The Killer in My Eyes (7 page)

‘I don’t think he’ll be pleased about that.’

‘I just heard he’s having some problems with Internal Affairs right now. He’ll be pleased enough when we sort that out for him, and dangle the carrot of a promotion when all this is over.’

Jordan did not say anything.

‘Jordan, you have to do it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because your nephew was killed this morning. And because being a policeman is your life.’

Jordan lowered his eyes to the floor as if he was thinking. In reality he was angry at himself for not finding any valid counter-argument. And there was a reason for that. What his brother had just said was absolutely true.

I’m not a lieutenant any more, Rodriguez
. . .

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it. As soon as possible, I need copies of the statements, the post-mortem report, and results of all the forensics tests. I have to do things my own way, but I’ll let you know from time to time what support I require, and where.’

‘Whatever you want. Ruben already has a copy of LaFayette Johnson’s statement and the first findings of the Crime Scene team. The post mortem is taking place right now. The preliminary report might even arrive before you leave here.’

‘Good. I’ll keep you up to date with developments.’

Jordan stood up and walked towards the door. His brother’s voice stopped him when he was in the process of opening it. ‘Thanks, Jordan, I know you’re doing it for me and—’

This time, Christopher was the one to be interrupted – something he wasn’t accustomed to. Jordan looked hard at him, and his tone abruptly shattered the temporary solidarity that had been established between them.

‘For once, let me be selfish. I’m not doing this to assuage your sense of guilt. I’m doing it to assuage mine.’

‘Whatever the reason, I thank you. I’ll never forget it.’

Jordan could not help making a bitter grimace. ‘Seems to me this isn’t the first time I’ve heard you say that.’

He saw a shadow pass over Christopher’s face at these words. As he closed the door behind him, he hoped his brother did not have a conscience. Being left alone in that room to battle with it would be a hard trial, even for Mayor Marsalis.

‘Here you are,’ Annette said, putting the cup of espresso down on the table in front of Jordan. ‘Strong and black, no sugar, just the way you like it.’

‘Thanks, Annette. Can I have the check?’

‘The boss says it’s on the house.’

Jordan looked at Tim Brogan, who was behind the cash desk, and thanked him with a gesture of the hand. On the TV set in the opposite corner, a Harry Potter movie was showing, with the sound turned down. Annette lowered her voice.

‘We heard the news, Jordan. I’m really sorry about your nephew. A nasty business.’

‘Life is one big nasty business, Annette. Just over twelve hours ago, I never thought I’d set foot in here again. And here I am.’ He raised his cup in a toast as bitter as the coffee. ‘To missed departures.’

‘Postponed departures,’ Annette corrected him.

A big bald man with a ketchup smudge on his cheek was waving behind them. Annette was forced to re-enter the world to which she belonged eight hours a day. Plus overtime, like this evening.

‘Just coming!’

She walked away, and Jordan was alone again with his thoughts.

Even leaving aside the personal aspect, it really
was
a nasty business. To be handled with care. And if he was right, the heat was only just starting. When he had closed the door of his brother’s office in Gracie Mansion, the post-mortem report had not yet arrived. He had preferred to leave Christopher to his feelings as a father and his duties as a Mayor. Jordan didn’t know which of the two roles at that moment was the worse.

He had called Burroni and arranged to meet him here. He had just finished his coffee when the detective appeared, framed in the window.

He was wearing the same suede jacket and round-brimmed black hat he had worn that morning. He came in and looked around. When he spotted Jordan, he came over to the table with that strange walk of his, the centre of gravity low, like a soccer player’s. He was holding a sports paper with a yellow folder sticking out of it.

Burroni came level with him and stood there. He looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else, with someone else.

‘Hello, Jordan.’

‘Sit down, James. What are you having?’

Jordan gestured to a passing waitress, who stopped to take the order.

‘A Schweppes. I’m on duty.’

Burroni collapsed onto the chair facing him and put the newspaper down on the table. The folder slipped out a little and Jordan glimpsed the letters
NYPD
on the front.

‘Let’s get things clear straight away, Marsalis.’

‘That’s all I ask.’

‘I guess you don’t like me, but that’s neither here nor there. The real problem is that I don’t like you. And I certainly don’t like this situation. I’m sorry about your nephew, but—’

Jordan lifted his hands. ‘Stop right there. I don’t know what you’ve been told and I don’t care. But I would like you to listen to what I have to say.’

Burroni took off his hat and put it on the empty chair next to him. He leaned back in his own chair, folded his arms, and waited. ‘All right, I’m listening.’

‘I don’t believe you’re particularly sorry about my nephew. You think he was a freak who met the end he deserved, someone the world won’t miss. That’s your problem and I don’t expect you to understand. But I think you’ll have to get used to the situation. We’re not getting married, James. But we have a job to do, and we have to do it together. We both have reasons for hoping it works out.’

Burroni put his elbows on the table and looked him in the eyes. ‘If you’re referring to this Internal Affairs business, you have to understand I—’

Jordan did not let him finish. ‘I do understand. I understand it about you and lots of others. I understood all the years I spent in the Department. But I’ve always believed that a good cop, even if he sometimes falls victim to a few small weaknesses, gives more than he takes in the long run. If his weaknesses are big ones, then he stops being a good cop and becomes a crook. That’s your problem, and a judge’s. But there’s something else that matters more.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t give a damn any more, James. For reasons of my own, I want to see this through and then draw a line under it. And the fact that the victim is my nephew is only part of it. When it’s all over, I’ll finally be able to leave on a journey that should have started this morning.’

