The Killer in My Eyes by Giorgio Faletti Read Free Book Online

taxi dropped Lysa at the address she had given.
    54 West 16th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues.
    She got out of the cab and, as the driver unloaded her case from the trunk, looked up at the roof of the building then let her eyes travel down to the windows of the corner apartment on the third floor. She put her hand in her purse, took out a bunch of keys, picked up her case, and walked to the front door.
    She didn’t know how long she would be here but, for now, this place was home.

CHAPTER 7
     
    Jordan drove his motorbike into Carl Schurz Park and onto the short sloping path that led up to Gracie Mansion, official residence of the Mayor of New York. His brother had decided to live there during his term in office, even though he had a splendid penthouse on 74th Street. Jordan had kept a clear memory of his inauguration speech, when he had declared, in his best vote-catching voice, that ‘the Mayor of New York should live where the citizens have decided he should live, because that’s where they’ll look for him when they need him.’
    He stopped in front of the gate and took off his helmet. The security guard, a young man who still had a trace of adolescent acne on his cheeks, approached.
    ‘I’m Jordan Marsalis. The Mayor is expecting me.’
    ‘Can I see some ID, please?’
    Without a word, Jordan put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and took out his licence.
    As he waited for it to be checked, he saw that a number of police cars were parked beyond the gate, and that there were officers guarding the house. He wasn’t surprised. The Mayor’s son had been murdered and it couldn’t be completely ruled out that the killer might come after the father.
    The guard gave him back the licence. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll open up for you.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    If the young man knew about him and his story, he gave no sign of it. Once the gate was open, Jordan drove through and parked his bike in the small open area in front of the main door of the mansion. As he approached, the door opened, and an impeccably dressed butler appeared in the doorway.
    ‘Good day, Mr Marsalis. Please follow me. The Mayor is waiting for you in the small study.’
    ‘You don’t have to go with me,’ Jordan told him. ‘I know the way, thanks.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’
    The butler vanished discreetly. Jordan started walking along the corridor that led to the other side of the house, which faced the East River.
    It was when he had left Gerald’s apartment that Christopher had asked him to join him later at Gracie Mansion. Back out on the street, Jordan had once more escaped the onslaught of the press by using his helmet as a disguise – not that he had really needed to, because Christopher had come out immediately afterwards and the reporters had rushed towards him with all the blind frenzy of ants whose anthill has been destroyed.
    Jordan had got to his Ducati and accelerated away without a backward glance.
    And now here he was, outside a room he had no desire to enter. He rapped his knuckles softly on the shiny wood and, without waiting for permission, opened the door.
    Christopher was sitting at his desk talking on the telephone. With his hand, he motioned him to come in. Ruben Dawson was sitting in an armchair with his legs crossed, as elegant and composed as ever. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head in Jordan’s direction.
    Instead of sitting down, Jordan preferred to walk past the desk and go to stand in front of the windows, which looked out towards Roosevelt Island. Outside, a barge was slowly descending the West Channel, heading south. A man was passing on the riverbank, holding two children by the hand, heading perhaps for the playground in the park. A boy and a girl were kissing against the railings.
    Everything looked normal: a beautiful but ordinary spring day.
    And behind him the cold voice of his brother, whose son had just been killed.
    ‘No, I tell you. What happened mustn’t be exploited. No photographs of