The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (27 page)

Why had the psycho gone after Michele Butler and Marco Pollosetti, instead of Jennifer and him? Maybe the telephone call, the threats, of two nights ago had been a smokescreen; maybe the Butler girl and Pollosetti had been the targets all along. Or maybe it was some sort of cat-and-mouse ploy—taunting Oxman again, trying to show him and the police that he could strike whenever and wherever he felt like it, right under their noses. Or maybe it was part of some complex plan his madman’s brain had cooked up.

How had he got into the building last night? None of the ground-floor doors or windows had been forced; the lab crew had already established that. And preliminary questioning of the residents had established that none of them had admitted anyone at any time prior to the shootings. Did he live in the building himself? Did he have a key to the main entrance? Court orders had been obtained and searches were being conducted now of each apartment; but even if he did live here, he was too cunning to keep his weapon or anything else incriminating on the premises, and it was a longshot at best that the searches would turn up anything.

How had he got into Butler’s apartment? The lab boys had also examined her door and found no signs of forcible entry. Had she left it unlocked for some reason, or forgotten to lock it? Was it possible the psycho was somebody she knew well enough to give a key to?

Had Butler recognized the assailant, either as a friend or neighbor? Or if he was a stranger, could she describe him? Surgery to remove the bullet from her chest had been successful, and the doctors thought her chances for survival were good, but as of fifteen minutes ago, when Oxman had called the hospital to check on her condition, she still hadn’t regained consciousness. There was no estimate as to when she would.

How had the psycho known Oxman had been to bed with Jennifer on Sunday night? If he was a resident of the building, it might explain how he’d been aware that Oxman had entered her apartment, but that didn’t explain how he’d been aware that Oxman had entered her body. He couldn’t see through walls, for Christ’s sake. Lucky guess? No, the voice on the phone had sounded confident, righteously offended; he’d
known
. And yet how the hell
could
he have known?

Was there a connection between the psycho and the shooting of Benny Hiller? Tobin had ruled out the possibility that the man who’d shot Hiller, Herb Blocker, could be the psycho; Blocker was just a man protecting his home and property against an intruder. Tobin had figured Hiller for a professional burglar, and evidence found later in Hiller’s apartment had pretty much confirmed the fact. It could be that Hiller’s death had been a coincidence, with no relation to the other shootings; that he’d just gone out on a B and E job and picked the wrong place to burglarize. The only thing wrong with that theory was, professional burglars didn’t shit where they lived. The last place any of them would pick to hit would be a building on the same block they called home. But what other reason could Hiller have had for wanting to break into the Blocker apartment? Could it have something to do with the psycho, and if so,
what?

The constant clamor of questions, the frustration, had given Oxman a headache and wired him up so tight he felt a little crazy himself. What Tobin had said earlier, about the city exploding if there were any more killings on West Ninety-eighth, might be true; they
had
to get the psycho and they had to get him fast. There was some sort of pattern in the answers to all those questions, in everything that had happened so far, Oxman was sure of it. If only he could fit just a few of the pieces together, enough to give him an idea of what that pattern was.…

The bedroom door opened and Jennifer and Carla Ullman came out. Oxman stopped pacing to look at them. He didn’t have to look twice to see that a switch had been made, but he might have if he hadn’t known about it; nobody was going to tell it from a distance. Ullman bore a superficial resemblance to Jennifer—that was why she’d been picked—and with the wigs both of them now wore, and Jennifer in the police uniform and Ullman in one of Jennifer’s dresses, they passed well enough for each other.

“All set, Ox,” Ullman said. “How do we look?”

“Okay. I think it’ll work.”

Jennifer came over to him. She had put on some of Ullman’s dark red lipstick, and it made her pale face look even whiter, as if it had been drained of blood. Her eyes were puffy; he wondered if she had been crying, and the thought wrenched at him. He had an impulse to take her into his arms, but he didn’t want to do that with Ullman watching. He stood still with his hands at his sides, watching her, stroking her with his eyes.

“I don’t want to go, E.L.,” she said.

“I know. But it’s got to be this way.”

