by Gayle Lynds
His words bored into her. It wasn't just her jaw. What a lie: No permanent damage.
Fighting a cold in addition to worry and anger, Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld arrived at the Belgravia Police Station to take over the case of two recent murders—those of a London taximan and the mother of a famous American pianist.
The pianist, a blind woman, had survived.
"Some angles we've not been told about this situation?" the chief inspector who was in charge remarked as Staffeld entered. He made no effort to hide his annoyance at being outranked on his own case.
"An internationally famous American pianist and two murders," Staffeld responded neutrally. "The assistant commissioner and I feel it's gone a bit beyond street thumpings. We should make a show of high-level concern, eh? You carry on, and I'll cover the sensitive angle."
Staffeld was a stout, brisk man in his late fifties. He was highly thought of and had many interests. He was known for his kindness to children. He popped a menthol lozenge into his mouth, longing instead for one of his Player's cigarettes. He read the report of the attack in Belgravia. When he neared the end, he raised his brows. Whoever was blackmailing him was going to have a nasty shock—
How on earth had the blind woman seen her attacker?
He grabbed a box of tissues and headed into the new room for victims, made comfortable with overstuffed chairs and a low table. There was, of course, the usual recording equipment, handled by a discreet woman in street clothes.
At first Staffeld barely recognized Julia Austrian. Tonight she wasn't the lovely young pianist he'd watched perform a couple of years ago. Instead her face was puffy from weeping, and her eyes were swollen and red. She was trembling. She kept knotting and unknotting her hands as if trying to grasp what had happened.
"I want to tell you what the murderer looked like." Those were her first words. "I want you to catch her. You don't execute in this country, do you?"
"No, miss. We consider it rather useless as a deterrent, as well as barbaric."
"Too bad." Her voice was furious.
Staffeld had seen this often. The most gentle of people could become cold-blooded avengers when someone they loved was murdered. In most cases, the anger and hate passed. Personally, he had nothing against making all the murdering bastards do an air jig, but the dear old public preferred to look noble and ever so civilized.
Staffeld kept his manner detached. "We have your description of the killer, Ms. Austrian. Have you been told the modus operandi of the theft indicates it was one of a series of similar crimes here in London the past three months?"
"Yes. The other officers mentioned that. It's no comfort."
"Quite so. I understand. But you've added a missing piece to the puzzle that's sure to help—our serial thief is a woman. Thank you. And well done your description is, but how do you explain that you saw her at all? I mean, aren't you . . . blind?"
"I am now." Her hands clenched as if in rigor mortis. "Again."
"Could you explain that to me?"
"I have conversion disorder. My psychiatrist explained it happens sometimes to people who have a conflict or trauma they can't resolve. In some people it takes the form of deafness, or paralysis, or chronic dizziness. With me, it's blindness. The symptom—in this case, my blindness—becomes a symbolic solution. It reduces anxiety and shields the person from the real conflict."
"And your conflict or trauma?" Staffeld noted she looked startled, as if considering it for the first time. There was a haunted quality to her expression.
The question bad surprised Julia, and she immediately thought about the alexandrite ring the murderer had stolen. It was a grass-green stone with hints of red, and on one side tiny baguettes of diamonds and sapphires were arranged like glittering bluebells growing from a lush lawn. The ring was unusual, exquisite, a work of art. She'd loved it for its beauty but also, more, because she'd loved her grandfather. Automatically she was reliving the long-ago night of her debut when he'd given it to her . . . the huge, noisy audience . . . the cacophonous cheers that seemed to shake the very roof of Carnegie Hall and attack the stage, where she stood numb, paralyzed.
She took a deep breath. "A psychiatrist told me it's my fear of audiences. At my debut, the crowd went wild. They seemed like a monster to me. Uncontrollable. Massive. I went blind later that night while I was asleep."
"I think I understand. By being blind, you didn't have to see audiences any longer. You could handle the terror the next time you played."
"That's what my psychiatrist said."
"But your vision came back spontaneously tonight?"
