A fierce gust of wind hit the building. Amaia heard the crash of a shattering window somewhere, a couple of yells, and some loud swearing.
“What was that?” Clayton Gray asked. He’d heard the noise through the line.
“A hurricane, Mr. Gray. I’m calling from New Orleans.”
“From Katrina? What on earth are you doing there, my dear?”
Amaia exhaled slowly as she put her thoughts in order. “I also have a photo of Martin Lenx here, a solo portrait, maybe you took it on that same day,” she said, steering the conversation back to the subject of her call.
“I understand why you might think that, since he was wearing the same clothes, but I actually took that one two days later. Martin Lenx turned up at the studio and told me he wanted a photo of himself alone. Quickest portrait I ever did in my life. He came in, struck his pose, and I clicked the shutter once. Martin didn’t even let me take a backup shot. He told me that was how he wanted it, and he was sure it was perfect.”
Amaia ran her pencil across the eighteen-year-old calendar that Johnson had found for them. Two days after the family photo. On the same day he got the bank’s rejection notice, the day before he applied for a gun permit, Martin Lenx had his image preserved in a perfect photo, all alone.
She thanked Clayton and said goodbye, just before all the sirens at the fire station erupted in a sustained howl. She looked up. Other alarms were going off on the street outside. Johnson leaped to his feet. She looked at him, perplexed. He tapped the face of his watch and mouthed “curfew.” She nodded, looked down again, and went back to her study of the photo of Lenx.
She zoomed in closer. Lenx’s lips appeared slightly pursed, clear evidence of tension in the zygomaticus major and minor, the muscles that control the movements of the mouth. There was no doubt the man was suppressing a smile, as if pleased by some secret knowledge.
There are many types of smiles. Most are fake. For example, the smile someone assumes when posing for a photo; or the slightly pained look someone gets in response to an inappropriate joke; that seductive smile that spreads across your face when someone attracts you sexually; or the sarcastic smile so typical of politicians when asked a difficult question. And then there’s the authentic smile, the smile of real happiness. She remembered that when she was little and felt sad, she would try to smile to conceal it from her aunt, but in vain: “You’re not fooling me, Amaia. Your eyes aren’t smiling.”
Amaia enlarged the image once more and focused on the eyes. Even through the lenses of his heavy-framed glasses, Amaia detected the signs. The tension of the orbiculares oculi stretches the skin above the cheekbones taut to form subtle wrinkles around the eyes. Psychopathic individuals learn to imitate ordinary human emotions, but she’d never known of a psycho who could control the autonomic response of the orbiculares. To her mind, those smiling eyes established his profile beyond any doubt. He had been happy when it was taken. Inexpressibly happy.
26
HER WINNER’S SMILE
Elizondo
Engrasi took the Mendinueta bridge across the Baztán, turned onto Calle Braulio Iriarte, and walked downstream. The house where she’d lived since returning from Paris was midway down the street. The walls of massive stone block protected it from the damp of the river, though Engrasi could swear she sometimes felt the Baztán flowing under her feet.
She wasn’t paying too much attention to her surroundings as she enjoyed the brilliance of the sun reflected in the roiling river. Sunbeams caressed her through her clothing and infused her with warmth. That’s why she didn’t see Rosario at first. The woman was dressed in an elegantly tailored suit. Her jacket was beige. She wore shoes with medium heels and carried a brown purse dangling from a short strap, her left hand pressing it to her hip in a gesture that appeared casual but was carefully calculated. The mahogany highlights in her impeccably combed chestnut hair glinted in the brilliant sunlight. She was standing at Engrasi’s front door, waiting.
Rosario smiled when she saw Engrasi approaching. Hers was a full, beatific smile. She removed her sunglasses to reveal her eyes, almost as if to force her smile upon Engrasi. The cheerful crinkle about her eyes showed her expression was one of complete happiness.
Engrasi stopped short. She wasn’t afraid of Rosario, but her sister-in-law’s triumphant smile made her uneasy. Engrasi didn’t doubt its authenticity for a moment. She’d remained perpetually on her guard since the night her brother had turned up at her house unexpectedly. Engrasi trusted her intuition, and it warned her that Rosario had prepared some kind of ambush.
“Why are you here, Rosario?”
“Aren’t you happy to see me, sister-in-law?”
“No.” Engrasi didn’t bother to say more than that.
Rosario put her sunglasses back on. “Well, there’s no need to be rude. It’s been a long time since we talked, you and I. I thought it was time for a little chat.”
Engrasi didn’t move. Her stare was unforgiving. “What do you want, Rosario? Why are you here?”
Rosario’s smile seemed to widen, if that was even possible. “Juan told me about the little talk you two had . . .”
Engrasi said nothing.
“Just between us, my dear sister-in-law, I have to admit I underestimated you. Not on purpose, don’t misinterpret me. It’s just that I don’t know much about the cute games psychiatrists and psychologists play. To tell you the truth, they always seemed like idiots and navel gazers.” She shrugged and made a pouting grimace that in other circumstances might have appeared coquettish. “So I apologize, little sister-in-law. You really were quite clever.”
Engrasi tilted her head and pursed her lips. Her expression hardened. The affectations and poisoned politeness didn’t fool her; Rosario’s apparent amiability was charged with venom. She stood her ground and refused to flinch when Rosario stepped close and patted her arm in a confiding manner.
“I’m not reproaching you, Engrasi, for I know it’s partly my fault. I made it easy for you. But even so, I have to admit you were clever. You saw the opportunity and you took it.”
“I don’t know what you mean. There was no opportunity. A man came to my door with an injured child in his arms.”
Rosario smiled again as if none of that was important. “I told you already, little sister-in-law, there’s no need to be rude. I really thought it would be easier to talk with a psychologist.” Her leer suggested the comment was supposed to be witty. “I wasn’t healthy back then, Engrasi, so I wasn’t responsible for my actions. But that’s changed now. I’m taking my medicines; the treatment has done me a world of good.” Another satisfied smile was followed by a feigned confidence: “Don’t think I was always like this. At first, I was reluctant to take medical advice. The drugs made me feel terrible—sleepy, slow, even a bit stupid. I hated that, sister-in-law, because if there’s one thing I definitely am not, it’s stupid. I was frightened, panicked even, because I thought those pills had warped my personality; after all, a woman is defined by her personality.”
Engrasi crossed her arms over her chest and continued to stare. She was beginning to tire of this performance, but she needed to know where Rosario was headed.