The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (22 page)

There were at least a dozen media people in the squadroom. Oxman recognized some of them: Charlack from the
Times
, Barry from the
Post
, handsome David Nicely from WCTV. Even Barbara Marchetti from
The Village Voice
was there.

“The lieutenant says you’re working several avenues of investigation on the West Ninety-eighth Street homicides,” Nicely said, edging his way closer. Microphones were thrust at Oxman from every angle. “Are you making any real headway, Detective Oxman?”

“We think so, yes.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I’m sorry, no. Not without possibly acting in a way detrimental to the investigation.”

“Do you personally think the killer will strike again?” Barbara Marchetti asked.

“I think he’ll try.”

“How can you stop him? He picks his victims at random, doesn’t he?”

“It would seem so. But we’ve taken certain preventive measures.”

“What are they?” somebody asked.

Stupid bastard
, Oxman thought.
What the hell kind of a question is that?
But he said, “I can’t tell you that, for obvious reasons.”

Charlack asked, “What do you think this psycho’s motive is? Have you got any leads along those lines?”

Oxman glanced over at Manders, who gave him an almost imperceptible headshake. That meant he hadn’t told the media about yesterday’s phone call; the god-complex angle was pure sensationalism, and there wasn’t any benefit in letting the media spread it around.

“We have some theories as to motive, yes,” Oxman said, “but I’d rather not discuss them at this time.”

“Do you have any suspects so far?”

“No, but we expect that situation to change shortly.” He was sweating from the hot glaring lights for the TV minicams. He wondered how long Manders had been putting up with this.

“Is there a sex element involved?” a woman asked.

God
, Oxman thought. He said, “We don’t believe so, no.”

There were more questions, a rush of them, most of the same mindless ilk as the one about a sex element. Oxman fought them off manfully, sweating all the while, until Manders finally came to his rescue.

“That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen,” the lieutenant told them. “You already have my statement and the written statement from Captain Burnham, and we’ve got work to do here. You’ll be notified if there are any new developments.”

He began ushering everyone to the door, none too gently. One of the men carrying a minicam stumbled and almost fell. “Jesus, get off my feet!” someone else said. And then they were gone, and Manders came back and steered Oxman into his office and shut the door.

Oxman sank into one of the chairs, wiped his damp forehead with his handkerchief. “Those bastards are relentless,” he said.

“Now you know what I’ve been going through. Ladies and gentlemen, my ass! They’d all love for me to keel over dead right in front of them to add spice to the story.” Manders sat down behind his desk and glared across at Oxman. “You didn’t shave this morning. I like that. Gave the media the impression you were up all night tracking.”

“I didn’t shave because I didn’t go home last night,” Oxman said. “I spent the night in Jennifer Crane’s apartment.”

“I know.”

Oxman frowned. “You know?”

“Tolluto saw you go into her building a little before eight last night. Your car was still parked there when he toured the neighborhood at midnight. The relief from the Six-seven phoned in about an hour ago that you’d finally left the building.” Manders shrugged. “It didn’t take much detective work on my part to figure out where you’d spent the night.”

Oxman nodded silently, glad now that he’d decided to confide in Manders. Lieutenant Smiley wouldn’t have liked it if he’d come up with a lie, or if he hadn’t said anything at all. And Oxman was also glad Tolluto was that alert; it was some small comfort to think of him undercover in the neighborhood, doing his job, with Jennifer there alone.

“You sleep with her, Ox?” Manders asked in a neutral voice.

“Yeah.” Then, a bit defensively, “You want reasons, excuses, an hour by hour account?”

“None of those things.”

“I’m not the first cop to sleep with someone involved in a case,” Oxman said. Which was a stupid remark; he knew that as soon as he said it. He wouldn’t be the first cop to take a bribe, either. Or to go berserk and shoot up the precinct house.

“You wouldn’t be the first cop never to make Detective First Grade, Ox.” That was more to the point. Manders shrugged, shook his jowly features sadly. “What I ought to do,” he said, “is report you to Internal Affairs right away. That’s what the book calls for.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. Outside of your job, it’s none of my business. But as it pertains to the case …”

“It isn’t going to affect my investigation,” Oxman said.

