The Killer in My Eyes. By G. Faletti

by Giorgio Faletti

  She was smiling, and Jordan thought she looked very happy.

  CHAPTER 23

  The office of the President of Vassar was exactly as Jordan had imagined it. It smelled of leather and wood, with a faint hint of pipe tobacco. The room was straight out of an illustration in the Saturday Evening Post. The furniture would have made the fortune of any dealer in modern antiques. The only odd note was provided by the computer on the desk.

  On the way in, Hoogan had asked his secretary, a bright-looking girl with a sly smile, to hold his calls. The girl had made a note of this, and before they disappeared through the door had found the time to give Jordan an interested once-over.

  Hoogan went to the window, which looked out on the avenue that Jordan and Lysa had ridden along a while earlier, and drew the curtains to avoid the light shining in Jordan’s face. Then he sat down behind the desk.

  Jordan wondered how many times young people had found themselves on the chair where he was sitting now, waiting to be lectured to by the President of Vassar. Maybe his nephew Gerald had been one of them.

  ‘The answer is yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You were wondering if your nephew was ever in this office. The answer is yes, more than once.’

  Hoogan took advantage of Jordan’s surprise to remove his glasses and clean them with a napkin he had taken from a drawer. As he put them on again, Jordan noticed that he had grey eyes.

  ‘His father, though, almost never.’

  He said this not as an accusation, but as a statement of fact. But there was a definite note of regret in his voice. He leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You see, Mr Marsalis, among the young people who come here to study, only a few really deserve to do so, because they really want to. That’s a civilized way of saying that most of our students have been . . . how shall I put it? . . . dumped here by their families. Sometimes by tacit agreement. “You keep out of my way, and I’ll keep out of yours”.’

  ‘And which category did Gerald belong to?’

  ‘Your nephew was probably insane, Mr Marsalis. Or if he wasn’t, he was playing his part very well.’

  Jordan was forced to admit that this terse description seemed to fit Gerald – and Jerry Ko – perfectly.

  ‘Vassar College focuses on a number of artistic fields,’ Hoogan went on. ‘Fine art, creative writing, directing. They’re fields in which talent can’t be bought, but where it is possible to postpone the realization that it isn’t there. Gerald, on the other hand, did have talent. A great deal of talent. But he was convinced that it had to go hand-in-hand with certain extreme life choices. I don’t know what triggered this idea in him, but I can tell you he professed it like a dogma. And there’s something else. He scrupulously avoided any visit from his father. I got the impression that he hated him, and I suspect that’s one of the reasons why he behaved in that way.’

  ‘Did Gerald have friends when he was here?’

  ‘He could have had dozens. In his own weird way, he was a kind of idol. But he was too busy demonstrating that he didn’t need anyone. Not even us.’ Hoogan placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward slightly. ‘I followed his career after he left here. You may think I’m being cynical, but trust me when I say I was very saddened by his violent death, but not surprised.’

  Nor was I, unfortunately.

  More than anything else, Jordan had listened to Hoogan talking at length about Gerald as a way of judging the man’s character. Now that he was sure he was up to the mark, it seemed the right moment to explain the reason for his trip to Poughkeepsie.

  ‘There’s one thing you may not know, Mr Hoogan. Have you heard the latest news?’

  ‘No, I’ve been on the golf course all the time.’

  ‘Last night, Chandelle Stuart was murdered at her home in New York. She also studied here in Vassar. Around about the same time as Gerald.’

  Hoogan took off his glasses and cleaned them again, even though they didn’t really need it.

  ‘Chandelle Stuart. I remember her very well. How did it happen?’

  ‘Mr Hoogan—’

  The President stopped him with a gesture of his hand. ‘Call me Travis, please.’

  Jordan was pleased at this openness, because it gave greater weight to what he was about to say. ‘All right, Travis. What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential. So far we’ve managed by a miracle not to let any of this get out and we’d like to keep it that way. The circumstances of Chandelle Stuart’s death are such as to suggest a connection with the murder of my nephew.’

