Maureen had taken a leather case from the back pocket of her jeans. It was a gift from Alfredo Martini, a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman with unusually long fingers, who had nothing in common with her apart from the surname and the fact that they periodically met at the police station, after he had been caught entering apartments where he had not been invited. When he was dying of cancer, Maureen had made sure he didn’t get sent to prison for the umpteenth time. As a mark of gratitude, he had given her his tools and taught her how to use them.
She usually kept them in a pocket in the lid of her dressing-case, but by a stroke of luck, when she had left Italy, the person who had packed her bags had unwittingly left them there.
Taking out the tools she needed, she carefully picked the lock of the front door, which was much stronger to look at than it turned out to be. She kept telling herself that what she was doing was neither logical nor legal. But she didn’t care: all that mattered, now that she knew who, was to find out why. She had held her breath as she opened the door but, as she had predicted, no alarm had been set off.
She found herself in a fairly large, high-ceilinged, soberly furnished entrance hall. There were a few ornamental plants, and some paintings on the walls, which she could barely make out in the darkness. On the wall facing the door she glimpsed a low table between two chairs, and immediately next to it a curtain of indeterminate colour. In the walls to right and left, two solid-looking doors led to the rest of the house.
She went over to the chair and sat down to wait. She had with her all the weapons she needed: the gun, the element of surprise, and the truth.
The only thing missing now was him.
Time passed.
Announced by a glow in the glass in front of her, a car pulled up on the street just outside. There came the noise of a door slamming, followed by the light of the headlamps moving away, and then the sound of feet climbing the steps to the front door. She heard a key being inserted in the keyhole, then the click of the lock. By chance, another car passed at that moment, and through the frosted glass Maureen saw a man’s figure silhouetted against the light. That was how she had always seen him in her imagination – a vague shape to which she had been unable to give a face or a name until the door in her mind had opened.
Calmly, she reached out her hand and picked up the gun from the low table, stiffening her arm muscles to support the weight. Having the weapon reassured her: it was only an inert piece of metal, it was neither good nor bad, but it was something tangible, which was what she needed at that moment, after all her forced journeys into the unreal.
Another car passed in the street just as the glass door opened noiselessly, drawing the shadow of a man in the square of light projected on the floor by the headlamps. The light lapped at Maureen’s feet like a wave, then receded as the man came in and closed the door behind him.
He did not switch on the light straight away, and when he did, he had his back to her and did not immediately notice the woman sitting on the chair against the wall facing the door. Maureen was glad of that momentary gap, which allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the change in light.
When the man turned and saw her sitting facing him with a gun in her hand, for a second or two the surprise of it froze him. But then Maureen saw his face and body relax, as if this was a moment he had somehow expected and for which he was prepared.
He was a killer, yet Maureen could not help but admire his sangfroid. That simple reaction was enough to confirm to her that her suppositions had been correct.
The man nodded towards the gun and said one incredulous word. ‘Why?’
Maureen, with the same simplicity and in the same calm voice, replied, ‘That’s what I came to ask you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Gerald Marsalis, Chandelle Stuart, Alex Campbell.’
The man made a series of brief nods with his head to confirm that he had understood. Then he shrugged. ‘What does it matter now?’
‘It matters to me.’
‘What does any of this have to do with you anyway?’
‘You’d never believe it.’
The man smiled. His eyes were on her but Maureen sensed that he was not seeing her. ‘You have no idea of the things I’m willing to believe . . .’
Maureen also sensed that he had said these last words more for himself than for her. Then, whatever image the man had had in his mind vanished as quickly as it had come and he was back in the room, facing her.
‘Where would you like me to begin?’
‘It’s usually best to begin at the beginning.’
‘All right. Let’s go over there. We’ll be more comfortable.’
Still aiming her gun at him, Maureen stood up – and felt an episode about to begin. There came the long shudder she knew well, and then that familiar sensation of something coming at her, rolling fast towards her from a distance, and she heard the noise of the gun falling to the floor and . . .
. . . I’m standing in the middle of a large room full of light coming from high windows, and I’m walking towards the wall at the back and looking down at my feet, which are red against the clear tiles on the floor – and in the meantime I’m moving closer to the door that leads to the stairs and . . .
. . . I’m in a bedroom where Julius is lying on top of Chandelle and slapping her as he fucks her, and there’s Alex with his pants down waiting his turn and jerking off, and I’m also masturbating and . . .
. . . I’m outside another door that opens slightly and there’s the beautiful, incredulous face of Thelma Ross appearing in the crack and immediately afterwards she’s pushed inside and falls on the floor screaming, and a hand holding a gun enters my field of vision and . . .
. . . I’m again in front of the half-open door of this light-filled room and I open it and there’s a figure in the shadow of the landing who advances towards me. He’s wearing a tracksuit and I finally manage to see his face and I realize he’s speaking to me although I can’t take my eyes off the gun he’s holding. He’s smiling and . . .