"Yes. I don't know why. He told me it might happen, but after ten years of being blind, I'd never really expected it. Then it went away as quickly." She saw the scene in the taxi once more. The thief tearing off her alexandrite ring, and—"My mind instinctively shifted to the night of my debut and that terrifying crowd." Grief riddled her. She couldn't get past the idea that it was somehow all her fault. . . . If she'd kept her sight, she might've been able to save her mother.
"Hmmm. And you can't see at all now?"
She forced herself to keep her voice steady. "No."
"A terrible pity. We have sketch artists who'd be able to recreate the killer's face." Not really a pity for either of them, he thought. If she could identify the killer, he was fairly certain his unseen blackmailer would want her silenced. Encouraged, he pursed his lips. "I understand the killer didn't speak, so you heard no voice?"
"That's right." Tinted glasses were folded in her lap between her small fists, and her bloodshot blue eyes stared straight ahead.
"She took your mother's and your purses and jewelry?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to read the list of belongings that you dictated earlier?"
"No. I have nothing to add."
"Do you recall anything else to help us find her? An odor. Perfume, perhaps?"
"I didn't pick up a scent, and I would have. I'm good at that. A person who pays attention and has a healthy sense of smell can detect as many as ten thousand odors. For instance, I can smell menthol on you. And you're a smoker, or someone close to you is. That's in your clothes."
Staffeld raised his eyebrows. "You're right. I have a cold. I took a lozenge before I came in. But I haven't had a cigarette in twenty-four hours." He tucked another menthol lozenge into his mouth. Good. She couldn't identify the killer by sight, sound, or smell. "Let me make certain I have the events in order. The thief shot your mother after your mother pulled off the thief's ski mask?"
She swallowed hard. Her shoulders slumped. He guessed she was recalling the murder again. Tears suddenly streamed from her eyes. He sighed and pressed tissues into her hands. She bent over and sobbed as if her broken heart would never heal.
He sat patiently, controlling his irritation.
When at last she blew her nose, her voice was weak but determined. "I can't keep falling apart. I've got to get hold of myself." She turned her sightless gaze in his direction. Her eyes were blue fire, scorching with some inner demon. She cleared her throat. "What was your question again?"
"The sequence of events—"
"Yes. After the killer shot Mother, she shot the driver. Not me. Why? Do you think she recognized me and knew I was blind so she was safe from being identified?"
Staffeld nodded to himself. Despite her grief, Julia Austrian's mind was sharp. As Staffeld knew from his blackmailer, her guess was right, and he needed to keep her from thinking too hard about what that could mean.
"That's what we believe, yes," he lied. "We're dealing with a criminal who seems to know something about pianists and reads the music pages. We're checking back on all the street thefts involving the same MO to see whether the other victims could've been chosen from entertainment listings in the papers or magazines."
He saw her face change. She'd stopped listening. Excited, she said, "If the murderer knew I actually saw her, I'd be at risk, wouldn't I?"
"I'm afraid yo
u would be, yes. That's why we must keep you out of danger."
"What if we don't?"
"What if we don't what?" Staffeld was startled. She couldn't mean—?
"Keep me out of danger!" Her blind eyes flashed. "What if we tell the press about my sight returning and my seeing the murderer? Tell the world! Let the killer know I saw her, but say I still have my sight. That I can and will identify her!"
Staffeld's alarm nearly made him drop his pen. As it was, he had difficulty controlling his expression, which made no difference to Austrian, but he damn well didn't want the woman who was transcribing the interview to see anything unusual. Because Austrian did mean what he'd feared. That she'd seen the killer was immaterial now that she was again blind. But a detailed description published in the tabloids and magazines could be recognized by someone, and that'd be the last thing his blackmailer would want. The swine would order the blind pianist terminated, and Staffeld would have to face exactly how far he was prepared to go to keep the life he'd built.
He had to convince this young woman silence was the better way. But she had the bit in her teeth, and her whole body seemed electric with possibilities.
