White Death (12 page)

Kwasi paused, swallowed, continued. ‘You guys here, Ivy League college kids: it’s a hell of privilege, what you’ve got here. I got turned down. Went to UMBC instead. Kick-ass chess team, but the rest of it, nothing like this place. All of you, show you’re as smart as everyone thinks you are. Do me a favor. Let the police get on with it, let them find the killer, we can all get some closure. Do what Agent Patrese said, and disperse.’

And that’s exactly what they did.

An hour later, Patrese felt he’d done all he could here. Kwasi had given interviews to the TV stations on site and gone back home. Forensics was in the hands of the NYPD, who’d promised to let him know the moment they had anything. Since the central incident room was in New Haven, Dufresne said he was happy to come up there any time to help work on things. And New Haven was where Patrese needed to be, running things.

His car was at the precinct house, twelve blocks north. A squad car would have given him a lift, but Patrese wanted to walk: stretch his legs, clear his head. Too much coffee and too little sleep were making his face feel like it was about to slide off. He wondered vaguely whether he was safe to drive. If he wasn’t, there were stops on the interstate. He could always pull in and doze off if need be.

He’d walked no more than a half-block when a car pulled up alongside him. Not just any old car, either. A white Rolls-Royce. The nearside rear window opened soundlessly.

‘Agent Patrese.’

‘Mr Nursultan.’

‘You have moment?’

‘If it’s going to help me solve a triple homicide, then
sure. If you’re telling me I’ve won the state lottery, also
sure. Otherwise, no.’

‘Maybe both.’ The door swung open. ‘Please. It’s impor
tant. If it save you time, I can take you to where you go. We can talk on the way.’

So much for clearing heads and stretching legs. ‘OK.’ Patrese ducked his head, stepped inside the Rolls, and settled himself into the black leather. He felt as though he were Billy Ray Valentine in
Trading Places
, being made his offer by the Duke brothers. The door swung shut again.

‘Where to?’ Nursultan asked.

‘West 126th.’

Up front, the chauffeur nodded. Traffic parted as the car slid away from the curb. You saw a Rolls, you let it in, even in New York. Especially in New York.

‘I get you something?’ Nursultan was the model of solicitousness. ‘Whiskey? Cigar?’ Again with the Duke brothers shtick.

It was barely mid-morning. ‘Thank you, no.’

‘You have a good, how you say? Thinking, make things up.’

‘Imagination?’

‘Yes. Imagination. You have a good imagination?’

‘Listen, no disrespect, but I’ve had two hours’ sleep, I’ve got police departments in two separate states to deal with, and I’m not in the mood for riddles or obscure questions. You got something to say, say it. I was enjoying my walk. I’m happy to enjoy it again.’

‘OK. In Theater at Madison Square Garden in six day, at eleven seconds past eleven minutes past eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month’ – the detail clearly pleased him – ‘I press a chess clock, I start biggest match since Fischer and Spassky. Twelve games in three weeks. Five thousand seats for each game, all sold out. Every single seat. I could have sold each seat four, five times. I have announcers and cheerleaders, like in boxing, no? I have big screens to show players’ faces close up, so spectators can feel the emotion, see the agony. I have live TV coverage, every move. I have grandmasters analyze for audience, best graphics in world.’

‘And?’

‘And right now, I have none of this. I have none of this, because Kwasi King give me sixteen pages of demands and won’t discuss a single one with me. You want to know these demands? I tell you some. For Tartu, only one flavor of yoghurt per game, in case his seconds try send him, er, message through the flavor, through which flavor they choose. Electronic sweep of theater for devices, you know, bugs, before every game. Board to be this size, pieces this weight, table this high. And on, and on, and on.’

Patrese gave Nursultan a long, appraising look. If he let Nursultan intimidate him, he’d never get him off his back. He’s the money, Patrese thought, but I’m the law. Remember that. Always remember that.

‘I guess you stand to lose a lot of cash if this doesn’t go ahead.’

‘Of course. Not only me. Sponsors, venue, insurers …’

‘Don’t ask me to feel sorry for insurers.’

