Blind Sight Read online

  ALSO BY CAROL O’CONNELL

  It Happens in the Dark

  The Chalk Girl

  Bone by Bone

  Find Me

  Winter House

  Dead Famous

  Crime School

  Shell Game

  Judas Child

  Stone Angel

  Killing Critics

  The Man Who Cast Two Shadows

  Mallory’s Oracle

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Carol O’Connell

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: O’Connell, Carol, 1947– author.

  Title: Blind sight / Carol O’Connell.

  Description: New York : G.P. Putnam’s Sons, [2016] | Series: A Mallory novel

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016008417| ISBN 9780399184239 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780399184253 (ePub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mallory, Kathleen (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Police—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. | Policewomen—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Crime. | FICTION / Thrillers. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3565.C497 B58 2016 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://protect-us.mimecast.com/s/6ROwBVHV0gmvsb?domain=lccn.loc.gov

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Support your local bookstore . . . please.

  The reborn samizdat of the Internet is not enough to keep ideas alive and burning bright, not in a future with only one store on a scorched landscape that used to be a marketplace.

  —Carol O’Connell

  CONTENTS

  Also by Carol O’Connell

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Marc Maurer, president of the National Federation of the Blind, was very kind in his advice to me, which included terminology: He calls the blind “the blind” (more sensible than the terms that seek to avoid that word for reasons known only to the politically correct). My friend Richard Hughes read the first draft of this novel, and I thank him for his peerless insults and sarcasm. More thanks to Dianne Burke, another old friend and a world-class researcher. A special thank you to Ken Gates, who knows things about roses. And I owe a debt to the late Dr. Kenneth Jernigan, posthumously my guide for what to leave out of the novel. This man, blind from birth, railed against writers’ clichés in his essay, Blindness: Is Literature Against Us? I read it. I aimed for grace.

  PROLOGUE

  The unusual was common here, yet the heads of local people did turn to stare as she walked by. Others, the sightseers, only looked at landmarks for the way life used to be. They had little interest in life ongoing all around them, and so the woman robed in black moved past them. In plain sight. Unseen.

  Shops and cafés opened under a blue sky over St. Marks Place, and the first wave of tourists, a dozen or so, gathered round their guide as he spoke of a bygone era when this neighborhood was edgy, dangerous, drugged up—and fun, when the nights had reeked of marijuana for three city blocks. “No need to score reefer in those days,” he said. “You’d just breathe deep and get stoned. It was a party that went on for years.”

  “Decades,” said a portly, white-haired New Yorker, who had lived all his long life in an apartment above the family bodega. He turned his back on the tourists to work a squeaky crank on the wall. With a few swift turns, he lowered a striped awning to give his flower stall some shade. The stall was shallow, sized to fit a narrow sidewalk that was choked with sneakers and sandals as the walking tour walked on.

  Cars were forced to share the roadbed with two aging rock ’n’ rollers on foot. The bodega’s proprietor had a good eye for such people. Pilgrims, he called them. They stopped to snap pictures of their shrine, a brownstone that had appeared on an album cover dating back to music on vinyl and songs that were old when those two were young.

  Stepping out from the shade of his awning, the elderly man looked up at the sky. Cloudless. How he loved these early summer days when shoplifting children were still jailed in their classrooms. By a movement caught in the corner of one eye, he knew something dark was coming his way, and this, the first shock of the morning, brought out his widest smile.

  “Angie!” How many years had gone by? Too many. “So grown up!” Such a liar he was. Angela Quill had not aged a day. She was in her twenties now, but those big gray eyes were the eyes of a child who had yet to grow into them.

  When he released the girl from a bear hug, he stepped back to stare at what she wore, what she had become. The veil—even that was no longer common in her trade. But what of the rest? A white wimple framed her face. The wide black robe had enough material to clothe three of her. And there was length enough to hide her feet—so out of place in this age of raised hemlines for holy women.

  He plucked out his hearing aid to fiddle the volume and cure a squeal in the works. “What? Say again?” Oh, she was a cloistered nun? He never would have chosen that path for her. Such women were shut away from the world, sealed up behind walls until they died.

  Yet here she was—out and about in the city. How could that be? What—

  She wanted to buy flowers, but the ones in his stall were all wrapped by the dozen in bouquets. Would he sell her only two roses? She had money for two.

