Graham Masterton - Death Mask

“My motherin-law thinks it is.”

“Your motherin-law?” Pause. “You mean your motherin-law who tells fortunes?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, it’s reassuring to know that we’re on the right track.”

“Mike — she’s read the cards, and she believes she knows what Red Mask is going to do next. She might even be able to help you to find him.”

“Molly, with respect, I’m looking for evidence here, not conjecture.”

“I’m not talking about conjecture. Sissy doesn’t do conjecture. Sissy reads the cards and interprets what they tell her about the future. And what they’ve been telling her about Red Mask, and his whole state of mind — well, I’ve told her that you probably won’t believe any of it. But don’t you think it’s worth your listening to what she has to say? Remember that her late husband was a police detective. She won’t deliberately waste your time, I promise.”

“You realize what will happen if the media find out that I’ve been talking to a fortune-teller? I’ll be back on traffic duty before you can say Crossing Over with John Edward .”

“The media won’t find out. And what do you have to lose?”

Detective Kunzel was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Okay, Molly. I need you down here anyhow, so you might as well bring her with. We have a witness here who says he caught a glimpse of the perpetrator, and I’d like you to see if you can rustle up another composite.”

“You’re still at the Giley Building?”

“That’s right. There’s a unit on its way right now to pick you up.”

Molly hung up the phone.

Sissy said, “Thank you for standing up for me. You were great.”

“I’ve told you. I believe in you. I always have. But I can’t guarantee that Mike Kunzel is going to be impressed.”

Sissy said, “Give me a minute. My hair’s such a mess.”

“Your hair is fine .”

“How can you say that? My hair’s always a mess. My hair is the Battle of the Wilderness, reenacted in hair.”

She stood in front of the mirror next to the door, trying to rearrange the pins and the combs that kept her hair up in a wild, lopsided bun.

“I’m really concerned about this Red Mask character,” she told her reflection.

“What’s to be concerned about?” said Molly. “All you have to do is tell Mike Kunzel what you saw in the cards. It’s up to him if he believes you or not, which he probably won’t.”

“But supposing Red Mask finds out what I’ve done? You can see how vengeful he is.”

“How can he possibly find out? Mike Kunzel’s not going to tell anybody that you talked to him, that’s for sure, and nobody else will, either.”

“I don’t know. But there’s something about Red Mask that’s really beginning to disturb me. It’s not like my usual readings. Usually, I pick up some sense of who people are. I can sense if they’re artistic or if they’re more practical. I can sense if they’re confident or shy. Sometimes I can even tell what kind of family they came from, and if they had any brothers or sisters. But Red Mask. he doesn’t give me anything . Blankness. Black. Nothing at all, except anger and revenge , and this terrible thirst for blood.”

“Sissy, they’ll catch the guy. They’re bound to. They’ll catch him and they’ll lock him up and they’ll probably give him a lethal injection.”

Sissy took hold of her hands and squeezed them. “I’m sorry. I see these signs and these warnings, and I usually read too much into them. You’re absolutely right.”

The doorbell sounded. “That must be our ride,” said Molly. “And remember — no magpies.”

A uniformed policeman took them through to the lobby, where Detective Kunzel and Detective Bellman were talking to two crime-scene investigators, one of them black and gray haired, like Morgan Freeman’s overweight cousin, the other blond and bespectacled and thin as a stick insect.

“Molly, thanks for coming down,” Detective Kunzel greeted her. “And — ah — thanks for bringing your motherin-law.”

“You’re more than welcome,” Sissy told him. “Anything I can do to help.”

Detective Kunzel led Molly to the super’s office. It was built into the right-hand side of the lobby, in a curve, with windows that looked right across to the elevator bank. Inside, Mr. Kraussman was sitting at his desk, which was heaped with invoices and newspapers and his half-eaten goetta sandwich in a crumpled foil wrapper. On the wall in front of him he had pinned up photographs of his wife and his children and his family schnauzer, and a photograph of himself standing next to a giant statue of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe, somewhere in rural Wisconsin.

“Molly, this is Mr. Herbert Kraussman. He’s the super here at the Giley Building. Mr. Kraussman, this is Molly Sawyer, our forensic sketch artist.”

Mr. Kraussman stood up, wiped his hand on the front of his shirt, and held it out. “Like on TV, right? I tell you what the guy looked like, you make a drawing.”

“That’s right, Mr. Kraussman. That’s exactly what I do.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you, ma’am. Like I said to this detective here, I only saw him for just one blink. Blink! And then he wasn’t there no more.”

“Well, you might surprise yourself,” said Molly. “Your brain, it’s like a camera. You may not think you saw very much, but in fact you saw everything. It’s a question of getting you to picture it in your mind’s eye and describe it to me. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Oh — forgive,” said Mr. Kraussman, and lifted a blue plastic box of dusters and cleaning sprays from a wooden armchair on the opposite side of his desk. Molly sat down and propped her sketch pad on her knee.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” said Detective Kunzel. He turned uncomfortably to Sissy. “Maybe you and I can discuss the future.”

They walked out into the lobby. The doors to the third elevator had been wedged open, and Sissy could see that the interior was spattered all the way up to the ceiling with blood. Morgan Freeman’s cousin was kneeling on the floor of the elevator car, taking photographs, and with every flash the elevator car appeared to jump. His skinny blond partner was dusting the mirrors for fingerprints, and another young CSI with a Zapata mustache was measuring the lobby with a laser. Detective Bellman and a half dozen other police officers were gathered around a makeshift table, studying the architect’s plans for the Giley Building.

“You think the killer is still here?” asked Sissy.

“Almost sure of it. The elevator doors opened, and Mr. Kraussman saw the suspect look out. Like he says, though, it was only for a split second. Then the doors closed again, and the elevator went back up and stopped at the seventeenth floor, which is where we found it with the victim’s body inside. No sign of the suspect, of course.

“No other exits were open at the time. There’s an emergency fire door in back and a service door for laundry and deliveries and such, but at that time of the morning the service door was locked and chained, and the emergency fire door has a seal on it, which you need to break to open it.

“So the logical conclusion is that the suspect is still hiding on the premises someplace, which is why we’re carrying out a floor-by-floor search. It’s a complicated old building with all kinds of attics and storage spaces and closets and cubbyholes, but we have seventy-seven officers deployed, and two dog handlers, so if he’s here, then we’ll find him.”

Sissy lifted her head. The lobby was echoing with conversation and footsteps and camera shutters clicking and somebody hammering. Detective Bellman called out, “Mike! Mike, c’mere, would ya?” and another officer said, “You’re breaking up, Stan, I can’t hear you,” as he talked to one of the dog handlers on his radio.