The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (12 page)

Oxman came back down the block, hesitated in front of 1276, and then took the seven steps to the brownstone’s concrete stoop. He scanned the names on the tarnished brass bank of mailboxes. But he knew which one he wanted long before he read the card that said
3-D Jennifer Crane
.

All morning he had fought off the urge to see her again. But it was a losing battle. The attraction was there, damn it; it was strong, and he couldn’t deny it. She was a desirable woman, all the more so for her icy New York veneer. And he was sure there was a spark of interest on her part as well; he had glimpsed it in the blue-green mystery of her eyes, heard it in the way she’d asked him if he would be talking to her again, felt it in the way she’d stood close to him in the doorway just before he left her.

But what was it, really, this mutual attraction? A physical thing, that was all. If it led anywhere, it would be to nothing more than an impersonal roll or two in the hay. He would be just another conquest, another statistic on her private scorecard. He had seen hundreds if not thousands of Jennifer Cranes in his life. She was like so many New York women, as if somewhere they were manufactured using the same mold. They all wore the same jaded mask and played it light and loose, and you couldn’t chip away their veneer no matter how hard you tried. Ice queens. That was his private name for the Jennifer Cranes: ice queens.

What would it be like to go to bed with her?
he wondered.
What was it like for Martin Simmons on Thursday night?
The thoughts made him feel uncomfortable. Too long without sex, that was his problem. How long had it been this time … a month? That was too long for any man to go without release. Who could blame him if he did tumble into bed with another woman, a woman like Jennifer Crane?

Well, he knew the answer to that. Beth would blame him, and so would Internal Affairs and the Board of Police Commissioners. Beth, with her inexplicable skull-splitting headaches, running up hundreds of dollars in medical bills while forcing him to live a life of near celibacy. Internal Affairs with their rules about police morals—if they found out about any unprofessional conduct on Oxman’s part, they would recommend to the Board of Commissioners that he be indefinitely suspended from the force, without pay.

So hands and mind off Jennifer Crane, he thought. It was absurd that he should even toy with the idea. He had never, not once in nineteen years of marriage, been unfaithful to Beth. What good would it do to start now?

He made himself look more closely at the other names on the mailboxes. Royce, Munoz, Hiller, Pollosetti, Singer, Coombs, Butler, Hayfield. He had talked to all of them already, or Tobin had. No point in bothering any of them again, going over barren ground that had already been covered.

3-D Jennifer Crane
.

She’s probably not even home, he thought, gone off to
Vogue
for another set of meetings. And then, in spite of himself and all the mental arguments, he reached out and almost violently jabbed the button beside her name.

Thirty seconds passed in silence. He was just starting to turn away, with a vague sense of relief, when the intercom unit clicked and he heard her voice say, “Yes?”

“Detective Oxman,” he said. “May I come up?”

An almost imperceptible pause. Then, “Of course,” and the buzzer on the thick, enameled door began to whirr.

Oxman pushed inside. He was struck again by the familiar apartment building smells: stale cooking odors, pine disinfectant, human effluvium. “Book you,” a piece of censored graffiti on the lobby wall proclaimed. The elevator was on one of the upper floors; instead of waiting for it, he mounted two eighteen-step flights of stairs and made his way down the hallway to 3-D.

Jennifer opened the door immediately when he knocked. As he had yesterday, Oxman took her in with a policeman’s encompassing glance. She was appealing, all right: finely boned face, long auburn hair, narrow, graceful shoulders, ample breasts and a slender dancer’s body—though her calves were unlike a dancer’s, nicely curved but not muscular. She was wearing a pair of denim pants with the cuffs rolled up to just below the knee, and a light green blouse with the top three buttons undone. There was no brassiere under the blouse and the swell of her breasts was clearly visible. He wondered if she always wore her blouse open like that, or if she had unfastened the buttons for his benefit.

“Come in, E.L.,” she said. She was smiling, but it was an unreadable smile, showing him nothing of what went on behind it. “You don’t mind if I call you E.L.?”

“No,” he said, “I don’t mind.”

She closed and locked the door. “Sit down, if you like.”

