Shut Your Eyes Tight (Dave Gurney, No. 2): A Novel (36 page)

“Easy. ‘In a situation like this, being proactive costs money. Inaction costs lives.’ It’s a cartoon answer that’s 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?”

What makes me so sure?
Gurney thought about it. A gut feeling? Although it was one of the oldest clichés in the business, there was truth in it. But there was something else, too.

“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.”

T
he 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?”

“L’acqua minerale? Ein Mineralwasser? L’eau gazéifiée?”

“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.”

Gurney shrugged. “Is that a problem?”

Music began playing in the background, so softly that its low notes were hardly audible. It was a sad, slow, pastoral melody on a cello. Its whispered presence in the room reminded Gurney of the English garden scents that subtly penetrated the interior of Scott Ashton’s house.

The wispy-haired little man smiled and sipped his absinthe. A young woman with a dramatic figure on display in low-cut jeans and an even lower-cut T-shirt entered the room through the arch at the far end and approached Gurney with a crystal glass of water on a silver tray. She had the eyes and mouth of a cynic twice her age. As Gurney took the glass, Jykynstyl was answering his question.

“It’s certainly not a problem for me. I love a man of substance, a man whose mind is larger than his mouth. This is the kind of man you are, no?” When Gurney didn’t answer, Jykynstyl laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. “I see that you are also a man who likes to get to the point. You want to know exactly why we are here. Very well, David Gurney. Here is the point: I am perhaps your greatest fan. Why am I? For two reasons. First, I believe that you are a great portrait artist. Second, I intend to make a lot of money on your work. Please notice which of these reasons I put first. I can tell from the work you’ve done already that you have a rare talent for bringing the mind of a man into the lines of his face, for letting the soul show through the eyes. This is a talent that thrives on purity. It is not the talent of a man who is mad for money or attention, a man who strives to be agreeable, a man who talks too much. It is the talent of a man who values the truth in all his affairs—business, professional, artistic. I suspected you were such a man, but I wanted to be sure.” He held Gurney’s steady gaze for what seemed like a very long time before going on. “What would you like for lunch? There is cold sea bass rémoulade, a lime seviche of shellfish, quenelles de veau, a lovely Kobe steak tartare—whichever you prefer, or perhaps a bit of each?”

As he spoke, he began slowly extricating himself from his chair. He paused, searching for a place to deposit his little glass, shrugged,
and placed it delicately into the overgrown plant pot next to him. Then, grasping the arms of his chair with both hands, he pushed himself with considerable effort to his feet and led the way through the arched doorway to the dining room.

The most arresting feature of the space was a life-size portrait in a gilded frame hanging in the center of the long wall facing the arch. Gurney’s limited knowledge of art history placed its source somewhere in the Dutch Renaissance.

“It is remarkable, no?” said Jykynstyl.

Gurney agreed.

“I’m glad you like it. I will tell you about it as we eat.”

Two places were set across from each other at the table. The entrées that Jykynstyl had named were arrayed between them on four china platters, along with bottles of Puligny-Montrachet and Château Latour, wines that even a non-oenophile like Gurney recognized as wildly expensive.

Gurney opted for the Montrachet and the bass, Jykynstyl for the Latour and the tartare.

“Are both of the girls your daughters?”

“That is correct, yes.”

“And you live here together?”

“From time to time. We are not a family of a fixed location. I come and go. It is the nature of my life. My daughters live here when they are not living with someone else.” He spoke of these arrangements in a tone that seemed to Gurney as deceptively casual as his sleepy gaze.

“Where do you spend most of your time?”

Jykynstyl laid his fork down on the edge of his plate as though ridding himself of an obstruction to clear expression. “I don’t think in that way, of being
here
for a length of time or
there
for another length of time. I am
 … in motion
. Do you understand?”

“Your answer is more philosophical than my question. I’ll ask it another way. Do you have homes like this anywhere else?”

“Family members in other countries sometimes
put me up
, or they
put up with me
. In English you have these two phrases—close but not the same, correct? But maybe in my case they are both true.” He displayed his cold ivory smile. “So I am a homeless man with
many homes.” The mongrelized accent, from nowhere and everywhere, seemed to grow stronger to reinforce his nomadic claim. “Like the wonderful Mr. Wordsworth, I wander lonely as a cloud. In search of golden daffodils. I have a good eye for these daffodils. But having a good eye is not enough. One must also
look
. This is my double secret, David Gurney:
a good eye and I am always looking
. This to me is far more important than living in a particular place. I do not live
here
or live
there
. I live in the activity, in the movement. I am not a resident. I am a searcher. This is maybe a little like your own life, your own profession. Am I right?”

“I can see your point.”

“You can see my point, but you don’t really agree with it.” He seemed more amused than offended. “And like all policemen, when it comes to questions you would rather ask them than answer them. A characteristic of your profession, is it not?”

“Yes, it is.”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough. His eyes supplied no clue as to which. “Then let me give you answers rather than questions. I am thinking you want to know why this crazy little man with the funny name wants to pay you so much money for these portraits that you do maybe pretty quickly and easily.”

Gurney felt a spark of annoyance. “Not that quickly, not that easily.” And then a spark of chagrin at voicing the objection.

Jykynstyl blinked. “No, of course not. Forgive my English. I think I speak it better than I do, but I am inadequate at the nuance. Shall I try again, or do you understand what I am trying to say?”

“I think I do.”

“So then, the basic question: Why do I offer so much money for this art of yours?” He paused, flashed the chilly grin. “Because it is worth it. And because I want it, exclusively, without competition. So I make you what I believe is a preemptive offer, an offer you can accept without question, without quibble, without negotiation. You understand?”