'Very,' said Orsetta. 'I have a case outline here.' She tapped the document bag at her side. There is also a confidential briefing that Massimo Albonetti has prepared for you.' She went to draw out the file but he held up his hand.
'No, please, not tonight. I've had a long day, and to be honest, I'm really in no state to dive into that kind of stuff right now.'
His hesitancy made Orsetta wonder if it really was just the lateness of the hour, or whether Jack simply wasn't yet over the burnout and all the emotional baggage that no doubt came with it. 'Breakfast in the morning?' she suggested, shooting a smile while studying his face for signs of stress. 'We could do it then.'
'Fine by me,' said Jack topping their glasses up. 'You want some olives? I've got a jar in the fridge.'
The smile vanished. 'Really, Mr King, you should know better than to offer an Italian lady olives from some hotel-room jar.'
If looks could kill, Jack was already having earth dropped on his coffin. He tossed a room service menu on to the bed next to her. 'You want to choose some food, and help me finish off this wine? I'm going to grab a steak sandwich and some salad, then crash out. We could eat and talk for a while.'
One half of Orsetta just wanted to go to her own room, fall in a bath, and then catch an earlyish night. But her less responsible half always won. 'That sounds fine to me,' she said, handing back the menu. 'I need my steak medium-rare, please.'
Orsetta watched him dial in the order. His hair was jet black and cut fashionably short, but not so short that she couldn't run her fingers through it and hang on to a good handful if the need arose. He had strong cheekbones but looked as though he could do with a shave to banish an end-of-day shadow that some women would find rugged but she regarded as scruffy. He was plainly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. The white showed off a healthy, light tan, the type picked up naturally, rather than one baked on through lounging around on some blanket on a beach. From the outline of his shoulders she could tell he was muscular, and she also liked that he wasn't showing off his physique. His shirt was a loose fit and was fastened all the way up, except for the collar button.
'Twenty minutes,' said Jack, putting the phone down and turning towards her. Orsetta looked away, a little embarrassed at the thought that he might notice she'd been sizing him up.
Jack seemed oblivious to her attentions, but had missed nothing. He picked up his wine glass again, settled into a chair opposite her, and went on: 'I guess Massimo sent you for three reasons. Firstly, you're no doubt a very good police officer and he respects your judgement. Secondly, he wants you to find out whether I'm up to the job that you need help on, or whether I'm really just a cabbage and it would be a waste of time asking me.'
Orsetta looked confused. 'How could you be a cabbage? This is a vegetable, no?'
Jack laughed. 'Yes, it is. It's a figure of speech, an expression we use. Not a very kind one actually; it means someone's mentally no more use than a vegetable.'
'Aaah,' said Orsetta, deciding to use the humour of the moment to be honest. 'Then yes, I suspect you are right. But I think my boss has also your best interests at heart. He wanted me to make sure that a case like this wouldn't be too unpleasant for you. He knows what you've been through, and he has only the greatest of respect for you.'
Jack gave her a thin smile of acknowledgement. He knew Massimo had to be careful about asking for his help, and guessed he would have been similarly cautious if their roles had been reversed. 'And I suspect the third reason is that, if you think I'm up to it, then he knows you will have to persuade me to help out, because let's face it, I need this kind of gig about as much as a reformed alcoholic needs a free crate of bourbon.'
'And are you persuadable?' asked Orsetta.
Jack didn't reply. He took another hit of wine and felt himself unwinding. He was glad to have company tonight, even if it was dangerously charming company.
'Maybe not?' continued Orsetta. 'That pause tells me you're a think first, reflect a while and then speak kind of person. Text-book introvert, with detached objective reasoning and logic. Am I right?'
Jack nearly spat out his drink. He couldn't believe it; the damn woman was profiling him. 'You running a Myers Briggs on me?' he asked, smiling playfully.
She sipped her wine and felt her pulse quicken. 'I bet an MBTI would place you more in the Perceiving category than the Judging one.'
'How so?' He sat down on the bed deliberately close to her, close enough to make most women shuffle back and claim some space. Orsetta didn't budge an inch.
'You switched your plans at the last minute, decided to stay in town. Perceivers are – let me remember – "comfortable moving into action, able to plan on the go." Am I right?'