  ‘What kind of connection, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  Despite everything, Jordan felt slightly uncomfortable revealing the circumstances of the crimes to Hoogan.

  ‘You may find this incredible, but the person who killed them arranged their bodies to resemble two characters from Peanuts.’

  ‘You mean Charlie Brown and so on?’

  ‘Precisely. Gerald was sitting against a wall with a blanket stuck to his ear, and Chandelle was at the piano. Linus and Lucy.’

  As Travis did not ask him for clarification, it was obvious that he was familiar with the strips.

  ‘And in Chandelle Stuart’s apartment we found something that leads us to believe that the next victim will be Snoopy.’

  Travis Hoogan, the President of Vassar College, a man whose life had revolved around words, seemed to be struggling to find a single one. ‘My God. That’s crazy.’

  ‘I think that’s the right word. Can you think of anything that might link the two of them with Peanuts?’

  ‘None at all. Not only that, I can’t think of anything to link them with each other. This is a small world and we know every thing about everybody. Especially where two such unusual personalities are concerned. But I don’t remember ever hearing of a connection between your nephew and Chandelle.’

  ‘What do you remember about her?’

  ‘Rich. Unbearable. And probably sick. The fact that she’s dead doesn’t change the memory I have of her.’

  ‘Did she have friends?’

  ‘I’d say the same about her as about your nephew, although with her it was slightly different. Gerald didn’t want anybody, and nobody wanted Chandelle. The only person she was at all friendly with was Sarah Dermott, I think.’

  ‘Who was Sarah Dermott?’

  Hoogan turned to the computer and tapped on the keyboard for a few moments.

  ‘Here she is. Sarah Dermott, from Boston. She was here on a scholarship. She was part of that small percentage I mentioned before, the ones who really want to be here. She was intelligent, gifted – and very ambitious.’

  Jordan noticed the slight stress on the word ‘very’.

  ‘She and Chandelle attended the same Directing course. I think Sarah tolerated her for a short period because she was convinced that a member of the Stuart family might be useful to her, but after a while she was forced to throw in the towel. Chandelle was too much even for someone as ambitious as her.’

  ‘Where can I find this Sarah Dermott?’

  ‘Los Angeles. She’s directing in Hollywood – I think she has a contract with Columbia. She was here recently at a reunion of ex-students.’

  ‘I think it might be useful for me to speak to her.’

  ‘No problem.’ Hoogan picked up a phone from the desk and pressed a key. ‘Miss Spice, could you get hold of Sarah Dermott in Los Angeles for me, please? Put her right through.’

  Less than a minute later, the telephone rang. Hoogan lifted it to his ear.

  ‘Sarah, this is Travis Hoogan, calling from Vassar . . . Very well, thanks. I have someone here with me who needs to speak to you about an important matter.’

  Jordan leaned across and took the cordless from Hoogan. ‘Hello, Miss Dermott. I’m Jordan Marsalis, New York Police Department.’

  Basically, he thought, it wasn’t a lie but only a half-truth.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ The voice was bright, precise, the voice of some
one with not much time to spare, but friendly enough.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you ought to know that Chandelle Stuart has been murdered.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then: ‘Oh my God, when?’

  ‘Last night. Now, I need to point out that what I’m about to tell you is in the strictest confidence.’

  As he said these words, Jordan wondered how much longer it would be before the whole story was widely known, if he continued to tell everyone like this.

  ‘We have every reason to believe that the person who committed the crime is the same person who recently killed Gerald Marsalis. I don’t know if you heard about his death?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Wait a moment, are you a relative of his?’

  ‘Gerald was my nephew.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Gerald was a difficult kid, but I’m sorry he ended up like that.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  The response was immediate. ‘Nobody really knew him. We could sense he had talent but he was always on the edge. Closed, introverted, rebellious, sometimes violent. And alone.’