“No? Internal Affairs would probably think otherwise. In fact, they’d probably suspend you.”

“Do you want me off the case, Lieutenant?”

Manders sighed. He started to light a cigarette, decided against it, and ground it unlit into the ashtray on his desk. “No,” he said, “that’s not what I want.
If
I can count on you.”

“You can.”

“All right. Just make sure you low-key this affair, if that’s what it is. Or was it a one-night stand?”

“It wasn’t a one-night stand,” Oxman said.

“I didn’t think it was. You’re not the type. Well, Tolluto won’t say anything; neither will anybody else on the force if they get wind of it. But I don’t want the goddamn media to find out. If that happens, it’s out of my hands. Understood?”

“Understood.” Oxman shifted on his chair. “There’s something else you’ve got to know about last night,” he said. “I got an anonymous phone call while I was with Jennifer Crane.”

Manders raised his head. “The guy with the god-complex?”

“Yeah. He somehow knew what went on between Jennifer and me. I don’t know how he could have known, but he did.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

Oxman related the conversation verbatim from memory. Manders grunted and said, “Why do you figure he called you?”

“Two reasons. The first is that, in his eyes, I committed a sin last night. He wanted me to know he knows about it.”

“You think he actually believes he’s God?”

“Oh, he believes it. Which makes him all the more dangerous.”

“An ego thing like that,” Manders said, “usually builds and builds until the perp secretly wants to be caught and stopped.”

“Not with this one,” Oxman said. “It’s an ego trip, just as you say, but he hasn’t reached the point of wanting us to know all about him.”

“Then what’s his second reason for the call?”

“What we talked about yesterday. I think he feels I’m interfering in his bailiwick, that he sees me as the leader of the forces against him. A kind of anti-Christ.”

Manders chewed on his lower lip. “If you’re right, Ox, then that means he’s liable to go after you next.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think he’s ready for that yet.”

“Why not?”

“He’s taunting me, exercising what he thinks is his greater power, telling me he’s invincible and that he’ll get me before I can get him.”

“So you figure he’ll pick another target first?”

“Yes. And I’m afraid it might be Jennifer Crane, because of her involvement with me.”

“Makes sense,” Manders agreed. “Or at least it could. So how do you want to play it?”

“First of all, I think we ought to have Jennifer’s apartment dusted for prints; the psycho could be someone she knows, someone who’s visited her. And I want her place swept for bugs, too—he could have planted some sort of listening device in there days or even weeks or months ago. That would explain how he knew what went on last night.”

“I’ll go along with that,” Manders said. “What else?”

“I want to start living on that block full-time,” Oxman told him. “That way, if he does decide to come after me I’ll be available to him.”

Manders scowled. “You’re not thinking of moving in with Jennifer Crane, are you?”

“That’s just what I’m thinking. We’ve got to protect her, Lieutenant; I’m the one who put her into this situation, so it’s up to me. Besides, with me in her apartment it’ll provoke the bastard because it’ll look like I’m taunting
him
. It might push him into making a try for me, into making a mistake that’ll put him right in our hands.”

Manders was silent for a time. Then he said, “I don’t like it, Ox. You can’t hide the fact from everybody else that you’re staying with her. The media is liable to find out——”

“Let them find out,” Oxman said. “It wouldn’t be the first time a cop moved in with a potential target in a homicide case. We can concoct a cover story along those lines.”

“I still don’t like it,” Manders said. “If you’re that worried about the Crane woman, get her to move out temporarily. That makes more sense.…”

“Maybe, but she won’t leave. I’ve already talked to her about it.” Oxman spread his hands. “Under the circumstances, my way is the only way to handle it, Lieutenant—the only way to force this psycho’s hand.”

Manders was silent again for several seconds before he said, “You could screw yourself up bad, Ox. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know it. But I don’t see any other way.”

Another doleful sigh. “I guess I don’t either,” Manders said. “At least not for the time being. Okay, Ox. I’ll probably regret this, but … go ahead, make yourself the bait. It’s your funeral.”