  “For you? Here.” He loaded her arms with two dozen red blooms—so happy was he to see her again. “And I won’t take your money.” They talked awhile, and his every sentence began with “I remember when—” When she was only ten years old, Angie had been his flower girl, his inspiration for the stall. After an early killing frost, the little girl had taken dead rosebushes from his upstairs window
box. Come spring, she had given the fruit of their seedpods to him as tender potted plants. Nowadays, all his plants and cut flowers arrived on a truck. It was not the same—not so charming as a canny child who could bring roses back to him from the dead.

  Did he know the time?

  “You have to go? So soon?” His attention was called away by a customer—only for a moment. When he turned back to speak with Angie, she was not beside him anymore and nowhere to be seen. How could she leave him with no goodbye? And she had not taken her roses with her. Not all of them. Only two. And a few dollar bills had been left behind. His eyes searched the street. Her long black robe should have made her a standout in this season of bare-legged people.

  But no. Poof. Gone. And so fast. How had she—

  A woman screamed.

  Angie? Oh, God, no!

  Coming his way was a gaggle of teenage girls with high-pitched shrieks of laughter. So loud. He turned down the volume of his hearing aid. And the scream was blamed upon them. Damn kids. They could stop a man’s heart.

  —

  “HEADS UP, EVERYBODY.” The walking tour came to a halt in front of a vacant store, and the guide pointed to the apartment house on the other side of the street.

  The resident of the second floor, an elderly shut-in, thought this man might be pointing up at her, but no, he sang out the name of a long-dead poet who had once lived here.

  She wished the tourists would go away. They impeded her view.

  The woman in the wheelchair was a creature of the clock, and precisely fifty minutes remained of her customary hour at the window, time enough for a bit of breakfast and her crossword puzzle. Also, she secretly kept company with the old man down on the sidewalk across the street. Though she had not spoken to him in years, she was that rare old-timer of St. Marks Place who knew him by name and could recall a day when Albert Costello was a lively, talkative man. Now he was a hermit. However, he did have ritual outings, and so she knew right where to find him every morning at nine o’clock, when she would wheel her chair to the window, and there—

  Oh! Where was that skinny old fool?

  She had looked away from the window to fill in a few blank squares of her puzzle. In only those few seconds, her companion had disappeared, abandoning his post down there by the streetlamp—and long before their shared hour had ended.

  Where could he have wandered off to? Albert was as old as she was. He could not move that fast, not even if he had traveled only as far as the door to his apartment building. She scanned the river of tourists on the sidewalk below, but his dear balding head was not there in the swim with them.

  Well, that was different. She liked her puzzles, but this one was disturbing.

  A woman’s scream from the street was less interesting.

  —

  THE TOUR GUIDE faced a clothing store. “That used to be a jazz club. Charlie Parker played there. Greatest sax man who ever lived.” His group paused to snap photographs of the famous nightspot that was not there anymore.

  And now they had the attention of a young man in blue jeans, who stood on the sidewalk, tying an apron around his waist. The local trade never amounted to much before noon, but he was in need of a smoke before all those freaking tourists descended on the café. Aw, they were turning his way. Too late? Well, still time for a puff, maybe two. A cigarette dangled from the waiter’s mouth as he leaned against the brick wall and struck a match. He watched a child come round a corner, a blind boy tapping a white cane on the pavement—and ditching school. Good for you, kid. Then, with a flick of the wrist, the boy’s cane collapsed to a short wand in a conjuror’s sleight of hand.

  Neat trick. Was the kid even blind? So sure-footed was this little boy that he was either a faker or very much at home on St. Marks Place.

  A woman screamed. But no heads in the approaching tour group were turning to point the way to any trouble. No, these people were focused. Hungry. And screaming that could not be backed up with blood was written off to street noise. Nothing more.

  The tour group no longer blocked his view of the—

  The blind boy had disappeared. One second he was there—then gone. He must have ducked into a doorway. But the illusion of a vanishing act remained with the waiter as yet another neat trick.

  —

  INCREDIBLY, the troop of sightseers had witnessed nothing, every pair of eyes turned elsewhere as they spilled into the narrow street and crossed over.

  The lady from Bora Bora watched them file into the café. Though she was hungry, breakfast could wait until her son arrived. She looked to the west, the direction of his university. No sign of him. Where was her student prince? She spoke Tahitian, French and a smattering of Japanese, but she had no words that Americans might understand. And so, for the past week, her eldest child had been her guide through this part of the world. He was late to join her for a last meal and a kiss goodbye before she must leave for the airport.