She said, "She'll come after me! She has to. When she does, you can catch her! It's worth the risk. Anything is, to get my mother's murderer!"
Staffeld had been told she was a quiet, overly protected, easily handled young woman. Instead she was proving anything but quiet, not easily handled, and bold to the point of recklessness.
"I can't let you do that, Ms. Austrian. It'd be an enormous error. No one else has seen her. If anything happened to you, our chances of an arrest would diminish drastically, not to mention being able to convict her. She'd go free and kill again. I think the fact that the murderer has no idea you saw her gives us a tremendous advantage. It'll make her feel confident she's safe, so she'll make a mistake. Then we'll catch her. We don't want to tell anyone you've given us a description of the killer."
"But how are you going to get her?" she demanded angrily.
"My dear woman, give us some credit. We've been doing this for nearly two centuries, eh? We're watching for your jewelry at pawnshops and all the usual places. I assume you can recognize some of it by touch?"
"Yes. My ring. And my mother's earrings. They're originals, one of a kind."
"Good. With, that, we'd have evidence to trace back to the killer. We've got our people out knocking on doors in the neighborhood where the crime occurred. The killer had to escape somehow. . . on foot, bicycle, car. We're looking for anyone who was there around that hour. This is a very small country and, if I say so myself, very tightly secured, unlike your States. It's devilishly difficult to get out of here, believe me. No, no. We'll catch the sodding woman, and then your identification will be vital."
She was silent, considering his wishes but still doubtful.
He sensed he was close to success. Now he had to clinch it. He made his voice earnest, sincere: "If you make us waste our resources trying to keep you alive while we set a trap, you'll slow our investigation and maybe enable the killer to escape."
"Your way will take forever, if it works at all."
"It's our most certain course. You want results. So do we."
She thought about it. She sighed. "All right. I suppose your arguments make sense. But I want to post a reward. Do you think five hundred thousand dollars would be enough?"
"More than enough. An excellent idea." He exhaled, relieved.
She was in her own world. "If you don't catch her soon, I'll be back, and we'll do it my way. I'll hire people to guard me, if that's really worrying you. I can afford it. I can buy anything. Except my mother's life."
7
Inside the doors of the Belgravia Police Station, Marsha Barr waited uneasily for Julia Austrian. The late-night air was stale and dank, and she felt claustrophobic. She was a booking agent legendary for her ability to orchestrate time schedules and musicians. Tonight she faced a bleak task: Dealing with the personal tragedy of one of her artists. Sometimes it was an accident that rendered one unable to perform. Other times it was severe illness or the infirmity of old age. Occasionally it was their death or the death of someone close.
In this case, it was someone near her, too. She'd worked with Marguerite Austrian for years, and she'd liked and respected her. Marguerite had been a tough protector of her daughter as well as an astute businesswoman. Marsha admired both qualities, although she'd privately thought Marguerite had gone too far in sacrificing her personal life to her daughter's career.
She shifted her weight. She sighed. She felt a sharp pain in her chest. She hated to cry, and she hoped she could get through the night without having to. Tomorrow when the sun was shining and she could sit at her desk and work the telephone, conduct her business, she'd feel better. Or at least normal.
"Ms. Barr? Thank you for coming. I'm Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld." A stout, vigorous man was leading Julia.
"Hello, Marsha." Julia's skin was chalk white, and she looked as if she'd been on a weeklong crying jag. Her blue Versace evening gown, coat, and shoes were matted with rust-colored blood, unmistakable, horrifying. "They told you about. . . Mother—?"
Marsha swallowed, fighting tears. "I'm so sorry, Julia. So very sorry."
Julia simply nodded. She wasn't wearing her tinted glasses, and her red-rimmed eyes seemed to have some unearthly glow. Gone was the exciting energy that usually infused her. But there seemed to be something added, too, something new—a determination Marsha had never seen.