He sat on the same cream-colored sofa he had occupied yesterday. She took the small beige chair opposite him, clasped her hands over one knee. It was bright in there; the net drapes over the windows were open and slanted sunlight poured into the room, glinted off the chrome frames of the magazine illustrations on the walls. The sunshine touched her face as well, gave it a glowing quality. Like sunlight reflecting off glacial ice, he thought.

She was thirty-one, according to the information she had given Gaines and Holroyd, but she could pass for twenty-one; only her eyes, cool green eyes that picked up the green of her blouse and shone with the color of the sea, betrayed her age. Old eyes, knowing eyes, falsely placid. What swam beneath that calm surface? Oxman wondered. He was surprised to find himself feeling a little sorry for her. He knew what this city could do to a young woman like this; the destruction could be insidious yet thorough. And yet that only added to her allure, the aura of icy sensuality she projected.

She smiled at him again. Everything about her was transformed when she smiled. The coldness seemed to fade; she appeared older, more her proper age, but less sharply hewn and much more attractive. “What did you want to see me about?” she asked.

“A few more questions,” he said vaguely. He felt awkward being here with her, awkward under the scrutiny of her gaze.
She knows how I feel
, he thought.
She knows
.

“Have you found out anything more about the murders?”

“Not yet, no. I thought you might have remembered something you overlooked yesterday.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t.”

Oxman shifted position; it was a comfortable couch, but not for him. “You look well rested,” he said. “No trouble sleeping last night?”

“Not really. Should I have had trouble sleeping?”

“If you felt anything for Simmons, you might have.”

“I told you yesterday, I barely knew the man.”

“But you were intimate with him just a few minutes before he was killed.”

“You don’t have to know someone to have sex with him,” Jennifer said. “Sex is a simple matter of biology. Or are you old-fashioned about things like that?”

“Maybe I am.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Why is it too bad?”

A shrug. “I prefer men with a more modern outlook.”

She’s fencing with me
, Oxman thought. He didn’t like it; he didn’t like women who played games. And yet, perversely, it also excited him because he sensed an underlying purpose to the game, an open invitation. The excitement in turn made him angry, at himself and at her.

He said a little sharply, “How about guilt? Don’t you feel anything along those lines?”

Something flickered in her eyes, behind the mask, but it was too brief for him to get a reading on it. “Why should I feel guilt?”

“Simmons would be alive now if you’d let him spend the night with you,” Oxman said. “Or if you’d never brought him here in the first place.”

“If I’d had any idea of what was going to happen, I would certainly not have brought him here, nor would I have asked him to leave as I did. But I didn’t have any idea. I can’t be held responsible for the actions of others, for something beyond my control.”

“That’s a pretty callous way of looking at a man’s death.”

“It’s a callous world, E.L. You ought to know that if anyone does.”

Oxman didn’t say anything. He knew it, all right.

“You must have seen a great deal of death in your job,” Jennifer said. “You’ve probably killed someone yourself—haven’t you?”

“Yes. Once in the line of duty.”

“How do
you
deal with death? Do you grieve for the person you killed, all the dead people you’ve seen? Or do you wall it off, view it as a simple fact of life?”

“I wall it off. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot of sleepless nights.”

“Perhaps I’ll have a sleepless night or two myself. Does it matter to you either way?”

“I suppose not.”

“Life goes on,” she said. “And I have to live mine my way; everybody does, including you.”

“Tell me something else, then.”

“If I can.”

“Are you afraid, Jennifer?” It was the first time he had used her name and he tasted it as he said it; the taste was bittersweet. “Three murders on this block in the space of two weeks—does that frighten you?”

“Yes, it frightens me.”

“You don’t act frightened. You only act cold.”

“Is that what you think? That I’m cold, that I don’t have feelings?”

“I don’t know what to think about you.”

“Then don’t try, E.L. You don’t know me and I’m sure you never will.”

“Does anybody know you? Do you know yourself?”

She laughed with what he took to be wry humor. “Good Lord,” she said, “psychology? I didn’t know policemen were trained in that these days.”

