Shut Your Eyes Tight (Dave Gurney, No. 2): A Novel (37 page)

“I think I do.”

“Good. You noticed, I think, the painting on the wall behind me. The Holbein.”

“That’s an actual Hans Holbein?”

“Actual? Yes, of course. I do not own reproductions. What do you think of it?”

“I don’t have the right words.”

“Say the first words that come to mind.”

“Startling. Astonishing. Alive. Unnerving.”

Jykynstyl studied him for a long minute before speaking again. “Let me tell you two things. First, these words that you claim are not the right words come closer to the truth than the bullshit of the professional art critics. Second, these are the same words that came to my mind when I saw your portrait of Piggert, the murderer. The very same words. I looked into the eyes of your Peter Piggert and I could feel him in the room with me. Startling. Astonishing. Alive. Unnerving. All these things that you say about the Holbein portrait. For the Holbein I paid a little over eight million dollars. The amount is a secret, but I tell you, anyway. Eight million, one hundred fifty thousand dollars—for one golden daffodil. One day, perhaps, I will sell it for three times that much. So now I pay one hundred thousand each for a few David Gurney daffodils, and one day, perhaps, I will sell them for ten times that. Who can say? You will toast this future with me, please? A toast—that we may both get from the transaction the satisfaction that we wish?”

Jykynstyl seemed to sense Gurney’s skepticism. “It only seems like a lot of money because you aren’t yet accustomed to it. It’s not because your work isn’t worth it. Remember that. You are being rewarded for your extraordinary insight and your ability to convey that insight—not unlike Hans Holbein. You are a detective not only of the criminal mind but of human nature. Why should you not be paid appropriately?”

Jykynstyl raised his glass of Latour. Gurney followed the gesture uncertainly with his Montrachet.

“To your insight and your work, to our business arrangement, and to you yourself, Detective David Gurney.”

“And to you, Mr. Jykynstyl.”

They drank. The experience surprised Gurney pleasantly. Although he was far from being a connoisseur, he thought the Montrachet was the best wine he’d ever tasted—and one of the few in
his memory that ignited an instant desire for a second glass. As he finished the first, the young woman who had brought him up in the elevator appeared at his side with an odd glimmer in her eyes to provide the desired refill.

For the next few minutes, the two men ate in silence. The cold bass was wonderful, and the Montrachet only seemed to make it more so. When Sonya had broached the subject of Jykynstyl’s interest two days earlier, Gurney’s mind had wandered briefly into fantasies of what the money could buy, geographical fantasies that carried him to the northwest coast—to Seattle and Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands in the summer sun, blue sky and blue water, the Olympic Mountains on the horizon. Now that image returned, seemingly fueled by the firming up of the financial promise of the Mug Shot Art project—fueled also by the second, even more delightful, glass of Montrachet.

Jykynstyl was speaking again, lauding Gurney’s perception, his psychological subtlety, his eye for detail. But it was the rhythm of the words that captivated Gurney’s attention now, more than their meaning, the rhythm lifting him, rocking him gently. Now the young women were smiling serenely and clearing the table, and Jykynstyl was describing exotic desserts. Something creamy with rosemary and cardamom. Something silky with saffron, thyme, and cinnamon. It made Gurney smile to imagine the man’s strangely complex accent as though it were itself a dish made with seasonings not normally combined.

He felt a thrilling, and wholly uncharacteristic, rush of freedom, optimism, and pride in his accomplishments. It was the way he had always wanted to feel—full of clarity and strength. The feeling blended into the glorious blues of water and sky, a boat racing forward in full white sail on the wings of a breeze that would never die.

And then he felt nothing at all.

N
o bone shatters as painfully as the illusion of invulnerability. Gurney had no idea how long he’d been sitting in his car, nor how it had gotten to where it was parked, nor what time it was. What he knew was that it was late enough to be dark, that he had a dizzying headache along with feelings of anxiety and nausea, and no memory of anything that had occurred after his second glass of wine at lunch. He checked his watch. It told him it was 8:45
P.M
. He’d never had so devastating a reaction to any amount of alcohol, much less two glasses of white wine.