“Do you know where they’re taking me?”

“Yes. A hotel on the East Side.”

“The Haverton, Carla said.”

He nodded. “You’ll be all right.”

“Will I? I guess I will. But it’ll be a little easier if I can talk to you later, just for a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll try to call you,” he said.

“Do that. Try.” She gave him a small smile; he could see the effort it cost her. “I’m ready now.”

Oxman resisted another impulse to gather her into his arms. Instead he turned and went to the door and unlocked it. When he opened up the two policemen in the hall came to attention. “Policewoman Ullman is leaving now,” Oxman said, just loud enough for his voice to carry; there were people behind the other doors along the hall, and if any of them were listening, the words were for their benefit. “Escort her downstairs, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the patrolman said, very casually. A natural actor.

Jennifer came over to the door, gave Oxman one last lingering look, and then stepped out into the hall. He watched her move away with the uniforms, stiff and erect, clutching Ullman’s black bag. A knot of something painful seemed to have formed in his chest.

When he closed and relocked the door Ullman said, “Well,” with forced cheerfulness. Nobody had told her there was anything between Jennifer and him, of course, but Ullman knew it anyway; the knowledge was in her eyes. “How about a cup of coffee, Ox?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve had enough.”

“You mind if I make some for myself?”

“Go ahead. You’re supposed to live here.”

She nodded and turned toward the kitchen. And the telephone rang.

Oxman moved quickly over to it, gesturing to Ullman. “You answer it,” he said. “If it’s somebody for Jennifer, tell him you have a cold or something and can’t talk and hang up.”

“Right.”

Ullman picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and then held it out to Oxman. “It’s Lieutenant Manders.”

He took the instrument. “Oxman.”

“I’m over at St. Luke’s, Ox,” Manders said. “Michele Butler just regained consciousness.”

“Thank Christ. You talked to her yet?”

“Not yet. Doc’s still with her, but he says he thinks we can go in pretty soon.”

“Everything still under wraps?”

“Yeah,” Manders said. The decision had been made, and the cooperation of the media solicited, to keep Michele Butler’s condition a secret; as far as the city-at-large knew, she had presumably died along with Marco Pollosetti last night. If she
could
identify the man who’d shot her, the Department didn’t want the psycho to know she was still alive. Or that they had his description until they were ready to circulate it. “What’s going on there?”

“Jennifer Crane just left,” Oxman said. “That’s all.”

“Any problems?”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right. Hang tight; I’ll get back to you as soon as I talk to Butler.” Manders paused. “You a religious man, Ox?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

“Neither am I,” Manders said. “But if Butler can’t identify the perp, we’d better both start brushing up on how to pray.”

9:10 A.M. — MICHELE BUTLER

She lay small and still in the hospital bed, waiting for the police to come in and talk to her. Her thoughts were clear enough, if still a little fuzzy at the edges; she held them in tight check, trying to tell herself that this was just another role she was playing. The bottles and the tubes extending from them into her arm, the bandages across her chest, the sterile white room—these were just props. The scene she was about to play was a scene in a stage production. Or a soap opera.
General Hospital
. Even the dull pain, she told herself, was something she had created herself to enhance her portrayal of a critically wounded gunshot victim.

But she couldn’t make herself believe it. The world of acting, of make-believe, the only world she had ever really dwelled in, had been torn asunder; it lay inside her in piles. The real world was where she lived now, and the images of terror that kept rising up in the back of her mind—the dark figure of the intruder, the gun in his hand, the explosion of Marco’s head, the spurts and streaks of blood—were real images. Nothing else mattered, nothing else had any meaning. The other world, the make-believe world, was sham and illusion, a place of ghosts and shattered dreams, and the woman who had lived in it had died when it died.

She
hadn’t died, though; the real Michele Butler was still alive. And she wasn’t going to die. That was the first thing she’d asked the doctor: “Am I going to die?” And he’d said no, she was going to be all right. It had eased her, because she was terrified of death. She had never really realized that before. And maybe that hidden fear was why she had wanted so desperately to be an actress: It was a form of immortality. Except that it wasn’t. When you died you were dead. What difference did it make to
you
if your image lived on in films or people’s memories? Death was death, and life was life. Reality was everything.