  ‘How about Chandelle Stuart?’

  ‘She was pretty much the same, except she didn’t have any talent to back it up. I think I was the only person she opened up to a little bit. She wasn’t really close to anyone at Vassar, though there were reliable rumours that outside the campus she led a fairly colourful life. If you’re investigating her, I guess you know what I mean.’

  ‘Perfectly. What can you tell me about their relationship?’

  There was a moment’s pause. ‘Well, they knew each other. But as far as I remember, everyone was out for himself. Gerald was too hostile and Chandelle too rich to really connect.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you a question that may seem strange, but please think about it carefully before you answer.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did you ever hear either Chandelle or Gerald refer to the characters in the Peanuts comic strip? Linus, Lucy, anything like that.’

  ‘I don’t think so . . . No, hold on, now that I come to think of it, there was something once.’

  Jordan’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘One day I went into Chandelle’s room while she was taking a shower. As I was waiting for her to come out I went to the desk, and on it there was a handwritten note.’

  ‘Do you remember what it said?’

  ‘Yes. The exact words were: It’s for tomorrow. Pig Pen.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who this person was, who called himself Pig Pen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘Chandelle came out of the bathroom, and when she saw me looking at the note, she took it from the desk and tore it up. Then she went back in the bathroom. I think she threw the pieces in the toilet because immediately afterwards I heard the sound of flushing.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that was strange behaviour?’

  ‘With Chandelle Stuart, everything was strange.’

  ‘Can you think of anything else? Any other detail?’

  ‘No. But I’ll give it some thought.’

  She had started to sound excited. Jordan remembered he was talking to someone involved in the film world, constantly on the lookout for ideas.

  If you’re thinking to turn this into a movie, Sarah Dermott, let us know in advance how it’s going to end.

  ‘Anything else you remember is sure to be of use. I’ll get your telephone number from President Hoogan and call you again.’

  ‘Feel free. And good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He hung up and handed the cordless back to Hoogan. Then he stood up, as he always did when he needed to think.

  ‘Something new?’

  ‘Another Peanuts character. Pig Pen.’

  ‘I don’t know that one.’

  ‘He was a minor character, who was more or less dropped after a while. He’s a little boy who attracts dust. He’s always so dirty that the one time he shows up at a party looking neat and tidy they won’t let him in because they don’t recognize him.’

  ‘Now you mention him, he does sounds familiar. Did Sarah bring him up?’

  ‘Yes. And instead of clearing things up, it just makes them more complicated.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure there’s anything else I can do to help you.’

  ‘You’ve been an enormous help. I’ll say to you what I just said to Sarah Dermott. Anything at all that you think of, get in touch.’

  ‘Of course.’

  At that point Hoogan did the only thing he could. He stood up and looked at his watch. ‘I think it’s lunchtime. Officially, I’d like to invite you, but if you want my advice, refuse politely but firmly. The Vassar cafeteria isn’t too bad but your companion deserves better. And some of our teachers are deadly boring. Are you going back to New York now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can recommend a very good restaurant a few miles from here. You won’t even have to make too much of a detour. It’s an old tugboat moored at the river bank. Very evocative. It’s the place I’d go if I were with someone like Lysa.’

  Jordan picked up his helmet from the chair.

  Hoogan came out from behind the desk. ‘That girl has the most incredible eyes I’ve ever seen. Nobody with eyes like that can be a bad person.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘I wish you luck, Lieutenant Marsalis. You’re a good man but I think you’re going to need it.’

  ‘So do I. Goodbye, Travis. You don’t need to see me out. I remember the way.’

  Jordan left the President’s office and retraced his steps to the cafeteria. When he got there, the place was full. Some young men and women were standing in line, while others were already sitting at the tables, eating. He just had to follow the direction of some of their eyes to know where Lysa was.