The first explanation that came to mind was that he’d been drugged.

But why?

Staring blankly at that question intensified his anxiety. Staring helplessly into the empty space that should have been filled with recollections of the afternoon made it worse. Then he realized with a slap-in-the-face kind of surprise that he was sitting not behind the steering wheel of his car but in the passenger seat. The fact that it had taken a full minute of consciousness for him to become aware of this ratcheted his anxiety in the direction of panic.

He looked out the windows, front and back, and discovered that he was in the middle of a long block—probably a crosstown block somewhere in Manhattan—too far from either corner for him to read the street signs. The street was busy enough with normal traffic, mostly cabs tailgating other cabs, but no nearby pedestrians. He opened the door and got out cautiously, stiffly, achingly. He felt like
he’d been sitting for a long time in an awkward position. He looked up and down both sides of the street for some identifiable structure.

The unlighted building directly across the street from his car was some sort of institutional building, perhaps a school, with broad stone steps and massive doors at least ten feet high. The classical façade was colonnaded.

Then he saw it.

Above the high Greek columns, in the center of a kind of frieze extending the length of the four-story building, just below the heavily shadowed roofline, an engraved motto was barely visible:
AD STUDIUM VERITATIS
.

Ad Studium Veritatis? Genesius Prep? His own high school? What the hell …?

He stared, blinking, at the dark stone edifice, trying to make sense of the situation. He’d been in the passenger seat of his own car, so someone else must have driven him here. Who? He had no idea, no memory of driving or being driven.

Why here?

Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d been driven to this particular spot on this particular block out of a thousand blocks in Manhattan, directly across the street from the front door of the high school from which he’d graduated thirty years earlier—the academically revered institution to which he’d been awarded a scholarship, commuted to from his parents’ apartment in the Bronx, hated, and hadn’t visited since. A school he never spoke of. A school very few people knew he’d attended.

What in the name of God was going on?

Again he looked up and down the street, as if someone familiar might appear out of the darkness with a simple explanation. No one appeared. He got back into his car, this time into the driver’s seat. Finding his key in the ignition was a momentary relief, certainly better than not finding it, but did little to calm his jumping thoughts.

Sonya. Sonya might know something. She might have been in touch with Jykynstyl. But if Jykynstyl was responsible, if Jykynstyl had drugged him …

Was it possible that Sonya was part of it all? Had she set him up?

Set him up for what? And why? What sense did any of it make? And why bring him here? Why go to the trouble? How would Jykynstyl know what high school he’d gone to? And what would the point be? To prove that the details of his personal life were accessible? To focus him on the past? To remind him of something specific from his teenage years, some person or event from those wretched years at St. Genesius? Give him a panic attack? But why on earth would the world-renowned Jay Jykynstyl want to do any of that?

It was ridiculous.

On the other hand, to pile conundrum on conundrum, was there any proof that the man he’d met in the brownstone was in fact Jay Jykynstyl? But if he wasn’t—if the man was an impostor—what could be the point of so elaborate a deception?

And if in fact he’d been drugged, what was the nature of the drug? Had it knocked him out in the manner of a powerful sedative or anesthetic, or was it something like Rohypnol—a disinhibiting amnesiac—a more problematic possibility?

Or was there something organically wrong with him? Severe dehydration could produce disorientation, even some memory confusion.

But not like this. Not a total eight-hour memory blackout.

A brain tumor? Embolism? Stroke?

Was it conceivable that he had left Jykynstyl’s brownstone, gotten into his car, decided on some nostalgic whim to take a look at his old school, gotten out of his car, maybe even gone inside, and then …?