The images of last night’s reality kept rising, rising; she felt the terror again, tasted it. She couldn’t drive it away by pretending, not ever again.

Now the police were there.

She didn’t hear the door open, but she felt their presence and turned her head, and saw them standing just inside the room. There were two of them. They came over to the bed, and the taller one with the sad face said, “I’m Lieutenant Manders, Miss Butler. I’d like to ask you some questions about last night.”

“Yes.”

He leaned down toward her. “The first question is the most important. Did you recognize the man who shot you and Marco Pollosetti?”

“No,” Michele said.

“You never saw him before?”

“I didn’t see his face very well. It was dark.”

“Can you describe him?”

“No. I’m sorry … no.”

Lieutenant Manders said, “Damn,” under his breath, and glanced at the other policeman. Then he said to her, “Try to remember, Miss Butler. Isn’t there anything at all you can tell us about him?”

“He was just a dark shape. It all happened so fast …”

“Was he a big man? Tall? Fat? Thin?”

“Big, I think. Just a man, just … a man.”

“Did he say anything before he started shooting?”

“He said … I think it was ‘The wages of sin is death.’”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. Then he shot Marco. Oh God, he just …”

“Easy, now. Did Pollosetti say anything. Did
he
seem to recognize the man?”

The images were vivid in her mind, now—Marco’s head exploding, and the blood, all the blood, and the gun turning to her, and the second flash …

“Miss Butler?”

“No,” she said. “No.”

“All right.” There was a look on Mander’s sad face approaching desperation. “Tell me this: Was your apartment door locked?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I locked it myself, after Marco came.”

“Then how did the killer get in?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t hear anything from the bedroom?”

“Nothing. He was just … there.”

“Who else has a key to your apartment?”

“No one.”

“Not even Pollosetti?”

“No. I’d never have given Marco a key.”

“He was your boyfriend, wasn’t he?”

“God, no. I hardly knew him.”

“Miss Butler, you were in bed with the man.”

“Yes. I … yes, I was in bed with him.”

“A man you hardly knew?”

She averted her eyes. “It was … it was just …”

“Just what?”

She wanted to say, “It was just a casual affair.” The lie, the actress’s line, was on her tongue, hot and bitter, and yet she couldn’t put it into words. Something seemed to be happening inside her, something critical, a sudden overpowering desire to take a step the old Michele Butler, the one who lived in dreams, could never have even considered. And before she could stop herself, she said, “He forced me to go to bed with him.”

Manders narrowed his eyes. “Forced you?”

“He would have gone to the police if I hadn’t slept with him. He would have exposed me.”

“Miss Butler, what are you saying?”

Don’t tell him
, she thought.
Don’t say any more! He’ll arrest you, you’ll go to jail, Mom and Dad will find out, everyone will know, you can’t just confess like this …

“I’m a thief,” she said. And the images went away and so did the terror, and it was as if something heavy had been lifted from her; she felt weak with relief, she felt utterly real. “I’ve been stealing jewelry from department stores and selling it to support my acting career.”

11:45 A.M. — RICHARD CORALES

He opened the door of his apartment and another cop was standing out there in the basement, the big black one who’d been around a couple of times before.

Corales cussed inside himself. He was sick of cops. He was sick of getting up in the middle of the night and answering questions and having cops stick a piece of paper in his face that said they could come into his apartment, come right into his
home
, and poke around like he was a crook or something. He was sick of murders and people rubbernecking on the streets and television cameras. He wanted to be left alone so he could do his job. That was all he had now, all he’d ever had and ever would have—just a big half-Puerto Rican building superintendent, nothing special even though he’d won forty-nine straight hands of gin rummy, because that damned Willie Lorsec wouldn’t let him win fifty straight and get into the Guinness Book. He was sick of guys like Willie too, who pretended to be your friend so they could get something for themselves. Why couldn’t they
all
just go away and leave him the hell alone?