Nursultan laughed. ‘Even insurers not feel sorry for insurers. Yes, people lose money. But you know, money just money. For me, what I lose, I make back, two minutes on stock market. For me, much more important here is chance to blow chess up, make it explode, make it huge. Fischer could have done it, but he too mad. Kwasi, everyone love him: but if he play now, he seal it forever. The game, not only him. This most important to me. This greatest game in world. I want every child to play it. Kwasi, he only one who can inspire. I see him on news today, with the protestors. You there with him, you see it too. He has it. The gift, the touch. Now imagine: this kid, this chess, er,
messiah
, very cool, very weird, his mother just killed, he play anyway …’ Nursultan clicked his fingers. ‘Hollywood, no? It’s Hollywood.’

Patrese made a conscious effort not to let his jaw drop. ‘You want to make capital out of this? You want to play on his tragedy? You’re sick.’

‘No. Not sick. Real.’

‘Real?’

‘Real, how you say? Realistic. Kwasi do same, too. Every time something bad happen, he make advantage of it, he turn it round so best for him. That one of reasons why he so good.’

‘So why isn’t he doing it now?’

‘He try to get as much from me as he can.’

‘Christ!’ Patrese slammed his fist on the seat. ‘His mother’s been murdered. If he doesn’t want to play chess, then … I wouldn’t want to play either, in that situation.’

‘Chess not your whole life. For Kwasi, his whole life. Match right now is good for him. Take his mind from his mother.’

‘You care about his health now? Spare me.’

‘I not care what you think of me. But I need help. From you.’

‘From
me
? What do you expect me to do about it?’

‘You find man who did these kills, you give Kwasi, how you say, peace of mind.’

‘One less reason to keep holding out on you, you mean.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t think it’ll make any difference to him. His mom’s dead. Catching whoever did it isn’t going to bring her back. He’ll play or he won’t. That’s between you and him. And anyway’ – Patrese mimicked Nursultan’s voice – ‘“You find man who did these kills”? What the
fuck
do you think I’m trying to do? I’ve thought about nothing else for the past six days. You’ve got any bright ideas as to who it might be, do let me know.’

‘You can make arrest, no?’

‘I can make hundreds of arrests. Not much good if they’re all the wrong guys.’

‘No?’

‘No what?’

‘They wrong guys. So what?’

And there it was. Patrese had felt that Nursultan was leading up to this, but he wanted to be sure, he wanted to hear it loud and clear.

‘Why don’t you tell me what you want?’ Patrese said.

‘You bright guy. You know what I want.’

‘I’m sure I do. But tell me anyway. Just to be sure.’ He saw the hesitation in Nursultan’s face, and knew what it was: a doubt about how freely they could talk without comeback. Patrese went on. ‘Oh – if you’re worried about recording devices, don’t be. I came straight from my hotel last night. I’m not wired, I don’t have a digital recorder, nothing. So say what you want.’

‘And if it not what you want to hear?’

‘Then it’ll be your word against mine. And I’m sure you have very good lawyers.’

Nursultan considered. ‘OK. I want you to make arrest and press charge, so you can say that you catch man who killed Regina King.’

‘Who would you like me to arrest?’

‘Homeless. Junkie. Criminal. Any like that.’

‘That’s obstruction of justice.’

‘Sure. Is serious offense. So I compensate you. Big.’

‘And that’s attempted bribery of a federal official.’

‘Listen. If this match in Kazan, and I want arrest, I have a thousand policemen who do anything for this kind of money.’

Patrese leaned forward and tapped on the partition. ‘Stop the car, please.’ He turned back towards Nursultan. ‘I don’t
wanna sound like an asshole, but … no, actually, I don’t
give a fuck what I sound like. This match isn’t taking place in Kazan. It’s taking place in New York City, and I don’t take to being bribed by you or anyone else. I’m not perfect, but I
am
honest. That means something to me.’

The car pulled up. Patrese opened the door, got out, and then leaned back in. ‘I like Kwasi, and I want him to do what’s best for him. I understand the power you have in the chess world, and I don’t want you to make things any more difficult for him than they are already. So I’ll forget what you’ve just said. This time. But never again.’