“No,” Oxman said thinly. “Not mine—his.”

THE COLLIER TAPES

I am much calmer today. The nagging fear which plagued me vanished as soon as I learned, via the
Six O’Clock News
last night, that the undercover policeman, Jack Kennebank, died of his wounds. The newscast did not mention whether or not Kennebank regained consciousness first, but I must assume that he did not. If he had given them a description of me, the police would not have suppressed it. They would have brought in an artist to create a likeness, and they would have published it in the newspapers and shown it on television, in the hope that someone might be able to identify me.

Why did I worry? I have nothing to fear from the police. They cannot stop me. Of course they cannot stop me.

I am God, and no man can stand in God’s way.

Detective Oxman thinks
he
can, but he is a fool. And a sinner, an evil man. The Eye observed every second of his fornication with the Crane slut last night, his bestial rutting atop her in her lighted bedroom. It was a disgusting exhibition, and it invoked my wrath and fueled my hatred for him. I have hated none of my wicked children as much as I hate this interloper, this fornicator hiding behind the badge of a public official.

That is why I decided to telephone him after his lust had been sated. The others who have died, and who will die, have been given no warning of their fate, and this is as it should be. I forgive them as I destroy them. But Detective Oxman I will not forgive; he is beyond forgiveness, he is the personification of evil. Therefore he must know that his days are numbered, that he cannot mock God and expect to continue to live. He must know that I hold his destiny in
my
hands.

I swore after the Martin Simmons episode that I would not willingly destroy anyone who was not a resident of my universe. But in Detective Oxman’s case I must make an exception. He deserves to die by my hand. And so he shall.

Tonight? Shall it be tonight?

I have not yet decided. The Eye will help me decide, as the Eye always does. There is plenty of time.

4:45 P.M. — MARCO POLLO

He was still half stoned when Leon dropped him off in front of his building. There’d been plenty of good dope at the practice session at Jazz Heaven and they’d all been flying high and blowing sweet all afternoon. Too bad Jazz Heaven was dark on Monday nights. The way they were jamming, the combo could have fucked a few minds tonight. Marco’s solo on “I Can’t Get Started” had been a thing of beauty, man, as fine as anything Bunny Berrigan ever did; he’d been so hot there’d been smoke coming out of his horn. He’d have knocked ’em dead, all right.

Marco entered the building, floating a little, grinning to himself. The elevator was at lobby level, so he decided to take that instead of the stairs. But when he stepped inside and started to punch the button for Two, his hand halted halfway to the panel; he found himself staring at the Four button instead. His grin widened.

Michele, he thought. Little tight-ass Michele.

He hadn’t thought about her all day, but now that he did he was suddenly horny. It’d been awhile since he’d last gotten laid, so he was prime, man, ready to jump some bones, and Michele’s bones were the sweetest around. If she was home, and if she was alone, he wouldn’t take no for an answer this time. Not
this
time.

He pushed Four, rode up, and went along the hallway to Michele’s apartment. Nothing happened for about a minute after he rang the bell, and Marco was starting to feel a let down when he heard her voice say, “What is it, Marco?” His grin came back, then. He knew she was looking at him through the peephole.

“I want to come in. That is, if you’re alone.”

“I’m alone,” she said. “What do you want?”

“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.”

Michele hesitated for maybe fifteen seconds. But she didn’t have any choice; she’d let him in. When he heard the locks rattle finally a giggle came out of his throat.
Oh, baby
, he thought,
tonight’s the night!

She was wearing a lacy, lavender housecoat that made Marco lick his lips when he saw it. Her face was puffy, as if she’d been asleep; the uncertainty, the fear, lay across her features like a pale shadow. Wordlessly, she stepped back so he could enter.

Marco crossed the room and sat down on the sofa, as he had yesterday. Michele followed, stood staring down at him with her arms folded over her tits as if she were cold.

“How come you’re dressed like that?” he asked her. “You been sleeping?”

“I was taking a nap, yes,” she said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“How come? Worried about the woman got murdered across the street? What was her name—Cindy something?”