The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (20 page)

Damn cops, anyway, he thought. They were supposed to protect the public from weirdos with guns. They were just no damn good when you needed them.

When he finally found Lorsec it was in an alley between two buildings on Hiller’s own block, near West End. Hiller had been walking along West End, because he didn’t want to make himself conspicuous by confining his search to Ninety-eighth, and he saw Lorsec when he came back around the corner. The junkman, his burlap sack bulging in one hand, had just come out of the basement door of the brownstone on the left, with a guy in a baseball cap who was probably the building’s super.

Hiller backed up to the corner and leaned against a lamppost to light a cigarette. Maybe Lorsec, when he left the alley, would do some more foraging elsewhere on the block. But sooner or later he’d have to go home, and Hiller would be right behind him when he did.

It was another five minutes before Lorsec showed. He headed east, across West End, with the bulky burlap sack slung over his shoulder, like a seedy Santa Claus with his toybag. He wasn’t expecting anybody to be following him, so he didn’t look behind him and he didn’t see Hiller casually cross over into Ninety-eighth Street. Halfway up the block, Lorsec climbed the stoop to one of the brownstones, used a key to open the front door, and vanished inside.

Hiller walked over to Broadway, crossed the street, and came back on the opposite sidewalk. Lorsec hadn’t reappeared. Hiller went up the stairs, looked at the bank of mailboxes on the stoop. There were eight apartments in the building, and seven of the boxes had nameplates; the one that didn’t had to be Lorsec’s. Hiller made a mental note of the apartment number—six—and then walked back down to the street.

He cruised the block another time, but Lorsec still didn’t come out. All right. Now he knew where the junkhound lived. He could go in there and face Lorsec, lay some heavy trouble on him, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. He had to get that ring case and those labels and ID tags first, destroy the evidence, put himself in the driver’s seat. And that didn’t figure to be too difficult, not for somebody like Benny Hiller.

Hell, he was one of the best burglars in the business, wasn’t he?

6:20 P.M. — MICHELE BUTLER

She was going to have to sleep with Marco. There was simply nothing else she could do.

He’d let her put him off this morning, left without pressuring her, but he wouldn’t be that accommodating again. He was determined to have her body, and if she didn’t give in, she was sure he would turn nasty—hit her, maybe even rape her. He was that kind. And there wouldn’t be anything she could do about it, because if she complained he would go to the police and tell them about her shoplifting. Not in person, not Marco; anonymously. But it would be enough—the police would investigate, the whole ugly truth would come out. She would be put in jail, disgraced. And that would be the end of her acting career.

The thought of jail, of losing her career, was even more repugnant than the thought of going to bed with Marco Pollosetti. So she would have to do it, just as she had been forced to steal. For her safety, for her art. She had accepted that while he was here, looking at her with his hot funny eyes, and yet she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go through with it. Not yet, not today. She needed more time to prepare herself for that particular role.

It would be the most demanding role she had ever undertaken, a true test of her acting skills, because she had to handle it in such a way that it would be a single performance only, no encores. Once with Marco would be all she’d be able to stand. She had to be an unsatisfactory bed partner, yet do it in such a way that he would be convinced she wasn’t holding back; she had to make him believe she hated sex, not him. That she was frigid.

She paced the apartment, chain-smoking; she couldn’t seem to sit still. She’d gone out all day, up to the Cloisters—just a place to go to get away from this neighborhood, this place where a madman prowled and murdered. If only she could move somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere Marco couldn’t find her! But she couldn’t. She had no money, she had nowhere to go except right here.

She stopped pacing to butt out her cigarette.
I should eat something
, she thought. Instead she lighted another cigarette—and found herself staring at the door, listening for sounds in the hallway. A coldness rippled through her.

Don’t let him come tonight
, she thought.
Please God, don’t let him come tonight …

8:15 P.M. — E.L. OXMAN

Fifteen minutes after he arrived at Jennifer’s apartment, Oxman was in bed with her.

