Jack in the Box

  JACK IN THE BOX

  Copyright © 2019 by Blake Banner

  All right reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

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

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  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY BLAKE BANNER

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  ONE

  It was spring, and all the trees that had been cold and naked during the long winter were now responding to the watery, early sun by sprouting small, succulent, bright green leaves. The air was chill, but I had the windows of my ancient Jaguar open and Dehan, in her black leather jacket, was watching me through her aviators as the spring air whipped her black hair across her face. I glanced at her and smiled. She was a nice thing to smile at.

  She spoke, outlining the facts.

  “Thursday, October 7th, 2014, Helena Magnusson, thirty-five, drives to Underhill Community Center in the Bronx to teach her creative writing evening class. When she gets there, at five thirty, a parcel arrives for her by special delivery. When she opens it, it contains her husband, Jack’s head.”

  “Huh! Jack in the box.”

  “Don’t interrupt. Jack Connors, fifty-two, mega successful founder and CEO of Connors Communication, an advertising company that claims it specializes in ‘persuasion engineering’, apparently a branch of neuro-linguistic programming.”

  “Thinking outside the box.”

  “Are you done?” I nodded. She went on. “The ME said that his head had been severed with exceptional precision in a single cut. He believed a razor sharp samurai sword might have been used, or something of that sort. Blood residue on the neck tissue suggested that the man had been lying down when he was decapitated. He also detected traces of ketamine in the blood, suggesting he may have been rendered unconscious before being killed.”

  “But his eyes were open.”

  “Yes. So if he was drugged, he woke up before he was killed. The face was tested for fingerprints but none showed up. The rest of the body was never found, despite an extensive search of parks and rivers. What’s left of him is probably in the East River somewhere.”

  “Not habeas corpus, but habeas caput.”

  “Caput?”

  “Head.”

  “You’re on fire today, Stone. Pretty much the only person to benefit from his death was his wife, who inherited a controlling share in the business. Apparently she later sold some of those shares in a private deal to Seth Greenway, the current CEO, and became a sleeping partner. She also inherited a brownstone beside Morningside Park, a weekend house outside New Haven and another apartment in Boston. She used to lecture there in English literature. Financial gain does not seem to be much of a motive in her case, however, as she was already a rich woman in her own right, being the Helena Magnusson.”

  “Bestselling novelist of dubious talent. You say ‘pretty much’ the only person to gain from his death. Talk me through that.”

  “One day, Stone, you will actually read a case file from cover to cover.”

  I arched an eyebrow at her. “The day you do, perhaps.”

  She ignored me. We had come to Morningside Avenue. I turned left and after four blocks, I turned left again into West 122nd. I pulled in between a green ash and a hydrant, killed the engine and turned to Dehan. She took a deep breath and said:

  “The only other person to benefit from his death was Seth Greenway.”

  “The current CEO.”

  “But I don’t really buy that, Stone. I mean, how sure could he have been that he would get to take over?” She shrugged. “The big problems in this case, as always in a cold case, were a lack of forensic evidence and witnesses, but the lack of apparent motive was also a major stumbling block. Everyone, friends and workmates, agreed that Helena and Jack were the ideal couple and very much in love with each other, and at work everyone said Jack was a great boss.”

  I stuck out my bottom lip and grunted. “It’s a very striking way to kill somebody, isn’t it—severing the head. You can’t get much more final than that.”

  She nodded. “It sends a message, as does putting it in a box and sending it to the wife.”

  “Almost,” I said, “as though she were the killer’s real target, not the husband.”

  “That had struck me. But a target for what, exactly?”

  “OK, let’s go and talk to her.”

  We climbed out and made our way down the leafy, Victorian street that, in the age of baseball caps, cargo shorts and smartphones, had somehow managed to retain some of its old grandeur and elegance. Hers was the second of a row of understated, three-story brownstones. It had a stone stoop with a magnificent balustrade up to equally magnificent heavy brown doors under a vaguely Egyptian looking portico. I rang the bell and waited while Dehan went up on and down on her toes a few times, chewing her lip and scanning the façade.

  “What do you reckon, three million?”

  I glanced at the other houses down the street. “Three, three and a half.”

  The door opened to reveal a smiling woman in her early twenties. She was wearing what appeared to be a surgeon’s coat and had very blonde hair and very blue eyes. Her voice was fruity and fluty.

  “Hello, you are detectives who are calling earlier?”

  We showed her our badges and Dehan said, “Detectives Dehan and Stone, we are here for Mrs. Magnusson.”

  She did a funny little bob with her knees and said, “Yoh, she is expectink you. Please follow.”