  She did not mind the wait. Her homeland in the South Pacific was a place of great beauty and deep peace, but this other island, Manhattan, was an intoxicating display of action—theater of the street. Without her son to translate, some acts would always be inexplicable. And the most recent one had been over in a snatch of seconds when two people had disappeared.

  At the end of her long journey home, she would speak of the drama that had unfolded on the sidewalk. She would retell it as a fabulous fable for her youngest child, a little boy who loved nothing better than a scary story. “Flying down the street,” she would say to him, “a running woman’s long black robe became dark wings spread upon the wind.”

  In a fury, the Bird Woman of St. Marks Place had attacked a muscular man and ridden his back—and that part was true. “Claws dug in. Her black wings flapping. His arms flailing.” The tense battle of man and giant bird had just begun when they vanished—in seconds—disappearing behind a brief curtain drawn in the form of sightseers passing by, and so it seemed that Bird Woman had flown up and away with her prey clutched in talons.

  Though, in truth, at the sound of the great bird’s victory scream, the lady from Bora Bora had never turned her eyes to the sky. The scream had not come from up there. But, for the sake of the story, she would only rely on the magical logic of the moment.

  1

  If they knew why he had come here, all these men would turn him away.

  The odyssey had begun in the morning on St. Marks Place, not half a mile from this SoHo police station, and now it was night. A bank of tall, grimy windows worked poorly as mirrors, reflecting his white hair and face, but not his black cassock, and so Father Brenner’s head appeared to float across the squad room—slowly—though his mission here was urgent.

  Long fluorescent tubes of light spanned the high ceiling, some of them twitchy, blinking off and on with a nervous sputter, and telephones glowed with red lights, the tiny alarms of those left hanging on the line. Half the desks were occupied by tired detectives drinking coffee, tapping keyboards and talking among themselves.

  All conversation stopped.

  Heads lifted here and there to note his passage, and one man winced when it was apparent that the elderly priest was heading for Kathy Mallory’s desk.

  Understood.

  Father Brenner reminded himself to address her as Detective Mallory, having lost the right to any familiarity when she was a child in his parish school, enrolled there by her foster mother, Helen Markowitz. That good woman had suspected that Kathy was born a Catholic, but suspicion was all that Helen and her husband ever had to work with. The little girl had told them nothing useful, not even her right age. So she might have been ten years old at that first meeting in his office, but certainly not eleven, the age on her application.

  The child had been presented to him in the guise of a small Botticelli angel. Backlit by sunlight that day, her blond curls had gleamed like a dammed halo.

  Here, h
e paused in his recollection and his steps.

  Yes, damned was a fitting word for that early impression. A second look at her had pretty much killed his angel analogy. The long slants of her eyes held a shade of green not found in nature, not God’s work. Even then, long before she would grow up to carry a gun, he had intuited that she was dangerous. Another early indicator was a teaching nun, who had been left with a rather bad limp to mark the close of Kathy’s final semester.

  The priest still carried guilt for his blindness to Sister Ursula’s eccentricity. No, call it cruelty. Crazy old woman.

  Upon his first visit to this police station, he had brought Inspector Markowitz’s foster child along to explain the plaster cast on her wrist—and the nun in the hospital. The meeting had not gone well. Guided by a schoolgirl code of Thou shalt not rat, Kathy had refused to confirm Sister Ursula’s assault on her. Honoring the child’s resolve, the inspector had called it a breakeven day, “My kid’s broken wrist for the nun’s mangled leg.” But outside of Kathy’s hearing, Louis Markowitz had offered the priest the angry choice of “Put that nun in a bughouse, or put her down like a dog. Pick one!”

  Father Brenner had selected the bughouse option.

  Tonight, his eyeglasses sweated down the bridge of his nose. It was taking him such a long time to cross this room and meet with the grown-up Kathy Mallory; he was that anxious to see her again. He had spoken with her commanding officer in passing at the downstairs door, and Lieutenant Coffey had waived the protocol of a visitor’s badge and pointed the way up the staircase to the Special Crimes Unit. And so the priest might believe that he was coming upon this young woman unannounced—catching her unawares.

  Foolish idea? Oh, yes.

  As a child, she had given him the eerie sense that her vision extended to the back of her head—and spookier still—to the inside of his head. He kept this illusion saved away with others in his mythology of her, a book of many pages.

  Not a holy book.