This was home turf for Jack and he effortlessly took control of the conversation. 'Personality tests are never entirely accurate. Rorschach can help in some cases, Holland Codes has a value, as do the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory and all the rest of them, but they're not much fun and don't really open up the secrets of your imagination.'
'Imagination,' Orsetta echoed flirtatiously. 'Now I'm fascinated. Tell me what you believe goes on in my imagination.'
Jack put his glass down. 'Indulge me for a moment. Close your eyes and clear your head. You're walking somewhere nice, in some woods somewhere, on your own -'
'I wouldn't be,' she interrupted. 'I've worked too many cases to walk in woods on my own.'
'These are safe woods. Trust me, you can go there.' He waited for her to close her eyes. 'Now, picture yourself walking through them. Look around you, what season of the year do you think it is?'
'I can see tall trees,' she said, her never still hands shaping them in the space in front of her. 'It's summer, they're big evergreens stretching to the sky. There's light shining through the leaves and branches, a strong smell of pine. I can hear animals scurrying around and there's a small bird flying in and out of the trees. It feels lovely, I like it here.'
Jack studied her; he noticed the way she relaxed, happy to escape from the horrors of the case files that he was sure had gradually hardened her. 'Are you following a path or is the wood too dense for paths?'
She answered quickly, 'There is a path, it's a public walkway, but I'm not following it, I'm wandering away. I'm drawn to something, I think I hear a waterfall, but I can't see it. Yes, I can hear running water. As I'm searching, I see red-spotted mushrooms near some small logs that have been cut up; they're those fairy-tale mushrooms.'
'Forget the mushrooms, they're probably poisonous or at least hallucinogenic. Let's move on. Imagine something spooks you. You look around and there's an animal there, just a few paces away from you. What is it?'
'Orso!' she said quickly, then screwed up her eyes and struggled to find the right English word.'
'Orso grizzly, not orsacchiotto, not a teddy bear. It's a big slow black bear, its arms are open wide and it has a shiny snout and bright white teeth.'
'What do you do?' After his ordeal at the psychiatrist's earlier that day Jack found himself comforted by being back in control and on the right side of a Q and A session.
Orsetta licked her lips and concentrated. 'I move slowly. Very slowly. My eyes never leave the bear. If it takes a step nearer, then I'm going to pick up one of those small logs near the mushrooms and smash its leg, or maybe its face. Then I will run.' The thought of violence made her open her eyes. She blinked as she adjusted to the ugly lighting in the bedroom.
Jack started to regret what he was doing. He was only a fraction of the way through a mental scenario that had already told him more than he now felt he had a right to know.
'So?' said Orsetta, sensing his discomfort. 'What has the great Perceiver learned from his strange questions about woods and animals?'
If the wine hadn't clouded his judgement, he would have made small talk while they waited for their steak, but now hewas too relaxed tocensor himself. He went with the flow. 'You're an optimist and a romantic,' he said. It was a statement of
fact, not a compliment.
She tilted her head quizzically in an attractive way. 'Why? How do you come to that conclusion?'
'Your trees were green – evergreen – you saw sunlight. If you'd described the forest as black and wintry, then it would have been more indicative of pessimism. Colours are often keys to our moods. And never forget, Mother Nature is a great undercover spy. Deploy her like I just did, send her on a mission deep into another person's imaginings and fantasies, and she will always return with their secrets.'
'Go on,' urged Orsetta, finding herself surprisingly excited by the revelations. It was almost as though he was a voyeur in her imagination, a secret traveller in her private inner world.
'You're very sensual,' Jack said, carefully and almost clinically. 'I suspect you're also intensely passionate -'
Orsetta reddened a little. 'Scusi?'
'I'm only telling you what I deduced from the descriptions you gave, the language you used.'
Orsetta still looked puzzled.
'Let me explain. I asked you what season it was, and you didn't just say "summer", you also told me what you saw, how you felt and what you heard. You described the effect on almost all of your senses. You mentioned how you could smell – the pines in the forest – what you could hear – the birds and the animals – and how you felt about the place – that it was lovely.'
He saw so much and yet I told him so little, Orsetta thought as he topped their glasses up. It felt as though with one flash of his profiling skills he'd x-rayed her entire personality. 'What did the water mean? I heard water but couldn't see it, what did that mean?'
