The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (23 page)

“Wilson. Cindy Wilson.”

“You know her?”

Michele shook her head.

“Sexy-looking lady,” Marco said. “You see her picture in the paper? They always put the good-looking ones’ pictures in the papers. If something like that happened to you, you’d make it sure with your looks.”

Michele shuddered. She paced to a chair but didn’t sit down.

“I didn’t mean to spook you,” he said, amused.

“I know. It’s just damned nerve-rattling, all those people killed in the neighborhood. And the police can’t seem to do anything about it.”

Marco’s eyes were on the pale flesh of one thigh, visible where the housecoat had fallen open in front. “Come over here,” he said, patting the sofa cushion next to him. “Sit down, relax your bones.”

She hesitated. But she knew as well as he did that this was it, they were all through with the bullshit. It was only a couple of seconds before she walked across the room and sat down next to him.

But Marco still had to play it slow and cool; he didn’t want to spook her by coming on too strong, at least not this first time. Push the right buttons and she’d respond pretty as you please. “You should of told me you were nerved up about the murders,” he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “I worry about you, sweets, whether you believe it or not.”

She stiffened at his touch, her hands tensing on her knees. Marco didn’t remove his hand from her shoulder. He began tracing a circle gently with his forefinger, ever so gently.…

“There isn’t any reason to worry about me,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t mean I’m worried about you getting hurt. I’m talking about your little sideline—where you sell the merchandise you lift. I’d hate to see you get nailed because of a word in the wrong ear.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t tell me that, Michele.” He kept his voice low, sympathetic and patient. He might have been coaxing and disciplining a dog. “Don’t tell me that again.”

She lowered her eyes. “All right,” she said. “But I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“And I don’t want the pigs coming down on my favorite actress.” He flashed her a reassuring, candid smile. “That shouldn’t be so hard for you to understand.”

“I understand, Marco. I appreciate your concern, really I do.”

“Good.” Marco nodded, gave her a casual caress. “Just remember, I know somebody who’ll handle all the stuff you can walk in with. No questions asked, no hassle. I ain’t butting into your business, but all you got to do is ask and I’ll give you the guy’s name.”

“I may do that,” she said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Think real hard,” Marco told her. Then he shook his head in deep, deep concern. “You should of told me about being nerved up, too,” he said. He knew how to play on fear, use it to his advantage. He’d been a safe port in a storm plenty of times.

She let out a long, low breath. “I guess I should have.”

He moved closer to her, and she didn’t pull away. In fact, her body swayed slightly toward his.

“So tell me about your acting,” he said, “about your art, about you.”

When she’d loved to play dress-up as a six-year-old, he had his arm around her. When she was the most promising student in her high school drama class she was leaning on him, hypnotized by his touch and by her own autobiography that verged on confession. She was starring in college productions when Marco slid his hand down the front of her housecoat, his fingers skillfully manipulating a rigid nipple. By the time she had her first paying role, a small speaking part in a local Ohio production, the housecoat was half off. And when she had landed her first role in an off-Broadway play, they were in the bedroom and naked on the bed with Marco’s eager hands all over her.

Every sort of acting honor would inevitably come her way, Marco assured her, panting. There was a natural progression to things.

Oh, baby, was there ever a natural progression to things!

6:10 P.M. — E.L. OXMAN

There was no answer when he called home again from Jennifer’s apartment. There hadn’t been any answer all day.

Oxman wondered if that meant Beth was just out somewhere, gone for another session with her Doctor Feelgood, maybe—or if it meant that she had left him. She had threatened to leave him before, and on three or four occasions she had actually gone off to her mother’s for a few days; but those times she had been upset about his work, what she felt was his neglect of her during particularly difficult cases. This was different. This was another woman, not his job. This, maybe, was the point of no return.

But he simply didn’t care. In fact, he hoped that she
had
left him and wouldn’t come back, that she would soon file for divorce. If she didn’t see a lawyer to end their marriage, he thought that he probably would. He didn’t want to live with Beth any longer; and his relationship with Jennifer was … well, he thought he knew what it was, or what it could be. Only he wasn’t quite ready to put a name to it, to take the big step into a commitment. It all depended on Jennifer. He couldn’t be sure of her feelings because he didn’t really know her yet. Until he did——

She came into the living room from the kitchen, interrupting his thoughts. “I put some macaroni-and-cheese in the oven,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Not very. But I suppose I should eat.”

