
‘Yes. Someone I knew was murdered today.’
‘I watched the news on TV. They said Gerald Marsalis, the Mayor’s son, had died. Was he a relative of yours?’
Gerald is history. It’s a name that doesn’t belong to me any more . . .
‘He was my nephew. Christopher Marsalis is my brother.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Jordan stood up and picked up the helmet and backpack. ‘Well, I think I’ve disturbed you long enough. Good night, and thanks.’
He was on his way to the door when Lysa’s warm, calm voice stopped him. ‘Listen, I feel guilty about sending you away in that state. If you like, you can stay here tonight. You know the apartment. There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms and we won’t bother each other. Tomorrow you can decide what you want to do.’
‘Won’t your husband mind if I sleep here?’
Jordan always looked in people’s eyes. He could tell when a person was lying or telling the truth, revealing their state of a mind or trying to hide it. And yet he couldn’t have given a name to what he saw now in Lysa’s eyes.
‘Considering you’ve already seen me half naked, I think finishing the job might help to avoid any further misunderstanding.’
Lysa opened her robe. Beneath it, she was completely naked. Time seemed somehow suspended. Jordan had the impression that, if Lysa had let the robe fall to the floor, it would have stopped in mid-air, as if by magic. Then the moment came to an end and Lysa disappeared again inside the garment. When she spoke, her voice was as defiant as the expression on her face.
‘As you see, I’m Mrs Guerrero and Mr Guerrero.’
Jordan searched frantically inside himself for words appropriate to the situation.
Lysa seemed to read his mind. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Whatever you might say I’ve already heard at least a hundred times.’
She bent to take a bottle of pills from the dressing case and went and placed it on the granite worktop in the kitchen.
‘Good night, Jordan. If it hurts at all, take a couple of these pills.’
The Killer in My Eyes. By G. Faletti Page 6
