“Well, yeah. Again, it’s one of those rules of horror films. Straight out of—”
“Yeah, yeah. Horror 101. What sort of mutilations?”
“A few fingers get chopped off. A girl gets the number 666 carved into her forehead.”
“Don’t forget the ear,” reminded Amber.
“Oh, yeah. One guy gets his ear sliced off, like van Gogh.”
You people are sick.
“What about the eyes?” said Frost. “Do any of the characters get their eyes cut out?”
The filmmakers looked at one another.
“No,” said Travis. “Why are you asking about eyes?”
“Because of the title. The movie’s called I See You.”
“But you asked specifically about eyes getting cut out. Why? Did something like that happen to…” Travis paused, horror suddenly registering on his face.
Amber pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God. Did that happen to Cassandra?”
Jane didn’t answer but moved on to another question. “How many people saw that movie?” Again, she pointed to the poster.
For a moment, no one spoke. They were still stunned by what they’d just learned. In their world, all the blood was fake and the limbs were rubber props, mere cartoon violence. Welcome to my world. The real world.
“How many?” Jane asked again.
“We don’t really know,” admitted Travis. “We did sell some DVDs. Made about a thousand bucks from video downloads. Plus, we showed it at those film festivals.”
“Give me an estimate.”
“Maybe a few thousand people saw it. But we have no idea who they are. The horror audience is worldwide, so they could be living anywhere.”
“You don’t think she was killed by someone who saw our movie?” said Amber. “I mean, that’s crazy! Horror fans may look scary, but they’re actually really nice and well-adjusted people.” She pointed to the computer screen, where the killer’s silhouette was still frozen. “Movies like Mr. Simian, they’re all about helping us process fear, about working through our inner aggressions. They’re therapeutic.” She shook her head. “The nasties don’t watch horror films.”
“You know what the real assholes watch?” said Ben. “Romantic comedies.”
Travis opened a desk drawer, pulled out a DVD, and handed it to Jane. “A copy of I See You. It’s all yours, Detective.”
“And the movie you’re working on now? You have a DVD of Mr. Simian we can watch?”
“Sorry, we’re still editing, so it’s not ready to be seen yet. But take a look at I See You and tell us what you think. And if there’s anything else you need, we’re ready to help.”
“If this really does have something to do with I See You, should we all be worried?” Amber said. “Will the killer come after us?”
There was a long silence as the three filmmakers considered that possibility.
It was Travis who said, softly: “It’s Horror 101.”
THE SEDATED PATIENT LYING IN the hospital bed looked nothing like the man Jane had interviewed only a few hours earlier. This was a deflated version of Matthew Coyle, gray and shrunken, his jaw sagging open. In contrast to that colorless ghost, the woman seated at his bedside was a startling splash of color: flame hair, an emerald blouse, bright-red lipstick. Though Priscilla Coyle was fifty-eight, nearly as old as Matthew, she looked at least a decade younger, her skin burnished and Botoxed, her body as toned as an athlete’s. Beside her sickly husband, she was the picture of vitality, and judging by her tailored dress and high heels, a vigil at his bedside was not what she’d planned to be doing this evening.
Priscilla glanced at her watch and said to Jane and Frost, “You’ll have to come back in the morning to speak to him. He was so agitated the doctors had to sedate him, and he’ll probably sleep straight through the night.”
“Actually, we’re here to talk to you, Mrs. Coyle,” said Jane.
“Why? I can’t really tell you anything. I spent the whole afternoon in a board meeting for the Gardner Museum. I had no idea anything was wrong until the hospital called to tell me Matthew was admitted.”
“Can we step out of the room? There’s a visitors’ lounge down the hall where we can talk.”
“I really should get home soon. There are so many people I need to notify.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” Frost assured her. “We just need to confirm some details about what happened when.”