“How about a drink first?”

“I could use one.”

“Scotch, bourbon—what?”

“Bourbon. Ice and a little water. But don’t make it too strong; I’m still on duty.”

She nodded and went back into the kitchen. Oxman sank wearily onto the couch. It had been another long and frustrating day: insignificant interviews, two brief stops to make sure Jennifer was all right, a talk with Tobin, another talk with Lieutenant Smiley. No leads, no new developments of any kind. The tech crew Manders had sent here to Jennifer’s apartment had found no fingerprints to match those on the .32 Harrington & Richardson murder gun, nor had they found any listening devices. The question of how the psycho had known about the lovemaking last night was still a mystery.

Oxman kept telling himself that he was close to the truth about the killer’s identity and MO, that all he needed was one break—a mistake on the psycho’s part, a bit of evidence, something—to get hold of. But the break wouldn’t seem to come. The Angel of Death, as the bastard had called himself, still had the upper hand; and that meant he could strike again any time, any place, and they might not be able to stop him.

Jennifer returned with Oxman’s drink. She handed it to him, then sat down beside him and gave him a wan smile. Looking at her, he thought it was amazing how different she seemed since the two of them had become lovers. The ice queen was gone; in her place was a woman as soft and warm as any he had ever known. This was the real Jennifer Crane, he was sure of that. She had taken off her mask for the first time in a long while, and she had done it because of him and for him. If the mask stayed off, if the ice queen stayed melted, then what they had might be much more than a simple if intense affair. It might be something permanent.

He put his arm around her, drew her close to him. She came willingly, nuzzling his body with hers like a purring cat. This was the way it ought to be between a man and a woman, he thought. This was the way it had never been with Beth.

Jennifer kissed him, ran her tongue over his lower lip. “How would you like to go to bed?” she asked.

“I thought you had dinner in the oven.”

“I thought you weren’t hungry.”

“I’m hungry,” he said. “But not for food.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I’m also tired.”

“Then I’ll get on top.” The worry in her eyes had vanished for the moment; they held a bawdy glean now. “So do you want to go screw, or don’t you?”

“I want to go screw,” he said.

8:30 P.M. — BENNY HILLER

From where he stood listening outside the door to the super’s basement apartment, Hiller heard Corales exclaim in almost childish glee, “Gin! That’s forty straight, Willie! Jesus, forty straight winning hands!”

“You’re very lucky, my friend,” Lorsec’s voice answered. But the junkhound sounded irritated, as if he didn’t like losing. Hiller smiled faintly in the basement’s gloom. Well, Lorsec was going to do a lot more losing pretty soon, if he had anything to say about it.

Hiller had been waiting ever since yesterday afternoon for an opportunity to get into Lorsec’s apartment. But the junkman hadn’t been around anywhere. Hiller had watched the street from his front window, had taken half a dozen walks around the neighborhood, but he hadn’t wanted to go ringing Lorsec’s doorbell. For all Hiller knew, Lorsec was also watching the street. If the junkman suspected what Hiller was up to, he might stash the ring case and the other stuff somewhere outside his pad, assuming he hadn’t already done that. So Hiller had been patient, figuring he had nothing to worry about as long as Lorsec didn’t try to contact him with some sort of blackmail scam; and a half hour ago, while he was sitting in front of the window again, eyes on the street below, Lorsec had finally shown. When the junkman came up the front stairs and disappeared inside the building, Hiller figured that shitbrain Corales had let him in and that the two of them were in Corales’s apartment. He’d slipped down to the basement to make sure. And the way it sounded, Lorsec was going to be here awhile playing gin rummy.

“Deal ’em again, Willie,” Corales was saying. “I’m going for forty-one straight now—forty-one and then right on up to fifty. Guinness record book, here I come!”

