Ink and a Slanted Hand

Chapter 12

Mauricio Elizondo turned out to be much more difficult to investigate than Castel had anticipated.

Fifty-eight years old, owner of a renowned gallery on the city's art circuit, with no criminal record, with an impeccable public reputation built over three decades of carefully curated exhibitions and cultivated relationships with influential collectors. The kind of man Irene thought as she reviewed the file Castel had gathered, whose respectability worked like the best of disguises.

"There's nothing in your record to suggest violence," Castel said, spreading surveillance photographs on the apartment table taken over the past three days. But the pattern of behavior is disturbing. Check this out.

He pointed to a series of photographs, each dated, showing Elizondo in different locations around town, always alone, always watching from a calculated distance: a coffee shop in front of Irene's consulting firm, a bench in the park near the building where Miranda had lived, the entrance to an apartment building that Irene didn't immediately recognize.

"What is that last place?"

"The second victim's apartment. Before she moved into the hotel where she was found. Castel leaned over the table, pointing to the date printed in the corner of the photograph. This was taken six weeks before his death. I had been watching her long before the visible ritual began.

Irene studied the photographs with the same clinical coldness that she applied to any profile file, looking for patterns in Elizondo's posture, in the direction of his gaze, in the length of each documented observation period. There was something methodical about her demeanor, a patience that matched perfectly the profile she herself had built for the killer from the beginning: someone who could wait, to plan, to enjoy the observation process almost as much as the final act.

"We need more than surveillance photographs to act against him," he said. A man can sit in a cafeteria without being a murderer, Damián. We need something that connects him directly to the letters, to the intimate knowledge they demonstrate of my life.

"I'm working on getting a warrant to review your communications. But that takes time, and every day that passes is one more day that he could be planning the next move. Castel ran a hand through his hair, the accumulated frustration visible in every gesture. There is another option. Faster, but more dangerous.

"The bait."

"The bait." He confirmed, bluntly. An exhibition in his gallery next week. If you show up there, as a forensic psychologist investigating a case involving former clients of hers, something that justifies your presence without revealing that we know of her possible connection to the murders, we could observe her reaction directly. See if he recognizes your name, if his behavior changes when he knows who you are.

The proposal carried an obvious risk, and yet Irene felt the same familiar current of anticipation that she had begun to recognize as an inseparable part of this whole process: danger intertwined with something akin to emotion, the feeling of finally taking an active role rather than simply reacting to what the killer chose to do.

"I will.

"Irene, I want you to think this over carefully. If it's him, and if he notices that you're looking into it, he might speed up any plans he has for you. The concern in Castel's voice was genuine. I don't want you to do this for adrenaline. I want you to do it because it's the best strategy available, with all the risks calculated in advance.

"What if it's both?" she asked, with an honesty that surprised even herself. If I accept because it's strategically sensible and because a part of me needs to feel like I have some control over what's happening to us?

Castel was silent for a moment, studying it with the same analytical intensity he had used since day one.

"Then we will do it with all possible precautions. He approached, taking his face in his hands. I will be at all times at a distance from which I can intervene in seconds. Complete surveillance, constant communication. You are not going to be alone for a moment, Irene, even if it seems like you are.

She nodded, letting herself be enveloped by the promise, by the certainty that Castel projected even in the moments of greatest uncertainty.

The days leading up to the exhibition passed in a strange mixture of forced normalcy and meticulous preparation. Castel coordinated with his contact in Homicide to ensure discreet surveillance around the gallery; Irene reviewed, over and over again, Elizondo's public biography, looking for any detail that could be useful to her during the direct encounter; and Ivo, oblivious to the specific plan but aware that something was brewing, was quieter than usual, watching her with genuine concern.

"Is it going to be all right, Dr. Voss?" she asked, the afternoon before the exhibition, as he helped her organize the last files of the day. She's been distracted all week.

"I'm going to be fine, Ivo. It's just a lot of accumulated work.

"If you need anything, anything, you know you can count on me." There was a sincerity in his offer that Irene couldn't help but appreciate. Despite everything that has happened, the suspicion, the horrible weeks that we both lived, I still want to help her. That hasn't changed.

"I know. Thank you, Ivo.

That night, as Castel went over the logistical details of surveillance for the next day for the last time, Irene sat in front of the bedroom mirror, trying on the dress she had chosen for the exhibition—black, elegant, striking enough to warrant the attention of a man accustomed to observing beautiful women at his events—and felt, For the first time in weeks, the strange calm that precedes the moments of greatest danger.

"Irene, I've been training for years not to be distracted at work. You just became my first security breach.