Matthew Coyle had been admitted to Pilgrim Hospital’s VIP wing, where the visitors’ lounge featured a wide-screen TV, leather-upholstered furniture, and a well-stocked Keurig coffeemaker. Priscilla settled on the sofa, her Prada crocodile purse perched beside her, and casually slung her Cucinelli coat across the armrest. Jane had once sneaked a peek at a Cucinelli price tag, so she knew how expensive that cashmere coat was. If she ever owned such a coat, she’d keep it locked up in a safety-deposit box, not thoughtlessly toss it around as Priscilla did.
Frost pulled up a chair to face Priscilla and said, “Tell us what happened today, Mrs. Coyle.” It was an easy, open-ended question, yet Priscilla seemed to consider her answer a long time before speaking.
“Matthew was supposed to meet Cassandra for lunch at the Four Seasons. When she didn’t show up at the restaurant, he called me, asking if I’d heard from her. I hadn’t. Then a few hours later, the hospital called to tell me that he’d been admitted with a heart attack.”
“Did they often meet for lunch?”
“Hardly ever. Cassie’s so busy, she scarcely even bothers to…” Priscilla paused. Corrected herself. “She had her own life, so we didn’t see much of her. But today was a special occasion.”
“Your husband told us it was a birthday lunch.”
Priscilla nodded. “Her birthday’s actually December thirteenth, but we were out of town. So they planned to celebrate today instead.”
“You weren’t going to join them?”
“I had that board meeting already scheduled, and I didn’t think…” Priscilla’s voice faded, and she looked down to fuss with the gold clasp of her purse. It was what she didn’t say that intrigued Jane. Sometimes there was more meaning in silence than in words.
“How did you and your daughter get along?” Jane asked.
“Cassandra was actually my stepdaughter.” She shrugged. “We weren’t particularly close.”
“Were you at odds?”
At this, Priscilla looked up. “I’ll be honest. Matthew divorced Cassandra’s mother to marry me. So you can understand why we had tensions. She’s always held that against me, even though her parents’ marriage was essentially over long before Matthew and I got involved. Now it’s nineteen years later, and I’m still the other woman, even though my money paid for her tuition at NYU, and my money financed her ridiculous—” Priscilla caught herself, and she stared down at her crocodile purse again, a purse that symbolized exactly what she’d brought to the marriage. Matthew Coyle had left his wife for a woman accustomed to Prada and Cucinelli, a financial inequality that could strain any relationship.
“Do you know anyone who might want to harm Cassandra?” asked Jane. “Any ex-boyfriends, any enemies?” Aside from you.
“I’m not aware of any. But, then, I didn’t keep close tabs on her life. After Matthew and I married, Cassandra stayed behind with her mother in Brookline.”
“Where is her mother now? We need to speak to her.”
“Elaine’s in London right now, visiting friends. She’ll catch a flight home day after tomorrow. At least, that’s what she said in her email.”
“You emailed her the news about Cassandra?”
“Well, someone had to let her know.”
Jane tried to imagine receiving such an email: Your daughter’s been murdered. The hatred must run deep between these women for the news of a daughter’s death to be delivered by a few cool taps on a smartphone.
“I really don’t know what else I can tell you,” said Priscilla.
“Do you know any of
Cassandra’s friends?”
Priscilla wrinkled her nose. “I’ve met those three kids she works with.”
“Kids?”
“They graduated from college four years ago, and they look like they still sleep in their clothes. You’d think by now they’d have jobs. I have no idea how they feed themselves, making those movies.”
“Did you happen to watch Cassandra’s first movie?”
“I sat through maybe fifteen minutes of I See You. It was all I could stand.” She looked in the direction of her husband’s hospital room. “Matthew sat through the whole bloody thing. Talked himself into liking it, because what else could he do? He wanted to make his little girl happy. After all these years, he’s still trying to make up for leaving her mother, and Cassie was happy to take whatever he offered. The free apartment, the studio space. But I don’t think she ever really forgave him.”
“Did they get along? Your husband and Cassandra?”
“Of course.”
“Yet you say Cassandra never forgave him. Were there arguments, maybe about money?”
“Don’t all kids fight about money with their parents?”
“Sometimes those fights get out of hand.”