Hiller backed away from the door, went over to the stairs, and climbed them silently and lightly on his soft-soled shoes—his jogging shoes, his working shoes. He left the building by the front door, lit a cigarette as he walked east on Ninety-eighth to the brownstone he’d seen Willie Lorsec enter yesterday. Once he got to it he flicked the glowing butt away and then went up onto the stoop.

Getting into the building was no problem. The front door, he’d noted yesterday, had a flush-mounted, five-pin cylinder lock, with a steel lip on the door frame to protect the bolt and strike plate. That meant it was a lock you couldn’t loid with a credit card or a shim; it had to be picked. There were two ways to do that: the precision way, using picks and tension bars to spring the tumbler pins one at a time; or with a pick gun, which bounced all the pins at once. Hiller preferred using picks and tension bars, because it was the more reliable method. But it also took time, and the longer he stood on the stoop, fiddling with the front door lock, the greater his risk that somebody would come along and spot him. So he’d taken his pick gun, along with a few other tools he figured he might need; he had them in his jacket pocket.

He made sure the lobby inside, visible through the door glass, was empty and that the street behind him was also empty. Then he got the gun out, slid it into the lock. He spent some time getting it set, working the little knob on top to adjust the spring tension, and when he was ready he pulled the trigger. No problem. All the pins bounced free and the door opened under his hand.

Hiller pocketed the gun, eased quickly across the lobby to the stairwell. When he got to the third-floor hallway he saw that it was deserted. He stopped in front of the door with the numeral six on it, bent to examine the lock. His lips curved in a smile. No problem here, either. Lorsec didn’t have a Fox lock or any other kind of dead-bolt; all he had was a cheap mother any kid could pick.

He got an aluminum shim out of his folding kit, slid it in above the bolt and worked it around the door frame and into the crack where the door and jamb joined. He felt for the bolt, found it, twisted the shim down against it, and within another thirty seconds he had the bolt sprung and the door open. He made sure the other two doors that opened off the hall were still closed; then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

He breathed easier then. The tough part was over. Tossing an empty apartment was the easy part.

The room he was in was dim, illuminated only by light from a streetlamp outside, but even at that Hiller could see that it was neat and nicely furnished. Not the sort of place he’d have figured for a junkman like Lorsec. He moved quietly through the apartment, using his penlight to examine the living room but keeping it shielded so light wouldn’t show in the windows. He searched drawers, beneath cushions, behind drapes, under lamps.

Nothing.

Hiller went into the bedroom and started tossing the dresser drawers. He was surprised at the quality of clothing, and at the fact that half of it belonged to a woman; Lorsec must be living with someone. There was even some pretty good jewelry, and fifty dollars in small bills rolled and rubber-banded beneath a stack of underwear. Hiller helped himself. Why not?

He was stuffing the money into his hip pocket when he heard the noise out in the front room. The back of his neck crawled. It sounded like somebody had opened the door, come inside the apartment.

Hiller started back toward the bedroom doorway—and the front-room lights came on. He blinked, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. Then he was looking at a big man wearing slacks and a light-colored blazer, a guy with a face Hiller had never seen before and a strained, determined expression that Hiller didn’t like.

The man was pointing a gun at him.

A cold band of fear pressed tight around Hiller’s chest, binding him where he stood. He stared at the stranger with the gun, confused. Who was he? What the hell was he doing here? Why didn’t he say something?

Hiller eased his head around, darted a look at the bedroom window. It was barred with wrought-iron: a typical Manhattan window. Hiller knew he should have checked it earlier, found out if there was another way out of the apartment; now it was too late. He looked back at the guy with the gun.

“Hey, listen, pal …” he said.

The hand holding the weapon was rigid, the finger tight on the trigger.

“Listen,” Hiller said, “all I want to do is walk out of here. All right? I just walk out of here.” He took a step toward the man, his hands out in a pleading gesture.

The muzzle flashed. Something slammed into Hiller’s chest; the world seemed to reverse rotation, and the next thing he knew was the feel of his fingers clawing into the rough nap of the carpet and he realized he was on the floor. Blood rose in his throat, dribbled out of one corner of his mouth. A long way off, somebody was screaming.