“All right,” he said, “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.” He got to his feet. “I’d better move along.”

“No more questions?”

“I guess not.”

“But you might have more later?”

“Maybe. Probably not, though.”

He took a step away from the couch. Jennifer made no move to get up from the chair; he could find his own way out this time. He crossed to the door, opened the locks. His hand was on the knob when she spoke again behind him.

“I’ll be at the Tavern on the Green tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Sketching for a magazine layout. I should be there from twelve o’clock on.”

Oxman turned. “Why tell me that?”

“I thought you’d want to know. In case you need to see me again.”

Unmistakable invitation; he saw it in her eyes and in her ice queen smile. The palms of his hands were suddenly damp. But he said, “I don’t think I will.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll be there, though, in any case.”

“You’d better lock your door after I go,” he said gruffly. “It’s always better to play it safe.”

“Is it?” she said. “All right, E.L. Good-bye for now.”

Oxman went out, shut the door harder than was necessary, and took the stairs down to the lobby. The sweat on him when he stepped outside had nothing to do with the heat.

3:45 P.M. — WILLIE LORSEC

In the basement of 1276 West Ninety-eighth, Lorsec stood rummaging through the big fifty-gallon receptacles under the garbage chute. Richard Corales had given him permission to do that any time he cared to, and he was grateful. He liked Richard. Slow-witted, yes, but gentle and kind and forever willing to help a friend. Richard’s passion for gin rummy was a little wearying, particularly now that this morning’s two-hour session had extended his winning streak to a phenomenal thirty-seven hands. But that was a minor flaw. All in all, he was a good man and a good friend.

Lorsec fished up a black trash bag tied with white twine. That would belong to the Singers, he thought, and there would probably be little of interest inside. People packaged and disposed of their trash in different and distinctive ways; he could tell just by looking at a bag who it belonged to. Trash, he reflected, as he often did, was endlessly fascinating. One could find all sorts of valuable and revealing items hidden away in it.

With dexterous fingers he opened the Singers’ bag and sifted through the contents. As he had anticipated, there was little of interest. More beer cans than usual; Wally Singer appeared to be consuming large quantities of beer lately. An obnoxious man, Singer. Too bad. His wife seemed a decent sort and deserved better. There was something a little sad about her portion of the garbage: empty chocolate boxes, tear- and mucus-stained tissues, other evidence of an unhappy woman.

Lorsec dropped the Singers’ bag into another receptacle and reached again into the one under the chute. The bag he came up with this time was cheap and dark green, tied with a notched plastic fastener. Michele Butler’s trash. He opened the fastener and started to search among the sparse contents.

The upper basement door clicked open just then and he heard descending footfalls on the stairs. He looked up. A lithe, muscular man appeared, carrying a bulky trash bag that would be, Lorsec thought immediately, too full to have fit inside the chute. He recognized the man as Benny Hiller, apartment 3-A.

Hiller didn’t see him until he reached the bottom of the stairs. Then he paused in a startled way, frowned, and crossed the cement floor warily, holding the trash bag out at his side as though prepared to use it as a weapon.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I have permission,” Lorsec said.

“Yeah? To do what?”

“Hunt for redeemable used merchandise. That’s my business.”

Hiller’s narrowed eyes took in Lorsec’s shabby clothing, his unkempt hair, the burlap sack slung over his shoulder. “A goddamn junk collector,” he said. “Who gave you the permission? That numbhead Corales?”

“Yes. He’s my friend.”

“I’ll bet. Where is he? In his apartment?”

“No. He had an errand to run over on Broadway.”

“And you took the opportunity to start pawing through the garbage. You been here before, doing that?”

“Would it bother you if I have, Mr. Hiller?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve seen you from time to time. Richard told me who you are.”

“He did, did he? Well, who the hell are
you?
”

“My name is Willie Lorsec.”

“You live around here?”

“In the next block.”

“Yeah? I never saw you before.”

“I’ve lived in the neighborhood quite some time, Mr. Hiller. Perhaps you haven’t looked closely enough. Or perhaps it’s because you sleep days and work nights.”