There was no pretense, no buildup, no game-playing like there always had to be with Beth even on those infrequent occasions when she was in the mood. Jennifer made drinks for both of them, and they drank them without making small talk, looking at each other, and when they were finished she took his hand wordlessly and led him into the bedroom. He thought once:
I shouldn’t be doing this
. But the thought vanished when she kissed him. She knew how to kiss; her mouth was soft, her tongue hot and searching. Not like Beth. Nothing at all like Beth. And she undressed him while he did the same for her; Beth had never done anything like that in all the years they’d been married. And her hands … Jesus, it was like being caressed with something electric. And her body, all soft curves and planes, silky, nipples protuberant and hard, all of her hot and pulsing, demanding and entreating at the same time.

When he entered her the softness and wetness that surrounded him, clasped him, was like a shock; he heard her cry out, then murmur, “Yes, oh yes!” against his ear. They began to move together, slowly. He was afraid he would come too fast, an old problem that Beth always exploited, but Jennifer was too experienced to let that happen, as if she sensed the concern in him. Her motions, the touch of her hands sliding over his back were careful, rhythmic. “Relax,” she whispered. “Relax, go slow.”

He fondled her breasts, fastened his mouth over one nipple and sucked hard as she pulled him deeper into her, still in that slow careful rhythm. He felt his orgasm building, thought
No
, tried to ease out of her, but she held him, not moving for several seconds, stroking his buttocks until he was ready to move again. Each time he climbed near the crest, she did the same thing—squeezing, opening, holding him still for a while, letting the pressure in both of them wane so they could build it up again slowly.

On and on, on and on. The feelings in him were exquisite, almost painful; he felt as if he were drowning in her. He couldn’t think, didn’t want to think. On and on, on and on …

Finally she began to move against him more urgently, a stunning collision; her nails dug into his buttocks, she lunged up to meet his thrust with a small cry, and he felt the faint flutters of her orgasm; her mouth sought his, captured it, moaned into it. And he came with her, not so much a climax as a series of explosions that left him panting, sent after-tremors rippling through his body.

They clung to each other, damp with sweat, still joined. “Oh God, that was good!” she said. She nibbled at his earlobe. “Fantastic, for the first time.”

He couldn’t speak.

“I think I came three times,” Jennifer said. “Three times in ten seconds.”

He made a move to withdraw from her, because Beth always wanted him out and off right away, but she clutched at him with her hands and tightened her vaginal muscles, saying, “No, not yet.” They lay that way for a while, Oxman with his face buried against her neck and one hand holding her breast. Then, when they were both breathing normally, she said, “Now you’re getting heavy,” and let him ease away from her and roll over onto his back.

The bedroom lights were still on; he hadn’t even noticed. He squinted against the brightness, watched her reach over to the nightstand for a cigarette. She looked soft in the aftermath of sex, he thought, no longer the ice queen; the fire had melted away her glacial veneer. Her eyes had a sloe look when she fluffed up her pillow and leaned back to light her cigarette.
Who are you?
he thought, looking at her.
Will the real Jennifer Crane please stand up?

She offered him a cigarette, but he shook his head. “They really do taste good after sex, you know,” she said. “Or don’t you smoke?”

He shook his head again.

“You haven’t said a word, E.L. What’s the matter? Didn’t you like it?”

“I liked it. I haven’t been screwed like that in a long time.”

She smiled. “Neither have I. You’re very good.”

“So are you.”

“I’ve had lots of practice. What’s your wife like in bed? Or does it bother you to talk about her when you’re in bed with another woman?”

He gave her a sharp look. But she wasn’t being caustic; she was being frankly curious—the modern woman, holding nothing sacred. “I’ve never been to bed with another woman,” he said. “You’re the first since I took my marriage vows.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been married?”

“Nineteen years.”

“My God. That’s a long time to be a faithful husband. You must love her a lot.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, surprising himself. “I don’t love her at all.”

“Does she love you?”

“I don’t think so.”

She seemed to study him. “Then why stay married to her? Why stay faithful?”

“I guess I’m old-fashioned. You try to make the best of a situation, good or bad. And every marriage has a momentum of its own.” He paused. “I didn’t want to complicate my life.”