The waitress arrived, placed a glass of fizzy liquid on the table, and walked silently away. Burroni took a sip of the drink.

‘That’s my side of it,’ Jordan went on. ‘But you’ll be the detective who caught the man who killed the Mayor’s son. You’ll be a hero, a star. And you’ll be able to stop having to take kickbacks.’ He pointed to the sports paper Burroni had put down on the table. ‘What do you bet on? Horses or football?’

‘You’re a son of a bitch, Marsalis.’

Jordan made a small gesture with his head and gave a slight smile. ‘Must be a family gift.’

There was a moment’s silence. Jordan decided that, if a truce was necessary, this could be the right moment to wave, if not a white flag, at least a white handkerchief. He pointed to the folder sticking out of the paper.

‘What’s that?’

Burroni took it out, opened it and pushed it across the table. ‘Copies of the statements. The post mortem was done in record time, and the first test results. It’s all we have so far. Read it when you have time.’

Jordan decided that a bit of a boost to Burroni’s self-esteem might be a good way of easing him into this forced collaboration. ‘I’d rather you told me.’

Burroni’s voice became slightly less tense. ‘The PM confirms that the victim was strangled. To fix the thumb in place, his mouth was filled with strong glue. The same glue was used to attach the blanket and the hand to the ear. From the tests, it seems it was a very common brand called Ice Glue, which is found all over the country, so that doesn’t give us any kind of lead. Plus, it seems you were right about the MO. There were traces of adhesive tape on the wrists and ankles – again, a very common brand. The killer probably immobilized him first and then killed him when he was unable to react. There are no signs of struggle on the body, apart from the strangulation marks on the neck. As for the testimony of . . .’ he turned the paper towards him to read the name ‘. . . LaFayette Johnson, it hasn’t been much use so far. He seems to have told the truth about what happened. The records show the victim called his cellphone pretty much at the time he said. When he discovered the body, he called the police. For the moment he can’t be ruled out as a suspect, but . . .’

Jordan finished his sentence for him. ‘But you don’t think he would have killed his main source of income.’

‘Precisely. He did tell us one interesting thing, though.’

‘Which is?’

‘As he was coming into the building, he almost collided with a guy in a tracksuit who was on his way out. He didn’t see his face, but he said he ran off in a strange way, limping slightly, as if one leg was weaker than the other. We made enquiries in the building and the neighbourhood. Nobody of that description lives in the vicinity.’

‘Seems worth pursuing. Anything else?’

‘We managed to trace the girl who spent the night with your neph . . . with the victim. In fact,
she
contacted
us
as soon as she heard about the murder. They were questioning her when I left Headquarters.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Nothing to write home about. Quite plain, in fact. She’s a secretary at a publisher’s whose name I can’t remember, with offices on Broadway.’

‘Could she have strangled him?’

‘Judging by her physique, no way.’

‘And what are the Crime Scene people saying?’

‘They have their work cut out. Thousands of prints, thousands of fibres, hairs, paint residue. It’s going to take months to sort through everything.’

‘So that’s what we have, for now.’

There was no resignation in Jordan’s comment. It was simply an observation. He knew from experience that most investigations started out with very little to go on.

‘Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?’ Burroni asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s too early to say. The MO does suggest the work of a psychopath. But it could be an acquaintance of the victim, or a fan, crazy enough to commit an isolated act, without there being any follow-up.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘It may not be pleasant, but we’re going to have to look into the life of Gerald Marsalis. Everything. Friends, girlfriends, buyers, drug dealers . . .’

Jordan read the question in Burroni’s expression.

‘James, I know perfectly well who my nephew was and what kind of life he was mixed up in. I want to know everything. The rest is my problem.’

‘I think you’ve made the right choice.’

Jordan thought he detected a touch of respect in these words. ‘Do you have enough people?’ he asked.

‘Obviously, in this case as many as I want.’

‘Then get someone to tail Johnson. He may not lead anywhere, but you never know.’

‘OK. Are we done?’

‘I think so, for now. Let’s hope I’m wrong and we never find out who Lucy is.’

Burroni stood up and put his hat back on his head. ‘See you, Jordan. Thanks for the drink.’

‘We’ll talk soon.’

Jordan watched as he went out without turning around and disappeared into the New York crowd.

On the TV at the back of the diner, someone had switched to CNN. After a brief item on the Iraq War, there were images of the murder of Jerry Ko, which was the big news of the day. From where he was sitting, Jordan couldn’t hear the commentary, but he saw his brother outside Gerald’s building, being swamped by a horde of reporters. Nobody, either in the morning or now, had paid any attention to the man with a helmet on his head slipping out of the front door of the building. The long shot was replaced by a closer shot of Christopher Marsalis getting into his car, leaving behind him a lot of unanswered questions.

As it drove off, the car bearing his brother away reminded Jordan of another car, in another place, on another evening. The exact moment nearly three years earlier when everything had started.

Or ended.

He had spent the whole of that weekend as a guest in Christopher’s house in the country. The weather was fine and he had decided to stay on until Monday in that splendid villa near Rhinecliff, with its big windows that looked out on the banks of the Hudson, its extensive grounds, private jetty and annex for the security staff. The house and its interior had been designed by a European architect who really knew his business, and charged appropriately.

There was a difference of about twelve years in their ages and an equally big difference in their characters. Christopher was the rich one, Jordan the young athletic one. Christopher was a natural leader and, as such, needed people. Jordan didn’t need anyone but himself. He was a lone wolf, who liked to pass unnoticed.