And then what? Come back out, maybe gotten into the passenger seat to put something into the glove box or take something out of it, and then had some sort of seizure? Passed out? A certain type of seizure could produce retroactive amnesia, blocking recall of the period preceding as well as following it. Was that it—some acute brain pathology?

Questions and more questions. And no answers. There was a tightness in the pit of his stomach like a fistful of gravel.

He looked in the glove box but found nothing unusual. The car manual, a few old service receipts, a small flashlight, the plastic cap from a water bottle.

He patted his jacket pockets and found his cell phone. There were seven voice-mail messages and one text message waiting for him. Apparently he’d been in demand during the missing hours. Maybe among the messages would be the explanation he was looking for.

The first voice mail, received at 3:44
P.M.
, was from Sonya.
“David? You still at lunch? I guess that’s a good sign. I want to know everything. Call me the minute you can. Kiss, kiss.”

Voice mail number two, at 4:01, was from the DA.
“David, Sheridan Kline here. Wanted to fill you in as a matter of courtesy. A question you had raised regarding the Karnala Fashion angle—you might want to know that that’s been checked out, and there’s some interesting information on that. You know anything about the Skard family? S-K-A-R-D. Give me a call ASAP.”

Skard? A peculiar name, and there was something familiar about it, a feeling that he had come upon it before, perhaps seen it in print somewhere, not all that long ago.

Number three, at 4:32, was from Kyle.
“Hi, Dad. What’s up? So far Columbia’s great, I think. I mean, it’s read, read, read, lecture, lecture, lecture, read, read, read. But it’s going to be worth it. Really worth it. You have any idea what a good class-action trial attorney can make? Monster bucks! Got to run. Late for another class. Keep forgetting what time it is. Call you later.”

Number four, at 5:05, was Sonya again.
“David? What’s happening? Is this the world’s longest lunch or what? Call me. Call me!”

Number five, the shortest, at 5:07, was from Hardwick.
“Hey, ace, I’m back on the case!”
He sounded nasty, triumphant, and drunk.

Number six, at 5:50, was from Kline’s favorite forensic psychologist.
“Hi, David, this is Rebecca Holdenfield. Sheridan said you were getting some ideas about the machete murderer that you wanted to discuss. I’m pretty busy, but for this I can find time. Mornings are terrible, later in the day is better. Call me with some days and hours that work for you, and we’ll figure something out. From what little I know so far, I’d say you’re chasing a very sick man.”
The animation bubbling beneath her professional tone made it clear that she liked nothing better than chasing a very sick man. She concluded by leaving a number with an Albany area code.

The seventh and final voice mail, received at 8:35, was from Sonya.
“Shit, David, are you alive?”

He checked his watch again: 8:58
P.M
.

He listened again to the last message, and then again, searching for a serious meaning in Sonya’s question. There didn’t seem to be any, beyond the exasperation of someone whose calls weren’t being returned. He started to call her back, then remembered he also had a text message and decided to check that first.

It was short, anonymous, ambiguous:
SUCH PASSIONS! SUCH SECRETS! SUCH WONDERFUL PHOTOGRAPHS!

He sat and stared at it. On second thought, although it left much to the imagination, it wasn’t ambiguous at all. In fact, what it left to the imagination was far too clear.

He could feel the imagined contents of those photos exploding in his life like a roadside bomb.

K
eeping his balance, staying focused, and subjecting the facts to a dispassionate analysis had been the pillars of Gurney’s success as a homicide cop.

At the moment he was having a hell of a time doing any of those things. His mind was churning with unknowns, with terrible possibilities.

Who the hell was this Jykynstyl character? Or was the proper question, who the hell was this character posing as Jykynstyl? What was the nature of the threat, the purpose of the threat? It was fairly certain that the scenario, whatever it was, was criminal. The hope that he’d gotten harmlessly drunk or that the text message had a harmless meaning seemed delusional. He needed to face the fact that he’d been drugged and that the worst-case scenario—involving a massive dose of Rohypnol in that first glass of white wine—was the most likely scenario.