Maureen found herself lying on the floor, her strength gone, just like all the other times that the personal ghosts of Gerald Marsalis had assailed her. Gasping for breath, she pressed down on her arms and lifted herself until she was on all fours on the floor. She stayed in that position for a moment, head bowed, hair falling like weeping willows at the sides of her face, trying to get her heartbeat, which she could hear throbbing in her ears, back to a normal rhythm.
In that final vision, Maureen had at last seen the face of the person who had killed Jerry Ko, at the exact moment he had entered his loft, aiming a gun at him.
Maureen slowly raised her head.
There in front of her was the same man, standing looking at her with his head tilted slightly to one side and a puzzled expression on his face. He was dressed differently but, just as in that vision, he was holding a gun, aimed directly at her.
CHAPTER 47
Harmon Fowley of Codex Security was standing in front of the main entrance of the Stuart Building, waiting for Jordan. When Harmon realized that Jordan was the man on the saddle of the red motorbike that was pulling up at the sidewalk, he waited for him to put it on the kick-stand and switch off the engine.
He looked admiringly at the Ducati as Jordan got off. ‘Italian, eh? Nice machine.’
Jordan removed his helmet, and shook the hand Fowley held out to him. ‘Yes. A very nice machine.’
‘How fast does she go?’
‘Fast enough to stop the traffic cops getting the number.’
‘Don’t tell me Lieutenant Marsalis breaks the law.’
Jordan remembered Officer Rodriguez. ‘You sound like someone I know. Do I need to remind you I’m not a lieutenant any more?’
‘Maybe not officially, but I think you still keep your hand in. From what I hear, you caught the guy they were looking for.’
‘Apparently, yes.’
‘Only apparently?’
‘I need to
check something and I can only do that through you. Thanks for waiting for me. You’re doing me a very big favour.’
Fowley shrugged. ‘Don’t mention it. Since my divorce, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands.’
‘You know what they say? When the cat’s away, the mice . . .’
Fowley returned a mirthless smile. ‘Seems like right now the cat’s having more fun.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘I don’t know . . . I spent the last three years dreaming of freedom, and now that it’s here I don’t feel any satisfaction coming home late with a few more beers in my body. The fact I don’t have to wipe the lipstick marks from my shirt-collar kind of takes away the sense of adventure.’
By now they had gone through the revolving doors into the Stuart Building.
The pleasantries were over. Now it was down to business.
‘From your call, I got the impression this was quite urgent. What can I do for you?’
‘Harmon, I need to take another look at that evening’s DVDs. Do you think it’s possible?’
‘No problem. And you’re in luck – Barton’s on duty tonight. You remember him from last time? He’s one of my men and we won’t have any problems with him.’
As they climbed the stairs leading to the control room, Jordan remembered the night of Chandelle Stuart’s murder. When they had seen the limping figure crossing the lobby of the Stuart Building, they had allowed themselves to be blinded by that apparition and had neglected other possibilities.
One above all, which Jordan couldn’t forgive himself for not considering.
He had seen him come in, but he hadn’t seen him go out.
They came to the desk where Barton was sitting, his face lit by the reflections from the bank of screens.
‘Barton,’ Fowley said, ‘my friend here would like to examine the DVDs of the night the Stuart girl was killed. Is that possible?’
‘Sure. Come with me.’
Barton got up from the leather armchair and led them into an office to the left. Inside, on the wall facing the door, were shelves on which all the used discs were arranged in chronological order. In the middle of the room was a desk with a computer linked to a DVD player.
‘This is the office where we keep the discs and format them to use again.’
Barton approached the shelves and took out two black plastic cases, which he placed on the desk.
‘Here we are. That night’s recordings from the cameras at both the entrances.’
Jordan moved a chair from the wall towards the desk. ‘Good. I think I can manage by myself now. I’m not asking you to stay here with me – this might take a long time and I know you’re busy.’
Barton pointed to the computer. ‘Do you know how this kind of program works?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘To play the discs, it’s pretty much like a regular home DVD player.’
Jordan sat down and switched on the computer. ‘I think I’ll get by.’
Barton nodded and left the office. Fowley had realized that Jordan was following his own thought processes and wasn’t with them any more. He put a hand on his shoulder.
‘OK, Jordan, I’m going. Whatever you’re looking for, I hope you find it – or not, whichever you think is better.’
‘Thanks, Harmon. You’re a friend.’
‘Don’t mention it. I’ll tell Barton, whatever you need, he should let you have it.’
Jordan watched him go out and close the door behind him. Then he turned and picked up the first case, took out the disc and inserted it in the player. On the computer screen he clicked on the icon DVD Player and started watching.
Thanks to a lot of judicious fast-forwarding, it took him little more than an hour to go through both discs.
It had been both grotesque and tragic seeing again the killer’s limping figure, made ridiculous by the speeded-up motion, on his way to accomplish his fatal mission.
