Sissy held up her legal pad. On it, she had written, “Red Mask: Predicted Behavior Patterns,” and underlined it seven times.
“Is that all?”
“I can’t do it, Molly. Not logically. I know what the cards are telling me because I know what they’re telling me. But I can’t explain it to anybody else. Why do five magpies mean May? Because they do, that’s all. I can’t tell you why.”
Molly sat down beside her. “All right. But even if you can’t explain how you know what Red Mask is going to do next — what do you think he’s going to do?”
“He wants to kill dozens more people, I’m sure of it. He has the taste for it now. You see this card? You see this man in the background, stuffing himself with tripes? From what the cards are telling me, I’m kind of surprised that Red Mask only killed one person today. He enjoys stabbing people. He relishes the blood and the close physical contact and the power that it gives him over his victims. And for some reason he’s very vengeful, very self-righteous. He believes that he’s totally justified in committing all of these murders.
“The cards are telling me something else, too. Red Mask wants to be recognized. He wants to be notorious. He wants everybody in the city to be frightened of him. I think he’s going to contact the police or the media before too long and start making threats. Look here — this man shouting from the top of a tower.”
“And the roses? These roses are really gruesome, aren’t they? — these ones like bloodstained hands.”
Sissy took out a cigarette and lit it. “I’m not sure about the roses yet. But they show up in practically every card, don’t they? So they must be significant. I get the feeling that the cards are trying to tell me that I’m missing something really obvious, but I can’t for the life of me work out what it is.”
The phone warbled. Molly picked it up and said, “Sawyer residence.”
“Molly? It’s Mike Kunzel.”
“Mike? You must be psychic. I was just about to call you.”
“Really? I guess you’ve heard there’s been another homicide at the Giley Building.”
“Yes — yes, I did. It’s so horrible. The young guy who got stabbed, Jimmy Moulton? He worked with some friends of mine in the same animation studio.”
“Well, it was pretty damned brutal, I can tell you. Worst stabbing I’ve ever seen, bar none.”
“Do you think you’re looking for the same perpetrator?”
“We haven’t finished the forensics yet, but personally I’m ninety-nine percent sure of it.”
“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.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Red Secret
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.”