  The entrance hall was unexpectedly large. The floor was an intricate mosaic of hexagonal black and white tiles, with a deep, oxblood Persian rug thrown over it any old how. Large walnut doors stood closed on our left. Beyond them a broad, carpeted staircase rose to the second floor. To the right, a passage disappeared toward what I assumed was the kitchen.

  We followed the blonde girl in the surgeon’s coat up the stairs and along a landing carpeted in the same oxblood red to a second set of walnut doors at the front of the house. There she knocked and went in.

  “Madam, the detectives are here.”

&nbs
p; She waited for an answer we did not hear, then bobbed and smiled at us. “Please come in, yoh.”

  We went in and she closed the doors behind us. We were in a large drawing room with a magnificent bay window overlooking the street below. The floors were hardwood, strewn with Persian rugs, and the furniture, which was eclectic, seemed not to include anything later than the 1930s. A soft leather sofa sat opposite an iron fireplace, flanked by heavy lamp tables, and on either side of the fire there was a chesterfield armchair. The paintings on the walls looked like minor impressionists, but they were originals.

  Helena was standing by the sofa with her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were pale blue and a small crease between her brows was the only expression on her face. A small frown for a small worry. Her hair was not so much tied up in a bun as tied up out of the way. Her cardigan, the same blue as her eyes, was somehow more noticeable than her pearls. Her shoes, like her skirt, were sensible. She did something with her mouth that, had she ever given it life, might have become a smile.

  “Detectives,” she said, as though she were considering the word.

  We showed her our badges and Dehan spoke. “Mrs. Magnusson, I am Detective Carmen Dehan and this is my partner, Detective John Stone.”

  Before she could continue, Helena gave her head a small shake. “You said on the telephone you wanted to talk about Jack…”

  There was the faintest hint of an accent: a softening of the ‘t’s and ‘d’s, a narrowing of the vowels. I wondered if she was Norwegian or Danish. She gestured at the chairs. “Please, do sit down. Have you found something?”

  We sat, and she sat almost perched on the edge of the sofa, with her knees together and her ankles to one side, her hands folded on her lap. Dehan shook her head.

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Magnusson. My partner heads up a cold cases unit at the 43rd Precinct. We periodically review cases that stalled for one reason or another, and we are having a look at your husband’s case. I know it’s distressing, but we were hoping you could talk us through it.”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave a little sigh through her nose. “There is so little to tell. I was teaching at Underhill Community Center.” She glanced at us, as though realizing suddenly the statement needed an explanation. “So many people, not just young, but mainly older people, in boroughs like the Bronx, never have the opportunity, you know, to express themselves artistically.” Her eyes drifted. “Most have nothing to say of any value, but sometimes, you know…” She looked at me and smiled. “Not often, you meet somebody with talent. After the class, my publisher was organizing a party at the Chadwick & Holstein offices in Manhattan; we were launching the new book. 2014, let me see…” Again her eyes drifted away, as though she were looking at hidden images within the wall. “The Many Colors of Snow. My husband was going to pick me up to take me there, but he called, um, one o’clock, about, and said he must come later. He was always so busy at work. So, I took my car. I was always a little early to the class, to prepare, and the young man came to my class…”

  “Young man?”

  “From UPS, I think. He gives me the box, asks me to sign for it, and leaves. I was of course very curious to see what…”

  She seemed to freeze. Her gaze shifted to the rug and she blinked several times in rapid succession. It was the only sign that she was feeling any kind of emotion. After a moment, she swallowed and said, “You know, it is such a long time since I have spoken about it. You would think… But, in any case, I had not ordered anything, I was not expecting anything, so naturally I was curious. So I opened the box and inside was a cool box, like for a picnic. I took it out, more curious now, and I opened the cool box.”

  Again she stopped, looked away and bit her lip. She gave her head a small shake. “He was on his back, as though he was lying down. I have seen him like this more times than I can count, in the morning and in the evening. And he was staring right at me. He looked serious, a little surprised. Very…” She frowned at Dehan and ran her fingertips softly over her own cheek. “Very pale, because he had no blood in him. Of course he could not see me. I am told that I screamed, but I don’t remember. I remember, the next thing, that I was in a chair, there were a lot of people, and somebody was giving me water from one of those disgusting plastic glasses. I didn’t drink it. I could not drink it from such a plastic glass.”

  She took a deep breath and looked back at Dehan. “The police came, a doctor came and some paramedics. They wanted me to go to hospital, or at least go home. But that is not the way we do things.”

  I smiled. “We?”

