hard to argue with. Give them the ‘Giant Mobilization’ story and maybe they’ll stay away from the ‘Screwed-Up Investigation’ story.”
Kline was opening and closing his fists, flexing his fingers, the uncertainty in his eyes shifting in the direction of excitement.
“Okay,” he said. “We better start thinking about the press conference.”
“First,” said Gurney, “you need to get the actual ball rolling. If the press discovers it’s all bullshit, the narrative instantly changes from you guys being the heroes of the hour to the jerks of the year. As of this moment, you need to treat this like the potentially huge case it probably is-or kiss your careers good-bye.”
Maybe something in the set of Gurney’s jaw got through to Kline, or maybe a jagged sliver of the potential horror of the case finally pierced his self-absorption. For whatever reason, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, sat back in his chair, and gave Gurney a long, bleak look. “You really think we’ve got a major psycho on our hands, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
Rodriguez roused himself from whatever dark preoccupation he was mired in. “What makes you so sure? Some sick play written four hundred years ago?”
“The head.”
Rodriguez stared at him.
Gurney took a steadying breath. “Something… about the head. Arranged on the table the way it was, facing the body.”
Kline’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak, but he didn’t. Rodriguez just stared.
Gurney went on. “I believe that whoever did that, in that particular way, was announcing that he’s on a mission.”
Kline frowned. “Meaning that he intends to do it again?”
“Or already has done it again. I believe he has an appetite for it.”
Chapter 42
The weather remained perfect for Gurney’s late-morning drive from the Catskills to New York City. As he sped down the thruway, the crisp air and clear sky energized his thoughts, made him optimistic about the impact he’d had on Kline and, to a lesser extent, on Rodriguez.
He wanted to follow up with Kline, find a way to ensure that he’d be kept in the loop. And he wanted to call Val, bring her up to date. But he also needed, right then and there, to give some thought to the meeting he was heading for. The meeting with the man from “the art world.” A man who wanted to give him a hundred thousand dollars for a graphically enhanced portrait of a lunatic. A man who might very well be a lunatic himself.
The address Sonya had given him turned out to be a brownstone residence in the middle of a hushed, tree- shaded block in Manhattan’s East Sixties. The neighborhood exuded the aroma of money, a genteel miasma that insulated the place from the bustle of the avenues around it.
He parked in a no-parking zone directly in front of the building-as she had instructed him, passing along Jykynstyl’s assurance that there would be no problem, that the car would be taken care of.
An oversize black-enameled front door led into an ornately tiled and mirrored vestibule, which led to a second door. Gurney was about to press the bell on the wall next to it when it was opened by a striking young woman. At second glance he realized that she was a rather ordinary-looking young woman whose overall appearance was elevated, or at least dominated, by extraordinary eyes-eyes that were now assessing him as one might assess the cut of a sport jacket or the freshness of a pie on a bakery shelf.
“Are you the artist?” He caught something volatile in her tone, something he couldn’t quite identify.
“I’m Dave Gurney.”
“Follow me.”
They entered a large foyer. There was a coatrack, an umbrella stand, several closed doors, and a broad mahogany staircase rising to the next floor. The dark luster of her hair matched the dark wood. She led him past the staircase to a door, which she opened to reveal a small elevator with its own separate sliding door.
“Come,” she said with a slight smile that he found oddly disconcerting.
They got in, the door slid shut without a sound, and the elevator rose with hardly any sensation of motion.
Gurney broke the silence. “Who are you?”
She turned toward him, her remarkable eyes amused by some private joke. “I’m his daughter.” The elevator had stopped so smoothly that Gurney hadn’t felt it. The door slid open. She stepped out. “Come.”
The room was furnished in the style of an opulent Victorian parlor. Large-leafed tropical plants stood in floor pots at each side of a large fireplace. Several others stood next to armchairs. Beyond a wide arch at one end was a formal dining room, with table, chairs, sideboard, and carved woodwork, all of deeply polished mahogany. Dark green damask curtains covered the tall windows in both rooms, obscuring the time of day, the time of year-creating the illusion of an elegant, unanchored world where cocktails were always about to be served.
“Welcome, David Gurney. So good of you to come so far so quickly.”
Gurney followed the oddly accented voice to its source: a colorless little man dwarfed by the enormous leather club chair in which he was seated next to a towering rain-forest plant. He held in his small hand a diminutive cordial glass filled with a pale green liqueur.
“Forgive me if I don’t rise to greet you. I have difficulty with my back. Perversely, it is worst in the best weather. A troublesome mystery, no? Please seat yourself.” He gestured toward a matching chair facing his across a small Oriental rug. He wore faded jeans and a burgundy sweatshirt. His hair was short, thin, gray, perfunctorily combed. His hooded eyes created a superficial impression of sleepy detachment.
“You would like a drink. One of the girls will bring you something.” His indefinite accent seemed to have multiple European origins. “Myself, I have made again the mistake of choosing absinthe.” He raised his greenish liqueur and regarded it as one might a disloyal friend. “I do not recommend it. Since it has become legal and perfectly safe, it has, in my opinion, lost its soul.” He put the glass to his lips and drained off about half the contents. “Why do I keep going back to it? An interesting question. Perhaps I am a sentimentalist. But you, obviously, are no such thing. You are a great detective, a man of clarity, unencumbered by foolish attachments. So no absinthe for you. But something else. Whatever you would like.”
“A small glass of water?”
“Tap water.”
“Of course.” His sudden grin was as bright as bleached bones. “I should have known.” He raised his voice only slightly, in the way of someone accustomed to having servants in his vicinity. “A glass of cold tap water for our guest.” The strangely smiling girl who called herself his daughter left the room.
Gurney sat calmly in the chair to which the little man had directed him. “Why should you have known that I’d want tap water?”
“Because of what Ms. Reynolds told me of your character. You frown at that. That also I should have predicted. You look at me with your detective eyes. You ask yourself, ‘How much does this Jykynstyl know about me? How much has the Reynolds woman told him?’ Am I right?”
“You’re way ahead of me. I was just wondering about the connection between tap water and my character.”
“She told me that you are so complicated inside that you like to keep things simple on the outside. You agree with this?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“That’s very good,” he said, like an expert savoring an interesting wine. “She also warned me that you are always thinking and you always know more than you say.”