“Do I complicate it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you do.”

“Why go to bed with
me
, then? After all this time?”

“I suppose I was ready for it. Overdue.”

“Is that the, only reason?”

“You’re an attractive woman,” he said. “I don’t know you, I don’t understand you, but you’re damn desirable.”

“The feeling is mutual.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Do you want to know me, E.L.?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m not sure I want to know you, either. You could complicate
my
life.”

He hadn’t been prepared for that; it surprised him as much as his own candor about Beth. It was the first time she had let any of her feelings show through the mask. More games? He didn’t think so. She was being honest, and the honesty frightened him a little. It meant she felt there was more here than just acasual roll in the hay—the same thing he felt, and wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge even to himself.

“I thought it was strictly sex with you,” he said. “I thought you didn’t get involved.”

“I haven’t. And I don’t want to.”

“Neither do I.”

“So then we won’t, will we?”

“No,” he said. And thought:
She’s lying and so am I
.

And the telephone rang.

Jennifer kept an extension in the bedroom, on the nightstand, and when the bell erupted it made them both jump. “Nice timing,” she said ironically. “But I don’t think I’m going to answer it.”

“It’s your phone.”

It kept ringing. Ten times, eleven, twelve. “Damn,” Jennifer said. She jabbed out her cigarette in the nightstand ashtray, caught up the receiver, and said hello. Then the skin of her forehead puckered; she said, “Just a minute,” and looked at Oxman. “It’s for you.”

He stiffened. “What? Nobody knows I’m here.”

“This man does, whoever he is. He says he knows you’re here and he wants to talk to you.”

Oxman took the receiver from her, waited until she had lifted the base unit off the nightstand and put it between them so he wouldn’t have to lean over her to talk, and then asked into the mouthpiece, “Yes? Who is it?”

A familiar, cultured voice said, “This is God, Detective Oxman.”

The hairs on Oxman’s neck prickled. His hand tightened around the receiver, but he didn’t speak.

“I warned you this afternoon,” the voice said with self-righteous anger. “No sins can escape the notice of God’s Eye. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Fornication is a sin, and the wages of sin is death.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“You have broken one of my commandments; you have offended me. My wrath shall be swift and merciless, Detective Oxman, this I promise you.”

The line went dead.

Oxman cradled the receiver, swung himself out of bed. Jennifer was looking up at him in a puzzled way. “What’s the matter?” she said. “Who was that?”

He didn’t want to frighten her; he said only, “I don’t know.”

“Well, what did he say?”

He shook his head at her, caught up his pants and put them on, and walked into the front room. There was a feeling of confusion inside him, and he didn’t like that; it was the first time in years that he had been caught so completely off guard. He needed time to get his thoughts straightened out, to decide what to do.

He was pacing when Jennifer appeared in the bedroom doorway. She had put on a thin negligee, not bothering to close it, but he didn’t even notice her nakedness.

“E.L., what is it?”

“Go make some coffee,” he said. “We’ll talk when it’s ready.”

She hesitated, biting her lip. But the edge of authority in his voice kept her from arguing; she disappeared into the kitchen.

He knew he ought to get out of there, do something—but what? He had no idea where to look for the caller. And suppose the son of a bitch decided to come after Jennifer as well as him? Suppose he was waiting outside, watching? He could make a try for Oxman, but he could also wait for Oxman to leave and then make Jennifer his target. He was a god-complex psycho; you could never tell what one of them would do. Damn it, he couldn’t leave her alone, not now. Like it or not, he would have to tell her about the call, warn her of the danger.

Bad situation—bad. And all his fault. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have slept with her; he was a
cop
, for Christ’s sake. Now that he’d underestimated his adversary, both of their lives were in jeopardy.

Oxman paced to the windows. Jennifer hadn’t drawn the drapes; visible beyond was the panorama of headlight chains on the Parkway, the moonlit river, the lighted windows in the buildings on the Jersey shore. But he didn’t really look at those things, any more than he had looked at Jennifer’s nakedness moments ago.