Jack cleared his throat. 'Okay. The water you mentioned – well, water often represents our interest in sex. At the moment I don't think you're in a relationship as the water you talked of was out of sight. But you're seeking it, and it was loud enough to be heard even though you couldn't see it – that's indicative of the need for powerful, intense sexual closeness.'
Orsetta swallowed hard. She wished she hadn't asked. Her mind was picturing waterfalls and the pair of them having sex in the water. She tried to clear her head and stop herself from blushing. 'This isn't a standard test, no?' she joked. 'I'm sure you don't do it with most suspects.'
'No, not too standard,' said Jack. 'It's just something I do sometimes to open people up. Actually, it works well on suspects, throws them off guard and gives you an insight into them before you start asking offence-related questions.'
'Was there anything else?' asked Orsetta, waving a hand across her face to mask the redness. 'Or can I relax now?'
'Well,' said Jack, unable to stop himself, 'based on what you've told me, I'd guess you're also obstinate, headstrong, self-centred, adventurous and very driven.'
'I am what?'
'You mentioned that there was a path in the woods – that path represents the route of your life, the one your parents, your upbringing and your education have laid out for you. But you deliberately chose not to take it – you said you were "wandering away". This means you want things on your own terms, or not at all.'
Orsetta felt completely exposed. Her Myers Briggs game had been meant as an ice-breaker, a bit of flirtatious fun, but this was something else. Her eyes fell on the book that Jack had bought and she saw it as a chance to gain respite from his scrutiny. 'Aah, Dante,' she said. 'The Divine Comedy is one of my favourites.'
'For my wife,' he said, quickly and deliberately.
Orsetta found herself blushing again. For a second she'd forgotten he was married.
'It's a good choice, I hope she likes it,' she said, as pleasantly as she could manage.
There was silence, agonizingly awkward for Orsetta if not for Jack, who found silences every bit as informative as most people's conversations. Finally Orsetta cracked. 'Okay, let's finish it, she said; bravely. 'Tell me, Jack, you have to tell me the rest of your analysis.'
He looked across at her. The smart policewoman with the movie-star looks now seemed like a lost schoolgirl. All the sexual chemistry had drained from the room and the air was as unexcitingly stale as a deserted bar-room on a Monday morning.
'Commitment,' he said softly. 'The bear in your story represents the man who hurt you, the problem that creeps up on you when you're happy and you least expect it.'
Orsetta looked down at her hands. So there it was, out in the open. She'd hidden it away, piled all kinds of stuff on top of it, and this stranger, this brilliant stranger, had found it without breaking sweat. 'And I have to find another way of dealing with this, other than simply hitting it with a log?' She looked up and managed a smile but Jack could see that the gesture alone had taken all her courage.
'No. Using the log is fine. Beat away all you like; give the bear your best body-blows. But you've gotta learn not to run away afterwards. Staying there, looking the bear in the eyes and sorting out your terms of peace, that's what commitment's all about.'
She nodded, and without even realizing it found herself squeezing his hand, comforting herself with his strength and his closeness.
The knock on the door surprised both of them and broke the silence, a silence that this time felt far more intriguing than awkward.
'Food!' said Jack. 'Great, I'm starving.'
16
FBI Field Office, New York Not since he'd discovered that his sister was a lesbian had Special Agent Howie Baumguard been so stunned and speechless.
The air-con in his office had broken down – again – and it was now steam-room hot. He rubbed sweat from his creased brow with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand while he tried to work out what to do next.
Howie clicked the mouse on his desk pad and dragged the image that had just been sent through to his flat screen. 'God damn it! God damn it!' he shouted to an empty office.
He flipped the picture 180 degrees one way, and then rotated it back the other way. He changed the colour several times, examined it upside down and back to front. 'Jesus H. Christ!' he swore again at the empty room.
Howie quarter-framed the image and docked it in the top left-hand corner of his screen, then maximized another two shrunken frames and started to examine them through a similar process of flipping, rotating and decolouring. The new 360-degree imaging kit he was using was so sharp and realistic that he felt he could almost pick objects up off the screen and toss them around in his hands like a baseball.
'God damn it!' he shouted, finally reaching the limit of his patience.
Howie stood up and headed to the Men's room. Not only because he'd drunk so much coffee that he desperately needed a leak, but also because he needed to buy himself a little more thinking time.