He had watched until his eyes smarted the constant view of those entrances over a period of twelve hours, deserted for the most part, apart from some rare nightbird coming home after a night on the town. According to the hour marked on the time-code, only towards morning did the scene start to become more animated: early-morning joggers headed for Central Park, men in grey suits holding briefcases, a couple with suitcases who looked as if they were leaving on vacation.
As the hour approached when the stores and offices opened, the number of people coming in and out increased, until he was faced with the usual hustle and bustle of a place like the Stuart Building.
Jordan found no trace of what he was looking for. No limping figure, even half hidden by the others, trying to slip away unobserved by one of the cameras.
According to what he had seen, the man had entered the building but hadn’t left it.
Unless . . .
Jordan forced himself to start all over again from the beginning. He began replaying the first disc, watching even more carefully, and at a certain point his gaze was attracted by something that made him quickly press the Stop button.
He went back a little and replayed the recording at normal speed. He checked the time-code on the screen. The images he was seeing corresponded to seven-thirty in the morning.
A man in a dark suit was crossing the lobby towards the exit, taking care to always keep his back to the camera. Even though he was almost hidden by the people who were starting to crowd into the lobby, Jordan had spotted him precisely because of the illogical way in which he was forced to move in order to preserve that position.
And at a certain point something happened.
A bald, well-built man who was coming in the opposite direction, distracted because he was talking to someone next to him, knocked into the man in the dark suit as he headed for the revolving doors. The impact spun him around and for a moment he had his face to the camera.
Jordan immediately paused and reversed the image frame by frame until he had the man in the middle of the screen.
It took him a moment to find the zoom function on the toolbar and enlarge the figure. And although the image became grainier as he did so, he soon found himself looking at a face he knew.
Jordan’s heart skipped a beat.
If things were as he suspected, this man had waited all night on the stairs in order to leave unobserved by mingling with the morning crowd.
To be absolutely sure, there was still one thing he needed to check, and to do that he had to go up to Chandelle Stuart’s apartment.
He left the office and walked to the bank of screens showing images similar to those he had just finished watching.
‘Burton, are there still seals on Chandelle Stuart’s apartment?’
‘No, they were removed a couple of days ago.’
‘Do you have the code?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need to take a look around. If you don’t trust me, send someone up with me. I don’t want to get you in trouble.’
Burton took a yellow Post-it from the desk in front of him, quickly wrote down a number and handed it to him. ‘Mr Fowley said anything you want.’
‘Thanks, Barton. You’re a good man.’
A minute or two later, he was stepping out of the elevator into Chandelle Stuart’s apartment. There in front of him was the white outline drawn by the Crime Scene team to mark the position of the body.
He took a look around. The apartment had remained the same but now there was no sense of expectation in the air. Only a slight layer of dust on the furniture.
He passed the Gericault painting without so much as a glance and walked towards the study and the bedrooms.
This time, too, what he was looking for was so normal that nobody would have bothered hiding it away. In fact, they would have taken care to have it as close to hand as possible. He started with the bathrooms, then moved to the bedrooms, examining any piece of furniture that had drawers.
Nothing.
And in looking for what he did not find, he found what he was not l
ooking for.
In a drawer in the study was a series of medical records. He glanced at them for a moment, then took them out and placed them on the table. He read through them one by one. They were mainly reports of tests and periodic check-ups, but to his surprise he discovered something that might explain a lot.
He had remembered a while earlier that, in the photograph in the Vassar College yearbook, Chandelle Stuart had been wearing a pair of glasses – quite thick ones, from the look of them. Yet in the apartment, right now, there was no trace of spectacles or contact-lens cases, or bottles of saline solution to wash them, which was what he had been looking for.
But what he had found was a report recording the success of a laser operation to reduce her short-sightedness, performed at Holy Faith Hospital.
To clarify his ideas, Jordan needed to have a few words with the person he had seen on the DVD, leaving the Stuart Building the morning after the death of Chandelle Stuart. Maybe it was only a coincidence and there were a number of possible explanations, but he was curious to know what that person was doing in that place, at that time, and on that particular day.
It was a question that could only be answered by the man himself, the elegant and ironic Professor William Roscoe, who in all probability was also the person who had requested a series of cheques from Chase Manhattan Bank in the name of John Rydley Evenge. Chance maybe, but if you replaced the middle name with an initial, it became John R. Evenge.
Revenge.
CHAPTER 48
‘Revenge,’ William Roscoe said. ‘That’s the only reason. You of all people should be able to understand that.’
Maureen said nothing, trying not to be mesmerized by the black eye of the gun pointing at her.
‘Tell me one thing, Maureen. When that man killed Connor Slave right there in front of you – once past the initial grief, didn’t you feel a fierce hate and an obsessive desire for revenge? Don’t you feel right now the desire to have him in front of you so that you can make him pay in person for all the suffering you’ve felt and will have to feel for the rest of your life?’