Back in New Haven, Patrese stopped at his hotel long enough to shower, shave and change clothes before heading to the Beinecke Library. It was a few minutes’ walk, no more. Central New Haven was three square blocks by three, with the middle one of the nine – the Green – left open, as is the tradition with many New England towns. Patrese walked down streets whose names told the tale of the city’s cornerstones: College, Chapel, Court, Temple.

Anna said that this time it was she who couldn’t stay too long: she was heading to Manhattan this evening in preparation for running the New York marathon on Sunday.

‘OK, I’ll get straight to the point: Knight of Swords,’ Patrese said. ‘Regular aspect, not reversed.’

‘Minor arcana,’ she said instantly.

‘Exactly. Why the change?’

‘The main difference between major and minor arcana is the meanings the cards have when it comes to divination. Major arcana are supposed to represent seismic events; minor arcana are life’s more mundane aspects. There are four knights in the minor arcana, of course, one of each suit – wands, pentacles, swords and cups. Whatever the suit, a knight usually symbolizes a young man, perhaps a teenage boy.

‘When it comes to the Knight of Swords in particular – well, he’s confident, articulate, visionary. He’s an idealist, a crusader. See the birds flying above the knight on the card? They symbolize these higher ideals. And the horse here, that shows his energy and vitality. He’s got a passion for truth and a brilliant mind. He can cut to the heart of a matter, he can stand up to people in power.

‘But he can also be impetuous, unrealistic and foolish. He can rush in without thinking. Since he lives in his head rather than his heart, he’s not good at developing attachments to people. And his level of commitment can be questionable. He’s a champion of the truth, sure, but sometimes he prefers the fight to the outcome.’

A lot of that applied to Dennis, Patrese thought. Some of it applied to him too.

Three victims. Three tarot cards, all providing fairly accurate descriptions of the victim in question. Was this it? Was the killer hoping to go through an entire deck? Seventy-eight cards meant seventy-eight victims. That was an absurd amount. No killer could expect to remain undetected over the course of that many murders, not when he chose such visible victims.

Seventy-eight would be a national record. America’s most prolific serial killer, Gary Ridgway – the Green River Killer – had confessed to seventy-one murders and been convicted of forty-eight. His killing period had lasted eighteen years, and his victims had been mainly Seattle prostitutes. No police force in the world put maximum effort into investigating dead hookers, whatever they might say publicly.

That was the only way for a killer to get away with murdering again and again, into double figures and beyond: to choose victims who wouldn’t be missed. Alexander Pichushkin had preyed primarily on elderly homeless men in a Moscow park. Like Ridgway, he’d also been convicted of forty-eight murders, though he claimed sixty-three and was furious to have been caught one short of his target: a victim for every square on a chessboard.

Besides, the presence of the tarot cards didn’t explain why the killer was taking the heads and arms, or why he was cutting away the patches of skin. No: it couldn’t simply be down to the Tarot. The Tarot was part of the killer’s psychosis, but it wasn’t all of it.

In the incident room at the New Haven FBI field office, Fox News was on: the afternoon program,
Studio B
. Patrese saw footage of Kwasi getting the Columbia protestors to disperse; then back to the studio and a raven-haired young woman whom Patrese took a second or two to place. He got there a moment before the caption went up:
INESSA BAIKAL
. The national women’s chess champion.

‘I think he’s scared,’ she said, leaning forward slightly over the studio desk in what Patrese thought a fairly blatant attempt to show some cleavage. ‘It’s not all to do with the tragedy of his mom. He hasn’t played competitively for three years. He has this great mystique around him now, but that mystique goes the moment he steps back into … I was going to say “into the ring”, ’cos that’s what it feels like.’

She’d had Kwasi hurling insults at the screen last weekend. It didn’t look like he was going to be much happier this time round, Patrese thought.

‘I’m no chess expert,’ the interviewer was saying, ‘but doesn’t Kwasi King play totally
without
fear? Isn’t that part of what makes him so good? How does that square with this idea of him being scared?’

‘The problem’s not when he’s at the board. The board’s where he’s most at home: it’s ordered, it has rules, it has patterns, and he understands them better than anybody. At the board, he’s scrupulously correct, as we saw in the famous game last time out when he called his own touch-move and lost, even though no one else had seen it. No: the problem’s getting him
to
the board.’

‘Hence all these, what is it, one hundred and eighty demands we keep hearing about?’