  She met my smile with one of her own that was a little distant. “In my family. My father was a very strong man. He taught me that we see first to our duties, and we express our emotions later, in private.”

  “So you went to the book launch?”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  Dehan scratched her head and left a few stray hairs standing slightly on end. “Mrs. Magnusson, when was the last time you actually saw your husband?”

  “At breakfast. We are both early risers, well, he was an early riser, and we always breakfasted together at six. Then he went to work and I went to my office. I work, naturally, from home.”

  I asked, “And the next communication you had with him?”

  “At one o’clock, when he called to say he could not collect me from the community center.”

  “That would be his lunch time?”

  She looked a little surprised. “I imagine so, Detective Stone. Is that important?”

  “I don’t know. What did you do after you received the phone call?”

  “I had lunch with some friends who were visiting from Boston, some fellow lecturers.” She sighed and closed her eyes for a second. “One of them was a friend. The others were friends of his. The details are in the original statement I gave the police at the time.”

  “Did you go directly?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment and seemed to be remembering. “Yes,” she said at last. “They were already here. I told them Jack would not be coming to the launch and we went. Again, I did tell the police…”

  Dehan nodded. “I’m sure the detective at the time asked you all of this, Mrs. Magnusson, but sometimes time and reflection can cast a new light on things. Is there anyone you can think of, however remote or unlikely it may seem, who could have had a grudge against your husband?”

  She smiled. It was an odd smile that seemed to suggest that Dehan’s question was somehow absurd. Her gaze drifted and she pointed at my chair. “He used to sit there, smoking a cigar in the evening. He liked cognac, the Rémy Martin Fine Champagne, XO… extra old.” She made a disparaging face and a small laugh. “I think it is a vulgar drink in a vulgar bottle, but he likes it… He liked it.” She took a deep breath and the laughter faded from her face. “Of course, I have asked myself this many times. Who? Who would want to do this? But I cannot answer that question. So many people in his life I did not know. I knew nothing of his work. In his personal life I can tell you that he had no enemies—few friends, but no enemies. At work…” She gave a delicate shrug. “I do not know. You would better ask Seth, and his colleagues.”

  Dehan nodded again. “Sure, we will do that.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “Mrs. Magnusson, there is an outside possibility that you, and not your husband, were the focus of this attack. Had that crossed your mind?”

  She blinked and her eyebrows rose a fraction. “What on Earth can you mean?”

  “My partner and I both agree that the fact that so much care was taken to send…”

  She hesitated again and Helena supplied the missing words: “My husband’s head.”

  “Yes, the fact that so much trouble was taken to send it to you in that particular way suggests that you were, at least to some extent, a target in this crime.”

  “That had never occurred to me. It is obvious now that you say it, and I a crime writer…”

  For a fleeting moment her bottom lip curled in and
she blinked away tears from her eyes. I said, “You were too close to it.”

  “No doubt.”

  “But you see that there was an attempt here to communicate something to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “This would suggest that the murderer knew you both, and considered himself…”

  “Or herself.”

  “Yes, or herself, to have some kind of relationship with you. Seen from that perspective, does anyone come to mind? Can you think what they might have wanted to communicate?”

  She shook her head, not in negation but as though daunted by the enormity of the task. “I shall have to think about it. I have not thought about this for a long time.”

  I nodded. “Of course. Mrs. Magnusson, I only have a couple more questions for you and then we’ll leave you in peace. How did you get from the community center to the party on Madison Avenue, in Manhattan?”

  She stared at me for a long moment.

  I frowned. “I’m assuming you didn’t drive.”

  “No, no of course not. A friend from Boston came and picked me up.”

  I smiled and my eyebrows told her I was surprised. “From Boston?”

  “No, Detective, he was visiting for the book launch. He is an old friend.”

  “This would be one of the friends you had lunch with. May we have a name?”

  Her face seemed to dry and harden like plaster. “His name is in your original report. Do you need to trouble him again after all these years?”

  “In a case like this, where there is no forensic evidence and there are no witnesses, we need to gather evidence from other sources. Often a simple comment can give us a clue that leads us to an answer. I am sure your friend is totally innocent, but he may know the killer without realizing it. We are trying to catch a murderer, Mrs. Magnusson, not cause you problems.”

  “Of course.” Again the small sigh through her nose and the downcast gaze. “His name is Alornerk, Alornerk Smith. It is in my original statement.”

  Dehan frowned. “That’s a very unusual name, Alornerk.”

  “It is an Eskimo name. He is from Alaska. He lives and works in Boston. He is a senior lecturer in mathematics. I believe he has changed address since...”