The chief superintendent took Julia's hand from his arm and passed it over to Marsha. "Her uncle has arranged for her to fly to New York tomorrow morning on the Concorde. He wants her to cancel her tour. As soon as Mrs. Austrian's body is released, we're to notify him, and he'll arrange for it to be flown over for services and burial. Again, thank you for your help."
Marsha nodded and looked at Julia. "We'll go to your hotel and pick up your things, dear. Then to my flat. You can't be alone tonight."
Julia had other ideas. "There's a stop we have to make first."
Chief Superintendent Staffeld strode back to his office. He flicked on the overhead light. On the wall beside the metal filing cabinets hung framed photos of him with the queen, prime ministers Thatcher and Major and Blair, several lord mayors of London, commissioners of police, his family, and youth groups. He was obviously an honored, proud, and popular policeman.
He locked the door and in the chill quiet dialed. His blackmailer had assured him phone records would show he'd reached a number in the Bahamas. The electronic misinformation was one advantage of his new employer, whoever he was. Every time he dialed this number, it triggered state-of-the-art computers that rerouted numbers and scrambled conversations so no one could locate the other person or listen in.
When the other line opened, he wasted no time: "Julia Austrian saw your woman. Your killer."
The shocked hesitation gave Staffeld considerable pleasure, especially since he was withholding the good news.
Then the same voice as before spoke—educated, cultured. It belonged to a man accustomed to getting his own way. "That's impossible. She's blind!"
"So you said. Well, you're wrong. But there's some good news to go with it—her sight's gone again." He repeated Austrian's story. "She's overwrought," he concluded. "Cries easily and a lot. She's desperate for us to catch the killer. Obviously she was very close to her mother, and the murder has shaken her badly. She's angry, and she feels guilty. Survivor's guilt, I'd say. She's offering a five-hundred-thousand-dollar reward that should bring every fool and humbug crawling from the woodwork to slow the investigation, plus she's volunteered to be bait. Still, I managed to convince her to reveal to no one she was the only eyewitness."
No need to tell this bastard the Austrian woman was a lot tougher than her reputation. Personal tragedies could destroy some people, reduce them to gibbering blobs, but others hardened and found inner powers they'd never realized existed. It looked
to him as if Julia Austrian might be one of the latter. Only time would tell, and this bloody blackmailer could damn well figure it out for himself.
"Good," the voice said coolly. "I assume you've made certain she'll be on the Concorde tomorrow?"
"Yes. I told her I'd call when we needed her."
"But she won't be needed." It was an order.
It'd be dicey for him to change the course of the official investigation, but if he couldn't simply slow it down until it disappeared, he could alter it. He'd pull staff from canvassing the neighborhood, and he'd shift the questioning of the usual pawnshop personnel. If he had to, he could also see that paperwork was mislaid. Even destroyed.
Part of him wanted to use Turkov to wring this American monkey's neck, but an older, less impetuous part cautioned prudence. He'd play along for a white.
"Actually," he assured the voice, "I can't imagine the police will ever need the services of Julia Austrian again. But her unexpected sight caused me to work far harder at the interview than I'd expected, and she was much more difficult to deal with—"
The distant voice was a whip, lashing out over the miles with a sure and frightening aim. "Don't push it, Staffeld. If you want to keep your dirty little secrets under wraps just follow orders. Remember, I'm doing you a favor."
Staffeld wiped his upper lip. "Very well. You won't hear from me again."
"Negative, Chief Superintendent. Definitely a negative." There was a casual cruelty to the voice. The man behind it enjoyed power far more than he should. "You're not finished. I expect you to stay on top of this tonight, but then you're going on a trip. Arrange to be free this weekend. You're flying to New York City—"
"Now, see here! I agreed to this because it didn't seriously compromise my duties. But I told you I won't be pushed too far!" For a moment, Staffeld's voice sounded full of bluster. He'd faced too many crises to turn into a blithering victim now. In a stern voice, he said, "You understand that? Be careful."
"—In return I'm depositing one million U. S. dollars in a numbered account for you in Uruguay. It will be available to you when we no longer need your services."