Priscilla shrugged. “They had issues. I’m sure the subject of money was going to come up at their lunch today. She’s been hinting she needed more, to finish the new movie she’s making. Just another reason why I didn’t want to join them for lunch.” She paused. “Why are you asking about Matthew? You can’t possibly think he had anything to do with this?”
“Just routine questions, ma’am,” Frost said. “We always have to look at the immediate family.”
“He’s her father. Don’t you have any real suspects?”
“Do you know any, Mrs. Coyle?”
Priscilla considered the question. “Cassie was a pretty girl, and pretty girls attract attention. When you catch a man’s eye, you have no idea what that might lead to. Maybe he’ll get obsessed. Maybe he’ll follow you home and…We all know what can happen to women.”
Certainly Jane knew. She’d seen the evidence in the morgue, in the battered bodies and the pretty faces slashed by rejected suitors. She thought of the gaping sockets that had once contained Cassandra’s eyes, eyes that must have seen the killer. Had she looked at him with disdain or disgust? Is that why he’d felt compelled to scoop out the eyes, so they would never again look at him?
Priscilla reached for her coat. “I need to go home. It’s been an awful day.”
“One last question before you leave, Mrs. Coyle,” said Jane.
“Yes?”
“Where were you and your husband last night?”
“Last night?” Priscilla frowned. “Why?”
“Again, it’s just a routine question.”
Priscilla’s lips tightened. “All right. Since you feel the need to ask it, I’ll be happy to answer. Matthew and I were home last night. I cooked dinner. Salmon and broccoli, if it matters to you. And then we watched a movie on TV.”
“Which movie?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. It was some old movie on Turner Classics. Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”
“And after that?”
“After that, we went to bed.”
—
“YOU EVER WATCHED INVASION OF the Body Snatchers?” asked Frost as he and Jane sat in the hospital cafeteria, wolfing down sandwiches. At that late hour, tuna salad and ham and cheese were the only choices left in the vending machine. Jane’s tuna sandwich was soggy, but at least it was dinner—something they’d both skipped that evening.
“Hasn’t that movie been remade about half a dozen times?” she asked.
“I’m not talking about the remakes. I mean the classic black-and-white version, the one with Kevin McCarthy.”
“Black-and-white? That’s kind of before our time, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but that film’s timeless. Alice calls it the perfect metaphor for alienation. She says that when someone transforms into a pod person, like in the movie, it’s the same as your husband or wife turning into a stranger, someone who no longer loves you. That makes it more disturbing than your typical monster flick, because the fear hits you on this deep psychological level.”
“Wait. Since when are you talking to Alice again?”
“Since…I don’t know. A few weeks ago. Last night we watched Body Snatchers together. It was on TV at nine P.M., so Priscilla Coyle was telling the truth when she said she saw it with her husband.”
“You spent the night with Alice?”
“We just had dinner and watched some TV. Then I went home.”
“Remind me. Your divorce has been final for how many months now?”
“This doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”
Jane sighed and put down her soggy tuna sandwich. Why did everyone she cared about seem to be making such bad personal decisions lately? First there was Maura, going to visit that psycho Amalthea Lank. Now Frost, whom she thought of as her younger brother, was once again taking up with his ex-wife. She remembered his tearful late-night phone calls after Alice had left him for her law school classmate, nights when Jane had agonized about whether she should confiscate his weapon just to keep him safe. And she thought of the months that followed, of listening to his woeful litany of bad dates with women who were never pretty enough or brilliant enough to replace Alice, the bitch. Now she saw the tragic cycle repeating again, joy and heartbreak, joy and heartbreak. Frost deserved better than this.
It was time for some tough love.
“Since you two are talking again,” said Jane, “did Alice happen to mention how her boyfriend’s doing? That guy she met in law school?”
“She finished law school. She already has her degree.”
“All the better to screw you in court.”
“But she didn’t screw me. Our divorce was civilized.”
“Probably because she was feeling guilty about humping Mr. Law Student. Please tell me you’re going to be careful.”