  She was standing just outside the glass door, leaning against the low wall next to the steps, and looking with a rapt expression at the trees in the grounds. He came up to her without her noticing.

  ‘Here I am.’

  Lysa turned her head towards him. ‘Everything all right? Did you find what you expected to?’

  He tried to be positive. ‘A few small things. It seems to me I’ll have to work a lot harder to get the big picture. In the meantime, I think we both deserve a decent lunch.’

  ‘Where?’

  Jordan adopted a slightly mysterious tone. ‘I’ve just been recommended somewhere near here.’

  A moment or two later, as Lysa’s eyes again disappeared behind the visor of the helmet, he couldn’t help recalling Hoogan’s words.

  Nobody with eyes like that . . .

  CHAPTER 24

  The restaurant recommended by Travis Hoogan was a beautifully renovated tugboat, moored at a concrete landing-stage that extended into the Hudson. In the tranquillity of its shelter, between elegant streamlined small yachts, this short, squat craft that had once pulled huge steamships gave the impression of an aging lion benevolently watching over its young.

  When Jordan stopped the bike and saw what the place was called, he was pleased he could hide his grimace behind the visor of his helmet.

  Steamboat Willie.

  It was the title of one of Walt Disney’s first cartoons. Right now, cartoon characters seemed to be everywhere. Maybe his own life was slowly turning into a cartoon – his life and that of every person involved in this absurd story.

  They got off the Ducati and Jordan again watched the ritual of Lysa’s hair emerging from the helmet, and again it aroused complicated feelings in him, feelings he preferred to attribute to the nervous state in which the investigation had put him.

  They walked across the short wooden footbridge and entered the dimly lit restaurant, which smelled of wax polish and, perhaps through the power of suggestion, the sea. The furnishings were in strictly nautical style, with shiny brass fittings and tables covered with rough canvas tablecloths as blue as the colour of the hull.

  A youngish waiter immediately cam
e towards them with a gait that remined Jordan of the movements of a spring. He had a friendly demeanour and a tanned face that made him seem more like the cabin boy of a sailing ship than the waiter of a restaurant on an old tugboat chained to the bank of a river.

  ‘Hello. Do you prefer to eat inside or, as it’s such a nice day, do you want to sit at a table on deck?’ He immediately switched to a conspiratorial tone. ‘If I can give you a piece of advice, there’s a better view outside and you’ll be more private.’

  Jordan left it to Lysa to choose.

  ‘I think outside sounds perfect.’

  They followed the waiter to a table in the shade of a wooden pergola near the stern. The waiter placed two menus with oilcloth covers on the table and left them alone to choose.

  Jordan took one of the menus and opened it. As he stared at the words describing the food, he thought again about the conversations with Travis Hoogan and Sarah Dermott. According to the rules, he should have called Burroni and told him about Sarah Dermott’s revelation, but he preferred to wait until he had absorbed it himself.

  What was the role of this fourth Peanuts character, after Linus, Lucy and Snoopy? The first two had revealed their identity when they had died. Snoopy, whoever he was, was running the same risk, if he wasn’t at this moment receiving a visit from a man with his hood up and a limp in his right leg.

  It’s for tomorrow. Pig Pen.

  What was supposed to happen tomorrow? Who was Pig Pen?

  ‘If you tell me where you are, I can try to get to you, or at least call you.’

  Lysa’s voice brought him back to the here and now. Jordan put the menu on the table and looked up at Lysa’s ironic smile and the waiter standing there expectantly with a pen and notebook in his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was thinking. Have you already chosen?’

  ‘A few minutes ago.’

  ‘Then, to speed things up, I’ll have whatever you’re having.’

  The waiter nodded, scribbled something in his notebook, and said, ‘OK, fried snake for both.’ He responded to Jordan’s look of surprise with a disarming smile. ‘Oh, don’t worry, sir, it’s a speciality of the house. The chef cooks it so well, even the rattle is tender.’