He freshened up and returned painfully slowly to his desk, almost as though he was afraid of getting back there. Instead of sitting down, he chose to stand behind his swivel chair, his sausage-fingered hands drumming on the top curve of the seat, his eyes locked on his desk monitor.
'God damn!' Nothing had changed. It was still as disturbing as it had been the first time he'd seen it.
The computer showed three clear shots.
Shot one was of a cardboard box.
Shot two was of Sarah Kearney's decapitated skull.
But it was shot three that was making Howie curse out loud in an empty room. Full frame on the flat screen was the address on the box, the very thing that had made airport security scan the package and alert Howie's office. In black felt pen were the words 'Fragile. For the attention of Jack King, c/o the FBI.'
PART TWO
Monday, 2 July
17
Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, New York Cops always say that when it comes to hookers, a year on the street puts ten on the face. By that score, Ludmila Zagalsky is twenty-five going on one hundred and thirty. In truth, Lu's bearing up slightly better than the maths predict; though two abortions and a drug problem that would shame even the wildest of rock stars don't bode well for the future.
Lu's been out on the streets since she was fifteen. Her latest pimp is a Russian called O
leg, who has pretty much most of the Beach Avenue business to himself. Oleg's a brute of a man, a mountain of lard with tattooed forearms the size of a bull's back legs and a big round shaven head that's as attractive as an overripe pumpkin. But he doesn't beat her, not like her drunken mother used to, a grizzled Muscovite jealous of her daughter's beauty. And he doesn't come into her bed 'to be close' like her stepfather used to. It's true that running away from Moscow and working for Oleg wasn't the brightest move she ever made, but it sure as hell was better than the alternative. Lu had turned tricks to save for the airfare out of Russia and she'd been turning them ever since. She breakfasts every day on a couple of 'E's; chugging them back like most people do coffee and pastries. They keep her sane as she sets about the soul-destroying work of being violated and abused in return for rent money and little more. She starts around lunch and finishes whenever her last mudak – some sick, dumb asshole – has paid his cash, hauled himself off her and got out of her sorry life. Her first shift is Coney Island Avenue, down to 6th and 7th. At the end of that she meets up with Oleg around six p.m. and 'cashes out'. Sometimes, if she's earned more than her daily target take, he buys her a burger and beer before slapping her ass and sending her back to the street. Second shift sees her strutting her stuff down Beach Avenue, usually in red stilettos and not much else. If the cops from the 60th Precinct move her on, then she hits Riglemann Boardwalk down on the east side, heading out to Chambers Square.
Right now, at just gone one a.m., she's feeling blasted. Minutes after emptying her purse for Oleg and heading home, she gets a pull from some City dude cruising in a gold Lexus. She ends up jerking him off and keeping the cash for herself – man, it will cost the perv a fortune to clean that leather. Anyway, she's got two fifties tucked away for just ten minutes' trade and that's damn near a record for Lu. Most of the working girls say she's cheap, a shluha vokzalnaja – a train station whore – but lately Lu's been rolling in the big tricks and feels she's on the way up again. Lexus-man had told her how he liked to come back to the 'hood' that he'd been brought up in and bragged how he'd got out and made his fortune in Manhattan. What an asshole, what a swoloch! Lu had soaked up his bullshit and taken him to a spot she favoured at the back of the Brighton Fish Market and had left him there as stinky as smoked mackerel when they were done. He didn't look such a high-and-mighty tycoon with his pants down and his cum all over his stomach and that fancy leather interior. She was still smiling at the sweet nothings she'd whispered in his big waxy ear and how she'd turned him on. 'U tebia ochen malenki hui, tolko pyat pat centimetrov?' she'd purred as she'd started unzipping him. He might not have been so excited if he'd known she'd told him, 'You have a very small dick, how big is it… only five centimetres?' And there certainly wouldn't have been a tip if he'd known that 'U tebya rozha, kak obezyanya zhopa' was not 'Thank you very much' but 'Your mug looks like a monkey's ass.' She laughs and says 'Mudak, mudak!' as she strolls past Primorski's restaurant, pausing to look through the window as cleaners stack chairs on tables and sweep floors. She'd rather sell her ass any day of the week than sweep someone's floor.
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