Frost set down his sandwich as well and gave a deep sigh. “You know, life isn’t as black and white as you seem to think it is. There’s a reason I married Alice. She’s smart, she’s gorgeous, she’s funny—”
“She’s got a boyfriend.”
“No, that’s all over with. He got a job in D.C. and they broke up.”
“Oh. So that’s why she’s running back to reliable old you.”
“Geez, you don’t know what the dating market’s like these days. It’s like swimming in a sea of sharks. I’ve been on two dozen dates and they’ve all been disasters. Women aren’t like they used to be.”
“No, we have fangs now.”
“And no one wants to date a cop. They all seem to think we’ve got control issues.”
“Well, you definitely do. You let Alice control you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s probably why she bounced back into your life, because she knows she can wrap you around her little finger.” Jane leaned forward, intent on saving him from a mistake that would break his heart. “You can do better, really you can. You’re a nice guy; you’re smart. You’re gonna get a great pension.”
“Stop it. You always think you know better.” Frost, usually so pasty-faced, had flushed an indignant red. “Why are we talking about Alice anyway? We were discussing Body Snatchers.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She sighed. “The movie.”
“The point is, it was on TV last night, just like Mrs. Coyle said, so she’s telling the truth. And why would she kill her stepdaughter?”
“Because they hated each other?”
“When her husband wakes up, he’ll confirm the alibi.”
“Back to Alice. You do remember how much she hurt you? I don’t want to see that happen again.”
“That’s it. We’re done talking about this.” Frost crumpled his sandwich wrappings and got to his feet. Suddenly his head snapped up as the hospital’s paging system announced: Code Blue, Room 715. Code Blue, Room
715.
Frost turned to Jane. “Seven one five? Isn’t that…”
Matthew Coyle’s room.
She was right behind Frost as they dashed out of the cafeteria. Seven floors. Too far to climb. She slapped the elevator button once, twice. When the door slid open, she almost collided with a nurse stepping out.
“I thought he was gonna be okay,” said Frost as the elevator whooshed up to the seventh floor.
“A heart attack is never okay. And we never finished interviewing him.”
The door opened and a young woman in a scrub suit sprinted past, headed to Room 715. Through the open doorway, Jane could not see the patient, only the scrum of personnel crowded around his bed, an impenetrable wall of blue scrub suits.
“Vasopressin’s not working,” a woman called out.
“Okay, let’s go again. Two hundred joules.”
“I’m shocking on three. Everybody clear! One. Two. Three!”
Jane heard a thump. Tense seconds passed as all eyes turned to the cardiac monitor.
“Okay, we’ve got a rhythm! Sinus tach.”
“And a BP. Ninety over sixty.”
“Excuse me,” a voice said behind Jane. “Are you the patient’s family?”
Jane turned to see a nurse eyeing them. “We’re with Boston PD. This patient is a witness in a homicide case.”
“Please move away from the room.”
“What happened?” said Jane.
“Let the doctors do their jobs.”
As the nurse herded them back into the hallway, Jane caught a glimpse of Matthew Coyle’s bare foot. Against the white sheets, it was alarmingly blue and mottled. Then the door swung shut and that limp foot vanished from sight.
“Is he going to be okay?” Frost asked.
The nurse looked at the closed door and gave the only answer she could. “I don’t know.”
BLUE EYES IS STILL ASLEEP when I climb out of his bed the next morning. Our clothes are scattered all over the floor where we shed them, my blouse and his shirt by the door, my pants midway across the room, my bra coiled up like a lacy pink cobra by the nightstand. I gather up my clothes and purse and tiptoe into the bathroom. It’s just the sort of bathroom a man would design, with stark black tiles and a chrome-and-glass shower. There’s no tub in sight; men just don’t seem to value a good long soak in a bathtub. I pee into the sleek Numi toilet and wash my face and brush my teeth at the white-onyx sink. I always carry a spare toothbrush in my purse, for just such impromptu sleepovers, although I can’t remember the last time I spent the whole night in a man’s bed. Usually I’m up and on my way before dawn. I must have been tired last night.